#cw: suicidal ideation and an attempt

[industria-adastra]

[Vampire Knight] - If I'm to be reborn, I'll find you (again, again, again) - CHAPTER TWO: ruler of my heart (you outburn the sun)

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Summary: He hates her, he loves her, he hates her. He misses her. (The only place he can have her is in his dreams)

Note: Hopefully I'm getting better at this updating consistently thing but yeah zero's chapter. Next chapter is going to be kaname/yume focused again sorry zero or zeki enjoyers.

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He’s not the first one to hear of the news. In fact, he’s neither the second, nor third (and so on) recipient of the fact that Kuran Yuuki is dead. Zero doesn’t hear it from the Chairman, his teacher, Kaito, or even from one of the vampires. In hindsight, perhaps he should have been more suspicious, should have questioned the way paperwork always found its way to his desk unceasingly—leaving him with no time to focus on the outside world.

Zero simply hears of it in passing whilst heading out for lunch, through a conversation between two nameless hunters—discussing it like changes in the weather.

“Did you hear? Kuran Yuuki is dead.”

“Another pureblood gone, huh… Wonder if it was her brother that did her in?”

“The rapidly decreasing execution missions would likely clue you into the answer.”

“Right, right.”

It’s hysterically, laughably casual in the way such information comes to him.

(It can’t be real. It can’t be real. It can’t be real—)

The world seems to stop on its axis, and Zero wonders if he should’ve simply ignored his desire for shio ramen today. After all, it’s not like he has an appetite now. His stomach roils with discomfort at the thought of food, and his throat itches for a scant few seconds before it burns. A sandstorm swirls and tears at his flesh. Mind blank, Zero goes where his feet wish to travel, content to let his mind stay in a haze.

He ends up in the association bathrooms, throwing up nothing but paltry strings of bile and choking on his spit.

-

There is too much work to be done. The vampire world, for one, was going through a massive societal upheaval. Zero simply couldn't do anything more than throw up into an association toilet before being fed an ungodly amount of paperwork as if he were some humanoid paper shredder.

And maybe it's because more than four years ago, just over a year ago—with Ichiru dead in his arms—he's finally refined a true and tried method for every loss he's been through. Every thought of her is locked behind a glass vault, buried six feet under,  the key left behind to collect dust. Zero works through papers and decimates his targets with the same ease. Every stroke of his pen is enforced with the explosive sound of his gun, of ashes in the wind. Rinse and repeat, his days all blur together in their sameness.

Months later, on a job just like any other, Zero walks into a department store and sees a long coat, hanging neatly from the racks. Stupidly, he thinks, ‘Yuuki would probably say I should get it if she saw it.’ And then, oh, how it hits him at that very moment.

Yuuki is dead.

Yuuki is dead.

Yuuki is dead.

-

Apparently, it had been the pureblood Shirabuki Sara. A pureblood through and through, she’d sent pawns to do her dirty work.

But she’d miscalculated the consequences of her actions, as all those high up on their thrones of arrogance were prone to doing so.

So she too, is dead, consumed by the pureblood king Kuran Kaname—he’s slaughtered more influential vampires than any hunter ever would in their lifetime. In the privacy of his thoughts, Zero thinks that had he the power and madness to do so, he would’ve too.

Sanity is both a blessing and a curse, because there is nothing else for Zero to turn to but his thoughts alone.

-

Roaring water fills his ears, and Zero sits, unmoving on the wet shower tiles. Steam fogs up the room, blurring his vision. He watches the water run down the drain for hours, washing the grime caked on his body until his fingers are all pruned and his skin is red with heat. His stomach is growling at him, and the water bill is for sure going to shoot up with this, but Zero can’t bring himself to care much about the future right now. 

(Any second now, she might barge into the bathroom to demand usage of the shower, to dramatically proclaim that he’s spent too long hogging it, to threaten to turn off the hot water in a minute even if she never ends up doing it.

But this apartment houses only him, and is far away from that Academy, far away from all those precious yet painful memories. The tiles aren’t even the right colour, beige, off-white, and an intense white that could be comparable to that of a strobe light. The shampoo and body wash he’s bought—the same one she always used in the Academy, a subtle floral scent of roses—only serve to highlight all the differences he can find between his current bathroom and the one in his memories.)

The doorbell suddenly rings, insistent and unfaltering like a military march. Zero is sure it’s been modified because there’s no way a regular doorbell could be so annoyingly loud like the one he has. With the way it’s blaring in his ears every second, it’s clear that whoever’s behind the door won’t take his silent refusal as an answer. 

The water continues to flow into the drain, taking with it the numerous dissolving blood tablets strewn across the wet floor.  

For a moment, Zero allows himself to be deluded by the idea that it’s her behind the door—-she’d always been as stubborn as a mule when she put her mind to it. But it is the sound of the doorbell that echoes in his ears, not an annoyed rat-a-tat-tat followed by the creak of an opening door. What follows is sandy blond hair and the glint of spectacles. They stare at each other for a moment, the headmaster and him. Nearby, the water continues to flow.

Even now, Zero can never truly parse the emotion behind those glasses of his.

“You know she wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

And even now, the headmaster’s words are as precise as his killing blows. Hearing them, Zero flinches. They stab into him, tearing open wounds until the pain is nothing but white numbness. But the mention of her, as always, pushes him to move on the legs of a shambling corpse. His hand slams against the bathroom tiles; the force of it is always degrees lower than it could be.

“How do you know what she would’ve wanted?” His words are acrid, angry in a way he doesn’t want to explain. “She’s gone. She’s not coming back.” Zero grits his teeth, looking straight at Kaien Cross’s eyes before he spits out a final bout of venom. “She’s been dead ever since she became one of them.”

Yet like always, the headmaster’s calm never wavers. “You know, that it’s always been her. No matter if Yuuki,” the sound of her name, said aloud, led to the tiles cracking under his hands, “stayed human or not, She’ll always be Yuuki. Maybe she changed and grew up a little—faster than I would’ve wanted or liked—but at her core, she was always, always Yuuki. She didn’t die that day. You knew that fact as well as I did.” And here, Zero feels the weight of the executioner’s blade above him, about to drop. “Otherwise, why do you try so hard to keep them as separate entities, even now, when she’s truly dead and gone?”

Zero drops to his knees painfully, leaving marks of destruction behind on the walls. He covers part of his face with a hand, contemplating further denial with the truth laid out so plainly before him.

“I never…”

“You never told her your true feelings, and now she’s gone. Because it was easier to accept it if you felt as if you'd already mourned beforehand.” The headmaster’s voice is soft, almost as if reminiscing a similar scene.  He crouches down and puts a hand on Zero’s shoulder. “Let it out, Zero. It’s only me and you now.”

There are no tears left for him to cry, but his throat tightens, and Zero hiccups out words all the same.

“I loved her. But she chose him.”

A ragged breath cuts his words short before Zero finds the strength to continue.

“I still loved her, even to the very end.”

-

The sky glows with a mix of different vibrant, brilliant colours—it’s an intensely beautiful scene, so much so that Zero wants to throw up. A cacophony of emotions welled up in him, knowing that such a view would be forever denied to the girl who was the most like the sun. He almost wishes that a storm would suddenly start, right at that moment. 

But the sun continues to glow with a detestable radiance, and the days continue to go by relentlessly. The world does not wait for one man’s grief.

He goes back into his bedroom and sits on his bed. Afterwards, he brings out Bloody Rose.

A click, and he watches as the empty magazine drops to the ground with a heavy thunk. Mechanically, Zero goes through the familiar motions of reloading Bloody Rose. The gun hangs loose in his hands. When it’s done, still holding Bloody Rose, his arm raises, up, up. Its silver muzzle points under his exposed chin without even the slightest tremor, pressing firmly into the soft flesh. 

He thinks about a girl, who, long ago, had rushed into a different room and wrenched this very gun out of his hands. Thinks of a life preserved for reasons he refused to believe was out of love. Thinks of a life, gone because it was loved so dearly.

The sunlight pierces through haphazardly closed curtains. A clock ticks in the background. He lets both the gun and himself fall on the bed.

His door is still closed.

(She’d wanted him to live)

-

Her blood still resides within him. But it lies, still, silent. Not a single iota of warmth flows in his body; it is ice in his veins in contrast to Kuran’s acidic poison. Were Zero to close his eyes and attempt to delude himself, he would simply fail from the get-go. Because Zero has always been faced with hard truths; so many times, he sees them over and over again—in the mirror, in the way he used to bite himself by accident and in the hunter’s bracelet on his desk.

She is gone and he must swallow down that bitter truth like the way he mindlessly consumes blood tablets.

(They scrape his throat, going down and making it uncomfortably dry; it tastes of overly sugared cough syrup; and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t wish to accept a world without her in it.

But her blood still lies.) 

-

He dreams of her. Not always, but sometimes he does. On those days, when he wakes up, Zero can’t seem to muster up the strength to get out of bed. It’s easier to bask in the what-ifs and could-beens, or the has-beens and bygone halcyon days. Breathing is easier, living feels easier, being carried by fantasies and memories. He always has to stop himself from getting too carried away—because ultimately the world does not care. Time continues to march forward, the Earth continues to spin on its axis and around the sun.

Sometimes Zero wants to curse at her. Because no matter how easy it was at that moment, reality would always settle in as an infinite weight, caving his lungs beneath him. But he could never stay angry at her, no matter what she did, or what she became. Before, he had sworn to kill her—but really, he wouldn’t have minded had she put him to rest instead.

-

"Zero? Did you fall asleep in the stables again? Geez, what's with you always showing up late for the transition periods!" She punches him forcefully in the back a couple of times, unrelenting even in the face of his annoyance and mild pain. (He wouldn’t have it any other way)

“Ow, ow, ow, ow—! Oi, would you quit it already?” He turns to slap a large hand over her forehead, pushing her away from him with great resistance on her part. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” Zero doesn’t say it, but her puffed cheeks and flailing limbs make her look as ridiculous as she is cute, and he’s almost tempted to flick her in the forehead for good measure.

“Yes, yes, alright now stop pushing me!” She glares up at him, arms folded in annoyance. “Don’t forget that as the prefects, we have an important job to do—which means, stop being late!” 

“By important job, you mean stopping a bunch of idiot classmates from throwing themselves into the slavering jaws of humanoid beasts?” Zero raises a wry eyebrow, watching her face gain a mildly exasperated look. When he turns to jab at the inevitable mass of lovesick, occasionally fanatic day-class students to further make a point, Zero finds that there’s no one there.

Right.

He turns back to look for her, but there’s no one there.

-

When Zero cooks breakfast for his birthday, he takes care to watch his food burn, forces it down his throat and makes sure it stays put. The eggs are rubbery, the toast is burnt, and the bacon is like chewing wood, but somehow he devours it with as much eagerness as a regular bowl of shio ramen.

She used to make such god-awful food.

(Zero finds vials of blood on his doorstep that day.

He practically guzzles  the pills instead.)

-

"Hey Zero, I think this would look pretty good on you." She takes out the long coat with a flourish, holding it up next to him with a contemplative expression. Zero stares back blankly at her, knowing little about the intricacies of what was his “colour”, or what “went well with his eyes”. Sure, he has some preferences, but he finds that he doesn’t mind watching her pick out his clothes for it.

(It’s oddly domestic in that way, and he dreams of what could’ve been—had they been normal, had they not had destiny and duty looping around their necks like a noose)

The next day, he goes and buys himself another coat. Staring at its dark colours and its simple design, Zero wonders if this could’ve been something she would’ve chosen for him.

(He never wears it. Dust collects on the cloth, tints the fibres grey and overrides the fresh store-bought scent, but he never wears it.)

-

"Zero, we can stay together for the night, just like before—I’ll watch over your dreams, and you can watch over mine, ok?" Under the warm covers, she whispers this to him, and their fingers intertwine together. Her hands have always run colder than his,  but even so, her hands are freezing—as cold as the dead.

When he wakes up, the space beside him on the bed is cold.

It has always been cold.

-

There is no grave, no stone marker, but he supposes that the Kuran Manor serves well enough as a reminder. The rumours don’t paint a pretty picture—the king of beasts, almost mad in his sobriety; the king of beasts, living only for memories and promises; the king of beasts, someone who’d crush you underfoot for his dreams without a second thought.

Standing in front of the tall, dark and rusting iron gates, Zero can almost choke on the overpowering scent of roses. They’re everywhere, in full bloom, mere buds, wilting or decayed. It’s a smell that only reminds him of what could have been, and what he let go of, of that fateful night in the academy. 

Were it him, he would’ve planted sunflowers instead. 

(Zero doesn’t enter. He knows how much Kuran hated him entering any space deemed as his own. It wouldn’t change now, half-mad as they both were.)

-

Violence is, perhaps, the only outlet that Zero knows will never let him down. There is release to be found when he hunts down level Es; there is no need for emotion, only cold, pure logic in which he can execute his duty as a protector (that he’d already failed so many times before). With every shot of his gun, every blast of the hunter’s sigil and every vampiric body blown apart into dust and ash, Zero puts to rest the grievances of so many others—but never his own.

Kaito no longer makes any sort of comment about such trips, only there to stop him from presumably losing his head and forcing the association to find yet another leader (or so he says, but they both know part of the association would be thrilled to find a reason to off him). Sure, Kaito mindlessly chatters about the surroundings and his day, but they both know that saying anything about her—no matter how sound his reasoning could be—would create a one-way ticket to the end of their friendship.

He tried, once. (“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You have to accept the fact that she’s gone and that she didn’t choose you.” He’d paused then, reproach evident in his face before he continued. “She was a pureblood first.”

“She had been human.”

“Had.”

“And so had I been, once.”

“…Just don’t get yourself killed.”)

It’s nice to have someone stay. But he’ll never say it. People can’t stay simply because you want them to. Their decisions have always been their own.

-

Perhaps the universe had an ironic sense of humour if he was back to teach Cross Academy’s Day Class ethics of all things. The headmaster clearly made a mistake in forcing him to do what he flippantly called a “much-needed change of perspective”. Somehow Yagari, of all people, seemed to think that it’d be good for him to take up such a position in addition to his duties as both a hunter and the president of the hunter’s association.  

“You’re a good kid, but you need a better head on your shoulders,” is all Yagari says on that matter, and off Zero goes into once more dealing with teenagers—this time as an adult rather than one of their peers. He half expects it to be just like before.

But it’s not.

Revealing the truth of the Night Class to the Day Class means that there are no more barriers between the vampires and humans of Cross Academy. Without the distance, there is not enough room for worship, and what is left are only two kinds of being, all simply trying to live in a new world.

Teaching ethics really means “filling in the gaps” so that vampire-human relations will go more smoothly. Unlike his mentor though, Zero thankfully doesn’t need to use either express or implied threats of violence to get his students to listen. And he finds that, with the truth revealed, the Day Class students now behave in much calmer ways—ironically, the truth had perhaps “humanised” the vampires for them.

They listen carefully to his teachings; Zero does his utmost to drill them into their heads, complete with drawings that are only marginally better than her toddler scribbles. He’s sure that when he’s out of sight and earshot, they laugh about it, just as they laugh alongside the vampires they’d once thought of as unreachable. 

Watching it all from a distance, it almost feels unbearably nostalgic yet melancholic—because this had not been his world. Had she and Zero never been torn apart from the natural way of things, reborn and reforged in blood, they would have never met. 

(He wonders if he would’ve dismissed her as nothing but a monster. If their old classmates would have thought of her as another pseudo-goddess to worship.)

Zero watches two worlds meld, and is not quite at peace, but at the very least, the memories, the “what ifs” here do not hurt.

However, it doesn’t take long for him to resign. In the end, Zero is better cut out for other things, rather than becoming another face in the crowd of the headmaster’s rampant eccentrics that he calls teachers. But, sometimes, seeing the world that she wished for, finally, slowly, starts to be created… The air is a little lighter, even as his throat aches. She would’ve liked to watch the two different classes fumble through cooking on their own.

Maybe he’ll make ginger pork stir fry tonight.

-

It’s years before he meets Wakaba Sayori again. Zero nearly forgets about her wedding, were it not for the Headmaster’s, and Kaito’s constant, unceasing reminders via letters and spoken words. The final nail in the coffin is the wedding invitation itself. If he doesn’t attend the wedding, he’s sure that someone will come to physically strong-arm him to the event.

The wedding itself is a rather small affair, given Sayori’s background and what he remembers of Aidou’s proclivity for dramatics. Maybe it was Sayori who’d wanted it. Or maybe it was a joint agreement. Zero doesn’t know either of them well enough to say, but he prefers it this way.

Staring at the happy couple—in the back of his mind—Zero morbidly wonders if death will also do them part earlier than expected. He’s quick to shut down that train of thought as soon as it appears. He wouldn’t wish such a feeling on anyone.

-

After the event, Zero keeps his copy of the wedding photo, keeping it safe with the other one that marked his first year of high school. Against the glossy sheen of the new photo, that one looks all the more faded; the new photo always feels as if it’s missing something.

She would’ve loved to see the wedding; would’ve been the maid of honour, lovely in gentle pinks and a happy blush on her cheeks.

He startles at the vision, dropping the photo book with an unceremonious thud.

-

The burn in his throat has never gone away since that fateful night of snow. But it’s now a familiar constant, easily relegated to the back of his mind. What does it mean? Zero doesn’t know, only watching as society changes, and as people grow to create a world where there could be true peace.

But it feels easier to breathe for himself, even as he continues to breathe for her. Zero isn’t sure if he’ll ever stop breathing—living—for her. It’s alright this way, and the dreams now leave him feeling more…fond rather than wanting.

-

It’s only a glimpse, but years and years later, Zero gets a chance to see how Kuran Kaname now fares in this still unfamiliar world. Despite his achievements and the iron-clad grip he has on the rest of the vampires—key in fostering the new partnership between humans and vampires—he rarely shows his face. Does the smell of roses, in its various stages of life, cling to him like a parasite? Or maybe it’s the other way around, with roses built within everything he owns, everything that he is.

As Zero contemplates, he thinks back to the regularly replaced sunflowers in his office and his flat.

When he sees him, Zero gets his answer. 

Lounging on his throne, the smell of blood, dust and decay is attached to him like that of a rose with its thorns. Kaname Kuran stares emptily at everyone and nowhere, only occasionally opening his mouth to send orders. Within his hands is a resin-encased rose, looking worn and smooth from the years. His clothes don’t quite fit what he’s supposed to be, refined King of the Vampires. Rather, dressed in loose clothing, the apathy in his gaze, Kuran almost reminds him of—

(Zero tries not to think about it)

After so long, even hate will cool. They both loved, they both lost. It is a reality of the world that they live in. That she could not ever see the dream she wished for come to reality. In fact, looking at this sombre, cold, alone figure… He almost pities him. Kaname Kuran, top of the world but with no one left.

Could they see what Zero sees? The old Night Class no longer stands nearby, but at polite distances, looking almost weary. It was the kind of weariness that he was most familiar with. 

After all, the hunter association had always looked at him this way.

Zero at least has the headmaster, has Kaito, has his teacher. Kuran has no one at all.

Even beasts could be pitiable.

(Yuuki knew that best, didn’t she)

-

Maybe it’s only fitting that he’ll die from protecting a child who looks so much like Yuuki. Not quite in the flesh, but more so in spirit—and wasn’t that the most important, most beautiful quality about her? Especially now, memory half-baked and succumbing to erosion over the years. In the face of time, it all crumbles to dust, just like his body is now; not even sure whether it is his or the bodies of mad vampires he’s slain. 

Zero can see her crying, tears wetting his shirt, mixing with the dust in a way that he’d be mildly disgusted by were he not currently dying. “It’s alright,” he says, reaching out with hands that only smear more dust into her hair. Zero isn’t sure if the garbled sounds reaching his ears are truly words or not. Maybe the girl is speaking, maybe the girl is simply sobbing.

Or maybe he is already dead.

When he closes his eyes, Kiryuu Zero dies before a young girl’s eyes, leaving nothing but a pile of empty clothes and a silver gun.

-

The incessant ringing of an alarm is loud and annoying enough to cave metaphorically his skull in with its shrill noise alone. Grumbling, Zero burrows deeper into his blankets, covering himself fully in an attempt to block out the noise. It doesn’t fully work, but a partial solution is better than no solution at all, so Zero gets right back to falling asleep.

The heavyweight landing unceremoniously on top of his body puts an abrupt stop to that. “Zeeroo! We’re gonna be late for school again!” Ichiru whines, digging his pointy elbows right into Zero’s sides, knowing full well the exact location of his arms. He’s lucky that Zero loves him.

“Gerroff me, Ichiru,” he groans, the sound muffled by the blankets, gently shoving away at the incessant prodding. “We don’t even have to wake up until ten minutes later.”

“How do you even know that?” Questions Ichiru, switching up his tactics and physically smothering Zero in another attempt to force him out of bed.

“I pay attention in class rather than daydream about the divorced neighbour next door.”

Just as Ichiru is about to retaliate with a few choice words, the bedroom door bursts open to herald another arrival. “Zero! Get up, we're gonna be late!’ Kuran Yuuki rushes over to drag him out of bed with strength contrary to her small size. “Get up you lazy bum!” She promptly drops him on the ground, ignoring his affronted yell and Ichiru’s snickering in favour of rifling through his wardrobe.

“Good morning Yuuki!” Ichiru cheerily waves at her from Zero’s bed, delighting in the extra chaos and suffering added to his brother’s normal routine. 

“Morning Ichiru!” She absent-mindedly chirps back, piling the different pieces of Zero’s uniform onto one arm. Halfway through, Yuuki looks back at Zero. “Oi, get up Zero! Aren’t you supposed to be the one with the best attendance record out of all of us?”

“I shouldn’t have messed with your alarm,” Zero grumpily mutters, not bothering to get up from the floor. From above, Ichiru barely attempts to stifle his laughter. “Stop laughing, Ichiru.”

Unfortunately for Zero, Yuuki could hear him perfectly well. Her body snaps around just in time for Yuuki to let out an outraged cry of, “You what?!”

At that, Zero groans, and Ichiru only laughs louder and harder.

(He wouldn’t trade this for anything else in the world)

[derww]

DEVOTIONS WEEK DAY 2: POTIONS/DEATH

CW: Suicide attempt, suicidal ideations, mental breakdown, ableism, DDDNE

This is the first thing Zam does when he realizes that everything he has done this season has been absolutely useless: he kills himself.

Okay, he tries: he abruptly turns away, throws off all his armor, takes a few springy steps, and then jumps down. The height is small, but he has ridiculously few hearts, so it's enough...

A moment before landing something breaks on top of his head, and the fall does not cause any damage. The nasty swamp slime gets into his mouth, and he spits it out, at the same time shaking off the glass stuck in his hair.

– What do you think is the probability that he has milk? – Pyro asks Spoke, tossing another splash bottle in his hand. Zam stares at him. How the fuck did he even hit? He is disgusting and wet. He has milk, but only in the enderchest, and he is not stupid enough to believe that he will be given time to drink it. Or that it would make any difference.

– I don't know, man, – Spoke spreads his hands, – like, high? Doesn't matter. Let's continue my supervillain speech. Time is not infinite, you know.

He doesn't want to continue the conversation. He pukes on the spot. He reeks of corpse rot. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be anywhere at all. Oh, God, can he just fucking die already?

Mapicc rolls his eyes. He looks annoyed, but not surprised. He and Spoke exchange understanding glances. Zam mechanically wipes his mouth from vomit, staring past them. There are too many things around. Everything is too bright and distinct. He wants to pierce through his belly with a sword, and he is horrified to realize that this will not help.

They- they don't even laugh at his insignificance and helplessness, they see it as an expected hindrance, as something that will happen when you tell the PrinceZam about the impending apocalypse. For some reason, it's so much worse. The vomit is creeping up in his throat again.

Step. Another. Third. This time he jumps into the void – because the Abyss kills anything, and even if not, suffocating in the infinity is still better than being next to them. That's the only thing he wants right now – to die.

He barely does not manage to reach y 0 when he is teleported back to their feet, and he falls to the knees. He violently coughs up bile. Deep disgust fills every cell of his body.

– Listen, – Mapicc says wearily, – let's skip this part. Yes, Spoke has backdoored the server, yes, he has an OP, and yes, no mundane plots have any meaning anymore. Wormhole will open in a week. Are you with us?

He lowers his head. His hands are shaking. He wants to wash himself. He wants to be anywhere else. He wants warm clothes and soft food. He wants to go home and bake a pumpkin pie. He wants to kill himself.

– Earth to the PrinceZam,– Spoke snaps fingers in front of his face, – bro, hang off. I need your answer. I'm only giving you a choice anyway because you're different. Be faster.

He opens his mouth and stutters and gasps. Nothing in his body works properly. For the first time in months, he can't say anything. Why-why at all. What's the difference. They can't make his life worse. They won't be able to mess up any more. They are not-

A blurry image with black and red appears in front of his face. Black hair. A pale face. A red hoodie. Bandana. Horns. Zam doesn't have to think about it to know that it's Mapicc.

– Listen, – Mapicc's voice comes to him as if from under water, - I know it's hard, – no, he has no idea, – and really, really sucks. but this is the situation we find ourselves in now. Right now, you don't have to do much, right now you just need to make one decision. Okay?

Something inhuman is bursting out of him. He's throwing up again. Mapicc sighs.

– Hey, – he says too calmly, – it's hard, I know. But not worse than the end of season two, right? – much, much worse, – just take a deep breath, exhale, give yourself time to think and make a decision, okay? And we'll leave you alone.

He can't. He can't. He is not-

– If I refuse, – he says, dead–straight, – will you let me die?

– No, of course not, – Spoke's voice comes from somewhere to the side, and he doesn't have enough strength to turn his head, – why did we try otherwise? Wait for the Wormhole, and I'll think about it. Maybe I'll give you endless effects, or maybe I'll let you die in peace. Who knows? I haven't decided yet.

– Don't listen to him, – Mapicc interrupts, irritated, – don't think about it. Just decide whether you want to destroy this world or fight for its preservation. If you want to keep it, the defenders will pick you up sooner or later. If you want to destroy it, you will become the third with me and Spoke. We will work together. Like before.

He's looking past them. His heart is beating too fast.

– if I join you, – he says dryly, – will you let me die?

– When you will finish your work? – Spoke giggles, – yeah, sure, why not. It wouldn't matter.

He swallows a lump. His throat hurts. Mapicc seems to be looking right at him. He's suffocating. He doesn't want any of this.

– Okay, – he says in the end, – I'll help you. And then you'll let me go.

Spoke grins.

– And that's the deal! Good job, PrinceZam. That's more like it.

At least Mapicc and I will be friends again, he thinks detachedly. At least there's anything good about it. Maybe I can get over it. Even if it's only to get the fuck out later.

[coffeebanana]

Chapter 4: Churning Through A Dark Grey Sky

Adrien squeezed his eyes shut. He did his best to ignore scraping of chair legs against linoleum, announcing the doctor’s approach. He wasn’t ready for this. Exhaustion weighed upon him like a suffocating fog, and his whole body ached, muscles trembling like he’d run a marathon. In reality, he’d spent the early hours of the morning in the throes of full-body cramps, his heart beating overtime as sweat drenched his sheets. The last thing he wanted now, after being poked and prodded by nurses all day, was to have someone digging through his head, too. But he had to play along. To give the performance of his life. He needed to get the hell out of here.

[a-j-s-the-only]

I know someone loves me

but it’s still really hard to wake up

[kittzuxp]

Twomp oneshot i wrote cuz i was feeling miserable

on Ao3

CW: denial😔, cheating, self-destuctive thoughts and suicide

Mr plant was watching the telly, well not really, he was fidgeting with his hands while he heard the faint laugh tracks playing in the background. He was almost drifting off to sleep when the front door slammed, which shook him wide awake. He titled his head to look, it was his boyfriend, Argos! He looked like he was in a hurry, sweaty and taking big shaky breaths. His eyes filled with anger.

*[what happened?] Mr plant felt a little taken aback, Argos had never acted like this.

“You tell me!” He yelled, throwing photos on his lap. Mr plant fumbled with the photos trying to take a good look at them, and was slightly disgusted by the sight.

It was a depiction of him, holding someone else’s hands and looking at them with the same passion and warmth he looked at his beloved. The person’s face was obscured but some leaves of a tree in the foreground. The setting seemed to be at midnight, a single street lamp illuminating him and the other silhouette. The photo seemed to have been taken at a higher perspective, like a window from the second floor of a house.

The other photos were about the same, but the positions were slightly different. mr plant started feeling uneasy, he had never done this with anyone, nor does he remember this happening.

Mr plant felt uneasy, he knew where this was going, he had seen enough romance shows to know what usually happens.

*[Where did you find the photo?]

“It doesn’t matter! That’s you in the pictures, right?”

*[No! I would never cheat on you.]

“Don’t lie to me! It’s definitely you!” Argos sounded tired, but also hurt. So so so hurt.

*[Where did you find this?! Who gave this to you?] He stood up, towering over Argos by a few inches, and grabbed his forearm. Argos winced and looked at Mr plant in the eyes.

“Why does that matter! It’s none of your business!” He insisted and shook his arm, making Mr plant let go of his powerful grip.

*[It IS my business if I’m the one being photographed!] Mr plant didn’t understand why Argos refused to tell him.

“I- uhm.. UGHH!! When were you planning on telling me this?!” His eyes started tearing up from frustration. Mr plant hurt to see him like this, he reached out his lanky hand to Argos’ cheek to wipe the tears. Argos’ eyes wandered on Mr plant’s face after looking away and slapping Mr plant’s hand away.

“Don’t touch me.” He muttered. Mr plant was hurt by this, but obeyed.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, Argos spoke up. Mr plant didn’t have time to think, his mind didn’t have enough time to race.

“We, should break up… this relationship. If you’re going to be dishonest.” He said again, with a firm and slightly louder voice.

“…I think..” he sighed and looked at him, “Look, I think this won’t work.”

Mr plant titled his head. Surely he misheard Argos. He hummed questioningly and brought his ear closer to Argos’ mouth.

*[hmm?] Mr plant sounded again, putting his ear closer to Argos. Surely he wasn’t hearing this.

“Mr plant. I’m Breaking up with you.” He really hadn’t misheard it. His face was turned from Argos’ so neither of them could see each other’s faces. Mr plant’s grin widened, his tears flowing hot down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them, leaving an ugly smudge on his face. He turned his face, a crying Argos was there, trying to look as if his own words weren’t affecting him and holding back.

*[You’d really rather believe some photographs than me..?] Argos was quiet, his two big eyes avoiding Mr plant, his other, smaller ones were looking right at him.

———

As soon as he had come, he had left. and Mr plant was alone.

He was too alone, so alone. He sat on his couch and waited. He waited for Argos to come back from work, like he usually did.

The hours passed, Argos didn’t come. But he waited like he always did. He never moved an inch. Soon, 2 days had passed when Mr Plant realised he wasn’t going to come back, come back home. Not HIS home anyways.

What even was he without Argos? Argos was always a very distinguishable person. But all Mr plant was was a cold monster who tried to feel human emotions and failed. He didn’t have a distinct personality nor a unique trait that made him his own person.

He was just a mutated flower from a foreign void. This wasn’t meant to happen to him. Everything that had happen. He was mad at himself, he was mad at Argos but also wasn’t.

Not even once did he think to comfort himself through this. He only blamed himself, it wasn’t Argos’ fault, he only believed at what he saw.

There were too many thoughts racing in his mind, too many for him. He thought his head might explode with how much thoughts he was having. Too many, So so many...

Your fault

your fault

your fault

His hands gripped tighter against his throat. His breaths were beginning to cut short.

YOUR FAULT

YOUR FAULT

YOUR FAULT

YOUR FAULT

YOUR FAULT

YOURFAULT

YOUR-

He gripped tighter.

His vision began to grow faint and his thoughts started to drown out. His Head started to hurt in a good way, a comfortable way that didn’t hurt at all.

He gripped as tight as possible.

He was not longer breathing, gasping for air that wouldn’t reach his lungs. The only thing in his mind were the gasps and yelps. He tried to shut them up too.

After a bit his feet gave up, he fell down and closed his eyes.

“Goodbye Argos, I love you..” He knew nobody would hear that, and took his final rest.

[the-oaken-muse]

Misery Loves Company

My Ecto-Implosion fic for @creep-dot-commercial 's art! Thanks for letting me play with your blorbo! I promise I didn't break her too much

Check it out on ao3, if that’s your jam

A line of glowing green carved a rectangle into the dark wall; it shifted, dimming and brightening in turns with no discernible pattern. The light danced across the sturdy wood paneling within its border, highlighting the peaks and valleys of smaller and yet smaller rectangles. It bounced across the glass-smooth stone of the floor until it reached the rippling waterfalls of fabric lining the walls. Its toxic hue overpowered blood red only at the point where it shone most directly on each curve and drape before fading to gray and then, finally, leaving a brilliant crimson untouched on the far side. 

All at once the green line vanished, the light wholly eclipsed by creeping tendrils of shadow. Like a bank of mist or, perhaps, a cloud of smoke, the darkness drifted through the crack around the door and into the hall. The shadows came together, bubbling and churning and climbing as though each desperate billow wished to be atop the heap and did not care how many others it had to trample to get there. 

The smoke took shape, solidifying into a beautiful young woman. She stretched long, sinuous arms above her head until her freshly formed spine let out a series of sickening cracks. 

“Much better,” she sighed. “I really needed that.” 

Nothing picked her up when she was feeling down quite like helping the youth of today find their place in the world. 

Children were such adorable little morsels, so full of wonder and hope . It was admirable, really… but real life was not kind to the innocent. They weren’t invincible , they weren’t special , they weren’t different . No one was. The sooner they learned that the better, and there was something so… fulfilling about being the one to teach them that lesson. 

Not to mention how absolutely delectable their misery was… So maybe she had gotten a bit carried away this time, but a little take out now and then never hurt anybody. 

Well… it had never hurt her ; she couldn’t exactly say the same for the Sylvan High dance team captain. 

Penelope grinned with all the predatory grace of a cat who had just finished tormenting some small creature.

She had been such a sweet girl. Surely her classmates would miss her, unlike–

Abruptly, the smile fell from Penelope’s face. 

She stood frozen in place aside from the slight shake of her fists where they clenched at her sides, the next moment she was on her way down the hall. 

Her heels tapped out a purposeful rhythm, echoing as if in a great cavern despite the close press of the walls. 

She chanced not a peek down at the marble beneath her feet, its black surface polished to perfection. 

Click-clack, click-clack.

She strode on, eyes straight ahead.

Click-clack, click-clack.

The curtains to either side did little to dampen the sound, not of her heels, nor of the whispers behind them. 

She fought the urge to walk faster.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

At the end of the hallway, there stood a single vanity, its elaborately carved wood painted white with trim leafed in gold. It was lit by a ring of bulbs around an attached mirror; each glowed softly on its own, but combined and reflected as they were, the light they cast was harsh and unforgiving. It was the same vanity that had been in her childhood bedroom, exactly as she remembered it. 

She pulled out a matching white and gold chair and sat, but rather than face the vanity’s mirror, she pulled a small compact from her pocket and began examining her reflection in it. 

She was flawless. Of course she was. She had just come back from feasting on the bountiful despair at some underfunded, small-town high school. 

None of the students there would ever amount to anything. Such grand dreams, the way they had all yearned to leave, but would never be able to afford anything more than the local community college. She had… lowered their expectations. No sense getting their hopes up just to go into debt over a degree they would never use. They could get a dead-end career and a job they hated just as easily without some fancy piece of paper.

She was rejuvenated. Her skin was glowing, her complexion even, her pores practically nonexistent. Everywhere she looked was perfection from the tip of her nose to the curve of her jaw… 

But then she saw it, a small, jagged line to mar her otherwise immaculate features: a single, gray hair. 

"Oh, Penny, you had better get a husband soon," her reflection spoke with the voice of her mother. "Why, you're practically an old maid!"

Unbidden, in the small circle of the compact, a wrinkle formed between her furrowed brows.

"You know I don't care about that," she scoffed, plucking the offending hair with a wince. 

“Well, maybe if you cared about anyone but yourself, I would have had grandchildren!” the voice complained. "I don't want- I didn’t have time for a husband or-or–” she stuttered, “I was- I’m focusing on my career right now…"

One of her eyes twitched, the skin beneath them thinning and darkening like so many sleepless nights.

"Are you sure that's why?" said another voice. 

Penelope would know that voice anywhere, though it had been many years since she'd last heard it. It called out from behind a curtain to her left. 

She stood on trembling legs, her knees not what they used to be. Supporting herself with the back of the chair, she reached out a shaky hand.

Vanessa had been the most popular girl at her high school. Beautiful, smart, and beloved by all. Penelope had always looked up to her, wanted to be like her, wanted to be accepted by her, wanted to…

She threw aside the curtain only to be met with her own reflection sneering back at her. It laughed, beautiful and cruel, just like Vanessa.

“Everybody knows why you don’t want a husband , Penny.”

The whispers grew louder, a few of them giggling meanly at the implication.

Something lurched in her chest, an irregular beat pounding in her ears.

“No! No! It’s not true!” she cried. “That’s just a rumor! I’m- I’m not–”

“Not what? Not completely and utterly obsessed with me?” Vanessa’s voice laughed again. “Not that I blame you, everyone who’s anyone adores me. It figures that a nobody like you would be in love with me, too.”

Penelope tried to defend herself, but the words tangled on her tongue and caught in her teeth. 

In the mirror, metal flashed in her mouth and when she clamped her lips closed, the braces cut them from inside.

“Face it, Penny, you’re pathetic . Even if you weren’t a… you know… no boy would ever want to date you. Nobody likes you. You’ll never be pretty enough to hang with the popular girls, never be smart enough for the math nerds, and, unless you spontaneously gain a talent for playing the tuba, I don’t think even the band geeks would take you. You are going to die alone and unwanted .”

The truth in Vanessa’s words hit like a punch to the gut. Penelope’s skin was too tight, her body all wrong. It was too tall, too sweaty, too clumsy, too hairy. Lingering baby chub and curves in new places made her feel like a sack of potatoes stuffed into a sausage casing and she wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow her whole.

Self-loathing rose like bile in the back of her throat.

The mirror before her grew, bloating her reflection, warping her into a funhouse caricature. It towered over her, herself a looming giant within its tarnished gold frame. Her each and every flaw was magnified and distorted in a grotesque display that turned her stomach to behold.

“You look fat,” a different voice interjected.

“What was that?” she croaked, turning to the other wall.

“I said, ‘you look fat,’” the blunt voice of her father repeated. “Maybe instead of trying to earn six figures, you should focus on maintaining the one you already have.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped, tearing the curtain from another mirror.

“Look, all I’m saying is, maybe if you practiced a little self control, cut back on the sweets…” her own brows twisted in a mockery of concern from behind the glass.

“Your father’s right, dear, you’ve definitely put on a couple pounds since we saw you last,” her mother’s voice chimed in from the vanity. “We’re not trying to be harsh, we’re just concerned about your health . Don’t you care about what you’re doing to yourself?” 

“If you don’t care, how can you expect anybody else to?” her father’s voice said matter-of-factly.

“I do care! I care more than any of you!” Penelope cried.

The mirror began to stretch up, up, up. This time it pulled her with it like saltwater taffy until she was thin and gaunt, a looming skeleton with hollow, hungry eyes.

“And it’s still not enough.” 

Pale, drawn lips spoke with the poison-sweet voice of a dark angel. 

“You will never be enough. You try so hard to be wanted…  but the harder you try, the more embarrassing the failure. You've always reeked of desperation and all it does is drive people away. Perfection doesn’t exist, so you constantly move the goalpost. You’re running yourself ragged to meet an impossible standard. If you’re not good enough for yourself, what makes you think you could ever be good enough for anybody else? You will never be good enough for me .” 

The rejection from Vanessa pressed against her chest like a crushing weight. She couldn’t breathe. Tears pricked at her eyes. It hurt far more than being turned down by any boy. She didn’t need love, she told herself, all she wanted was to be liked.  

“And you couldn’t even manage that ,” her reflection sneered. “You squandered your youth chasing an unattainable goal. You always thought it would be nice to die young and beautiful instead of old and ugly. It would be a tragedy, of course, and everyone you knew and even a few you didn’t would mourn your loss. A bright light gone too soon. You would be so lovely lying there in the casket and there wouldn’t be a dry eye when the preacher gave your eulogy… but you never felt beautiful enough, never worked up the nerve to go through with it…” 

Penelope turned away, arms circling herself defensively.

“You carved away pieces of yourself trying to please others until there was nothing left,” the mirror she now faced continued where the last left off. “You betrayed yourself, punished yourself, deprived yourself. You pushed others away so they wouldn’t see through your facade, wouldn’t see past the beautiful smile you pasted on, wouldn’t get to know how awful of a person you truly were. You were afraid you’d slip, treat them the way you treat yourself, and deep down you knew it was wrong, but you couldn’t stop.”

She covered her ears and pinched her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t keep out what was already inside.

“You wasted away, too old to be tragic, too young to be accomplished, to have lived a happy, fulfilled life. You died alone and woefully, painfully middle-aged. ‘These things happen,’ they said at your funeral. The few who came, anyway. All they felt was an apathetic sort of sadness, like what you feel for a dead animal on the side of the road. Pity, perhaps. They knew they should feel sad, on an intellectual level, but they had no real connection to you, nothing to break, nothing to mourn. Oh, they missed you, of course… well , they missed what you did for them, at least… until they found a replacement, that is.”

The doorway she had come through shrank away from her on one side and the vanity receded on the other.

“They never understood!” she spit out, incensed by the injustice of it all. “They never saw how hard I tried, how much I did! They took me for granted! I did everything for them, did everything they asked and more , and got nothing in return! I made it look easy, but it was never easy! And if I ever slipped? If they asked too much and I didn’t have any more to give? It was always my fault, never theirs!”

The hall began to shift and twist, mirrors spinning above and below and all around her, curtains whipping as though in a hurricane.

“They didn’t know because you didn’t tell them,” reasoned a whisper from one of the mirrors, still crystal clear over the roar of the wind. “You fault them for falling for your mask when you were the one who so carefully crafted it.”

“They should have known anyway! They should have known that they were asking too much! No one could have been that perfect! They should have realized how hard I had to work for it! How many obstacles I had to overcome just to get to where they started!”

“People can only see things from their own perspective, and most never even attempt to look from another’s. They only have the experiences they’ve lived themselves. They haven't lived your life, they can’t see into your mind,” replied the quiet voice of reason.

“Everyone else is just so… so… self-centered! It’s like they aren’t even trying!” she accused. “It’s always been easy enough for me to get inside other people’s heads, to know what they really think, how they really feel! It’s child’s play to know their greatest desires and deepest fears, what makes them tick and what it takes to get under their skin!” 

“Only people who are wearing a mask suspect others of doing the same. You’re no better than they are,” the voice of reason pointed out. “You think that everyone around you is hiding who they truly are just because that’s what you do. You’re projecting your own experiences onto others just like they did to you. You think you’re better than them, but that’s just a lie you tell yourself.”

Every mirror, now free of its velvet prison, stared at her from its place along the winding corridor. Each frame boasted a different version of her, some young, some old, some fat, some thin. From every angle her own two eyes reflected hundredfold. 

She had never felt so exposed.

“No! No! I am better than they are!” she laughed, a mirthless thing, bordering on hysterical. “I’ve worked harder than they have! I’ve suffered so much more than they have! I gave them everything I had and they didn’t even appreciate it! They abandoned me as soon as it was convenient! They don’t understand how I feel! How much it hurts to be told that you���ll never be good enough! To spend your whole life desperately trying to prove them wrong. To work, and work, and work until you’re perfect, only to find out that perfection still isn’t enough!”

Penelope fell to her knees under the weight of her despair, clutching her arms tightly around herself in the pale mimicry of a hug. It would have to do, for there was no one else to offer an alternative. 

When she spoke again, it was a hoarse whisper, though it still echoed in the dying breeze. 

“Everyone I’ve ever known… my classmates, my bosses, coworkers, family , the people who claimed to be my friends… They all told me over and over all the things that I was doing wrong, all the ways that I was wrong… They all acted like they were some modern day Columbus ‘discovering’ a new land… but just like him, they were never the first. Every single critique, every ‘helpful suggestion,’ every last cutting remark followed the same, well-worn path over a gash that was never allowed to heal, carving it deeper and deeper until it became a part of me and I became certain that it always had been.”

She pushed herself up on shaking arms. 

Windblown hair hanging limply blocked her view of the hall at large, a makeshift auburn curtain meant to shield her, though it acted only as blinders, forcing all her attention straight ahead. 

She stared at the mirror below her, down into her own haggard face.

“I already knew all of it, every last flaw. I thought about them every waking moment and during every restless dream. They colored every interaction I had. I was constantly adjusting myself, tweaking what I said and how I acted to be the least offensive version of myself, yet always aware of my own shortcomings.”

She sighed, eyes scanning over her appearance, running through the all too familiar catalog. 

The scar on her chin from when she'd picked a pimple in 7th grade. The way her eyes sat a tad too far apart. The one crooked tooth that the orthodontist hadn’t bothered to fix. External markers that were but the tip of the iceberg compared to the mess she was on the inside.

“Death was supposed to be the end of it all, supposed to be a blissful nothing, if not my just reward, but instead here I am, stuck in my own personal hell.”

“You’re the only one to blame for that,” said the voice of reason. It was really starting to get on Penelope’s nerves. “You're the only one here. You torture yourself with your past mistakes, things that you couldn't go back and change even when you were still alive. If you are trapped in a hell, it is one of your own making.”

Anger bubbled up in her chest as she stared herself down, hands pressed, claw-like, against the cool glass. Another thing she was being blamed for, another thing out of her control.

“And what, exactly, do you propose I do about it?” she snarled.

“Let go,” the voice simply said.

It was like a vacuum opened up within her gut, the brief sensation of falling, the panic of a chair tipped too far.

“You're stagnant. You're stuck. Can't you see that if you could only love yourself, everything would be alright? You can become a better person, you can become someone you enjoy being around instead of someone to repress or to fight,” the voice implored. “Let go. Let go of the self hatred, learn to accept yourself, flaws and all.”

Her reflection reached out a hand, an olive branch, a peace offering.

Could she really change? She had always thought it was too late.

She began to reach out, as well, to meet herself in the middle, tears pooling in her eyes.

Could she really start again? Leave her past behind? Forget all the pain that had shaped her? She wondered who she would be if not for her parents’ nagging or the judgment of her peers? All the things that drove her to want to end it all the first time…

A pang of terror jolted her right down to the core.

The mirror below her rippled like a once clear pond disturbed by something lurking invisible beneath its surface. The hand that moments ago extended only peace now brimmed with small, white pills. 

She stared, transfixed. 

They were so beautiful, each so unassuming, so perfect and uniform. Powder pressed until it held its shape, polished until it shone, a sweet coating to mask the acrid taste of the medicine inside.

Her hand, still half reaching, stalled and began to shake.

Some deep-seated sense of self-preservation that even now clung to her meager existence, despite how awful it was, would not allow her to take the plunge.

Bitter memories coated her tongue.

She withdrew her hand, cradling it to her chest, “I- I can't. I just- I can't do it.”

It was the wrong answer, she knew it was, even before her reflection went dark, even before all she could see in the bleak, black pit beneath her was a pair of angry, red eyes.

Twin coals burned bright through a smoky haze and a voice distorted by rage hissed out, “You idiot! What is wrong with you?”

The frame beneath her began to shake. The wind picked up again as the hallway writhed and lashed. A hundred voices echoed all around her, “What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you? Wrong, wrong, wrong!”

“Are you really too stupid to do this one, simple thing ? Why can't you take even the first step towards happiness? Do you want to wallow in self-pity for the rest of your afterlife? Are you so afraid of failing that you're willing to give up before you've even started? ” The words boomed and crashed all around her, like thunder in a storm. “You would rather tear others down instead of putting in the work to build yourself up. You surround yourself with people who are even more miserable than you, and ruin the life of anyone who has the gall to be happy in your presence. Is it any wonder you're alone? You–”

Penelope raised her fist, bringing it crashing down against the glass. 

Her reflection splintered into a million jagged pieces, broken beyond repair, just like she was. The mirrors went dark. The voices went silent. All she could hear was the echo of every drip-drip-drip of her blood on the marble floor. 

The side of her hand and her wrist burned where the mirror cut it in a final, desperate attack. She relished the pain; it gave her something to focus on, pulling her from her spiral.

She crawled, broken glass crunching under her hands and knees, toward the exit. Floor became wall became ceiling then wall once again. She fumbled with the knob of the sideways door until it fell open into nothingness, the vast empty abyss of the Ghost Zone before her. She clutched the wood paneling like a lifeline floating in a sea of despair. Her chest heaved in the vacuum, great gulps of nothing in lungs that didn’t exist. 

Unsurprisingly, it brought her little comfort. 

The silence echoed in her ears. The cacophony from before buzzed beneath her beautiful skin, roiling deep in her gut. She swiped the tears from her perfect face and rubbed soft hands over graceful arms, smoothing away any sign of what lies within. Behind her, a shadowy barrier spanned the door frame, cutting her off from her lair. One last dim reflection stared back at her with hollow, red rimmed eyes and all she could see now was the mask. 

Her gaze traced over the arch of her brow, the curve of her nose, the swoop of her hair. Everything was as it should be, not a freckle out of place… then something caught her eye. A small glint, just above her right temple. A rogue hair, wiry and white, stood out proudly, arrogantly, disdainfully against the neat order of her luscious strawberry locks. 

Muffled voices began to stir and if she looked closely she could just see undulating drapes of red velvet behind the tinted glass. 

Her lashes crashed down, shuttering eyes that glistened with fresh tears, sending them careening over the edge. Twin trails traced hollow cheeks, miniature waterfalls that sprang not from a fount of eternal youth, but a well of endless suffering.

She hated it here. She hated it, but it reminded her of who she was. It reminded her of all the reasons she was a monster. She hated it, but it felt familiar, it felt like home. 

She wondered if it really would be better to just forget it all, to start fresh and become a new person, a better person. But she was just a ghost, a shadow of her former self. Who could she be if not who she was?

If she forgot herself, forgot her reason for existing, what would happen to her? If a shark stopped swimming, it would die, so what would happen to a ghost who let go of its reason to cling stubbornly to some semblance of life?

Penelope shuddered and shoved the ugly thought deep into the recesses of her mind, behind yet another beautiful, red velvet curtain. 

Through her tears, the other doors twinkled in the distance like stars against a backdrop of her own personal darkness. This part of the zone responded to her every emotion since she was the most powerful ghost as far as she could see in any direction; the other ghosts kept their lairs just to the edge of her reach. Even in death she was alone, even the others whose horrible lives landed them here in this god forsaken place wanted nothing to do with her. She was an outcast even among outcasts.

In a sudden bout of fury, her perfect nails became perfect claws and left perfectly deep gouges in the wood of her door.

Why should she change anyway? For them? For the people who had mistreated her, abandoned her, forgotten her? It wasn’t her fault she had turned out this way… no, it was everyone else's.

A nerve twinged in her neck and the beginnings of what promised to be a nasty headache bloomed at the base of her skull.

“Oh, I need a drink,” she groaned, swiping a hand across her face. “Or, better yet, someone who’s having a much worse day than me.”

The top half of her body floated up with the other half following much more slowly, as it unspooled into a dark miasma once again.

She flew off in search of a new set of people in need of her… services . Perhaps another school, or maybe a DMV… Places where people were forced into close quarters and bored out of their minds were breeding grounds for frustration and despair.

Penelope grinned wickedly, she was feeling better already.

After all, misery loves company, and who was she to deny her nature? 

[uzi-vents]

tw major vent under cut‼️‼️

containing s3lf h3rm, su!cidal thoughts/attempts, self hatred, depressive episodes/depressive thoughts, e3ting disorder, dissociative thoughts/ dissociation, not feeling real? dehumanization? (not sure abt the last 3 sry.

[borderline-culture-is]

bpd traits culture is for fucks sake can I stop splitting black on them im going to fucking kill myself

- 🪨

.

[nicolethered]

Joel tells Ellie about his shooting in 1x09 Look for the Light

[cashmere-caveman]

Hanif Abdurraqib, it’s not like nikola tesla knew all of those people were going to die | Anne Carson, H of H Playbook | Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain | Franz Wright, Heaven | Toby Whithouse, shooting script for Being Human S1E1 | Franz Wright, Heaven | Erin Slaughter, I Hope My Salt Lamp is a Weeping Deity | Richard Siken, Straw House, Straw Dog & My Country: The New Age, Episode 16

image descriptions in alt

[ribesrubrum]

under the mask of pride (fear rises as a guide)

//so i feel...honestly, a little guilty for how little i've been around as of late, especially since things are picking up drama-wise. irl debuffs aplenty will do that to you. but i wanted to get some writing out to kind of describe Carmine's mental state, so. here we are.

//fair warning: this fic is technically kind of offscreen rp in that it's at least canon that ren and carmine talked like this, though i'd greatly prefer it not be spread as a rumor or leak or something. but it also does talk about some heavy topics; namely very heavy self loathing, some mention of parental abandonment and abuse (heehoo headcanoning carmine's parents/why she's like this), mentions of bullying, self harm in the form of hair pulling/trichotillomania, and uh. ...look i'm not gonna beat around the bush, i don't wanna edgelord, i wanna treat this with respect but i also don't wanna sugarcoat it, this gets about as close to implying carmine was about to take drastic measures to alleviate her suffering as i'm comfortable with getting. the less implicit version of this warning will be in the tags. please uncollapse the tags before reading. dead dove: do not eat is in full effect here.

//this is going to be pretty heavy, and also stupid long. feel free to click if you're okay with handling that.

Carmine's listlessness has only grown as the days have worn on, she's finding. It doesn't help that her knuckles are still raw from punching her wall a day prior--she's thankful it seems like the wall fix went off without a hitch, and all she got was a rather stern talking to about making noise so late at night before the teacher that spoke with her went off. Cardigan's been sticking close to her side since Leavanny elected to stay near Kieran at least for a time, but even now, she feels pathetic for it.

Pathetic that she can't help her brother. Pathetic that she can't help her girlfriend, who simply wants to make sure that the whole club that they built together and maintained isn't destroyed because of Drayton's boneheaded move. If Carmine looked deep within herself, she'd be looking at Kiki's actions too, that he allowed this, that he's possibly setting himself up to lose everything. That Drayton's encouraging it, and she's been more on edge than ever and ready to tear someone apart for it. If she doesn't wind up punching him out when all is said and done, she's going to be very surprised.

Cardigan trills a bit from beside her, and she looks down to the flower-less Lilligant, pausing a bit as she looks down. She recognizes that trill, and knows that she's probably being concerning right now. Emotional regulation is still something that Carmine struggles with, even now, knowing that she can't and she shouldn't scream her feelings out to try and get people to understand, that yelling doesn't help, that you have to see other's perspectives. Even if sometimes, they trounce all over your own. Carmine looks down to Cardigan, giving the Lilligant a tired smile.

"...Sorry, Cardi. I know I'm probably not making your job very easy." It's soft in a way Carmine never usually is. In a way that Carmine never allows herself to be--she's all bravado and arrogance because for years, that's what kept her safe. That's what kept her and her brother safe, even if it clipped his wings and made everyone around her hesitant to approach either of them. It was safety, the thorns and briars that she metaphorically planted around herself, letting them spread where she walked and lashing them out at anyone who would even for a second think of hurting her. It was safety, it was lonely, but it was home.

...It's no wonder she likes grass types so much. The Lilligant's gaze only seems to get sadder when she says that much, gentle, leafy hands going to take one of her own as Cardigan stares up at her, as if trying to communicate something with those amber eyes that almost seem pleading. Carmine's hand trembles a bit, because once again she doesn't understand, she can't understand, why can't she--

Carmine hears footsteps, and immediately, her guard is up. She's immediately ready to go on the attack, in case anyone saw her, in case she has to defend being out for a walk in the Canyon Biome with her therapy Pokemon, something she's already received plenty of jabs about--but no. There's a familiar mop of blue hair, and that silly, dorky looking Orthworm is following them and waving with them, as Terry and Mio seem to take over where they left off. Ren's an idiot, in the bluntest of terms, but there's a sense of safety that comes with them. That they can see her, at her worst and most cruel, and laugh and let it slide off their back so easily. Because they were her age once. Her gender once, even, though that's largely irrelevant. They always seem so certain and keep their spirits so high, even if she's the only one they've trusted with some of their worries. And Carmine in turn, has trusted Ren with some of hers.

...They're about as disconnected from this entire situation as they can be, even though they met during that trip. It's as Carmine is contemplating going up to them and being a bother and just turning heel and walking away that the choice is made for her, as they turn around, start walking and see her--

"Oh! Miss Carmine, hey!"

She could walk away. She could just tell them to piss off and lash out, and destroy one of the few unconnected relationships she has with this entire mess, one of the few things that's genuinely hers. She could recede inside herself, lock herself away like she did after she reached her breaking point, when she nearly...

"Hey, Ren. Finally getting your nose out of those cameras?"

The barb is light, half-hearted at best, and could probably make someone deeply passionate a little upset at being teased. And yet Ren takes it in stride, laughing easily as they walk up, Lulu going to Cardigan and just kind of talking with the Lilligant for a moment. "You know it, girlie! Arc, all of these worms are doin' so well, they ain't overwhelmin' the environment nor gettin' overwhelmed themselves--everything's so perfect right now, it's really amazing! Ohh, I gotta tell you about some of the babies, they're just--"

For a brief moment, Carmine thinks she can just get away with Ren going on a hyperfixation ramble and forgetting her own worries in favor of focusing on the things her rival has accomplished. Because it is quite the accomplishment, even if Carmine's definitely harped on them for trying to downplay it before. But their gaze goes to Cardigan and Lulu, falling quickly and their words fading off as Carmine looks, and now everyone looks concerned.

Carmine's posture tightens as she realizes she can't get away with this so easily. She feels their gaze dart back to her, and she's already sure her expression is stormy, and...

"...I think that's enough about me." Fuck. Their voice has softened considerably, and she knows she's done for. "Miss Carmine, are you--"

"I'm fine, Ren." It comes out too sharp, too defensive, and there's a brief moment where she's hoping Ren will just walk away at that. She's shaking, she knows she is, and her gaze averts a bit only to feel not just Cardigan, but Lulu--that stupid, brainless worm--take her hands, wrapping them both in leaves and tendrils, and it feels disgusting and bitter and she wants to run and hide, she wants to tear her hands away--

"...Miss Carmine." Ren's voice sounds so soft, so...sad for a moment, and there's a pause as more footsteps can be heard--Carmine doesn't even bother to flinch, but she feels a tug on both of her hands as she opens her eyes, seeing Ren nod at both Pokemon before looking to her with a smile that's both soft and sad.

"Come on, Miss Carmine. Let's go somewhere else to talk, okay?"

---------------------------------------------

The trip back to her room is arduous, even though it barely takes more than fifteen minutes. Every agonizing second feels like a walk of shame, but she realizes something along the way. It's only so long because Ren knows their way around here like the back of their hand now; they know where people aren't, because they aren't some social butterfly who likes to help in every club. They take her through an easy but arduous path that leaves her alone in her head, and it takes a couple of second after Ren's stopped for her to stop too.

"...You must have a lot on yer mind to be makin' mistakes like this, Miss Carmine." Ren's voice is soft, non-judgemental, and they don't even flinch when she turns back to face them with something of a severe expression. It's the kind of care and kindness she doesn't deserve, she's sure, but as she unlocks the door to her room and ushers Ren and their Pokemon inside, it's something she finds herself internally thankful for.

Carmine's room is a mess, perhaps moreso than usual. Stress eating will do that, bags of chips and other sweet and savory alike strewn about. Cardigan doesn't even seem surprised, but Lulu, bless his stupid little soul, seems taken aback by it as he draws himself inside. She hears Ren's footsteps as they close the door behind them, a small sound escaping them as they walk in front of Carmine.

"You want some help cleanin' off that bed of yours?" Carmine looks over at her messy, disheveled bed, and it's many snacks and wrappers as well. It's an absolute Tepigsty, more than she'd ever allow anyone to see. She feels herself listlessly nod her head as she looks over to Ren, who's concern hasn't dampened even an inch as they move to help in an instant. She's thankful she's got a vacuum and that it's early enough in the afternoon that nobody's likely around the dorms; Cardigan and Lulu both assist as well as they help clear it off, at least enough to let Carmine sit down on it once they're all done.

Cardigan hops on the bed with Carmine as she sits down, and Lulu rests his head near Ren's feet as he gets himself comfortable on the floor, and Ren looks to her, finally broaching the topic, "Ya look like you got a lot on yer mind, Miss Carmine. You sure everything's okay?"

It takes Carmine a lot longer than she'd like to respond. Cardigan gently takes hold of one of Carmine's hands, gently petting it with her own leafy appendage. The eventual response she settles on is a bitter laugh.

"...I don't know." It comes out so soft and uncertain, it feels like she's a different person entirely when she says it. "I thought everything was fine. I thought...I don't know, I thought that everything would be okay. I really let myself believe that now that I made up with my brother, that everything would go back to some sort of normal, but..."

Carmine's voice pitches higher and higher with every word, and she finds herself shaking a bit. She can't even look at her rival right now, how pathetic can she even get?

"Oh, Carmine..." There's not even that weirdly respectful 'Miss' at the beginning of her name, and a part of her hates that, that she's being seen as sympathetic for even a moment when she doesn't deserve it, she doesn't deserve this, if she'd just trusted Kiki-- "Nothin' is ever that easy, but I remember how relieved ya were when Kiki actually bothered to respond."

"Yeah." Carmine confirms that much, listlessly, but a ghost of a smile traces her face. "...It really filled me with hope, for a second. That maybe things could go back to some sort of normal, that I could really see Kiki for all he is. It wanted to be seen and come into it's own, and I...I didn't know how to do that, but..."

"...But you wanted to try." Ren's words softly intervene. Carmine nods shortly after.

"I wanted to try. I still do. But it's...that big fight happened, and now everything's just...it feels like we're right back where we started."

Carmine's voice breaks a little bit, and try as she might to rein it in, it's harder to get back on track. At this point, she feels, she might as well just give up.

"...I don't know what to do."

Carmine's gaze stays down, because she can't look at Ren, she can't, she just can't. But Ren's words; soft, steady words, a contrast to the cold steel they loved so dearly, pour out none the less.

"...It's a tough position to be in, Carmine. Ya got your brother and it's undyin' need to win on one side, and ya got Miss Amarys tryin' her damnedest to hold everyone together on the other, yeah?"

"Yeah. And it's like--I don't want to destroy the relationship I have with my brother. I want to rebuild it, to let it come into it's own. But I...my beloved is right, even if I worry about saying it. She tries so hard to uphold the rules of the club, of this school, and these--these jerks keep sending her horrible, disgusting things for it. And for what?"

A quiet settles over the room, and she's sure Ren expects her to elaborate, but she doesn't. Not even she knows what, and she's sure Ren gets it by the time they speak up next.

"...I ain't gonna go makin' any assumptions, but...I don't even think I know the answer to that, Carmine."

It's soft, when Ren admits it. Sad, even. She can only imagine what their face is doing right now, and it gets Carmine to laugh a bit. Bitterly, wretchedly.

"Neither do--neither do I, Ren. And do you know how much that kills me?"

Carmine's voice pitch rises, and she feels her free hand drawing into her hair, Cardigan's trills of concern becoming more apparent as she tries to hop over and dislodge it--

"I love Kiki! I love Amarys! I love them both more than life itself and I--if I say anything at all, I'm going to hurt one of them. Both of them, even, maybe, whether I intend it or not! And the little Mandibuzzes on here, flying around and trying to hurt everyone in this school, they'll be on it in an instant, they'll--they'll hurt them both, they'll turn them both against each other, and I--if I do anything, they already know it's my fault from the start, that all of this is, that I was stupid and boneheaded and lied to my brother because I was scared it could've gotten hurt--"

"Miss Carmine."

"--and I told Juliana to lie, yes, I got so worried that Kiki would just get so excited and that Ogerpon could've hurt or done something worse to it, but then my grandfather told me to keep my mouth shut about helping Ogerpon and I--I didn't--"

"Miss Carmine."

"--And then it--it stole her mask, and I've never been more angry in my life at it, and it just--it keeps stomping on others feelings, and it won't believe anyone, and I don't know what I can actually do--"

"Miss Carmine, please--!"

"WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

Carmine's shriek practically causes her to lunge at her friend, the firm tone in that moment making her see someone else. Wide yellow eyes fiercely stare at bright blue ones, as Ren startles a bit at the ferocity in her tone. The quiet over the room is tense and uneasy, and Ren already sees a few strands got torn out because of it. They take a gentle breath in as realization hits Carmine, but she's still for a moment. Still as Cardigan trills with concern, as Lulu looks up with even more concern on his dopey little face, though he looks ready to hold Carmine back more than anything.

Ren's surprisingly quick on the uptake, at least, and they speak up again before Carmine can.

"Isn't that somethin' you should be askin' of yourself?"

Ren's words are confusing, and the confusion must be apparent on her face as they reach her ears. Ren gently breathes, and continues, "I mean it. You've been talkin' this entire time about Kiki this, Amarys that, and I ain't gonna disparage you for that. Sure puts any rumors of ya bein' self centered to bed, not that I believed 'em anyway. But..."

"What is it that ya want, at the end of it all? Isn't that a question that's come up even once for ya...?"

Carmine can't even believe what she's hearing.

"Why does that matter? I've taken what I wanted for years, I--"

"Okay, you hold on a second here." Ren's words are still soft, but there's a firmness to them now that cuts through her words like butter. "When did that stop bein' a question you asked yerself?"

"It doesn't matter--"

"It absolutely does matter? Girl, yer gettin' tugged in two different directions and ya sound like yer long past the end of yer rope."

"Why does it matter when I've been nothing but a selfish bitch this entire time?!"

And that startles Ren enough to actually get them to stop for a second, completely taken aback. Carmine's gaze goes downward, and she's shaking, horribly.

"Those anons were right, okay?! I ruined Kiki's one good friendship because I'm a bonehead, I'm a failure of a girlfriend who can't even help the girl I love so much with her anger and problems other than just being there like a useless cardboard cutout, I deserve this, all of it, even all of the hateful words and it would've just been so much easier if I had--"

Something stops Carmine in her tracks from speaking. Multiple of them, really. Cardigan's hands, for starters, wrapped firmly around one of her own hands; two of Lulu's tendrils wrap around the other, and even Carmine has to admit that she's surprised by how little an Orthworm's head seems to weigh as he rests his head on one of her legs with concern.

The final thing, that she didn't even hear, is Ren getting up and putting a firm, supportive hand on her shoulder, tiny as said hand is. When she actually gets a look at their face, they look like they're about to cry, and for a brief moment she wonders if she's just gone and ruined another friendship.

"Don't--don't you dare talk about yerself like that again, you hear me?"

Oh. That's not what she expected at all; Ren's voice practically trembles as they say that, and it hits something in her. Carmine's eyes well up with tears of her own, and she can practically hear herself sniffling.

"...I'm sorry, Ren." Her voice is so soft, so delicate, so fragile in the moment that she wonders if it's her own. "I'm...I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..."

"I know you are." Ren's voice softens from that point on, and their grip becomes a little easier. A little more slack, but still there. "When did ya stop seein' yerself as someone not worth considerin' the feelin's of, girl...?"

"...I don't know. It was...before that. Maybe when Amarys and Kiki fought that one time. I--I don't know." Carmine's voice is shaky as she struggles to keep herself together, and she feels Cardigan shift and pull her arm into a hug, and the tears start pouring down at that. She can't stop them, even if she's not a sobbing wreck with no dignity. Yet, at least. "...I don't want to lose anything else."

That gets a pause from Ren, who does their best to calm themself down. "Anything else...?"

"...My parents are divorced. My dad was...he was awful. Just a screaming, bumbling oaf who went from job to job while my mom stayed home and took care of us. Though she was...she was way more focused on Kiki..."

Ren listens carefully, nodding their head as Carmine continues.

"I haven't seen either of them in...years. We usually live with our grandparents, when we're not here. Last time I saw my mom, we got into an argument. I asked her why she stopped caring for me. Why she just...tried to leave me with him--"

"...She what?"

Carmine spares a quick glance at Ren's face, when they say that--practically seething with an anger they don't usually express. "...Yeah. She--she said she could only handle one of us, and that I was Dad's favorite, so..."

"Girl." Ren's doing their best to keep their tone level, but the anger doesn't leave. Hell, if anything, it mixes with the sheer unholy audacity of what they heard, leaving them flabberghasted-- "What the fuck is wrong with your mom?"

Carmine laughs, and while it sounds bitter, there's almost some mirth to it. "Yeah. Like I said. We got into an argument last time I talked to her. I told her I wanted an apology for her trying to abandon me, before Dad went and ran away. I...haven't spoken to her since."

"Carmine...what the fuck, that's so..."

A silence hangs over the room as Ren trails off, but Carmine breaks the silence after a few moments.

"...Between this, and the rest of the shit I dealt with at school...I...I didn't want Kiki to turn out like me." Carmine sniffles, tears still coming unbidden. "I thought you had to be tough and mean to make it, but I just...I wanted Kiki to grow up happy. I wanted it to have a better life than me. I was this bitter, mean girl, but I thought I could at least make it so my little brother--it'd have a chance at growing up to be a gentle hearted little dork who had something happy in it's life. But all I did...it all just amounted to...to..."

There's a few seconds more of sniffling before the dam finally breaks, and Carmine just starts to sob without an end. She's pretty sure her makeup is running down her face, if it hasn't been already; she finally just breaks, her tears pouring and pouring down as she sobs wretchedly and loudly, her hands finally being relinquished so she can try, in vain, to wipe those tears off. But still they come; the pain of so much more than a simple inciting incident, but still mostly that.

Ren uses their own free hand to wipe away the tears falling from their own eyes, as they just let her for a bit.

"...I want to stop hurting." Carmine speaks up, and Ren starts for a moment as they listen. "I want to stop feeling like the evil person that everyone thinks I am. But what if I'm just born evil, and there's no changing that...?"

"That's--" Ren speaks up, briefly, but Carmine speaks again and they let her get it out of her system.

"I want to make things better. I want to just know if it's all my fault, I want to know if I'm just--if I'm justified, in being unable to forgive Kiki for some of the stuff it did." Carmine sniffles again, wretched sobs still escaping her. "...I want to be able to be happy again, without feeling like I'm walking on eggshells. I want to make my girlfriend's pain go away--I want to make Kiki's pain go away, and fuck, maybe even Atlas' and some of the others. I want the world to just stop for a bit, at least so I can stop aching like this. I...I think I just want, more than anything, for someone to tell me I've suffered enough for this, or at the very least, that I just haven't grown up to become a little clone of Dad."

"...Is that so much to ask?"

The question is soft, full of despair, but it at least feels...somewhat good, to try and dislodge some of the thorns in her. It's painful and it feels dizzying, but Ren's hand remains steady, even if their own tears come down hard.

"...You're a teenager. A teenager shouldn't--you shouldn't ever have to ask that kind of shit of yourself." Ren's words are soft, with an empathy forged in the same shit they went through. Just without a depressive spiral and a shut-in phase. "You deserve to be happy, Carmine. You made a dumb, boneheaded mistake, but that doesn't mean you're evil. And it sure as fuck don't mean that you've gone and become your Dad."

Carmine pauses a bit, her sobs coming slower as she tries to listen.

"None of that shit yer askin' about, none of it's too much. But how's anyone else gonna be happy--how can ya share happiness with others if ya ain't gettin' happiness for yerself, y'know?"

"Because ya do deserve it. Whether ya want to admit it or not. Yer not evil, yer not your dad, you're literally a confused sixteen year old girl who should've never been made to feel like that."

It's shocking to hear, really. All of it is. Ren says it with so much conviction that Carmine almost believes it.

"...I don't want to talk anymore. I...I think I just want to...cry..."

"...Cry as much as you need, girl. I'll be here as long as you need."

"Don't--don't tell anyone about this, Ren. Please. Everyone has enough to worry about, and I...I don't want to put more on them. Please, I already feel bad enough burdening you..."

Ren manages something of a soft, warm chuckle at that. "...No worries, girl. What we talked about is stayin' in here, I swear on my life."

"...Thank you, Ren."

Carmine cries herself out eventually; by the time she's done, the two of them have shifted from the bed to the floor, bringing Carmine's mattress down to floor level so they could distract themselves until Carmine fell asleep. It's no easy fix, listening to a friend, but...if it makes the burden lighter, then Ren has no problem with it.

They were in a similar place many years ago with no one to help them, after all. It's the least they can do.

[thygoddessouijathicc]

The After Story Ugly AU

Hey! I have a second AU! Spoilers as always and talk of suicide! Also just overall this is a dark AU! Like not good no one is having fun here there’s no real story it’s just kinda bad.

Ok so basically, right before the ending of the game, and I mean moments before, Scorpion is found in the ruins of the building. He fights back but the people who find him manage to capture him and have him sent off to a rather horrible 1800s esque mental institution.

Scorpion is badly mistreated in the asylum by its staff, and sealed into a muzzle and collar, which is designed to inject him full of sedatives if his heart rate gets too high. No one at the asylum knows his name just where he was found.

After Story Scorpion believes himself to be horrible and irredeemable and only worthy to burn in hell and is trying to escape to… you know… get the ending. He wants to be a better person and understands what he did was wrong but does not know how to actually be better and simply believes it’s not possible and that the closest approximation is for him to suffer and die.

…Yeah I said this was a pretty fucked up no one is having fun AU.

Oh yeah also this AU is in a multi AU RP server I’m doing for fun with a friend and he has been dressed up by one of the other Scorpions

He is not emo by choice but by raising no objections to being dressed any way the other Scorpion wanted. And they decided he was emo. Maybe I’ll draw him in something he’d actually choose to wear but let’s be real it would just be a dull and underwhelming version of the in-game outfit.

Oh yeah he also stuck the mirror shard in his back to have it not taken, he hates the sound of his own voice and elects to try not to talk because f this, and has a bad habit of staring people down from across the room.

Making this AU has taught me that 50% of what makes Scorpion look like Scorpion is the hair and the other 50% is the outfit so when he has neither he really doesn’t look like himself. Which I suppose is kinda the point of the AU, that he’s a shell of his former self that hates himself and doesn’t like any of the things he used to.

Anyway sorry for the weird AU. It’s just kinda here now.

[thetragicallynerdy]

OFMD Season 2 Episodes 1-3 Trigger Warnings - Timestamped List of Suicidality

Hey folks, a friend asked me if I'd seen a list of timestamped moments in OFMD Season 2 Episodes 1-3 where suicide comes up, for people looking to avoid those parts. I hadn't, so I went through and compiled a list. Significant spoilers are ahead.

Please note that this only covers trigger warnings for suicidal ideation and attempts - it does not cover other possible triggers. Other triggers I can think of include drug use, the usual blood/murder etc, and a brief mention of sexual assault.

Suicidal ideation and attempts are very present in Season 2 Episodes 1-3, particularly in Episode 2. Please stay safe.

For this guide, I have bolded the timestamps (so that it's easier to see them if you want to just note the timestamps and avoid any mention of what happens), and included a brief description of what takes place in the scene, avoiding too many spoilers where possible. For several scenes there's a very brief warning, followed by "details", which gives more description for folks who might need them.

Again, please note that there are discussions of the suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, implied completed suicide that take place in the show in this guide. Take care of yourselves lovelies!

Episode 1

Overall episode warnings: All scenes with Ed's crew pretty heavily show Edward's declined mental health. There is one direct suicide threat.

16:00 - 18:55 - opens with Edward and Izzy, moves into Edward threatening the crew, then his own life. Details - from 17:45 - 18:10 Ed puts the gun to his own head.

24:00 - 25:30 - no discussion of suicide, heavy brief discussion indicating Ed's depression though.

Episode 2

Overall episode warnings: Again, all scenes with Ed's crew show his mental unwellness. Heavy themes of depression, and multiple suicide attempts throughout the episode. The second half of the episode are very heavy, particularly in scenes focusing on Ed/his crew, which feature consistent suicidality, multiple attempts, and one implied completed suicide. Every scene past 15:00 that contains Ed/Ed's crew contains attempted suicide.

00:40 - 1:33 - less direct, but implied suicidality. At 01:20 Ed tips a cake topper representing himself out the window into the sea.

15:20 - 18:10 - Ed, talking with Izzy. The entire scene has heavy attempt at suicide through another person, and a implied completed suicide at the end. More details - starting at 16:25, Ed asks Izzy to kill him/implies Izzy should (directly putting a gun in Izzy's hand to do it.) It is implied Izzy completes suicide at the end of the scene, but is later revealed he did not succeed the attempt.

18:10 - 18:34 - Frenchie offers to kill himself rather than Ed killing Frenchie. The scene ends with Ed steering the ship into a storm.

20:30 - 22:02 - this entire scene, and the rest of the scenes with Ed in this episode, are of Ed trying to complete suicide by sinking the ship and taking the crew with him, or goading a crew member into killing him. Details: He sails the ship into a storm, removes the wheel, and threatens to take out the main mast with a cannon.

23:20 - 24:48 - continuation of the scene above. At 24:25, there is a flashback that shows Izzy shooting himself non-fatally in the head (and failing to kill himself).

25:10 - End of Episode - continuation of the scenes above. It is implied Ed completes suicide through a crew member killing him. Details: Edward, just before being smashed in the head with a canonball held by a crew member, says "finally." Episode ends.

Episode 3

Whole episode warnings: continued suicidality from Ed, but in a generally more passive/calmer sense. Discussions of "should I keep going or end it all."

00:34 - 01:27 - A pirate captain, after being defeated in a raid, threatens suicide with a gun to his head.

11:29 - 12:45 - Izzy and Stede have a conversation discussing Ed's mental health, including implied discussion of suicidality. There is a flashback to Ed being 'murdered' by the crew.

12:45 - 13:53 - A discussion between Ed and someone, including themes of suicidality, and Ed's suicide attempt of sinking the ship.

17:18 - 17:29 - a series of flashbacks, including two attempts of Ed trying to get the crew to kill him from S2 E2.

19:45 - 20:43 - Discussion with Ed around "should i choose to live or die" and making a pro/con list for living/dying.

26:12 - End of episode - A version of Ed throws another version of Ed off a cliff into water with a rope tied around his waist. The remainder of the episode is Ed deciding to live or die.

[sithfox]

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox/Quinlan Vos

Characters: CC-1010 | Fox, Quinlan Vos, Original Clone Character(s)

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, POV CC-1010 | Fox, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt in the form of attempting to 1v2 space panthers (mentioned), Medical Procedures, Punctured Lungs Are No Joke, CC-1010 | Fox Whump, Author has an uncomfortable amount of experience with being in Quinlan's shoes, Heavy Angst, Self-Harm

Series: Part 6 of FoxQuin Week 2024, Part 2 of A Study In Scarlet

Summary:

Slash is suspiciously silent, but Fox doesn't bother to open his eyes to see why. "He's right behind me, isn't he?" He snarks, falling back on holofilm quotes to desperately try and stop himself from drowning his CMO in a flood of every emotion Fox has ever felt.

"Actually, he's right in front of you."

[byanyan]

mkay i wrote two more good chunks (bringing us up to exactly 4k fucking words...........) of byan's bio but i'm just starting to touch on the actual lowest, darkest point of their life and it's not really helping the already shit place i'm in mentally, so. think i'm done for the night lmao

[annevelvet889]

found these on pinterest and it feels so bad.

VENT CONTENT WARNING: suicidal ideation, mentions and descriptions of sui attempts, mentions of s/h.

You have been warned.

i cried for weeks. three consecutive attempts. now i'm not crying anymore. and when i do, it's only out of rage. of hatred. of disdain for what i was subjected to. slowly dying over the course of two years. two years where i had to kill a part of myself to get him to love me, and he still left.

its so painful to think about. i cant wait to burn him. like judas burning jesus. i just want him to hurt the way i did. to lay up night after night, dried tears on his cheeks. thinking about me. thinking about how cruel he treated me. how it lingers in the back of his mind. to sit up behind his door, with a scarf tied to the handle in a knot as his camera records what should've been the last moments of his life were he not a coward. his arms burning from the pain from his fresh scratchez and zcarz. his mother walking in just as he brought the knife to his skin, dismissing him entirely and bluntly asking him not to make a mess when he dies.

i want him to feel that. to feel himself die. to feel the shift in his mental state as he drains all of what used to be him into a bottle and replaces it with a shitty replica.