#death ideation cw

[deluxewhump]

the bahkauv: part three

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CW: hurt, more hurt, no comfort yet but a glimpse of it. Brief verbal threat of noncon, pliers as torture device, muzzle, broken bones, ear and hand whump, nonhuman whumpee, burning alive, immortal/quick healing whumpee, slight language barrier, brief thoughts/ideation of death and mortality, multiple whumpers

Hunters camp (before):

At first, the hunters thought the Bahkauv was a vampire. It made sense, in the confusion of the moment. Vampires were far more common than its kind was anymore. That and it had fangs.

At the camp, they soon realized the Bahkauv was not a vampire. This revelation did nothing to protect it. Close enough, they said. It was still a non-human creature, and had a long history of attacking, robbing, and even killing humans.

The first day in captivity, nothing happened. The Bahkauv twisted and pulled at its restraints, trying to no avail to find some give in the ropes that bound it hand and foot. How naive it had been. It had no idea the depth of the hatred these humans had for it, and for the vampires they didn’t kill outright.

One of the hunters caught it trying to manipulate the knots and beat it with fists and boots before putting its first muzzle on its face. At first it had been angry, hissing and spitting at the hunter’s hands that were wet with its own blood. That got it a backhand that made its ears ring and its head ache. The bit was sharp and huge, shoved to the back of its throat so it gagged and secured so tightly it thought it would choke. Humiliated, it had shrunk against the clapboard wall and sulked.

Pride would soon be a forgotten luxury.

The next day, two hunters came for it, dragging it stiff and sore from its first beating out into the yard along with a couple of screaming vampires. The sun was climbing in the sky, which was why the vamps were screaming and carrying on so. It felt an intense gratefulness that it could not burn from the sun as they could. One of the hunters grabbed its muzzle and turned its chin to force it to look.

“You see that? You think you’re better than them, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

Another hunter joined the first. He had a mocking, self satisfied grin. “Let’s teach it a lesson in humility then. What are we waiting for? It was going to tear Byron’s throat out before we netted it.”

“Look at these. Is this fur?” the first hunter stroked one of the Bahkauv’s ears with the pad of his thumb. It shuddered at the unexpected touch. It was not affectionate, or kind, but it happened to be very gentle, and its ears were as highly sensitive as its sharp canines. It recoiled in disgust from the hunter’s hand— and its own reaction to it.

“It appears human when it’s not attacking. Except for a few details. The fangs are one. The ears. And of course it’s utterly vicious, despite being relatively intelligent. Can’t teach it a thing.”

“I bet I can teach it something,” grinned the first. It took the Bahvauv’s fur-lined ear between its forefinger and thumb again, this time pinching so tears sprung to its eyes and it bit back a surprised gasp of pain.

“Don’t be shy. Let’s hear a pretty little whimper at least. You’re going to make a lot of noises here.” The hunter pinched the sensitive skin and cartilage harder, his nails breaking skin beneath the soft layer of orange fur. The Bahkauv grit its teeth as best it could around the bit, and would not make a sound.

“No?” The hunter took something from the belt at his waist. Cold metal replaced fingers. Though the Bahkauv didn’t know it yet, it would come to know the word pliers very well. Such a simple tool, and so effective. Humans love tools— pliers and muzzles and fire. The teeth of the pliers bit down.

The Bahkauv screamed around the bit. It tried to pull away, but the hunter had it firm by the muzzle.

“There we go.” He gave the pliers a few sharp tugs, eliciting high pitched yelps. Its delicate ear was caught between the mean metal teeth like a fishhook.

“That was a healthy scream.”

“It’s an angry scream,” said the second. “That will change. If you take that thing clean off, you can dry it out and send it to your kids for good luck. Like a rabbit’s foot.”

It made an indignant sound, half-scream and haf-growl, saliva tinged with blood dripping from its muzzle.

“Well shit, that’s a good idea. I already ruined this one for now, it’s got a hole in it. I’ll get the other one.”

The hunter had been right that its silence wouldn’t last. It screamed as it was parted from its left ear.

—

It did not take the camp of hunters long to figure out that it regenerated itself quickly. Its ears grew back slowly, as did its fangs when they were later pulled. Everything that had a human appearance healed faster, though all the more painfully for it.

The first time they burned it, they didn’t know if it would survive. Neither did the Bahkauv. When it did, and its skin began to immediately repair itself, they were delighted. The Bahkauv was horrified. If that could not end its suffering, what could?

It was put back in its cell at dusk. It was unnatural for a creature like itself to dwell on death, but after being burned alive all morning and afternoon, over and over, with no more than an hours’ reprieve in between, it began to despair.

“Don’t cry,” crooned one of the hunters from the door of its cell. It scrambled into a sitting position, startled. It had thought it was alone.

“You were a favorite today. We all feel so much better for having played with you. A real morale boost. Look how quickly all that pretty hair has grown back. Your nature works hard to protect your disguise as human, doesn’t it? If I cut myself, the blood would clot and the skin would eventually knit back together. But not like you.”

The Bahkauv pressed its back tight against the wall as the hunter approached. This man was one of its torturers earlier that day— a younger one, not twenty five, tall and broad chested, with colorless blue eyes and close-shaved pale hair. He slipped a pair of pliers from his belt— the teeth were thick and blunt, not sharp like the ones they used to cut its ears. “And who knew you could speak? Do you understand, or did you just learn a few words like a talking parrot?”

The hunter squatted in front of it. Its heart pounded wildly, the staggering, paralyzing fear from the day returning and overriding its exhaustion. He took one of the Bahkauv’s hands in a strong grip. The pliers covered the first knuckle of its pointer finger, still pink and healing from the fire. It crunched down, shattering the first knuckle so it felt like gravel inside its skin.

It wailed, wildly trying to wrench its wrist from the hunter’s grip. It was so weak— like in a dream where it could not run or fight back. Healing and burning and healing again had sapped all its strength. Its anger at the hunters had long been replaced by desperation. Why did they want to hurt it so badly? How could it get the pain to stop? When it couldn’t, it stopped wondering why. It knew why. And this hunter was about to remind it.

“God, you sound like a person. You look human. That makes them hate you more, do you know that? It’s uncanny. Except for those devil eyes, you could be a boy of twenty summers, or less. Some of them even wonder if you’d be worth fucking. I think a lot of them wonder, and who could blame them? But no one wants to be the first to try it.” The pliers traveled to the next knuckle and perched there, waiting, on its freshly formed skin.

“No,” the Bahkauv whispered, tears flowing, saliva dripping from the corner of its mouth, raw and chafed from the bit that was always shoved to the back of its throat. “No. Pl-please.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Do you know those words? They’re the only ones you used all day. All goddam day, even in such unfathomable suffering. I could smell it every time your flesh melted, and still you only said no, and please. But do you understand?”

It was beginning to. Its own mother tongue was not human. But it had the same capabilities for language as the humans. More, even, and could infer with greater accuracy things the humans thought and felt as they spoke, which helped decode the words.

“A thing like you shouldn’t beg, anyway. It won’t work. You don’t deserve our mercy.”

Muscles flexed in the hunters thick, tanned forearm as he squeezed the plier handles together. Another crunch, and a second knuckle was destroyed under their powerful metal bite like glass broken inside a cloth sack. It shrieked so it thought its throat would tear open, pounding its foot uselessly against the wooden floor. The hunter narrowed his blue eyes as its scream tapered off into raw sobs, shaking its head no, over and over.

The pliers retracted and settled over its middle finger, on the first knuckle. The Bahkauv keened in dread, looking into the hunters face and finding not a flicker of regret or a glimpse of mercy. It knew hurting it entertained each hunter in different ways, but it pleased them all none the less. Each crunch of the tool was cataclysmic, and it was hard to imagine how at any point today it would have chosen this immediately to get the fire to stop, because now it did not think it could handle another crushed bone. And it had many more knuckles.

“Either way,” sighed the hunter. “Tomorrow we will burn you again, and see if you know any more words, little parrot.”

__

After they made camp, the three friends slept around the dying fire in their bedrolls. Francis tied a rope to his own waist and looped the other end around the Bahkauv’s collar so it slept six feet away from him. No more escape attempts. If it moved, he would feel it, and they both knew it.

The men slept. The Bahkauv tried to lie awake and alert, but its exhaustion was too great, and soon it slept too. The howling of wolves woke all of them in the wee hours of the morning. Disoriented, it leapt awake, scrambling along the length of its rope. In the hunters encampment, this would have led it to a solid wall it could press itself against, but now it led to Francis. It bumped into him and whimpered, waiting for a backhand or a cuff to the ear.

“Hey. It’s alright,” Francis told it gently in the darkness. Why were their voices so soft and blameless when they spoke to it? It had been waiting all day and now all night for the first blow, the first violence or pain from its captors, and still it had not come. It was like waiting for the pliers to crush another bone.

“They won’t come much closer. You’re alright. You’re safe with us. They sound kind of beautiful, don’t they?”

Stephan and Arthur got up out of their bedrolls to settle the horses, who were stamping their hooves and whickering nervously.

It hadn’t meant to crawl so close to its captor, but once again it was not punished for doing so. Something was different about them than the hunters, but it didn’t know enough about humans to assign much meaning to this observation. It was true the unmistakable sounds of the wolves had frightened it awake, and made the fine hairs on the back of its neck stand up. But it wasn’t afraid in the way it understood fear now. That kind of fear was reserved for humans, with their tools and fire and deliberate malice. But what a strange thing to say. Safe with us. Like they would protect it. It could not imagine humans as protectors.

Still, it slept closer to Francis til first light, with three feet of slack in the six foot rope.

-

Tags

@paperprinxe @whumpsday @i-eat-worlds @handsinmotion @stormchaser819

@annablogsposts @clickerflight @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud @scoundrelwithboba, @blood-and-regrets

[notaplaceofhonour]

it’s october 7th. you hear about the attack by seeing people you followed glorifying the terrorist attack—a massacre, a pogrom—as victory & justified resistance, glorifying a terrorist group that was founded with the explicit intent to kill your entire people

you make a post in which you make it clear you support palestinians and oppose the ways israel has wronged them, explaining that the terrorist group is still not good. you know you will probably get some flacc from the pro-Hamas side, but naively underestimate how much.

you get thousands of notifications on that one post, the majority of them hateful comments.

some of the response is positive. multiple messages thank you for the post, expressing bafflement that it’s controversial.

a few Israelis are upset at the loaded language in your post, but explain their problems with it civilly. you called Israel “apartheid”. they ask you what apartheid laws Israel has. you admit you honestly don’t know.

your inbox is flooded with anonymous hate from anti-Israel leftists.

over the course of a few weeks you have received hundreds of death threats, a dozen rape threats. people accuse you of being pro-genocide. you’re a literal Nazi. you’re racist, you thirst for the blood of Palestinians. you’re brainwashed by propaganda, a shill for The Zionist Entity. a few of the hate messages are from literal Neo-Nazis; the overwhelming majority are from leftists, many of them queer.

you are considering suicide.

you see footage of the october 7th attacks. you see footage of the bombings in gaza. you see footage of a Jewish man being murdered at an anti-Israel rally.

a popular creator you follow posts in support of an antisemitic hate group that masquerades as a Jewish organization. this organization regularly posts blood libel and other antisemitic rhetoric, works with groups that are even more explicitly antisemitic, including celebrating October 7th, holocaust inversion, blood libel, “Khazar theory” and others. more than one of the orgs they work with is pro-Putin.

your former roommate liked the post.

graffiti appears on a street you frequent that says “#freepalestine” and “end settler colonialism”

the boyfriend of the friend you spent most of the summer with makes his first post about the war. it’s a reposted comic that mocks and downplays the october 7th attack.

you doubt he’ll be receptive to criticism. he’s shared leftist memes about “monied elites” pulling all the strings and evangelicals being modern day “pharisees” in the past, and getting him to understand why that was antisemitic was like herding cats. you try anyway.

another of his Jewish friends also pushes back. he smugly dismisses her, tells her she’s falling for Zionist propaganda and uses several antisemitic tropes. you go off on him. he just deletes your comment.

you give up. you’re done. you block him.

you see anti-Israel posters and billboards around town

you mention what happened with the guy you went off on to his girlfriend—the friend you’ve grown very close to, who you’ve been listening to as she unburdens her fears for the future and complains about her bf’s BS over the last year. she doesn’t respond to you.

a friend of a friend shares posts tokenizing fringe groups that spread blood libel and have collaborated with holocaust deniers. you know they don’t know what you know, so you explain what those groups are. they seem somewhat receptive, apologize, and take it down

the next day they share several more posts that dip into antisemitic tropes. you mention this to your mutual friend, that you’re worried about them being radicalized. you’re not sure how receptive they’ll be to continued criticism

you have a confrontation with the foaf. in the meantime they’ve shared even more antisemitic posts. they say they didn’t mean to cause you distress but instead of stopping they effectively block you.

the “end settler colonialism” vandalism has been counter-vandalized with the words “commie propaganda” in place of “settler colonialism”. you don’t know if this is an improvement.

a month passes. the friend whose bf you went off on still hasn’t spoken to you. you see she shared a post defending an SJP chapter that posted Nazi cartoon caricatures of Jews repurposed in “Anti-Zionist” memes. you unfriend her on all social media platforms but you can’t bring yourself to block her number.

you see a friend of someone whose couch you surfed when you were homeless harassing Jewish celebrities with “Free Palestine” comments. you block them.

you’ve lost count of how many people you’ve unfollowed or blocked, or who’ve blocked you. friends, content creators.

when a friend takes an unusually long time to respond you worry if it’s because of your posts about antisemitism.

most of the podcasts, youtube channels, and other content creators you regularly engaged with no longer feel safe. you wonder who will be next

a couple friends wish you a happy hanukkah. you don’t celebrate much aside from lighting the hanukkiah and making some latkes.

you see posts about a destroyed chabad menorah, antisemitic comments on Jewish celebrities’ Hanukkah posts.

your neighborhood is covered in pro-Palestine & anti-Israel posters. some are seemingly innocuous, some are JVP “not in our name” posters. some call for intifada. “globalize the intifada” “Zionists fuck off!” “solidarity means attack!”

a man kills himself shouting “free palestine”. you learn about his suicide by seeing posts from several popular accounts you followed glorifying it.

you follow a bunch of jewish accounts on social media and commiserate with them about everything happening

your jewish friends post screenshots of the dead man’s antisemitic, pro-Hamas views. you look at his reddit and find even more horrific shit: anti-Ukraine posts. mocking Zelensky. “elites” are “lizard people”; the only named individual he calls a lizard person is Jewish. you start to notice a pattern: a lot of the people he dislikes just so happen to be jews.

several people you know share a post glorifying this man’s suicide. most are acquaintances, one is someone incredibly important to you.

you wonder how they would respond to your suicide.

you tell the close friend that shared this post how it scares you. you show them the receipts of the man’s antisemitism. their response is a single sentence. they didn’t know about the antisemitism.

they don’t apologize.

you notice none of your irl friends, even your closest ones, interact with your posts about antisemitism. you are able to vent to a couple friends, but no one has reach out to you

you try not to read into it. you try not to take it personally.

you haven’t slept well in months. you’ve always been an insomniac but not like this. you’re not sleeping until 4am, 6am, even 9am. even when you get to bed at a decent hour and get a full night’s rest it takes you hours to get out of bed.

a few weeks go by. the friend with the single sentence response shares a post saying they’re excited and proud to join a group to help palestinians. you’re excited and proud for them.

a couple days later, they share a post about a fundraiser to help a palestinian family get out of gaza. you note to yourself this is a much more effective & less concerning form of activism than the pro-suicidal antisemite post.

your friend shares another post about the fundraiser. it’s a joint post between their group and another group.

you open the other group’s page

the page is just a wall of signs from rallies. you swipe through one after another: “from the river to the sea”, “by any means necessary”, justifying/denying the atrocities of october 7th, calling for violent revolution. anything done in the name of resistance can’t be terrorism, all Israelis are terrorists. Jews aren’t indigenous; they’re white colonizers. holocaust inversion. other vile, thinly veiled violent rhetoric

you feel sick to your stomach imagining talking to your friend about it.

you already feel like you’re burdening the few friends you can talk to about this. you already feel like you think about it too much, talk about it too much. but you can’t not think about it; it affects every aspect of your life.

you’ve filtered out relevant keywords on more than one social media site to avoid the worst of it. some still manages to leak through.

there isn’t a single friend you regularly interact with that you don’t fear the moment when they will switch from listening to your concerns to seeing you as the evil zionist or indoctrinated hasbaranik they���ve been warned about.

it’s not an irrational fear. it keeps happening. you knew it would then, and you were powerless to do anything about it before, and you continue to be as it happens again and again.

you don’t know what to do about any of it.

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[the-real-loser-otaku-girl]

Guys! Im just like a dog lol! So cute! Put me down! Ahahah! Wanna euthanize me now! Ahahah! Im so happy! Just a dog! Ahahah! Very sick tho so put me down!

[pirategrime]

[kiyomitakada]

I think Misa was suicidal since her parents’ death if not longer. I wonder if she regretted not letting her stalker kill her in the brief moment before Gelus’ Death Note fell from the sky and gave her a reason to keep living. I wonder if she killed herself over Light, not because he meant so much to her, but because he had been the only reason she hadn’t done it years ago. I think she needed an obsessive, unattainable goal to justify staying alive. Seeing her parents avenged. Meeting Kira. Marrying Light. I wonder if Light hadn’t died, would she have been able to find another reason to go on living? Or would she have felt she had nowhere to go from there, that no goal was big enough anymore? Misa had hundreds of years to live, a gift from the sacrifices of two gods of death, but I think the only thing keeping her alive for so long was her desperate escalating search for a reason not to end it herself

oh absolutely!!! absolutely!!!!! suicidal misa amane is one of my most solid death note opinions and it genuinely surprised me when i first came on here and didn't see anyone talking about it. i mean it's basically canon isn't it. "kill me now while i'm still young and pretty," "i was supposed to die that day anyway," everything she does just to find light, all the risks she takes in yotsuba including getting in a car with the person she knows is a creep AND a serial killer, "i would gladly die for you"… it speaks so much to me, that desperation to find something worthwhile to die for, which happens to also be something worthwhile to live for. i think suicidality and longing to live are two sides of the same knife and misa is trying so fucking hard to balance on its edge.

I wonder if she regretted not letting her stalker kill her in the brief moment before Gelus’ Death Note fell from the sky and gave her a reason to keep living.

it's actually kind of worse! in the manga at least (haven't seen the anime) all she does is stumble back, she doesn't run — probably a stress freeze response — and gelus kills the stalker but his notebook falls in the shinigami realm, so as far as misa knows her stalker just fucking died right there. this is after kira kills her parents (something i messed up in my fic but it's too late to fix lmao) so i wonder if she saw it as like… this force in the sky that wanted her to live. someone out there who loved her so much he would do anything for her. i wonder how that interfaced with her mental health and how reckless she is all the time.

and then rem carries the notebook down to misa on purpose (she apologizes to misa for giving her the notebook when misa's in prison). so now misa knows that actually it was two separate people who saved her emotionally (light) vs physically (gelus). i feel like this is probably part of why she goes ._. when rem explains the whole gelus thing to her; she wanted it to be kira who saved her. but oh well! now she has the notebook she can help kira, and isn't that even better! completely agree that was her whole reason to keep going. yes.

I wonder if Light hadn’t died, would she have been able to find another reason to go on living? Or would she have felt she had nowhere to go from there, that no goal was big enough anymore?

god i wonder the same thing all the time. what else? the coolest marriage ceremony ever? (they get engaged but never married…) kids? grandkids? some kind of summit in her career? everything hollower and hollower until she implodes in on herself?

[queerly-autistic]

God, the moment when Ed fights desperately to swim up to the surface before being dragged back, pulled down by a weight that he can't disentangle himself from, is one of the most simple but gut-punchingly powerful symbolic representations of mental illness that I've ever seen.

I appreciate it so much that Ed's suicidality is not just portrayed as 'oh he's given up and wants to die', but is shown as something that he's actively fighting inside his own head to try and stay alive. He's weighing up the pros and cons of living vs dying, he's arguing with himself - one part of him pushing to stay stay alive whilst the other part, the part that represents all his self-loathing, steps in to push him off the cliff - and then he's trying desperately to surface, but is unable to do so, because he cannot free himself from the rope that's tying him to the great weight dragging him further and further under.

Not to be dramatic, or anything, but this silly romcom about gay pirates may be one of my favourite portrayals of mental illness of all time.

[lovelizards]

Iska spent three days in the experimentation room.

She had lost count of the times the slender man drew blood from her arms, worsening the mottled bruises that throbbed dully under her skin.

She had lost count of the potions he had injected into her. One of them flushed her whole body with unbearable heat, one of them had locked her limbs and caused her body to seize.

Over and over, hour after horrific painful hour, all to the sounds of bubbling alchemical tools, dripping liquids inside blown glass containers, and the low hum of the slender man as he worked.

She had fought at first, the way she always tried to. After each potion, the slender man would ask her how it felt, and each time she would snarl: "Go to hell!"

But he had left her on the table overnight, strapped down and aching inside and out. And, deprived of rest, the second day started to break something in her.

The slender man had tried to feed her an elixir of her own blood mixed with arcane reagents, and she'd spat it back in his face.

"I admit it," he had sighed, "you are a hellion, and ill-tempered besides. But that fire in you - I will crush it out with my heel, you mark me now, Iska."

"Go to hell, you sick bastard," her voice was a hoarse cough, but that was the last thing she said that day.

The slender man had gagged her with a wooden bit, and continued on with his work the same as the day before. The drugs he used on her that day affected her mind, made her dizzy, and caused her to hallucinate - and the things she saw, crawling in the shadows, flashing in the lamp-light, dancing on the back of her eyelids....

Those things started to break her.

He left her there, in pitch blackness, unable to move, unable to speak or beg or scream, for another full night.

And by the time the morning of the third day finally arrived, Iska could barely think. Her consciousness faded in and out, spiking with each prick of a needle, with each weak flinch as another potion was forced down her throat.

She was barely there. Was she still a human body? How long had it been since she came to this hell? How long since she had seen the outside? Did she have a family...? A name...?

"Iska? Did you hear me, darling?" It was the voice of the slender man, but his image was blurred in the weak tears that pooled in her eyes.

"Hear you...? Please...I...I can't..."

"I know, sweetheart. You're doing very well today. Drink this, now."

She was so thirsty, so hungry, that she swallowed the liquid without protest. It burned her throat on the way down, like she had drunk acid, but she couldn't even groan.

The tears boiled over in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, pooling in her ears.

"I can't...I can't...it hurts..."

"That was the last one, Iska, dear. I'll unbuckle you now, take a moment to rest and I'll sent Meres to collect you."

Iska felt the leather straps loosen at her wrists and ankles, but she lay in that position for a while, she couldn't fathom how long. Eventually, almost of their own accord, her limbs shifted and pulled themselves down.

"Aaghh!" A low cry of pain burst past her dry lips, the sharp stabbing pain of her joints screaming as they moved for the first time in days.

And there she lay, tears falling, body damaged, and mind broken until eventually a shadow shifted into her unfocused vision.

"Oh, Iska..."

A familiar voice, gentle, and so full of pity.

"Kill me..." she breathed weakly, "kill me...please..."

But the shadow didn't kill her.

It tenderly, carefully picked her up from the table - flinching at her cries of pain as her fragile body was moved - and carried her out into the harsh light of the hallway.

She didn't want to go back. Not again. Not to that room.

But there was nothing left in her.

And the arms of whoever was holding her were warm, and soft, and their heart beat a drumming lullaby against her ear as she rested her head against their chest.

Iska could only hope, as she closed her eyes, that she would never open them again.

『 Previous / Next 』

[cjcroen1393]

This idea popped into my head this morning and I spent most of said morning working on it.

Kieran denies that he has depression by showing the League Club his vent art. Predictably, this fails to convince them and all it accomplishes is making them MORE concerned for him.

Edit: Forgot to color Ogerpon’s dot thingys

[bookshelfdreams]

OKAY BUT

the way ofmd says "No, trust me, you really don't want to die."

Again. And again.

With Stede in s1, who doesn't have an answer when Olu asks him if he wants to live, who faces execution twice and both times says "I deserve this". It takes a literal gun to his head for him to realize that no, he does not want to die, and it takes going back to the environment that suffocated him - it takes killing his chance at happiness - for him to realize that YES. He wants to live.

And now we get this terrifying, heartbreaking spiral of destructiveness with Ed. He has a lot more insight into himself than Stede, he knows he wants to keep living, but not like this. Hasn't for a while, and when he tried to change, thought for just a moment that maybe life could be better - well.

It all came crashing down, didn't it. He thought Stede could love him, but he couldn't; Stede left. And he thought, maybe he could still build something new for himself, something away from the violence, a space where he could find safety, community, healing, maybe; but that failed, too. Izzy made sure of that. Because it takes just one well-aimed knife to kill the greatest of men and Izzy has plenty, and Ed doesn't want to die.

He just doesn't want to keep living like this.

Before he knew Stede, he may have been unhappy, but he was coping. But now that he knows how all that stuff feels like he thought he could never have - friendship, community - he can't cope anymore. He doesn't want to keep living like this, and he can't change his life into something more bearable because Izzy is standing at his back, knife at the ready.

(Oh and I do believe Izzy regrets that, wishes he could take it back and not just for his foot, wishes he knew how to ask Ed's forgiveness, wishes he knew how to tell him You can trust me)

So. What is there left for Ed to do?

Ed is increasingly unsubtle about what he wants, to a point where he literally hands Izzy a gun to shoot him, where he's practically on his knees begging to be mutinied. He realized change is impossible, so does he want to die now?

No. It's worse.

He wants someone to give enough of a shit about him to kill him.

If murder is the only intimacy he can get, his death is a price he's willing to pay. But he's not even getting that, no one will even kill him, what the fuck.

And. ofmd makes us look at it, all of it, all the self-loathing, the fear, the heartache. The pain. Makes Ed look at it, so he understands, so he can heal. Tells him,

That's a bit silly, eh? You don't even want to die! And people want you to live, you dummy.

Keep going. You have no idea how much better things are going to get.

[what-have-i-unleashed]

13 sadist

okay so this is the last mtt request i'm gonna do. please don't send any more requests lol i have to focus on my own fics 😅

13. gods - jang yunjeong, hwang seyoung (original by newjeans)

Once you play God, once you play God They're gonna crumble one by one Then we gon' ride right into the sun Like it's the day my kingdom come

PROMPT: SADIST

(cw: death, blood, suicidal ideation, they're freaks and somehow horror is the normal one here)

the blood on the floor is still warm, and so are the bodies littered around the room. the smell smells faintly of copper, which only gets overpowered somewhat by the smell of smoke and cigarette and cheap booze. killer leans back on the plush couch, legs stretched out, a bottle of vodka in his hand.

“alright, babes,” he says, a smirk on his face. “this is a job well done. how do you feel about a game to keep the night going?”

murder, who is standing idly at the corner of the room, looks at him under the shadow of his hood. “here? really?” he jerks his head towards the pile of bodies in the room.

“why not?” killer grins. “it’s not like they’re gonna complain.”

horror, perching on the bloodstained sofa, scoffs. “fine. better than having nothing to do.”

he motions murder to come closer. after a tense silence, murder trudges towards the duo, plopping his behind on a clean section of the rug. killer hums a happy tune.

“let’s play something simple. truth or dare. if you don’t answer the question or do the dare, then drink a gulp of this.” he waves the bottle around.

“no shot glass?” horror pipes up.

“no need.” killer laughs. “we’re all… acquainted here, aren’t we? what’s wrong with a little indirect kissing?”

murder eyes the bottle, which is still full. “doesn’t sound like a bad punishment there.”

killer grins, leaning forward. “then you have nothing to lose, right?”

*****

the first few rounds are light, with much teasing from all parties.

“killer,” horror calls out. “truth of dare?”

“hmm, truth.”

“why are you always storing your specimen jars in my closet?” horror narrows his eyes in an intimidating look, but it has no effect on the other skeleton.

“because your closet is huge,” killer says, tilting his head. “and your annoyed expression is always the best.”

the next rounds continue in the same lighthearted, playful tone. murder dares horror to untie his shoelaces with his mouth, prompting a disgusted look on horror’s face and a muttered curse as horror downs a large chunk of the bottle. killer dares murder to draw a smiley face on the floor with the almost dried blood, and murder does it with a twitch in his smile, afterwards smearing killer’s cheek with leftover blood.

the vodka gradually dries up as the night goes on. the tension between the trio slowly loosens as the space is filled with laughter and half-drunk insults.

“murder,” killer calls out after three-quarters of the bottle is gone. “truth or dare?”

“dare,” murder says, his words slurred as his head drops on the coffee table.

horror has to take a pause when killer’s eyes gleam with something manic. the void-eyed skeleton grins. “punch a hole in that mirror.” he gestures towards the only hanging mirror in the room.

murder doesn’t hesitate. stumbling, he shortcuts to where the mirror is and punches his fist through it, a satisfying crack echoing in the space. as he hangs his arm to the side, trickles of blood can be seen dripping steadily from the cuts in his hand.

horror turns to killer. “was that really necessary?”

“necessary? no. fun? hell yes.” killer gives him a large smile. “besides, don’t you love it when he gets like this? next time, you can actually dare him to step on those glass shards.”

horror can’t shake off the sudden unease gripping the inside of his ribs, but he can’t deny that what killer suggests sounds pretty entertaining for someone like him. his singular red eye follows murder as the hooded skeleton drunkenly goes back to his spot. murder rests his head under the soft fabric under horror’s seat, and horror can only stare, something dark rumbling in his chest.

the game goes on.

*****

“okay, let’s up the ante here, shall we?”

it’s killer who says that after the whole bottle has been drained. horror is feeling fuzzy now, practically lounging on the sofa – he’s a lightweight, go figure. but killer seems completely chill, and murder looks as if he hasn’t even had enough yet.

killer pulls out something shiny in his jacket, and horror takes one look at it and sobers up immediately.

a revolver.

“game’s all fun and all,” killer says, a feral grin blooming on his face. “but it’s getting… boring, don’t you think? let’s make it more exciting.” he spins the cylinder lazily. “truth, dare, or…” he stops the spin with one finger, the barrel pointing at horror. “take a shot.”

“what the fuck,” is all horror can say, the crack in his head throbbing.

“what’s the matter, egghead? you scared?” killer teases, his tone light but his gaze dark.

murder is the first to grab the gun, his hand surprisingly steady despite the amount of vodka coursing through his veins. “dare,” he says, almost too eagerly.

killer’s smile widens, leaning back on his couch. “pull the trigger.”

horror’s breath catches, but murder doesn’t flinch. he raises the gun, presses it to his temple, and pulls the trigger.

click.

the silence is deafening. murder lowers the gun, a grin splitting his face. “your turn, killer.”

killer idly grabs the gun, spinning the cylinder as though it’s a toy. he presses it to his skull and pulls the trigger.

click.

he laughs, then slides the gun across the table toward horror. “well?”

horror doesn’t move, his hands gripping the fabric of the sofa. “this isn’t a game anymore.”

“of course it is,” killer says, his voice mocking. “life’s a game, and you’re playing one now,”

murder leans into horror’s space, his grin taunting and his breath smelling of vodka. “what’s the matter, horror? don’t think you can handle the odds?”

all of a sudden, the room feels too small, too hot. horror sweats as he stares at the revolver. he can’t back down. not now. not when they’re both watching, waiting for him to show weakness. his hand trembles as he picks up the gun, the cold metal heavy against his palm. he spins the cylinder, presses it to his head, and pulls the trigger.

click.

he lets out a shaky breath, his hands shaking as he sets the gun down. the other two are watching him, their gazes sharp and hungry, and he hates how they look at him like they’ve won.

the game spirals from there, each round pushing them further, testing who will falter first. killer laughs every time the chamber clicks empty, his grin careless, as if death is a game he can never lose. murder’s manic grin turns sharper after each round, his eyes burning with reckless abandon. and horror, for all his composure, feels himself unraveling with each pull of the trigger.

by the time the sun rises and shines a light through the cracks between the blinds, none of them have died. murder is fast asleep, curling on the floor like a cat. horror is wide awake, eyeing the revolver in the middle of the table with much dread and disdain. killer stretches luxuriously in his seat, fake-yawning.

“that was fun,” he says, propping his chin on his hand. “we should do that again some time, don’t you think?

[windslar]

[prime-adeptus]

NOTHING IS LOST (YOU GIVE ME STRENGTH) – FUSHIGURO MEGUMI & READER

As minimal as this may seem, you wonder if he knows how much it means to you that he came. Your days have been lonely with you feeling increasingly out of touch with everything, but everything feels fine with Megumi by your side. Or, the one where you find your way back home.

TAGS.⠀gender-neutral reader; ambiguous relationship; childhood friends; aged-up au/canon divergence; brief smoking; angst & hurt/comfort; mental health issues, talks of death/suicide ideation, implied past suicide attempts; mild gore; near-death experiences; drifting apart and coming back together. hopeful/happy ending. SFW. 3,9k words

A/N.⠀my first work after so long and it's just a ventfic LOL sorry i have been looping phoebe bridgers and lorde for ages.

CROSS-POSTED ON AO3

For as long as you can remember, you’ve always felt things fervently.

One moment you’d feel euphoric, like you’re walking on air and nothing can get you down, but then everything crumbles and you’re left as nothing but an empty husk. It’s ironic how emptiness can feel so heavy, a constant weight on your shoulders, constant tugs at your heartstrings. 

Despite all the things you hate about yourself, there’s still one part of you that you’ll always remember with pride: there is no limit to the unconditional love you can give to people. It’s taken some time for you to decide you want to live and love as much as you can. 

But for some reasons you couldn’t fathom, these days, you feel as though your love is forced. Unnatural. Ingenuine. Like it’s just something you’ve gotten used to doing passively. Like you no longer believe, like you are living a lie. 

In a way, maybe you are. The longer you are surrounded by your fellow Jujutsu sorcerers, the more aware you become of how rotten this world can get. Plagued with death, unhappiness and turmoil on every corner, and with humans repeating the same mistakes, you’ve begun to believe that this is all hopeless. You’re well aware that it’s quite a pessimistic view to hold, but in the world that you are in, you find that it keeps you grounded. A realist. 

Or, as your beloved teacher Gojo Satoru would call you, a downer.

The sound of his voice referring to you as such makes you click your tongue in irritation. There’s not much you know about him, but the bitter part of you believes that  he  of all people should at least understand how you feel. You hold your position as a jujutsu sorcerer in high regard and with honour, but as time passes by, you’ve started to contemplate if it’s even worth it at all.

You wonder if people know that you weren’t always this way — as a child, you were bright-eyed and innocent, full of love for people and the world. Growing and going through life shattered it all, making you a husk of what you once were, and even now, you still don’t know who you’re supposed to be.

You lie and you cheat, tricking people into believing that you’re independent and fine on your own, but you are lonelier than words can describe.

And just what do you live for? You’ve survived time and time again by sheer instinct and reflex, but you still don’t know what your purpose is. You fight and you risk your life to keep other people safe at the cost of your wellbeing. Every day is a task to complete for the greater good, but what’s in store for you? You’ve grown distant from your parents — on your end, anyway; it’s difficult to read people — and your once close friends rarely contact you anymore. All you have are your peers, but you still feel so out of place among them. 

The cigarette burns between your fingers as you stare off into space by the edge of the river. At the mere age of nineteen, you feel as though you’ve lived several lives, all of which have harrowed you to no end. Nicotine flows in your system as you take yet another drag, wondering if this is what your youth was meant to be. Years of saving the city in favour of feeling like you’re wanted, needed should’ve made you feel happy. Yet here you are, alone in the streets of Tokyo, all because there’s nothing waiting for you at home.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” a voice says from beside you. It’s deep and quiet, almost monotonous, but you’d recognise the hint of concern anywhere. Megumi slightly grimaces at the sight of you exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“I don’t.” With a scoff, you put out the cigarette in the ashtray and turn to face him instead. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

He frowns. It amuses you how it seems to have been a permanent expression etched on his face since you were kids. You don’t remember if you’ve ever seen him with a different look, but that’s on you, you suppose. You haven’t spent much time with him for a while now. Time ages you and your weariness distances you from those you wish to stay close to.

When he doesn’t reply, you speak up again, “I'm trying.”

“I know.” He glances at you. As blunt as he sounds, you know he means well; that’s just the way he is. He looks like he has more to say but he doesn’t, instead opting to hand you a packet of your favourite mints. Any other time you’d take it as an insult, but you find yourself getting sentimental over the fact that he still remembers what you like. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, popping one into your mouth. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

The corner of his lips quirks downward for a split second. With a quiet sigh, he lightly flicks your forehead, not reacting at all to the indignant yelp you let out. 

“Where’s your jacket?” he asks in a chiding tone, though there isn’t any venom in it. “You’ll get sick. I don’t want you sneezing on me.”

“You always take care of me, though,” you grumble without thinking, putting on the jacket that was previously tied around your waist. Another beat passes before you realise what you’ve blurted out. Were you being too familiar with him? You’re not sure if he still wants to be friends after all that isolation you’ve been doing. You part your lips to apologise, but he interrupts with a huff and a flick to your forehead again.

“Shut up.” The pink flush on the tips of his ears betrays the irked expression he wears. You’re not sure whether it’s because of the chilly air or if it’s because he’s blushing, but it brings a smile to your face nonetheless. “Let’s go back.”

As minimal as this may seem, you wonder if he knows how much it means to you that he came. Your days have been lonely with you feeling increasingly out of touch with everything, but everything feels fine with Megumi by your side.

You were only twelve when you started seeing Curses everywhere you went.

You’d never been the type to get scared too easily, but there was something about those creatures that unsettled you to the core. They seemed horrifically disfigured and hungry, ready to pounce at any moment, and you could only be brave for so long. You tried telling your mother and your friends only to be met with suspicious and concerned looks. 

They thought you were crazy. You didn’t blame them for that. You never believed in the paranormal, so this sudden change must’ve been quite a shock. It wasn’t until two years later did you learn what they were and that you could exorcise them, somehow like they did in the horror movies. Your memory of your recruitment is hazy, but you did remember sitting with Megumi and Gojo in the car and asking the most questions you’ve ever asked in your lifetime. Your new teacher found it amusing; your classmate, however, did not.

Your mother didn’t seem to mind sending you to a boarding school. With an elaborate lie about your full scholarship told by Gojo, she’d beamed in joy and helped you pack your bags. She’d be too busy to actually notice your absence, but that didn’t stop her from sending a message to check in on you every once in a while. At some point, you stopped responding. Not because you were annoyed, but rather, you just didn’t have the energy to.

Ironically, for a school with quite a handful of staff and students, you never felt lonelier in your life. You stuck by Megumi’s side for the sole reason that he was the only one you felt comfortable enough to approach. You didn’t talk to him much, but he was good company and you came to consider him a friend. Eventually, he started approaching you as well, and you’d spend time together like regular friends would do. It felt nice to be able to be around someone and not have to explain yourself all the time. 

In hindsight, you think it’s your fault that you’re so distant from everyone now. You don’t quite know when it all began—the depressing thoughts, the near-uncontrollable impulses, the lack of care for your safety and well-being. Every time your teachers or a peer brought it up, you’d simply dismiss it as just a ‘hormone thing’ which seemed enough to make them stop asking. Megumi didn’t believe a thing. He doesn’t have to tell you for you to know that.

But what else could you do? You’re alone, and it’s not like anyone can help with whatever the fuck is happening in your head. Your mother got you in touch with professionals to help with your troubles, and even if she doesn’t say it much, you know she’s always worried sick and thinks you should just come home. You’ve been able to keep yourself in check since then, but with the sadness now mostly gone, you now have to deal with the void in your chest that plagues you constantly.

The forest surrounding the dormitories is quiet save for the leaves rustling in the wind and the cicadas chirping their evening tune. You’re not sure how long it’s been since your last official mission. You haven’t been good at keeping track of the time for a while now. But at the very least, you know that it’s been too long.

There’s no doubt Gojo had something to do with it, you think bitterly. Otherwise, you’d be as busy as your peers right now. If there’s one thing you hate about this place, it’s the fact that no one here ever really gives you a proper reason. You feel trapped, ignored, and maybe if you were more carefree you’d look past it, but you’re not. If they didn’t believe in your abilities, you’d show them; you don’t think being the underdog is that bad, after all. Maybe they’ll finally recognise your prowess and respect you.

With your heart pounding hard against your chest, you grab your ootachi and flee, letting your instincts guide you to wherever feels the most dangerous, exciting. The more rational part of you tells you that you’re going to be in trouble if you don’t turn back now, but you find that you really couldn’t care less.

You need to feel alive. You need to feel afraid, to feel something, anything. While you don’t mind resting, you also didn’t overwork yourself to the bone just to remain stagnant. You didn’t spend weeks training with every weapon the school had to offer just to let them rust. You didn’t hone your cursed techniques only to not use them at all. So punishment and criticism be damned, you’re going to do what you want whether people like it or not.

You find yourself standing in front of a dingy abandoned shrine in the woods. Unease settles in the air as you slowly creep into the light of the moon. It’s dim, incredibly so, but you can’t afford to be afraid of the dark now —you have something to prove, and you’re not going to let yourself be intimidated by something so childish. There are blood splatters on the cobblestone steps, both fresh and dried, and your grip tightens on the handle of your sword. Your instinct to fight rears its head within your body, adrenaline and the humane need to survive rushing through your veins, but you breathe and try to rein it all in.

You have to think.

(It’s quite ironic how for someone who doesn’t give a single shit about their life, you always fight your hardest so you can live.)

You take another step. A twig snaps beneath the weight of your foot. The dried leaves crunch and rustle like someone (or rather, something) is sizing you up, keeping itself unseen to take you by surprise. Incomprehensible gargled sentences echo from within and the stench of death and decay grows stronger. Even when fear starts to wrap you in its cold embrace, you walk through the gate and into the dark shrine. Your blood runs cold and your breath gets caught in your throat, but you force yourself to face the task at hand.

You’re met with a grotesque mass of green; all of its endless bloodshot eyes leer at you as its tendrils slither in your direction. Misshapen hands protrude from those tendrils and reach for you, taunting you with the blood and entrails stuck to their skin and nails, telling you that you are next. 

Not today.

An aura of black and purple coats your sword as you withdraw it from its sheath. It’s not the best space to utilise such a long sword—the shrine is somewhat cramped and is lacking in space for mobility, much less combat —but you grit your teeth and decide that you will adapt. Electricity crackles from your blade, and without any more hesitation, you charge. Its tendrils are faster than you had anticipated; they come close to wrapping themselves around your legs until your cursed energy latches on to them and forces them to disintegrate.

The curse glares at you in fury. You can practically hear your heartbeat as you slash through its tendrils, splattering the wooden floors with its steaming blood. A guttural growl leaves the curse and the air feels thicker; it’s getting hard to breathe and your vision is starting to fade. 

Am I going to die here?

There’s a sharp pain in your gut. The sword slips out of your grasp and blood sputters out of your lips. When you look down, you realise that the curse has pierced through you.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it fucking hurts.

But you can’t die here. Not like this, not without a fight.

Shakily, weakly, you put your hands together, breathe, and with the last of your strength, you fire a powerful blast that hits the curse square in the centre, making it screech in pain. Vapour rises from its form as it melts into the ground and eventually dissipates. A relieved sigh leaves you, but then the world spins, your body hurts even more, and before you know it, everything goes dark.

You fall into nothing.

(Somewhere not too far from the shrine, apprehension crawls into Fushiguro Megumi’s system.

He doesn’t hesitate. He follows the curse residue and he runs.)

You wake with a dull ache between your ribs.

The first thing you see is never-ending walls of white. There’s a generic decorative painting on the wall along with an old clock that tells you it’s a quarter past noon. Blearily, you realise that you’re in the infirmary, and judging from the soreness that spreads through your body and into your limbs, you’re still alive.

Somehow, you’re not as happy about it as you should be.

You feel like you’ve been through hell and back. In a way, you did. You’re too tired to regret your poor decisions from who knows how long ago, and you’re not a stranger to deliberately ignoring whatever makes you feel like shit. So you do just that all while staring blankly at the wall in front of you, hoping that you’ll eventually fall asleep again and forget. Maybe even not wake up until the month ends.

(You’ve come to a realisation that you don’t want to die anymore; you just want to stop existing for a while, get yourself together then come back when you’re ready. Like pausing a game or a video being played, you don’t lose the progress, but you sure as hell forget what the hell happened earlier.)

The door slides open. You contemplate pretending to be unconscious again, but your ears pick up heavy footfalls on the tiled floor and you decide maybe you shouldn’t. 

“Hey, Ieiri-sensei,” you croak out, weakly raising two of your fingers in a peace sign. “I’m alive and moving.”

She hums, amused as she makes her way over to your bedside. “Yes, you are. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit?”

“Good. You would’ve been dead if Fushiguro-kun hadn’t found you. Can you stand?”

She gently urges you off the bed, hoisting you up by the shoulders as you try to maintain balance after being bedridden for hours. Or days. Or even weeks. You’re not sure.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

The concerning duration of your bedridden state goes completely ignored. All you can think about is the mention of Megumi. 

You would’ve been dead if Fushiguro-kun hadn’t found you. 

“What do you mean he found me?”

She smiles wryly. “That boy’s been worried about you. Ran off from Satoru as soon as he felt a ‘weird pressure.’ What were you fighting?”

You shrug and wince at how stiff you feel. God, you hate this. Your legs are shaky as she helps you walk out of the infirmary and on the familiar path back to the dormitories. The school is quiet, making you wonder where everyone’s gone for the day.

“Some curse thing. Had tentacles and slimy skin. It was gross.”

“Well, that thing punctured you right there.” She gestures toward your chest. “Surprisingly it didn’t hit any vital organs, but you still lost a lot of blood. Did you exorcise it in the end?”

“I did.” A beat of silence passes. “Am I in trouble?”

“Yaga-sensei’s suspended you for a month. Oh, Fushiguro-kun. Just in time.” She helps you sit on a stone bench as Megumi approaches, his fingers furling and then relaxing by his sides. “They still need some support when they’re walking, but they’re healing quickly. They’ll be fine..”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’m still in my thirties, silly.” She ruffles your hair affectionately. “Be careful, hm? Come see me if there’s anything else.”

As Ieiri-sensei takes her leave, Megumi sits down next to you on the bench. His brows furrow the same way they always do when he’s thinking of how to say something nicely. He opts for silence instead, eyeing you cautiously. It almost feels offensive, but it’s only then that you’re aware of the bandages that cover essentially your whole upper body, so you brush it off. If someone else were in your position, you’d be worried sick too.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this visibly upset (well, for someone like Megumi anyway) over anything, and knowing that it’s because of you strikes you with a pang of guilt. With your lips pursed, you avoid his demanding look and glance at your hands instead. The bruises have almost faded away by now. Ieiri-sensei must’ve worked herself to the bone to patch you up.

“I’m not happy, Megumi.” Your throat closes up and your nose burns as the tears start to form and fall. “I’ve been trying to force myself to feel something. It didn’t matter what it was. I just hate being like this all the time.”

It hurts to cry. It hurts trying not to. Your state of mind is in tatters and you’re desperately doing your best to hold yourself together, but the way he’s looking at you makes you drop your guard completely.

“I know I’m surrounded by people, but I still feel so alone.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything. That’s fine, you think. The last thing you’d want to do is pressure him to speak his mind. He takes every word into consideration and thinks a lot by default, and if he’s still the same boy you knew all those years ago, he’d prefer to let his actions speak for themselves. 

“You didn’t have to come for me,” you murmur. “I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“No.” He pauses for a moment as if he’s trying to formulate what he wants to say into words that won’t feel like jabs. He huffs quietly. “I want to stay with you.”

Hearing him say those words practically has you melting on the spot, your heart fluttering as warmth rushes to your cheeks. You reach for his hand instinctively and with the slightest bit of hesitation, he responds by lacing your fingers together. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. You don’t know if it’s because you’re still exhausted or if it’s because you’re worried you’ll upset him somehow. Either way, it takes so much out of you just to talk anymore. “I’m trying.”

He squeezes your hand softly. “I know.”

“I say that to you a lot, don’t I?” you chuckle, leaning against his shoulder. I’m trying. You tell it to him every time you don’t have anything else to say, but it hardly feels true. Or maybe you’re just overly critical of everything you do, expecting yourself to reach certain heights before you consider yourself enough. 

“You are trying,” Megumi says. “Even now.”

You smile weakly. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” He lets go of your hand and your heart sinks, wondering if you’d done or said something wrong, but then he gently flicks your forehead the same way he always used to do when you were kids. “I found you bleeding out on the ground.”

“Pretty gnarly, wasn’t it?” you joke, laughing nervously. He shoots you a glare that shuts you up immediately.

“We were worried about you,” he continues, ignoring your interruption. “I was worried about you. I thought you were going to die.”

“Is this the part where I tell you that all jujutsu sorcerers die at some point?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” you say meekly, “I didn’t know I was that important to you.”

“We grew up together.” You feel a slight weight as he rests your head on top of yours with a sigh. “You’ve always been with me. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t there.”

It’s unusual for him to be this open about his feelings; he’s never been the overly sentimental type like you are, so to have him be this vulnerable with you makes you feel like you’re going to burst. The cool breeze passes by as you hesitantly take his hand again, and for the first time in so long, you find yourself genuinely smiling. He cares about you. He loves you, despite what that voice in your head tells you otherwise. It’ll take a while for you to change or get used to knowing these things, but for him, you’ll do everything you can. You’ll live — if not for yourself, then for him. And as slow and tedious as your path to recovery may be, both physically and mentally, you think that it’ll be worth the endeavour because you’re not alone. 

You are loved.

You are loved by him, and for now, that is enough to quell every anxiety in the back of your mind.

You glance at him. “Wanna watch a movie later?” 

Almost imperceptibly, he smiles back. “Sure.”

(You never end up finishing the movie.

Halfway through, exhaustion gets the better of you, and you fall into a deep sleep on the bean bag you borrowed from the recreation room. When you wake in the morning, you’re sore and aching all over, but the blanket draped over your frame and the arm around your waist makes you forget about it for a moment.

With a content smile, you curl closer.

He’s still the same Megumi you’ve always known.)

[temporal-discounting]

Just musing on how Stede never really got to resolve his passive suicidality and general ambivalence about living in the way that Ed did when he had his Mermaid moment. I would have loved a parallel to this in s3 - a moment where Stede explicitly and emphatically chooses to live.

From the Pilot, we see clear evidence that Stede is ambivalent about living (at best) or passively suicidal (at worst). This is best exemplified by the way he responds to Oluwande's 'Do you want to live?' question, but it's also easy to draw this inference from the very fact that Stede chose piracy. And he does so knowing that piracy is dangerous, and that there is a very good chance that any raid could be his last ('some of us won't be coming back')

We also get glimpses of Stede's generally cavalier attitude towards his own existence in s2. During the morning after scene, he kind of shrugs off Ed's plea that they avoid near-death situations. And then he recklessly challenges Zheng - surely knowing deep down that he doesn't stand a chance against her.

There's still so much Stede needs to work through. He needs to realise that his life has intrinsic value; that his existence means something to the people around him. He needs to choose life.

(Addendum: maybe his mermaid moment is choosing to become an innkeeper with Ed. I wish we had gotten to see that on screen)

[putridement]

lord,

i beg you to give me the strength to unalive myself.

[that-little-fucking-shit]

Open Starter <333

TW: Technical Suicidal Ideation, Choking, Implied Deaths of Innocents + Child Abuse In Later Reblogs :). Please be mentally careful with this RP :).

--

"You know, I thought you were over all this destruction. You're not a teenager anymore, Poseidon, you should be able to control and handle yourself. You're starting to act like our father."

The mere thought of that conversation makes Poseidon want to choke, it makes the breath refuse entry outside of his lungs, threatening to suffocate himself with carbon dioxide like he deserves. He's avoiding his wife, he knows, and can feel the stares of the others within his kingdom. His son, Triton, is even blatant with it but he gets a shiver down his spine thinking about bothering his father, so he doesn't. The waves on the surface are acting strange--there are too many riptides to count, drawing people in and forcing them down to placate the destruction that Poseidon wants to focus inward. He wants to puke.

[Poseidon's current prediction is threatening everything you hold dear--yourself, your friends, your family, even your homes (no matter how far from the shore they are). You are trying to ask for his council to either force him to let your home go or to plead with him to. How will you proceed?]

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@unhinged-waterlilly @totally-penelope-and-not-a-siren @totally-percy-jackson [bc why not :)] @madson-of-hermes-notluke @littlest-sunbeam-of-hermes

@daonedaonlyskh @odysseus-reigning-king-of-ithaca @odysseus-of-ithaca-is-lost @heraaaaaaaa @cerberus-no-biting

[Please tell me if you'd like to be added or removed from the tag-list <333]