#psychosis is not “stabbing people with a knife” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

paingoes · 6 months ago

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Crash Out

Superstition

hi. this is personally my favorite part so far. hope u enjoy it too :)

(Content: drugs, bad trip, paranoia, psychosis, discussion of institutionalized child abuse and death, discussion of past abuse, blood, burns, guilt)

“Okay so we have to take it at the same time so our trips sync up.”

“I know. I’ve done it before.”

“How much are you gonna take?”

“We can just split it.”

“That seems like a lot.”

Lorelai rotated the froot in her hand. She stabbed along the ring with the scout’s knife, revealing the soft green flesh within. The juice dripped down onto her arm. She resisted the urge to lick it up before they could agree on the dosage.

“I think we split half. We can take more later if it’s not strong enough.” She worked the knife carefully through the half of it. She gave the quarter piece to Paris and took the other for herself. She stashed the unused half back into the cooler bag.

“It’ll feel weird if you take more while you’re already tripping. Not pleasant.” He ate the piece he’d been given anyway. She took her own into her mouth. The texture was surprisingly gritty. Little seeds got caught in her teeth. It tasted salty and earthen. She set her timer.

“Okay, onset is an hour or so?” She glanced up at the orange sky. “We’ll be inside by then, probably. It’ll kick in just as it’s getting dark out. Spooky!”

=========

It was an entire hike just to reach the site. The main road was swarming with cop cars. Every other path was carved through the thick wood. In the darkening light, the edges of the dirt road blended in with the foliage. They saw several people passing through, just as lost as they were. Lorelai jumped as the bear trap caught on the raised heel of her boot, just missing her foot.

“Aaaaa?” She yelled softly, mostly in confusion. Paris bent down to undo it.

“How did that miss you?” He squinted. The mechanism jammed shut again with a loud clanging noise. It was rusted in places, visibly worn down by the elements. He was surprised it still worked.

“Fast reflexes.” She unhappily examined the new dent in her shoes.

The venue came into sight as the tree line withered. It was a large stone building — or it used to be. The walls were jagged and uneven at the top, the same shape as torn paper. The second story was gone, along with the ceiling. Thick vines and lichen grew along the stone perimeter. Lorelai said they were fighting for dominance. It looked like the lichen was winning.

The inner walls weren’t faring any better. It seemed like there might have been plaster once, but all that remained now was stone. There were marks on the ground where other walls had been. Someone had long ago removed them to make more space to party. The only real structures inside were the DJ booth by the north wall and the bar on the east one. Where the ceiling had been before, there were now just rails that lights could hang from.

It was dark when they approached — and the music had already started. People poured out onto the lawn and into the woods, drifting in and out of the fortress as they pleased. Security was lax and the walls were porous enough to facilitate the exchange.

His teeth hurt. The two of them did their traditional act, drifting in and out of each other’s spaces as the night progressed. Crowd anonymity was a wondrous thing. It made him tolerate the presence of other bodies in the space and the indignity of motion. The drugs helped with that too. Then they didn’t.

He felt something slip away, some invisible measure of protection he could not name. Eyes, again. Of course there were. People were everywhere. Under the strobe, they all looked pale and corpselike. He remembered a story he had read a long time ago about the girl who only danced with the dead. He’d had his fair share of ghost stories; sailors loved shit like that, soldiers even more.

He had not expected it to crawl. When he’d eaten the froot before, it had hit him all at once, and receded not too long after. It was fun, if a bit underwhelming. This high had creeped up so slowly that for the first two hours he did not even realize it had arrived. He imagined his own thoughts to be normal and uncontaminated. All it was was just unease and unease and the dead left there too. He thought he felt something shift just beneath his feet, but all that was there now was dirt. He was surer than anything that he was being watched, him specifically. He pulled off from the crowd and out through one of the jagged holes in the wall. Grass grew there. He walked without aim.

There were enough people on the outskirts that he didn’t really feel like he was leaving the party, even as he drifted further and further from the building. He saw them all looking at him strangely as he passed; he would not learn until later he had been talking to himself the entire time. He would never learn what it was he had said. He ended up by the woods, still certain of something creeping and stalking and watching endlessly. Something was wrong. The dirt slipped out from beneath him and on purpose.

Something long and thin stuck out of the ground. He had thought it was a leg until he saw what it was attached to. It was top heavy, two legged, nearly furry with moss. The sign post was as overgrown as the building it described, but the letters were still readable beneath it. He stared up at it from where he was collapsed on the ground, reading it over and over and over again.

Beldam Institute. B-E-L-D-A-M I-N-S-T-I-T-U-T-E. He read it again, just to be sure. Beldam Institute.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered to himself, unknowingly interrupting the string of words he had already been muttering to himself.

He’d had his fair share of ghost stories; sailors loved shit like that, soldiers even more. Soldiers liked to think there was a life after death. They liked to think the people they killed would stay stuck there in the place where they had killed them, forever, their souls tethered to the earth and stood on display for all eternity. Tales of weeping ghosts and the undead children that searched endlessly for their murderers, reading to rend them limb from limb. Trapped together in the place where they had killed them, forever, their souls tethered to the earth and stood on display for all eternity. History couldn’t end, not really. History ate them all whole. The ground was heavy with bodies.

“They buried them in the lawn the first few years,” Delta had admitted quietly, at the end of a long night, after Paris had spent hours prodding. It was the most he would ever say about it and the last time Paris would ever ask. “They had to stop, though. They ran out of space.”

His hand brushed up against something dry and brittle and thin like finger bones.

=========

“Whoa, whoa, buddy.” There were hands on his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to stop him from flailing. Some douche with a tie wrapped around his forehead was trying to be helpful. He heard his own voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. His throat was hoarse and painful.

“Here. Smell.” The dude held up a small piece of chalky material.

“Getthefuckoffme-“ Paris rasped. His hands were bloodied, somehow.

“You’re okay,” He pressed the chalk up to his own nose, taking a deep inhale, showing it was safe. Paris crawled back a few inches, breathing still irregular, fingers still twitching. The dude offered the chemical back up. Paris reluctantly hit it. The headrush was immediate, overpowering.

“Fuck.” He fell back onto the dirt. There was soil under his nails and furrows in the ground.

“What’d he take?” A girl’s voice asked. He didn’t realize she’d been standing there. She was leaning back again the sign, totally oblivious to its meaning.

“This is a fucking mass grave,” Paris yelled, or tried to. His voice broke. “The bones are pushing up. Look!”

“That’s a stick.”

Paris collapsed flat on his back again, covering his eyes.

Only then did the two of them seem to notice the sign. The girl pushed off of it, clearing the view, studying the lettering.

“Hang on, I gotta look something up,” the dude said. The clearing was briefly lit in ghostly blue as he pulled out his phone. He typed slowly and methodically. Paris knew from experience that he was having trouble seeing the screen just a few inches from his face.

“Oh. Huh. Yeah, that’s what it is.” He nodded, looking perturbed. “I’d probably trip out if I saw some shit like that too, man. That’s wacky.”

Another set of footsteps approached without rhythm.

“I’m tripping balls,” Lorelai said. She had the gait of a baby deer. “Lol, is this where the party is?”

“Is this your man?” The girl asked.

“We’re all working through our feelings about institutionalization together,” the dude explained, “Your friend is having what we call a hard time.”

“What?” Lorelai collapsed down onto the mound just beside him. She pulled his head into her lap, combing her fingers through his hair. He wrapped his arms around her waist, totally helpless to do anything else.

“Beldam Institute. Where Delta went. It’s where they make them,” he muttered.

“Are you serious?”

They showed her the e-ncyclopedia page. Her jaw dropped.

“Wow. Oh my god, what are the odds? And they throw parties here? That’s…in very poor taste? Wow. What the hell. Wow.” She shook her head. He worried for a second she was getting caught in a thought loop. He made a silent vow to never taste froot again.

Yet another set of footsteps approached.

“You guys good over here?” A wavering voice asked. Keys jingled loudly. For an awful moment, he thought it was the cops.

“Are you two the organizers?” Lorelai asked, “Why did you throw a rave where a bunch of children got tortured?”

“You’re talking about the Institute? I’m so glad you asked,” The other’s voice was slick, “We did a whole thesis on it. It’s a transformative project. We’re revitalize the space and making a statement on its history. All our proceeds go to our mutual aid fund for marginalized groups. We do it in the spirit of resisting imperial order.”

“Their bodies are still buried in the yard,” Paris muttered.

“What did he say?”

“He said their bodies are still buried in the yard,” the dude responded.

“That seems really fucked up,” the girl chimed in.

“We’ve been very conscientious about the whole thing,” the slick one responded, “I know it’s a lot to process, especially if one is, uh, open to the influences. Not exactly a pleasant trip environment. But that’s history for you.”

“Is he gonna be okay?” The girl asked.

“Yeah, he’s just sensitive.” Lorelai twirled his hair between her fingers. “I wonder if there was a basement?”

“There was,” the wavering one confirmed, “It was mostly cleared out by the time we got here. Very hush-hush. But we salvaged some stuff for the archive.”

Far away, the music changed. Lorelai shook his shoulder gently.

“Get up. I wanna dance.” Her voice was all swimmy. He can’t tell if the interference was on her part or his. She dragged him out of the woods and back onto the floor.

Despite how awkwardly she had stumbled, how failing her walk seemed to be, she danced with a surprisingly fluidity even in her drugged state. The air itself was fluid, heady, warm. He danced with her, quite sure she had never once looked like this before, that she never would again. The shaking in his own body stopped and the headache replaced it. All of it was dull and distant. There were whispers at the edge of it. Maenad, they warned.

Very abruptly, she dropped to her knees.

“Oh fuck,” she clutched her head, “I can see it.”

Paris half led, half carried her outside of the walls. She collapsed down on the dirt, looking all around her. Paris pulled the fur hat off her head. It was slick with sweat.

“Oh my god, I felt it. I think I saw the face of it. It was everywhere I looked. I could feel all the misery trapped inside of the walls.”

For a minute, he swore he could make out a skull and crossbones inside of her pupils. He hated froot. She looked terrifying.

He twisted the bottle open and held out both of her arms. The water poured over her exposed skin, bringing her temperature back down. She closed her eyes.

“More,” she said.

He poured the water over her forehead, letting it run down her face, smudging her makeup. She pulled her hair back in a bun. He poured the water down her neck. She gave a ticklish giggle.

“Oh, god,” she said, totally lost. He pushed the bottle into her hands. She poured the rest of it all down her throat.

===========

In spite of everything, the afterglow was incredible. They’d made it back to the room in one piece. He understood what the guides had meant about the aura. Everything felt soft and glowing. It wasn’t euphoric, nor to the point of mania. Just pleasant and calm.

He could tell Lorelai felt it too, all smiles in the ship, even more after she showered. They both needed it badly, even without the time spent in the woods. The smell of smoke and alcohol had clung heavily to both of them. He washed the dirt out of his hair, his own blood from beneath his fingernails. The motel’s soap was scented lavender; he was sure he wouldn’t have noticed it before, but in the moment everything felt novel.

She’d crawled onto his chest when he laid down again, angling the phone so they both could watch. Some animated thing he couldn’t pay attention to. The colors were more vivid than they were probably meant to be. All he could focus on was her hair, the way the curls sprung back into place when he played with them. She nuzzled her face into his shoulder.

“Are you upset about Delta?”

Her voice was sleepy and entirely innocent. It was such a fucked up thing to ask when his walls are down. He’d been trying so hard to avoid it. She was a surgeon sometimes.

“I…feel bad that he died,” Paris admitted, “I don’t think it was my fault the way it happened. I didn’t know. But he was my responsibility. And I-”

He cut himself off. It took him a while to find the words.

“…I don’t know. I hope it was quick. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

The image of Delta chained up and alone while that ship was going down flooded his mind. He squeezed her hand tighter.

Lorelai hummed, “You said it was a rebel attack? Did they say which one?”

“Their guess was Galatea.”

“Hm. Do you think he was the target? It seems a little terroristic for their taste otherwise.”

“They shouldn’t have known about him. All the intelligence just listed him as machinery for a reason. There was nothing in writing to indicate that he was alive.” He’d never had to write any of it himself, but he did read over the field reports. The opacity they achieved was impressive. Critical temperature reached. Damage to internals. Improvised shutdown. There was no good way to talk about it.

“You really didn’t have a file on him?” She clearly found this difficult to believe.

“His doctor did. It was carryover from the institute. It didn’t make it into imperial record. Not mine, anyway.”

“…It just seems like an odd thing for them to do.” There was nothing short of reverence in her voice when she spoke of the resistance. She was struggling reconcile the two thoughts. She had liked Delta a lot. He could see her there, trying to reconcile a lot of things.

==========

She’d had to track them down the next morning — and after that, she’d had to bribe — but she secured one of the large albums they had rescued from the basement. She flipped through the pages as she sat in the passenger seat. Most of it was typed, but a lot of it was written, and all of it was in thick and outdated Latin that she struggled to decipher even as a native speaker. It was the pictures she was really focused on, though.

In some of the photos, it just looked like a normal boarding school. The kids were lined up in rows or going about their day. There were photos of the classrooms and the yard. The next page over, there were photos of the laboratory and the operating room. There were straps visible on the table and along the chairs.

In the training section, the pictures of the students were spliced indiscriminately with the pictures of their victims. Violence marked the both of them. On their victims, burns covered every inch of their skin. Their bodies were twisted at odd angles like they were toys bent out of shape. They wore bags over their head and chains around their ankles.

On the students, the injuries were more subtle. Schoolyard incidents. Short circuits. Disciplinary infractions. Some of the worst ones showed scars tracing up and down their limbs, disappearing beneath the fabric of their uniform. In some, the scars were in the shape of flames. Some were shaped like vines. Most commonly, they were shape of electric discharge. Eyes and fingers were missing, even in the otherwise calm shots.

“Oh.” Lorelai let out a soft sigh. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

She plucked the photo out from the plastic lining, bringing it up into the light. She held it so that Paris could see.

The picture was taken on the side of a hill. The terrain was marked by large scorch marks. A giant dead thing laid in the center of it, the arc of its long neck spiraling out of sight behind the mass of its body. Several kids surrounded it, some crawling over it, others bent down and poking at it. They were all dressed for safari. One of them stood off to the side of the corpse’s thick tree-trunk legs. His hair hung in a long braid down his back, nearly sweeping the ground. His hand was wrapped tight with gauze. Delta couldn’t have been more than ten years old. There was the same frightful intensity behind his eyes, even back then. He was staring straight into the camera.

“Yeah.” Paris looked away from it. “That’s him.”

There were no other photos of him in the album.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

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juniperblackhem · 2 days ago

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“She’s…an interesting twin.” -Saturn

[File Report: 251. Drafter: Neve]

Name: Lilac Assecla Noxx

Age: 22 years old as of writing this report

Height: I believe 6’5 or 195.58 cm

Birthday: May 15th, 2096

Gender: Female, also uses she/her

Sexuality: Aromantic and Asexual (otherwise known as “acearo”)

Species: Celestial Full-Blood Transcendent

[Elementals]

Lilac is quite interesting. Almost all Full-Blooded Transcendents are born with three different elementals. Lilac, however, only has two. The first one is pretty lackluster, just your everyday teleporting. Her second one is…fascinating.

She calls it “Bunny”. Bunny is…well in truth I’ve had to ask her and Jeminai multiple times and I still can’t fully comprehend just what it is. The best way I can describe it is a creation from Lilac’s insides. See, most Transcendents don’t have the typical organs that humans do, simply because we only need lungs, a heart, and a stomach. Lilac’s “Bunny” takes up the space of other organs, like kidneys, intestines, etc. She can control “Bunny” like it’s a little dog that always wants to play, or kill. The way it enters our world is basically Lilac has to throw up the entire thing, which is very unsettling to watch! She says it isn’t painful though, which I suppose is good.

[Personality]

Lilac is possibly one of the most intriguing people I have been able to talk to in Lumen, aside from [XXXX]. I decided to take my time to interview some of the residents of the Lumen kingdom, and many of them characterize Lilac under three words. “Loud”, “blunt”, “ignorant”. My internal bias disagrees with the idea that Lilac Noxx would ever be “ignorant”. She has a curious way of looking through the world, with her vision more vast and detailed than those around her. She always manages to see optimism and beauty in even the most disgusting of things (like the time she fished out a glowing rock from a mud puddle). However, I would call Lilac unorganized. Whilst she is one of Jeminai’s personal bounty hunters, she is never able to manage her time properly and often takes it upon herself to carry out her actions at her own accord. Because of this, Jeminai has given up on trying to give her a schedule, and instead just gives her a deadline of when her task must be completed. Don’t let her optimism fool you. That poor girl has been through a lot.

[People they like]

Saturn

Jeminai

Blue (I tried to ask Lilac about why she likes Blue so much, and all she said was “Blue is like a cute little Matryoshka Doll!”

Raine

She says she doesn’t like Midnight, but Lilac is extremely loyal family-wise

Sven

[People they dislike]

Scorpio (when we talked about him, she couldn’t stop playing with a pocket knife and eventually stabbed it into the table)

Spade (they butt heads as being two loud optimistic people)

The Stoak siblings

[Ailments]

I asked Jeminai to fill out this section, because it felt odd to examine her when she is not my child. Anyways, Jeminai states that Lilac has multiple scars on her back, that almost form a diamond shape when looked at from far away. She also has a gaping hole in her chest that makes it easier to bring out her “Bunny”. Jeminai also noted that Lilac is missing her pinky toe on her right foot. (Peculiar in my opinion.) Lilac has also been diagnosed with ADHD since she was around 7 years old. I have also recorded symptoms of major PTSD and even mild psychosis from her, but Jeminai has refused any questions on this.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

Another fan fave here! She’s been more popular since I first introduced her tbh

#small artist #artwork #original character #oc #artists on tumblr #digital art #blackhemocs #fyp #foryou #fypage

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hisintentions · 10 months ago

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if u were cast in a horror movie as the killer, what would ur name be and what murder weapon would u use to kill people? also what era of time would it be set in and where? and what would the movie name be?

oh golly gimme a minute to think abt this one

names corny as hell but itd probably be sights, my name would be like efas or some word backwards, id use either a knife (being stabbed to death seems horrible to me) or id be a "whatever i find in ur home ill use so dont keep axes or that kinda bullshit" guy. for era, i always see horrors being set like 90s-current, but ive always wanted one that takes place in the 1600s. idk where the first feast or wahtev the fuck that thing was called took place, or if it was even in the 1600s, but something like that, a colonizers village

idk im more of a supernatural horror kinda guy, slashers have too much probability for reality for me.

and if didnt do the 1600s one, id probably do one along the lines of a teenage boy with psychosis whos killing his friends and sacrificing them. somewhere in a wooded area, so it could have the whole "lured to the woods n killed" thing. bonus points if the characters religious and is praised for having such a good relationship with god cuz he doesnt mention the murder, and if he gets outsmarted by a victim eventually and killed

same title as before, the sights thing

#hisintentions yapping once again

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impostorsshow · 8 months ago

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Kay let me just post this so I don't forget I'll add on later but spoilers for omori below I'm literally commenting on the end of the games plot + most endgame stuff later

It's not the plot but saying basil/the murder stab stab fight wouldn't exactly deter people anyway when you attack basil the entire room goes dark until only his eyes are showing, aka stranger and when he attacks you only the teeth of Something are showing - it's a great way to display how basil thinks Something is the thing behind both of your actions, and that his Something is the only hurting you and that he's trying to save you. On the other hand [not getting into the Stranger bucket I still have a fight to finish] it shows how you are in fact hurting Basil. Which like "your actions hurt him the only way out of this is to hurt him more yada yada" but mostly that + the hurt sound effect switching into a stabbing sound for the both of you very efficiently conveys that your having a literal fucking knife fight under shared psychosis

Also holy shit sunny was the one to scribble out Mari and basil took the fall for it? Fuck man I never knew that glad I played the game after being obsessed with it for like 4 years ig

#talk talks #omori #omori spoilers #like seriously

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vernalloy · 1 year ago

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I think the thing where the authors of these delusion! AUs are hitting my spine are that. They’re pulling from media portrayals rather than. Actually reasoning through or even researching what it’d be like.

So tips fur writing delusions! I’m going to make a lot of generalizations here, some people can’t double bookkeep, or don’t have positive ways of interacting with the delusion, or have short delusions, or respond positively to reality checks. I’m primarily pulling from my own experience here.

1. At least on the schizo-spectrum, the longer they last, the slower they come. Brief psychosis has a really short onset, schizophreniform has a shorter prodrome than schizophrenia/schizoaffective. Generally, delusions grow. They come together on nothing, but they take time to take root on equal or greater footing than reality.

2. Double bookkeeping! Exists! Even past this there’s just. If you knew something about the world that no one else did. That you knew they’d treat you violently for if you revealed it. You’d keep it under wraps. Keep your rituals subtle. Don’t talk about it.

3. They generally don’t vanish upon reason. They wax and wane and change, and rarely respond to logic past perhaps changing to accommodate or override new facts.

4. If you have a secret reality you have something to deal with it. A monster under the bed? Shove boxes under there. Feel everyone’s out to get you? Carry a bread knife (it sucks at stabbing) or keep your back only to walls. Feel you’re not human? Let it wash over you instead of insisting truth one way or the other.

Again, these masks often degrade as the illness runs its course. Delusions operate on dream logic, they’re flexible and like to spread.

Also pleasseeeeee acknowledge other symptoms than delusions + hallucinations when you write a psychotic character. Reading John Darnielle novels makes me jump for joy because his psychotic characters get thought blocking and fucked up cognition on top of hallucinations. In many cases they’re more significant than the positive symptoms! Alex’s affect is remarked upon more than his hallucinations.

Shrek voice they don’t even have repetitive self soothing movements in their psychotic characters

Keysmash. I don’t know how to articulate this last part but there are a lot of times where. It feels like psychotic characters can present in exactly three ways: the obvious psycho killer, and then in more sympathetic contexts: no illogic or heck even symptoms past hallucinations, or an unstable baby with no autonomy. And it feels. Like these arise from a gap the author sees between them and psychotics. And when writing anything other than a violent stereotype, they have a tendency to overshoot and leave out any unsympathetic symptoms. Like they try to write a neurotypical who hallucinates.

Which is frustrating because a lot of these authors have adhd/autism and the two share plenty in outward presentation with psychosis. We all have executive dysfunction and inappropriate affect and shit memory and poor audio regulation and hey you know what? Psychotic disorders are comorbid with autism & adhd! Because psychosis is understood to arise primarily from a combination of genetics and stress! And you know what causes stress? Being neurodivergent!!!

Idk id just like that when I open up AO3 I’m not hit with a wall of people who did next to no research when they wanted to write their angst fics about my sicko mind.

#as copied from discorg #(wow vern talk)#how do I tag this #uhhhhh #actually psychotic #writing tips #<- ok sure goodbyeeeee

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neuvetoile · 25 days ago

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“Did I Make the Right Choice?”

“Do you have a cat?”

I stared blankly at my computer screen and cocked my head. This was my new therapist and I’s second appointment together. We were still going through the ‘life story’ portion of getting to know each other. I nodded, “I had a cat growing up. He passed away last year. My parents still have a second cat.” She gasped. “I knew I saw a cat in there! Sometimes I have this psychic ability to just feel things, y’know?”

I rolled my eyes inside my soul, and nodded. I let out a small laugh outside.

“So, you hear voices that tell you how to feel?”

I nod again. “Yeah. It’s almost like, I have to do these things to prevent bad things from happening. Like, if I don't set my knife or scissors down when my roommates are close to me, I’m scared I might stab them. Or, I have to repeat ‘don’t stab them don’t stab them’ as I walk around them with the knife.” She pondered. “That sounds more to me like commanding hallucinations, like psychosis. I think you should instead tell your psychiatrist when you see him that you have commanding hallucinations. It could be dangerous if you actually stabbed your roommates”

I eventually left the call. I called my boyfriend, freaking out. Was I actually just schizophrenic? I had checked for hallucinations all the time, but. Was the voice in my own head just a commanding hallucination? Was I that delusional? Was I going to stab my roommates if I didn’t seek out treatment?

When I first recognized my OCD symptoms, I spent a long time questioning whether to seek out medical validation. I had finished C-PTSD treatment quite strongly with a therapist who I loved, but she, unfortunately, had no knowledge of OCD treatment and requested I seek out a new therapist. I went to my doctor, who was certain I had OCD, who immediately provided me with access to SSRIs while we waited for a psychiatrist (she claimed I didn’t need to even see him—she was pretty certain I had it from my description). I didn’t last long on them after they made my vision fuzzy and made me dissociate constantly.

But, my C-PTSD treatment wasn’t normal. I went through some EMDR, but predominantly, I went through an experimental therapy titled “Deep-Brain Reorientation” (DBR). Rather than a focus on eradication rooted within medical models, DBR seemed to force me to slowly go through what it was like to experience a trigger and come to understand better why my body was reacting the way it did. I learned to empathize with the reactions now encoded into my nervous system, embodied into my stomach and back, rather than hate and eradicate them. They had become a part of me, and I felt comforted accepting them within my body.

OCD was different. It never felt like a part of me—I couldn’t do parts work to try and understand it, because none of it was rooted in something real. While my themes were influenced by the trauma I had experienced prior, it was never acting up to protect me. It was acting up to control me.

I sought out two therapists. The first one was overpriced, ignorant to my problems, and encouraged grounding my intrusive thoughts in reality. It did irreversible damage to my relationship with therapy.

My second therapist didn’t really do a whole lot. I would come to therapy with questions and concerns about my OCD as a critical disability scholar, but would leave with “I see. That’s complicated.” and an e-transfer. She told me to expose myself to my triggers and prevent my responses. All something I could do on my own and $160 extra in my bank account.

So, I’ve been in limbo. No medication, no therapy. I have episodes often that last a few days where I isolate myself in my room and social interaction feels difficult, awkward, and forcefully scripted. I grow concerned about people talking behind my back, even those who I know would never. When nobody sits near me in the lecture hall, I check if I smell bad over and over and over again and remember to put on more perfume next time. More deodorant next time. I rub my face at least 10 times after I eat to make sure nothing is there, picking at my teeth and checking.

I’m scared to go back through the medical system, especially for such a sensitive disorder. There are intrusive thoughts I have that I couldn’t disclose to anyone. I don’t want to deal with a system that focuses overtly on eradication, on the way my hormones are ‘out of balance’ and how that contributes to my OCD. I want someone who I can sit with and who can help me find a demedicalized, anti-capitalist route to ‘cure’. A route that helps me find love and acceptance within my OCD, where the focus is no longer on the debilitating symptoms of OCD but on the comfort I need to feel within it. But, that’s ‘reassurance seeking’ and ‘unhealthy’ when it comes to OCD.

I don’t know how to make the right choice.

And it feels like there isn’t one for me.

#ocd #vent #ocd treatment #moral ocd #rocd #im safe i promise #i just needed to get this out of my system

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cade-challenges-death · 1 year ago

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Cody hums softly when his twin says that he wasn't attacked by a shifter like he had told him so many years ago. "I know." Cody says. "You never had to say anything but I know you. You can hold a grudge better than anyone I know. Which I mean, fair because Father was horrible to you when we were coming up and you hated him as much as you tried to earn his love. If you had of been attacked you wouldn't have suggested Joon turn Jasper nor would you be sitting in here right now. You wouldn't have drinks with Jules when you visit Eddie. Wyatt's right, you definitely wouldn't let your soulmate become the thing that nearly cost you your eye. But like Wyatt said, it wasn't my place to say anything."

Cade lets out a breath and nods when his brothers let him know that they kind of figured it out on my own. "I didn't heal the scar for a reason and it wasn't to show how resilient I am." He says before taking a breath. "Do you remember the day that Father went missing?" He says and his brothers nodded. "He took me out into the woods that day. He took me hunting and said he wanted me to practice using my magic to save the animals that were near death." He says taking a shaky breath. "I thought it was odd that he only invited me and not the two of you since he would much rather be in your presence than mine. He only paid attention to me when he needed a punching bag, otherwise I didn't exist." He could feel the tears starting to well in his eyes as he got to the hardest part of the story. "We were in the middle of the woods and had just used our bow to take down a deer. We walked closer and he pulled out his knife, telling me to make the call whether they are supposed to live or die. I told him that we should save them because it wasn't their time. That's when he spun on me and told me that it may not be the beer's time but it was mine. He swung at me, gashing my face and nearly taking my eye with his blade. Normally I just took his beatings but this time I fought back because he was trying to kill me. I finally got the knife from him and was just going to end it there and go home. He taunted me. Told me I would never amount to anything, that I was weak, all sorts of vile things he always used to say to me. I got so angry. So so angry. I stabbed him in the throat with his own blade. I remember blacking out after the first cut, coming to only when he was a dead and bloody mess. I lost control and stabbed him over a hundred times, all the years of abuse catching up to me." He sniffles as tears rolled down his cheeks. "I sent out the distress signal through my bond with Eddie, closing off my link with you, Cody. He...he helped me get rid of the body and swore he would never tell a soul what I did." He chokes on a sob. "I killed our father and kept the scar from that day because I deserve the reminder of the horrible thing I did. I deserve to be punished for it." He breaks down completely in that moment. "I killed him, I stabbed him so many times. And all I could feel after was....relief. Relief that he couldn't hurt me anymore, relief he couldn't hurt any of you. But then the guilt sat in. I killed our father and let everyone believe he just left. Watched as Mother cried herself to sleep missing her husband, watched as Wyatt asked every day where he was because he was still young enough back then to not see the evil side of him. I watched Mlthet slowly slip into psychosis before eventually ending her life, all because I was too much of a coward to come clean. I hated myself for hurting so many people and feeling relief he was dead. Guilty people were hurting but relief that I wasn't. I was so fucking selfish. So yeah, I deserve this scar. And I deserve your judgment but I want to beg your forgiveness." He sobs.

Hard Confessions and Healing

Cade had been going to therapy with Joon for a couple of months now to work through his issues that had kept him so closed off from his brothers. Only Jasper knew the whole story and encouraged Cade to go see the pack Alpha for help before he drove an even bigger wedge between him and the only family he had. His brothers and in laws have been trying to include him in their lives but he only pushed them away and withdrew more and more, the weight of the dark secret he had carried the past hundred years weighing him down and fearing their reactions if they knew what he had done. Joon told him this part of the process would be the hardest, confessing what he did and asking forgiveness. He was beyond nervous as he waited in the Alpha's office for his brothers and in laws to show up. At this point only three people knew what he had done, knew the reason he had become so reclusive over the years. Jasper knew, of course, because he told his husband everything early on in their relationship after Jasper opened up about his past. Joon knew because he was his therapist and he was helping him come to terms with what he did. And Eddie knew because he helped him after he did it. The fact that Eddie knew and helped him may be a touchy subject since he and his brother shared the same platonic soulmate but Eddie never betrayed either of their confidence and he asked Eddie not to say anything until he was ready. Eddie had been encouraging him to come clean with Cody and Wyatt for years but it took him almost losing the relationship with his brothers due to his own withdrawal and neglect to finally be ready. Joon let Cade know they had arrived and he nodded, taking a deep breath and looking at his feet when they came in. Joon let them know he was there for support but that the floor was Cade's. "I am glad you all agreed to come. I have some things I need to tell you, to explain why I've been pulling away. Something that's been eating at me for the past 100 years. Please...please bear with me."

#cody #wyatt

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tasmpeter · 3 years ago

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— ‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ dirty valentine

☾ parings: adrian chase/vigilante x fem!reader

☾ summary: It has been fourteen months since you and Adrian Chase divorced. The divorce was sudden, and left both parties an emotional wreck. You were not a mentally stable girl. Everyone in town knows this. From your mental breakdown in the Albertsons to the multiple rehab visits, you were know as the towns crazy girl. No one knew exactly what was wrong with you, everyone had their own diagnosis — schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, psychosis. Whatever it was, Adrian Chase was the only one who could see you for what you truly were in his own, not mentally stable, way. You were perfect together. You cared and loved each other regardless of your own mental states. So maybe the divorce should have been seen from a mile away. No one knows exactly what caused the divorce, but it was filed fourteen hours after a domestic disturbance call was reported at your apartment. So, now, fourteen months later, and you are in the worst mental state of your life. You loved your husband, you really did, but sometimes he was so idiotic and could never fully see you. After the messy breakup, in which you stabbed Adrian with a steak knife in the arm, you weren't speaking to each other. Months with no contact, you begin craving Adrian Chase again. So, you do the only thing that can get Adrian's attention. You kill for him. You leave bodies in alleyways of his potential victims and always leaves a card — signed, your dearly beloved. Adrian refuses to give you the time of day, because why? He found himself a brand new girlfriend. Someone he works with, on Task Force X, and someone who won't stab him with a steak knife because he forgot to grab her meds from the pharmacy. So, he ignores your desperate cries for attention and pretends like these murders aren't happening. Obviously, the answer is clear. Your next plan? Kill his new girlfriend.

☾ warnings: mentions of suicide, graphic depictions of suicide attempts, graphic depictions of blood and murder, mentions of schizophrenia and medication, mentions of divorce, cheating on partner, depictions of domestic violence, & fucked up people being fucked up together. 18+ minors dni (i think that’s everything, if i forgot something please let me know!!)

☾ authors note: ahhh here’s the first chapter!! i’m honestly obsessed with this story and love the idea of adrian marrying someone who is… equally fucked up and horrible. anyways, i hope you all like it!

masterlist ☾ requests/talk to me

CHAPTER ONE, ACT ONE: Come Home, The Kids Miss You.

You haven't been doing well, recently. It's been one year, two months, thirteen days, and seventeen hours since you and Adrian divorced (not that you have been counting). You haven't seen him since. Not at the grocery store, not when you passed by Fennel Fields on your way home from therapy, and not even a word of Vigilante in the news. The divorce — well, it was kind of your fault — was messy. A long court battle where you were awarded alimony due to your medical conditions not allowing you to work. So, it was clear Adrian was pissed at you. Holding this ever looming presence of invisibility over your head. He knew you missed him and you knew he missed you — no matter what he says, deep down, you know Adrian misses you just as much. Anyone who knew you and Adrian knew that they were meant for each other. It was clear. They were both a little insane, but had big hearts that just wanted to be loved. So, they found love in each other. And it was beautiful. A beautiful love affair that ended in a bloody battle — how typical.

You had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of fourteen. It was a genetic disease that your mother had given you (the only the that woman gave to you before she killed herself). It slowly got worse over time, leaving to mental breakdowns in grocery stores and you waking up in the woods covered in blood. Adrian, who wasn't always the most understanding person in the world, cared for you and loved you like you weren't sick. Maybe that was the downfall of their relationship. Adrian didn't know how to love someone like you, and all you wanted was to be held — something else Adrian had trouble doing. Since the divorce, it had only gotten worse for you. Your schizophrenia, which was usually tamed by various medications, was at an all time high. Four months after the divorce, you accidentally slit your wrists during a schizophrenic episode and ended up in the hospital for a week. They called your emergency contact — which was Adrian. He never came.

The killings however, only started until recently. One night in November when your homicidal tendencies were at all time high, you murdered a man on your way home from therapy — how ironic, you know. You don't remember why — or how — you murdered this man. It was all kind of clipped out of your brain like a corrupted drive. All you remembered was seeing a man exchange money with a boy in an alleyway, and next thing you know, you are standing over his body in an alleyway, blood dripping from the victim's pocketknife. Which led you to an idea. An idea you conceived in confusion, fear, and a bit of adrenaline. You wrote a note to Adrian. You knew that Adrian would find the body. There is no bigger town gossip than Vigilante. He knew everyone and their business. He'd find this body in two hours — tops. Hours before the police catch wind of a dead drug dealer in an alleyway. So, you left a note for your (ex) husband and walked home like you didn't just kill a man.

The rest, just happened. You felt a certain connection to Adrian while you were leaving surprises for him. You left him these gifts like you were leaving sacrifices at the altar. Like he was your god, and you were giving your prayers. So, you left his notes at every crime scene, knowing he'd read them. Your murderers hadn't gone unnoticed by the police, but they were quick to blame the murders on Vigilante. Who cares about crackheads and criminals dying? The police clearly didn't. You had a conscious, a weird fucked up one, but you did have a conscious. But the guilt you felt from taking another's life was not greater than your love for Adrian. No where near as close. He'd come back to you. He always had. And maybe, once he finally gets over his grudge against you, he will come home.

The last fourteen months have been hell for Adrian Chase. He got divorced, got shot in the kidney and spent two weeks in the hospital, had to get a new kidney, and he missed you. Call him crazy, it's nothing he hasn't heard before, but he missed his ex wife. Yes, you did stab him in the arm, but it's nothing worse than he has already felt and he missed you. He missed your smile, your laugh, and how you loved playing D&D with him. Christopher Smith suggested, after ten months of mopping and a murder spree, that Adrian get a rebound. So, after a string of one night stands and threesomes with Chris, Adrian decided he was ready to date again. Augustine Warren was shy, quiet, and worked with Economos with technical support and was also the teams official doctor. She always sweet to Adrian, and never laughed when the group would make fun of him. So when Adrian asked her out on a date, she accepted. Augustine wasn't aware of the complications of Adrian's ex wife. All that she knew was that Adrian's ex wife was a little crazy and the divorce was messy — how was she suppose to know that Adrian decided to keep the fact that his ex wife was now murdering people in Evergreen.

The first body Adrian found with the note attached — for my dearly beloved — he wanted to vomit. You had done a number on this man. You obviously had never killed a man before, because there was clearly signs of a struggle and the knife marks were jagged and messy. It reminded him of his jagged stitches in his left bicep from the knife that you had lodged there. He almost felt it sting. The man was found next to drug needles and an illegal firearm — at least you were following his code. It wasn't the body that made Adrian want to vomit, it was the note. Covered in blood and barely visible next to the body, Adrian pulled the note off the ground and shoved it in his pocket. The police will think this was another Vigilante murder — Adrian hoped that they would at least — because at the end of the day, Adrian would rather lose everything than to know that you weren't around. He wondered if it was his fault, that you went to such extreme measures to get in contact with Adrian. He wondered if maybe he would have just followed you, that this would have been stopped.

Adrian still was mad at you, however. He holds grudges, and he holds them for a long, long time. Adrian was still pissed that you stabbed him in the fucking arm, and the fact he has to shell out what little money he makes, to you. He loved you, he always will and he knew that, but it didn't stop him for having an everlasting burning fuel of anger in his heart for you.

Augustine and Adrian had been dating for four months at this point. It was nice. It was soft. It's what love was suppose to be like. Providing and caring for one another in harmonious bliss. However, Adrian couldn't pretend like he didn't feel a looming presence of darkness over his relationship with Augustine — the presence of you. It was a dark cloud that hung over their relationship. Something neither of them mentioned, but they both knew. The police were none the wiser with your murderers and blamed them on Vigilante. Augustine never mentioned these deaths — as she didn't necessarily agree with Adrian's methods of handling crime — and Adrian kept all the notes you had left him in a box beneath his bed.

The notes grew in length as the murderers occurred — fifteen now at this point. You would write about your day, and how much you missed Adrian. It was almost like letters. Adrian was conflicted. He knew he should stop you. He knew it is what he had to do, but he couldn't bring himself to even see you (because if he did, Adrian doesn't know if he will be strong enough to not collapse back into old ways). He enjoyed the notes. He enjoyed your ramblings of what you had for breakfast, how you are still clean — even after everything that has happened —, and how you are still taking your meds and seeing your therapist. At least you were still with him, partially.

It was December when he finally saw you again. Adrian was out at night, patrolling the town. It had just snowed a couple nights prior, and the snow was still melting off the ground. He was making his way around a popular drug area — that you used to frequent before you became clean — and was preparing to kill a couple drug dealers, but then he saw you. Your hair glistened in the moonlight and the butchers knife dripped blood onto the pavement. You were wearing his jacket. An old, warm one that Adrian had forgotten he used to own. Adrian was almost frozen on the pavement. Refusing to take a step forward and refusing to take a step back. Frozen at the sight of you. You placed the note on the ground and turned back around to see Vigilante on the opposite end of the alleyway — just looking at you. The knife clattered onto the pavement as it slipped between your fingers and you jumped at the noise. You always scared so easily.

"Adrian." You whispered out, just faint enough for him to hear his name spill out of your beautiful lips as you did many months prior.

Adrian carefully took some strides closer to you, hands placed on his gun at his hip. You closed the gap and she wrapped your arms around his neck. Adrian knew he shouldn't be doing this, but he hugged you back. You smelt like blood and sweat and the lavender perfume you always wear. He could feel you sobbing against his neck and how your body was violently shaking under his touch.

"Bunny. Bunny, look at me." Adrian said, pulling you off of his chest and gripping your small shoulders.

"H-Have you been reading my letters? I-I leave them for you, s-so you know how I am." You said, sniffling and wiping the tears off her face.

"What the fuck are doing? Really? W-why are you killing people?"

A stray tear rolls down her face, "I thought it would bring us together again. I-I'm not doing anything wrong. I-I'm just killing criminals."

Adrian began stroking your hair. He always did this, to calm you down, "I know, but, this isn't you. Y-you don't kill people, Bunny. You aren't like me. You resorted to murder in order to get my attention?"

"Let me see your face. Please. Please, Addy. It's been months, please," You were practically begging and clawing at the bottom of his mask.

Adrian hesitated. The mask was the only buffer he had between himself and you. Without the mask, Adrian didn't know if he could control himself. But your glassy eyes and your small pout made you irresistible. So, he obliged, ripped the mask off and placed his wire glasses over his green eyes.

You smiled so big and Adrian knew it was over for him. He could never resist her smile, "There's my pretty boy."

You brought your hand to his cold cheeks and he just melted against your warm hands. You always ran warmer than him, and he used to call you his personal heater, "I missed you so much, Addy."

"I missed you too, Bunny." You giggled at the nickname you missed so dearly. They stood in the alleyway, the dead body that you had just murdered only inches away, and stared into each other's eyes. Holding each other and reminiscing on happier times.

"I'm always going to love you, Adrian."

"I know. I-I'll always love you, too." You made the first attack to Adrian's lips. Adrian, against his better judgment, immediately kissed you back and it felt like four years ago when they were happy. It felt like those days where you and Adrian would spend all day in bed, just kissing and talking and having sex. Adrian couldn't deny that he felt something greater than when he kissed Augustine. Shit. Augustine. Adrian's eyes widened and broke the kiss off.

"C-Can we be together again? I-I miss you so much and I'm so sorry I stabbed you. I-I didn't mean it, you have to know I don't want to hurt you. I-I was just off my meds and the v-voices were coming back and—,"

"Bunny, I'm seeing someone else," Adrian turned his head away from you, daring not to see yours eyes diminish and your body tremble.

There was a fire that was lit inside of you that you could no longer ignore. Adrian kissed you. He said that he loved you, but he's still seeing someone else. Your body shook. Not because of your tremors, but because of the jealousy that was growing inside your stomach like a parasite. You did your best to mask the anger. You had been masking your whole life. Pretending to not have an unbridled rage burning inside of you was something you were used to.

"Wha— who?" Your glossy eyes still had that same spark, however love and longing was now exchanged with fury and jealousy.

Adrian still refused to look at you in the eyes. His head darting in every direction but yours, "Some girl I work with."

"Which job?" You knew the answer. You knew exactly what girl he was talking about. Augustine Warren. In the sparse times you had visited the headquarters, you remembered Augustine Warren very clearly. Beautiful red hair, quiet, polite, and the exact opposite of everything you were. Where Augustine was put together, you were a mess. Where Augustine was quiet, you were loud. You remembered times Adrian would mention that Augustine would patch him up on missions, and how your blood would boil at the thought of someone else touching your husband. Of course the only thing standing in your way now, was Augustine.

"Uh, the task force. H-her name is Augustine. The nurse." Adrian still refused to look at you while your heart crumbled and was replaced with fire. In the corner of his eye, he could see a single tear fall from your eyes, and Adrian wanted to run away.

"Oh," was all you said. It was all that you needed to say. Adrian knew that you never really liked Augustine, so the fact he was now dating her, was a crushing blow.

Gunshots were heard from a couple blocks over and Adrian slipped his mask back over his face, "I gotta go. Stop killing people, Bunny!"

Adrian ran off towards the sound of the bullets, as he always did. Running towards every fight like it was a birth right, like those shots were specifically meant for him. Your unbridled rage still hadn't simmered, and without Adrian there, there was no one to stop you from your next plan. You were going to fucking kill Augustine Warren.

#adrian chase #adrian chase x reader #peacemaker #adrian chase x female reader #vigilante #freddie stroma #vigilante x reader #peacemaker hbo max #adrian chase x you

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tvslashers · 2 years ago

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sure my psychosis makes me a danger to myself and others at times i will not deny that but frankly i would kind of rather die than “tone it down” does that make me a bad person? Probably not but i fear it does sometimes. Like there have been times my psychosis has made me so scared that i think if someone got physically near me i may have stabbed them (did have a knife) but i have good people in my life that are patient and know how to deal with me so that’s good. I’m blessed to have that. But i genuinely wouldn’t be “myself” without being an insane person. Idk.

#had a convo with an old friend yesterday about art and felt so good because it felt like he got it #he said the same things i felt but didn’t know how to articulate and i know both of us would sound crazy but you know what #i love crazy people I love being crazy even when it’s embarrassing and can be scary sometimes #ask to tag? idk

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dailyunsolvedmysteries · 4 years ago

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Albert Fish

Fish arrived in New York City in 1989, and he said at that point he became a prostitute and began raping young boys. In 1898, his mother arranged a marriage for him with Anna Mary Hoffman, who was nine years his junior. They had six children.

Throughout 1898, Fish worked as a house painter. He said he continued molesting children, mostly boys younger than age six. He later recounted an incident in which a male lover took him to a waxworks museum, where Fish was fascinated by a bisection of a penis. After that, he became obsessed with sexual mutilation. In 1903, he was arrested for grand larceny, convicted, and incarcerated in Sing Sing.

Around 1910, while he was working in Delaware, Fish met a 19-year-old man named Thomas Kedden. He took Kedden to where he was staying, and the two began a sadomasochistic relationship; it is unclear whether or not Fish forced Kedden to do these things, but in his confession he implies that the man was intellectually disabled. After ten days, Fish took Kedden to "an old farm house", where he began to torture him. The torture took place over two weeks. Fish eventually tied Kedden up and cut off half of his penis. He originally intended to kill Kedden, cut up his body, and take it home, but he feared the hot weather would draw attention to him; instead, Fish poured peroxide over the wound, wrapped it in a Vaseline-covered handkerchief, left a $10 bill, kissed Kedden goodbye, and left.

In January 1917, Fish's wife left him for John Straube, a handyman who boarded with the Fish family. Fish then had to raise his children as a single parent. After his arrest, Fish told a newspaper that when his wife left him, she took nearly every possession the family owned.He began to have auditory hallucinations. He once wrapped himself in a carpet, saying that he was following the instructions of John the Apostle.

It was about this time that Fish began to indulge in self-harm. He would embed needles into his groin and abdomen. After his arrest, X-rays revealed that Fish had at least 29 needles lodged in his pelvic region. He also hit himself repeatedly with a nail-studded paddle and inserted wool doused with lighter fluid into his anus and set it alight. While Fish was never thought to have physically attacked or abused his children, he did encourage them and their friends to paddle his buttocks with the same nail-studded paddle he used to abuse himself. He soon developed a growing obsession with cannibalism, often preparing himself a dinner consisting solely of raw meat and sometimes serving it to his kids.

In about 1919, Fish stabbed an intellectually disabled boy in Washington, D.C.. He chose people who were either mentally handicapped or African-American as his victims, explaining that he assumed these people would not be missed when killed. Fish would later claim to have occasionally paid boys to procure other children for him. Fish tortured, mutilated, and murdered young children with his "implements of Hell": a meat cleaver, a butcher knife, and a small handsaw.

On July 11, 1924, Fish found eight-year-old Beatrice Kiel playing alone on her parents' farm on Staten Island, New York. He offered her money to come and help him look for rhubarb. She was about to leave the farm when her mother chased Fish away. During 1924, the 54-year-old Fish, suffering from psychosis, felt that God was commanding him to torture and sexually mutilate children.

Shortly before his abduction of Grace Budd, Fish attempted to test his "implements of Hell" on a child he had been molesting named Cyril Quinn. Quinn and his friend were playing box ball on a sidewalk when Fish asked them if they had eaten lunch. When they said that they had not, he invited them into his apartment for sandwiches. While the two boys were wrestling on Fish's bed, they dislodged his mattress; underneath was a knife, a small handsaw, and a meat cleaver. They became frightened and ran out of the apartment.

On May 25, 1928, Fish saw a classified advertisement in the Sunday edition of the New York World that read, "Young man, 18, wishes position in country. Edward Budd, 406 West 15th Street." On May 28, Fish, then 58 years old, visited the Budd family in Manhattan under the pretence of hiring Edward; he later confessed that he planned to tie Edward up, mutilate him, and leave him to bleed to death. He apparently changed his intended victim from Edward to his younger sister Grace Budd and quickly made up a story about having to attend his niece's birthday party. He convinced the parents, Delia Flanagan and Albert Budd I, to let Grace accompany him to the party that evening. Grace left with Fish that day but never returned.

In November 1934, an anonymous letter was sent to Grace's parents which ultimately led the police to Fish. Fish made no attempt to deny the murder of Grace Budd, saying that he meant to go to the house to kill Grace's brother Edward Fish said it "never even entered [his] head" to rape the girl, but he later claimed to his attorney that, while kneeling on Grace's chest and strangling her, he did have two involuntary ejaculations. This information was used at trial to make the claim the kidnapping was sexually motivated, thus avoiding any mention of cannibalism. During his arrest he was linked to two other murders, Francis McDonnell and Billy Gaffney.

Albert Fish's trial for the murder of Grace Budd began on March 11, 1935, in White Plains, New York. None of the jurors doubted that Fish was insane, but ultimately, as one later explained, they felt he should be executed anyway. They found him to be sane and guilty, and the judge ordered the death sentence. Fish arrived at prison in March 1935, and was executed on January 16, 1936 in the electric chair at Sing Sing.

#albert fish #serial killers #true crime #crime #post

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geekybisexualwriter · 4 years ago

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His One And Only Weakness(Five Hargreeves x genderneutral!reader)

(A/N: Thank you all so much for the overwhelming support, it really means a lot to me. I love you all very much and I hope this imagine doesn’t disappoint any of you, I worked hard on it)

(A/N #2: The reader has aging powers, so you can speed up your age and slow it down, along with other peoples’. So they are 16 in this, along with Five)

Word Count: 1111

Warnings: kidnapping

Taglist:

Permanent: @five-scoffee @peepeeparkerr @linthebinbag

5 x reader: @sitherin-mxschief @paradox-psychosis

From the moment Y/N Y/L/N and Five Hargreeves met, they would butt heads almost constantly. Always in some sort of argument that, for the most part, wouldn’t even make sense. Or matter.

“Quit cutting in front of me!”

“I wasn’t! This is just how I’m standing!”

*arguing ensues*

But of course, this wasn’t how they actually felt about each other. They loved each other, as they had done for years when Y/N had been found in an orphanage when they were twelve and now lives in the Hargreeves household, still keeping their last name(Yep, they are not siblings. You can relax now). They loved each other when they argued and they saw the glimmer in each other’s eyes when they won. They loved each other when one of them had a bad dream and climb through the others’ window to distract themselves. They loved each other when they weren’t arguing, just laughing or reading.

They had always loved each other, and everyone knew and tried so very hard to get them together, always failing miserably.

Unfortunately, this included the Handler, who, when she figured out Five’s one and only weakness, grinned and started a plan, enlisting the help of no one, not even her darling daughter. It would feel so much better if she was the only one to do this, to defeat him on her own.

It would all be so worth it.

*A FEW DAYS LATER, 2:15 IN THE MORNING*

Y/N yawns and glances at the clock above their desk. ‘2:15 already, I should probably go to sleep… oh, just one more chapter.’ They reopen their book and continue reading becoming so immersed in the fictional world that they barely hear the window creak open in the real one.

The Handler steps inside silently, holding a briefcase and looking around the room until her gaze lands on Y/N, who was turning a page when they look up to see The Handler standing in front of them, a smile on her features reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat. “Hello, Y/N.”

Y/N stares at her for a moment in shock for a moment before standing up, glaring furiously at her. “Get out right now.”

“Oh, I was just on my way… just needed to grab something real quick.” her smile widens as she swings her briefcase by Y/N’s head, knocking them out instantly. She smirks over the body. “Step one completed.” The Handler picks Y/N up and opens the briefcase, They’re encased in a bright light, on their way to the commission.

A few minutes later, Five teleports to Y/N’s room, tears running down his face. The dream he had had been particularly awful, and the first thought he had when he woke up was to see Y/N, who would do what they always do when this happened; close their book and comfort him, wiping away his tears and telling stupid jokes until dawn.

But they weren’t here. The bathroom, Five decided. They’ll be back soon. And so he waited.

And waited.

Until about half an hour passed, and he couldn’t ignore it anymore. They weren’t in The Umbrella Academy, they weren’t safe. Y/N was in trouble, and he knew whose fault it was, anger coursing through his veins.

The fucking Handler.

A couple of hours later, when Y/N woke up, the first thing they see is The Handler smirking down at them. “Good morning.”

They try to move their arms angrily but to no avail. They were tied up, legs and arms strapped tightly to a wooden chair.

“Oh, that won’t work, honey. Not to mention I made it so that you can’t use your powers here, no aging your limbs to slip out for you.” The Handler grins widely.

Y/N tries it anyway but sighs in defeat. “What do you want?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I want Five. He’ll be here soon enough, he really does care for you.”

Y/N rolls their eyes. “You’re joking, right? He hates me, has been ever since we met.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The Handler says knowingly. “He’ll be here soon enough, I know it.”

-----

Meanwhile, Five was angrily pacing the living room, in front of him were the rest of his siblings on the couch.

“Maybe they took a sabbatical,” Klaus suggests. “Man, who could blame them? Sabbaticals are the best. Last time, I-”

“Y/N wouldn’t just take a sabbatical, Klaus. They would at least tell us.” Five snaps. “The Handler obviously kidnapped them to get to me.”

There was a deafening silence as the rest of them processed this.

“Ok then, let’s go get ready. I’ll get my knives.” Diego stands up.

“No. I’m going alone.” Five says

The rest of the room erupts.

“Are you insane you could get hurt-” (Allison)

“What are we to you, weak-”(Diego)

“There’s no way you’re going alone-” (Luther)

“They’re our friend too-” (Vanya)

“I’ve made my decision,” Five cuts them all off. “The Handler only wants me. We don’t need to risk more lives.”

The silence once again takes over the room. Although they didn’t want to, they had to admit it made sense.

They all said their good-byes and good-lucks, and Five teleports to the Commission, looking around for Y/N.

It took around twenty minutes, but he finally opened the right door to see Y/N tied up, an annoyed expression on their face, and The Handler smiling widely at him. “Well, it’s about time. I was almost going to get you myself.”

Y/N stares at him, surprised. Just seeing them like that made his blood boil, and he turns back to The Handler. “Hey, you can’t be an asshole to them, only I can!” He smirks and grabs a knife from his sock(courtesy of Diego Hargreeves) and tries to stab her but she moves out of the way.

“Did you really think that would be all it would take?” The Handler tsks. “You’ve gotten rusty, old man.”

One epic fighting scene later(look, I tried to write it. But I’m actual trash at writing these, trust me), and Five gets the upper hand and stabs The Handler in the heart. “Well, that’ll hold her for at least a little while.” He turns to Y/N and walks over, untying them.

Y/N stands up, smiling. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did though.” Five smiles shyly at them.

Y/N feels their face heat up, and they smile even wider.

“Look, if me killing, at least for the moment, The Handler for you wasn’t enough to let you know how I feel, then-”

He was cut off by Y/N pulling him closer and kissing him. “It did, thank you.” they chuckle. “I like you too.”

#five x reader #five hargreeves #five #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #number 5 x reader #number 5 #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy x reader #x reader #imagines #x reader imagine #five x reader imagine

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slytherinbarnes · 4 years ago

Text

there are ghosts in the sky, i

i. what if they leave me shattered in the stars?

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Warnings: character death, violence, mentions of blood, injuries, fighting, anxiety, language, drugging, puking, angst.

Summary: Sanctum is beautiful, but the moon’s beautiful facade is hiding a dark secret. a dark secret that you find out about in the worst way possible.

a/n: here it is!!! part one of my s6 au for sub rosa! please let me know what you think!!!

au series masterlist // sub rosa masterlist // full masterlist

You already hate everything about this moon.

Officially, you’ve only been on it a little more than 24 hours. And in that time, you’ve been attacked by bugs, watched Shaw die, and have watched all of your friends slowly lose their minds to sun induced psychosis. Unfortunately, you are now among them.

You stand staring at Murphy, who’s muttering something about getting in position, but all you can hear is your father and Shumway yelling at you from the TV behind you. Their voices are deafeningly loud, taking over every thought in your head and pushing it away, until the only thing you can hear or think about or see is the knife in your hand, their voices urging you to use it.

But Murphy shakes you hard, sensing the return of your turmoil, and you slide the knife back into its holster, giving him a resolute nod. “I’m ready.”

He eyes you with skepticism, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Murphy, I’m sure.”

“Okay, because two seconds ago you were staring at your knife like it was-”

You cut him off with a glare, “I said, I’m sure. Now go get into position.”

He gives you one last skeptical look before slipping out the door, and you watch him go, taking a deep breath and starting to sing in an attempt to keep the voices at bay. You wait anxiously for Murphy to get in his place, but after a few minutes you can’t stand the wait anymore, so you slip out of the room in search of your boyfriend. You can hear him yelling from somewhere near the pond, so you walk that way, wringing your hands, hoping that all of this goes according to plan.

Bellamy seems surprised to see you walk from between the buildings and out into the open, your voice soft and comforting as you call out to him, “Hey Bell.”

He turns to look at you, glaring, his eyes falling to your hands, which now twitch nervously near your knife. “Are you scared of me? That’s funny, because I should be scared of you, Wanlida.”

He says the nickname mockingly, further reminding you of why you hate it. You smile at him, trying to stay calm, slowly grabbing the knife and tossing it away from you in an act of good faith. “I just want to talk, Bellamy. The eclipse is getting to your head, and you’re not acting like yourself. This isn’t you.”

“How would you know what’s me? I spent six years without you. You don't know who I am!”

“You’re wrong, Bellamy. I know exactly who you are. I always have. You’re the guy who’s willing to do anything for his sister. You’re a leader to our people, who has made so many sacrifices to save us. You’re the love of my life, who has been there for me at every turn.”

“The love of your life?” He laughs, and you can tell he’s trying to bait you. “Is that why I fell in love with someone else?”

And though you know he only says the words to get a rise out of you, to bring out your rage and make you stoop to his level, you can't ignore it. You let out a scream of anger and dive at Bellamy, intending to knock him off his feet and distract him while Murphy gasses him. “Murphy, do it! Do it now!”

Except the gas never comes.

Instead, Bellamy rolls away from you, jumping to his feet, and you scramble to yours quickly as he stalks towards you. You lift your fists in defense of yourself, not wanting to fight Bellamy. You’ve seen him spar people and defeat them easily, you’ve seen him actually fight people and defeat them easily. He has a height advantage and size advantage on you, not to mention the fact that you’re already heavily injured from your near death experience in Shallow Valley. But eclipse Bellamy cares about none of that. Instead he lunges at you, grabbing you by the shoulders, holding you in place as he punches you so hard in the stomach that you double over with a gasp of pain. He tosses you to the ground and kicks you in the side, his boot connecting with your ribs, and you hold back a cry of pain, sure that there's going to be a bruise there by morning. He grabs you by your jacket and pulls you to your feet again, swinging a punch at you so hard that pain immediately explodes across your eye and cheekbone. You’re sure that your healing black eye is now going to be much worse, and you hit the ground hard, landing on your back, trying to find the will to keep fighting Bellamy.

Luckily, you don't have to, because Murphy has finally arrived. Unfortunately for him, Bellamy sees him coming and knocks the gas can out of his hand before he can use it, punching him in rapid succession, one after the next. Murphy is still trying to recover from the hits when Bellamy grabs his knife wound and digs in, before delivering subsequent hits to the injured man’s bullet wounds, the same wounds Murphy received while trying to save him. Murphy cries out in pain, and Bellamy seizes his moment of weakness to toss him into the pond, splashing in after him to grab him and hold him beneath the water. You pull yourself to your feet, the sight of Murphy's impending danger lighting a fire within you, and you rush towards the pair as Bellamy grinds out, “I will keep us safe!”

You grab Bellamy when you’re close enough, trying hard to pull him off of Murphy and save him, but Bellamy turns and hits you again, knocking you back into the water with a splash. You fall into the pond, your head sinking beneath it, and you close your eyes as you sink, wondering if you should just let yourself drown. But your survival instinct kicks in, and you get a rush of adrenaline strong enough to pull you out of the water and over to Bellamy. You shove him off of Murphy, towards the pond’s edge, and you swing a punch at him so fast he never sees it coming. It’s powerful enough to knock him backwards onto the ground, and you run back to the pond and grab Murphy, dragging him out of the water as he lies in it, still and unmoving.

You see Bellamy moving from the corner of your eye, but you don't pay attention, too worried about Murphy’s still form. You drop him onto the ground, falling to his side and immediately starting chest compressions, hoping and praying that he coughs up the water in his lungs. You can see Bellamy stalking towards you, but he freezes in place when your twin’s voice screams out for the first time in hours, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

Bellamy turns on her with a sinister smile, and you see the two of them spar as you continue to help Murphy, sending prayers to the Universe to save his life. You almost cry in relief when they answer them, Murphy turning his head to violently cough up the water that nearly killed him. Your relief is short lived though, ending when you hear a body thud to the ground nearby. You look up in horror and realize that it’s your twin, and Bellamy stands over her, smiling at you. “Clarke!”

The scream that rips though you is absolutely heartbreaking, and you move over to her as fast as you can, dropping at her side and pressing your fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. This time, you do cry in relief when you find one, your twin only temporarily knocked out, not dead. But you don't get long to process this, because Bellamy grabs you and yanks you backwards until you're flat on your back, and then he straddles you, his hands lifting up to your throat. Your eyes instantly widen in alarm, your hatred of choking to death already so powerful, but especially at the hands of the man you love. Murphy tries to help you, but Bellamy easily knocks him away, still too weak from his near death experience. He weakly yells, “Stop it, man, you’re killing her! You’re gonna kill the girl you love!”

But Bellamy doesn't stop. If anything, his grip gets tighter, the stars of unconsciousness exploding around the edges of your vision. You reach down for your Grounder knife, panic surging through you when you remember you discarded it earlier in an effort to keep the peace. Lot of good that’s doing you now. Your feet start to kick as you struggle for air, sending pain through the stitches in your calf, lighting up a memory in your brain. The skull knife. You reach down to your uninjured calf, grabbing the knife from its holster and immediately plunging it into Bellamy’s thigh. He lets out a gut wrenching yell of pain, and you take in a dizzyingly large rush of air, filling your lungs up with oxygen again.

You hear Murphy weakly call your name, and you turn to look at him, a gas canister held tight in his hand. You push Bellamy off of you and crawl towards Murphy, grabbing the can from his hand just as Bellamy grabs your ankle and pulls you towards him. He flips you over, straddling you again, and before you can even register the knife that is now clutched in his hand, he plunges it into your side. A scream of pain rips itself from your throat, but it gets cut off by Bellamy’s hands, which have lifted to your throat and are now squeezing the air out of your body again. Without wasting another second, you grab the pin on the gas can and pull, releasing the gas in a cloud that overtakes the three of you instantly. You get light headed as soon as you breathe it in, your head lulling to the side, and you feel Bellamy drop to the ground beside you as the gas reaches him, all of you unconscious within seconds.

You wake to chaos.

Your mother, somehow, is now on this god forsaken moon with you, along with Raven, Jordan, Octavia, Jackson, and a prisoner.

But you care about none of that. Instead, you’re worried about Bellamy, the man you love, the man you had to stab, and you sit up and shift over to him. You place your hand on his cheek and whisper his name softly, and he blinks awake slowly, his eyes opening to find you. You can hear the soft chatter of conversation behind you, but you ignore it and focus only on Bellamy, helping him to sit up and face you. He clutches his leg in pain, and he looks down at it, eyes landing on the knife wound, before turning to you with horror. Tears instantly spring to your eyes and you whisper, “I’m sorry, I had to.”

His hand lifts to your face, tilting your head to get a look at your darkening eye, before he tips your chin to get a look at the bruises that are already starting to form around your neck. You ignore the pain that’s radiating from your side, and you hope he’s forgotten the stab wound he gave you in return, but he hasn’t. He carefully lifts the edge of your shirt to peer at the wound, and you see the horror in his face deepen. You realize now that he isn't horrified that you stabbed him, he’s horrified that you had to. He reaches out for you, pulling you into a hug, tucking his face into the crook of your neck to hide the tears falling down his face. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, whispering, “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, tears starting to spill down your face as you smile at him. “There's nothing to be sorry for, my love.”

He seems prepared to disagree, but the words never come, because at this moment, the people of this moon have started to arrive back at their home. A home which now has a group of invaders from Earth, all possessing different levels of injuries and consciousness. The worst among you is Murphy, who chooses this moment to begin seizing. You shift away from Bellamy and scramble over to Murphy’s side, watching in horror as he takes one loud breath and then stops. Your mother frantically rips his shirt open to begin CPR, revealing a dark color that is spider webbing through Murphy’s veins, marking the space on his chest. As your mom frantically tries to save Murphy's life, all of you watch on in horror, sending up your prayers to the Universe, wondering how many prayers it’ll answer for you before they stop listening.

The Universe has decided that it isn’t tired of you yet, and it answers by sending a man to you, impeccably dressed, clearly the leader of these people. However, this man takes one look at all of you and turns to the guards that hover nearby, waiting for orders. “Move them back.”

The guards point their spears towards all of you, pushing you back and away, leaving Murphy on the ground alone. Your mom looks at the leader with anger. “What are you doing? He'll die!”

“You want my help or not?” At the mention of assistance, you all become compliant, moving away and giving the man the space he asked for. Bellamy walks over to you, coming to a stop beside you as the man drops to Murphy’s side and lifts up his shirt. “He's already dead. Fortunately for him, death is not the end.”

He calls out, “Cillian!”

A man, Cillian, materializes from the crowd, coming to stop beside his leader, who whispers, “He was exposed to the seaweed during the red sun. Do it.”

Your brows come together, wondering what that means, and you exchange a look with both Clarke and Bellamy, both of them just as curious. The man kneels down beside Murphy and reaches into his bag, pulling out a snake. You all look at it in shock as the leader informs you, “We call it Kepa-She, it means hideous snake in Chinese.”

Cillian holds the snake to Murphy’s side, encouraging it to bite him, as you all watch on in horror. Clarke mutters, “Oh, my God.”

The man looks up at her, expression understanding. “Trust me, I know, but the venom degrades too quickly to deliver it in any other form.”

Miraculously, the darkness that has traveled through Murphy's veins and spread across his body starts to retreat, moving back towards the source of the venom. You blink hard a few times, unsure if your eyes are working right, and when you look at Murphy again, you see now that he’s healed, his skin clear of the darkness. You feel a rush of relief and you mutter, “It's working.”

And that’s the last thing you remember before passing out.

This time, pain wakes you up.

Your eyes fly open and you sit up, your side on fire, and you flail your arms at whoever is gathered around you, forcing them to jump away from you. There’s a layer of sweat across your skin, your breathing slightly labored, and your wide eyes frantically look around, falling on Bellamy, then Clarke, and then the man from before, Cillian. They’re all holding their arms up in surrender, and Bellamy’s voice is soft and comforting when he whispers, “Natshana, it's just us. Cillian was trying to stitch up your stab wound.”

You see guilt pass over his features before you drop your gaze down to your side, the wound half stitched, a needle still stuck in your skin. Clarke’s voice is anxious when she calls your name and adds, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Please let him finish.”

You look up into your twin’s anxious face before turning to look at Cillian, who gives you a small smile, trying to reassure you. Finally you nod, the movement small, before laying back down on the makeshift operating table they’ve created for you. Cillian comes over to you slowly, waiting for you to jump away again, and when you don't he resumes his stitching. Clarke and Bellamy come to either side of you, both of them taking your hands, allowing you to squeeze them every time you get a flash of pain.

You try to keep yourself distracted by looking at the room around you, all of you locked up in some sort of tavern. Your body is stretched out between two tables that have been pushed together, and when you glance to your left, you see that Murphy is in a similar position, eyes still closed, Emori now gazing down at him with worry. Your gaze is pulled from the couple as Cillian takes a deep breath, and you look at him, thinking he’s about to say something. As he finishes up the knot of your last stitch, he muses, “I checked your friend Murphy’s wounds. His blood is red.”

It’s not a question, but you can tell he’s fishing for information. Something within you tells you to offer him as little as possible, unsure if you can trust these people at all. Which is why you nod and answer, “Most people’s blood tends to be red.”

He gives you a strange look, and you give him one in return, the two of you staring at each other in silence until Clarke clears her throat. “Is she okay?”

He nods, his eyes still locked on you. “She’s good to go.”

And then he shifts his gaze to her, forcing a smile to his face. “She should just take it easy for a few days.”

Clarke nods, accepting his instructions before nodding to the exit. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

You, of course, do not take it easy for a few days.

Despite the disagreements of your mother, your twin, and your boyfriend, you accompany Bellamy and the others on the rescue mission for Madi. Your wounds do not hold you back as much as you expected them to, your body clearly adjusted to surviving, even while injured. Maybe you can thank Mount Weather for that.

Still, all seems well when you return, because Madi is safe and so are the others. Diyoza gets kicked out of Sanctum, but the rest of you are told you can stay, and that Russell and his people will show all of you how to survive on this chaotic moon.

Your celebrations are short lived though, because that night, when everyone else is asleep, Clarke comes to your shared room with Bellamy. “Can I come in?”

You turn to look at Bellamy, who nods, just as eager to hear about what all of you missed while you were gone earlier. So you step back and usher her into the room, closing the door softly behind her as she steps inside. The three of you pile into the bed facing each other, and your gaze drops down to your twin’s bandaged hand. “What happened? Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

“As soon as you guys left, Russell invited me to dinner with him and Simone so we could discuss whether we’d be allowed to stay. Unfortunately for us, Jordan spent most of his time talking to Delilah, telling her everything about us, the good and the bad. It got back to Russell and Simone, and they decided that we couldn’t stay because we’re violent people and violence spreads like a disease.”

“That explains your shock at Russell letting us stay. So what changed his mind? We heard him mention you saving Delilah, but how did you save her?”

“As soon as I got back from the dinner and changed, I went looking for Jordan because I was pissed that he ruined everything for us. But when I went to the roof to find him, he was passed out on a cot with a paralytic dart in his neck. He managed to point out a guy running away from the tavern with a covered wheelbarrow, which we later found out had Delilah inside. I chased after him, along with the guard, but we split up so he could go inform Russell. I eventually found the guy and fought him off, but he cut my hand in the process and he freaked out as soon as he saw my Nightblood.”

“Weird.”

She shakes her head, giving you a serious look. “It gets weirder. Russell and Cillian both saw my blood too and they acted really strange about it. Russell eventually cut his finger to show me that he too is a Nightblood. He said our blood is royal. Delilah’s too, which is why they took her. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like how everyone reacted when they found out about our blood, which is why we need to make sure that they don’t find out about Madi. Cillian already knows about you because he stitched you up, and I’m sure he’s already told Russell.”

You nod, thinking of Cillian’s weirdness with you earlier. “Suddenly Cillian’s reaction to seeing my blood makes a lot more sense.”

Clarke mutters, “It feels like I have a target on my back.”

You reach out and take her hand, preparing to comfort her, but she shakes her head a little, sending the thoughts away, before she turns her gaze to Bellamy. “What happened to Octavia?”

He sighs, his shoulders sagging as she reminds him of what he’s done to protect all of you and your fragile alliance with Sanctum. “I left her behind. As long as she’s in Sanctum, she’s a threat to the peace we’re trying to achieve.”

You see Clarke open her mouth, looking like she wants to ask more, but you can tell from Bellamy’s body language that he doesn't want to say anything beyond that. So you squeeze Clarke’s hand, giving her a subtle shake of your head. “We’re exhausted and in desperate need of a good night’s sleep. Can we talk more in the morning?”

She nods, smiling a little, already sliding off the bed. “Of course.”

You follow her to the door, both of you hugging before she slips out into the hall with a quiet whisper of, “Good night, lovebirds.”

Leaving you and Bellamy to sleep in peace.

It’s beginning to seem to you that things in Sanctum are always chaotic.

You wake to find that today is Naming Day, though you never really understand what that means. Still, you take part in the city’s festivities, including first confession, and the tying of the ribbon on the lantern. Delilah finds you there and drags you and Clarke away, eager to dress you both for the party being held later in the evening. She dresses you both beautifully, Clarke in dark blue and you in silver, and you and your twin walk to the palace hand in hand, prepared to dance the night away.

Cillian whisks her away as soon as he sees her, and Bellamy grabs you up right after. You spend hours dancing, catching a glimpse of a loved up Clarke and Cillian leaving sometime during the party, and you and Bellamy don't last much longer before you end up ditching the party in favor of some alone time. Bellamy shows you just how much he loves you, reminding you of what you were missing while he was in space, leaving both of you in a hazy high.

Bellamy is the first to fall asleep, but you are too enamored by the lantern ceremony outside, which is why you are now standing at the window, watching as hundreds of lanterns lift in the sky, rising until they are burned to ash by the radiation shield over Sanctum. You think of your ribbon, tied on the lantern above Clarke’s, Wanlida scrawled out on it. You pick a lantern, one that likely isn't even yours, and watch it lift from someone’s hands while you imagine that it’s your own. You feel lighter as it gets higher, taking the sins of Wanlida with it, until it finally hits the radiation shield over Sanctum, setting the lantern on fire and cleansing the sins of your past. It reminds you of a memory, long before Wanlida was a part of you, after Finn was killed for his sins in Tondc. You remember Lexa holding a torch over the bodies of Tondc, Finn among them, and Lincoln translating for all of you as she addressed the people gathered there in Trigedasleng. “Raun faya, oso woda klin laudnes-de kom foutaim.”

You feel arms wrap around your waist from behind, making you jump in surprise, despite knowing that it’s Bellamy. He drops his chin to your shoulder, translating your words. “In fire, we cleanse the pain of the past.”

You turn to look at him, seeing only parts of his face because he’s so close to you still. “Do you remember?”

He whispers back, “I remember.”

You turn back to the window, both of you watching the last of the lanterns rise and hit the shield, disappearing forever. Once the sky is clear, Bellamy releases you, reaching for your hand. “Come back to bed.”

You turn to look at him, the smile on his face, and you relent. “Only if you’ll tell me about the gods.”

“I’d love to.”

Both of you crawl back into bed, slipping beneath the covers, turning until you’re facing each other. Bellamy smiles at you with complete adoration before he begins, “Not long ago, the gods created the moon. She lights up even the darkest of nights, guiding travelers along their way. Not long ago, the gods created you.”

He brushes his fingers across your cheekbone, his touch feather light, and you smile at him as he continues, “To other people, you are the moon. But to me, you’re everything. The moon, the sun, the stars. You’re the air I breathe and the love in my heart. You are every leaf, every tree, every moon, planet, and galaxy in this endless Universe. You are everything to me, and you have completely captured my heart from the moment that I met you, though I tried to deny it at first.”

The two of you laugh softly as you remember the animosity that you shared in the beginning. Bellamy starts to sit up, pulling you up with him, both of you turning to face each other as you do. “I have never been loved by someone the way you love me, and I know I’m incredibly lucky that I get to have this. That I get to have you. You have loved me at my best, and you have loved me at my very worst, and even when I am lost and struggling, still you’re there, loving me through it all. You have the biggest heart, one that is so full of love that you are so eager to give, and I love you for that. I love your strength, your vulnerability, your kindness, your beauty. I love everything about you, and I just want to give you the world. I want to protect you, and love you, and make you happy until I draw my last breath. And I’ve been waiting to tell you all of this, waiting for the perfect moment during our new life of peace, but I’m starting to worry that I won’t get that chance.”

He reaches up to push your hair away from your face and you close your eyes and lean into his touch, smiling. When you open your eyes again, his hand is extended between the two of you, a small ring held out in his palm. It’s beautiful; a small round sapphire surrounded by a perimeter of tiny diamonds, all situated on a thin gold band. You look up at Bellamy in shock, his expression one of complete adoration as he whispers, “Will you marry me?”

You look between him and the ring, wondering if he’s joking, but when you meet his eyes again, you can see that he’s completely serious, and still anxiously awaiting your answer. Your face splits into a grin and you practically lunge towards him, pulling him into a hug before peppering kisses all over his face. He laughs, one of those bright pretty ones that you wish you could capture in a bottle and keep forever, and his voice is light with happiness when he says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You kiss him softly on the lips, pulling away just enough to whisper, against them, “Yes.”

His smile gets even wider, and he pulls you in for another hug, before leaning back and holding up the ring again. He takes your hand and slides it onto your left ring finger, both of you marveling at the perfect fit. You admire the ring, and the way it looks on your finger as he whispers, “It was my mother’s.”

You look up at him, your eyes growing wide. “Oh, Bellamy.”

But he smiles, sadness unable to reach him in this moment. “She gave it to me before she was floated, told me to give it to the girl that captures my heart. I didn’t have it when I hopped on the dropship, but when I went back to the ring with the others, I went looking for it. I’ve had it with me everyday since I left you on Earth, carrying it with me to remind myself of the girl that captured my heart.”

Tears of happiness spill over your cheeks and onto the sheets beneath you as you reach out for Bellamy, pulling him towards you and kissing him, pouring all of the love you have for him into it. The two of you fall back into the bed together, kissing each other softly, letting each other know just how deep your love goes.

You wake up sometime in the middle of the night to a crash outside.

You immediately sit up, looking around, your room dark and still. Bellamy is beside you, still fast asleep, but the hairs on your arm are lifted, alerting you that something is wrong. You slide out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Bellamy, quickly pulling on Bellamy’s discarded shirt and a pair of your pants, before slipping out of your room and down the stairs. The ground level of the tavern is dark, lit only by a few lights outside, the establishment long since locked up for the night. Your eyes sweep over the room, finding nothing, and you stand at the bottom of the stairs frozen, listening and watching.

Still, the tavern is empty, no signs of disturbance.

You shake your head, annoyed at yourself, sure that you’re on edge for nothing. You walk over to the bar, reaching for one of the many containers of alcohol, thinking that maybe you just need something to take off some of your edge, something to help mellow you out a bit and forget about the anxiety that always seems to sit beneath your skin. As you slide the bottle across the bar and over to you, you hear the door to the tavern creak open, and you spin around in shock.

You watch a tall figure step inside and pull the door closed behind them, and you tense up, growing worried again, until the figure steps into a beam of light, revealing Cillian. You let out a little laugh of relief, “Cillian, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry. I was just looking for your sister.”

“I thought she was with you, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's fine. She just left earlier to watch the lanterns and I wanted to make sure she made it back here okay.” He steps towards you, into a larger beam of light, his clothes now visible to you. They’re different from his usual, fitted attire. These are much baggier, almost ratty, full of holes and covered in a thin layer of dirt. Something about it sends warning bells off in your head, and you set the bottle of alcohol back on the bar as Cillian smiles at you. “I am curious though, are you and your sister the only two with black blood?”

You think of Clarke mentioning the target on her back, and you can practically feel it being painted onto yours as you force out a casual laugh. “Yes, of course. Red blood is the norm, why would anyone else have anything different?”

Cillian continues to close the space between you, and you look around in a panic, wishing you had your Grounder knife on you. Or a gun, or something. Cillian tips his head to the side as he closes the last few feet of space between you. “Then why are you two different?”

“Genetic anomaly, I suppose. Twins are good for that, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.” He forces out a strained laugh before his face drops a little. “You shouldn't be afraid of me.”

You shake your head a little, sliding along the bar, trying to create space between you. You glance up at the stairs, wondering if anyone would hear you from here, before looking back to Cillian. “Afraid? I’m not afraid of you.”

You feel your legs tense up as you eye the stairs again, and without waiting for Cillian’s response, you take off running towards them, opening your mouth to scream as you do. Unfortunately, the scream in your throat dies at the same time you feel a prick in the back of your neck. Your body locks up, as if every cell within you is made of concrete, and you start to fall, caught at the last second by Cillian. Your eyes are wide with fear, genuine terror, and when he turns you around he sees this, lifting you into his arms easily and muttering, “Don't worry, it's a temporary paralytic. By the time we get you to the Children of Gabriel, you'll be fine.”

There is nothing for you to do but allow yourself to be carried out of the tavern in his arms. You try to move, or run, or scream, but your body refuses to obey any of your commands. Cillian is slipping between buildings, jogging lightly, and you’re terrified that you are about to be smuggled out of this village without anyone having a single clue of what happened to you.

Luckily for you, as Cillian steps out from one building and heads to a different one, you are spotted by two guards. They call out to him, trying to get him to stop, but he only picks up the pace, running as fast as he can. The guards split up, and one of them is able to cut him off around the next corner, blocking his path. “Put the girl down!”

Cillian looks down at you, and then to each of the guards that are blocking his exits before muttering, “Fine, okay.”

He sets you down gently, your only view a sliver of the sky and Cillian. He holds up his hands in surrender as he stares at the guard in front of him. “The Primes shouldn’t be allowed to have another host.”

Host? If they could, your brows would furrow, genuinely confused at what is going on. The guard yells back, “Shut up, cog!”

Cillian’s gaze flits down to you, and he whispers, “I am sorry. Death to Primes!”

And before anyone can say anything else, he quickly reaches into the waistband of his pants and pulls out a large knife, before dragging it across his throat. Blood spills out from the wound on his neck, some of it splashing down onto you, before Cillian drops to his knees, and then finally he falls forward, body stretched across you. The guards rush forward and pull him off of you before they check you over, taking in the frantic movements of your eyes. “They used the paralytic, we need to get her to Russell Prime.”

The other guard nods and he scoops you up, and you feel a rush of relief that whatever terrible end you were about to meet is no longer an option. Instead, you will be given to Russell, he will unparalyze you, and you will get back into your bed with Bellamy, putting all of this behind you like it’s just a bad dream.

The guards carry you up to the palace, but instead of taking the stairs to the top they head to a door on the ground level. They knock on the door and wait, before it is opened by none other than Russell himself. “What is it? What happened to her?”

“Sir, Cillian was a traitor. He was one of the Children of Gabriel.”

“Was?”

“He paralyzed her and then tried to leave with her. When we confronted him, he slit his own throat.”

Russell nods, and thinks for a moment before he steps aside and motions for them to enter the room. “Come in, put her on the table there.”

The guard carries you inside, into a semicircle of skeletons, all of them standing and watching you like a creepy, undead army. You are laid out on a table in the center of them before the two guards both leave, presumably to clean up Cillian’s mess. Russell steps into your line of vision, smiling sadly down at you, brushing your hair back and away from your face. You hear a door push open nearby, and the staccato of shoes on the stone floor of whatever room you’re in, before a voice calls out, “What is this?”

Russell looks up and turns to face the figure, which starts to walk into your view, revealing Simone, his wife. He keeps his voice low, in case anyone is listening, “Cillian was the traitor. He killed himself but not before using the paralytic on Clarke’s twin.”

Simone looks at you in confusion, “Russell, why haven't you used the antidote?”

“You know why.” He reaches up and touches a necklace around Simone’s throat, but she grabs his hand and holds it still as he continues, “She has the blood. Tell me not to do this, and I won't, Simone.”

She glances over at your unmoving form. “Jade is back. Rose is dead.”

“Okay, so here's the math. There are no more hosts. It was 14 years between Rose and Delilah. 14 years. Josie's still third in line. That means her host won't be born for at best 35 years, another 21 until her brain is ready. We can wait 56 years for our baby girl's Naming Day, or we can get her back tonight.” You feel your anxiety steadily start to grow as you listen to Russell’s words, the pieces slowly falling into place that you are still in danger. Cillian said something about hosts for the Primes, and you get a sickening feeling that you’re about to become one of them. Russell confirms your worst fears when he looks over you with pity and his voice drops a little to whisper to his wife, “All we have to do is kill this innocent girl.”

Simone looks at you long and hard, considering her options, before kissing her husband on the cheek and pulling open her necklace, revealing a small piece of technology. Russell takes it as Simone coldy says, “I'll prep for insertion. You clear the host.”

Your panic levels shoot off the charts and you start to cry, the only response your body can manage while still paralyzed. Russell walks over to you, dropping right into your vision, looking distressed to see you upset. “I'm sorry, I truly am.”

The tears fall harder, running over your nose and onto the table below you, and Russell reaches out to wipe them away, “Shh, please don't cry. Please. I promise you won't feel pain. The mind of the host is erased, but the brain is left unharmed. You're giving us such a gift, sacrificing your body so that someone else might live.”

You start praying to the Universe, begging for your life to be spared. You pray to your dad, and to Lincoln, to Jasper, and Monty, to anyone you can think of, crying and begging for all of this to just be a bad dream and for it to be over. But the Universe seems unwilling to save you this time, because Simone walks over, a syringe in her hands. When she sees her husband’s turmoil, she sets the syringe down to comfort him, her voice low. “Hey, listen to me. This was meant to be. After 236 years, just as we're on the brink of mortality, a ship arrives carrying this perfect vessel. This was meant to be.”

She passes him the syringe, and he takes it, holding it up so you can see it. Your fear turns to anger, and you wish you could move because you would kill Russell and Simone both for even considering this. There is nothing more that you want, other than to survive this and kill them both.

But that is not what’s in your future, because Russell looks down at you, his inner turmoil now gone. “No more fighting, you’ll be at peace. Thank you for this.”

And then he slides the syringe into your neck, sending the liquid into your body while you’re unable to do anything. He pulls the syringe away and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, before leaning back to watch your final moments. And as you start to die, as your mind starts to be erased from the world, all you can think is that, after all the shit you’ve been through, this is it. This is how you go. All the death you’ve faced, all the times you’ve been choked within an inch of your life, and your death is ultimately at the hands of a set of parents, eager to bring their daughter back to life at the sake of making you lose yours.

Along the edges of your vision, the darkness starts to creep in, and you feel another rush of panic as you realize that this is truly the end. You’re in your final seconds of life and none of the people that you love even know it. Your mind drifts to Madi, and braiding flowers into her hair. Clarke, and the countless nights the two of you spent laughing and talking. And then your mind settles on Bellamy, the love of your life, the man of your dreams, the ring he gave you still sitting heavy on your finger. A ring to symbolize a marriage that you will never get. A ring to symbolize a life that you will no longer be able to live.

The last thing you see as the darkness rushes in, is Bellamy’s smiling face, framed by freckles and curls, nothing but love in his eyes.

Bellamy wakes up in a panic.

Subconsciously, it’s like his body knows that you aren't there beside him, and when he pulls his eyes open to the bright sun, he finds that he’s right.

You’re gone.

He dresses quickly and rushes to Madi and Clarke’s room, pounding on the door loudly before he’s greeted by Clarke, her hair a mess, her hands wiping the sleep from her eyes. Any other time the sight would be funny to him, seeing the normally put together Clarke looking anything but put together, but it’s not funny now, because all he feels is panic. “Have you seen la lune?”

“No, isn't she with you?”

“No, she was gone when I woke up.”

“Maybe she’s downstairs.”

“Something’s wrong, I can feel it.”

And now that Bellamy has said the words out loud, Clarke realizes that she can feel it too. The prickle of unease along her skin, the hairs on the back of her neck lifted, letting her that know something isn’t right. Which is why she grabs her shoes and follows Bellamy out of the room, both of them frantically searching every inch of the tavern. They find that your shoes are still in your room, but your pants are gone and so is Bellamy’s shirt from the night before. Everything else is in place, not a single item out of the ordinary.

They check the area around the tavern, finding nothing there either. Which is why they take off running to the palace in search of Russell, surprised to find you already there, talking to the leader of Sanctum. You turn to your twin and your fiance with a smile, greeting them both, mumbling something about ‘best laid plans’ before you pass Bellamy a map. He accepts it, and the three of you return to the tavern to look it over, alongside Murphy, who seems to notice nothing strange about you until you call him John.

Bellamy and Clarke are still both on edge, constantly questioning you on if you feel alright, a question you answer yes to every time, waving off their concerns. But they only grow more concerned when Gaia comes to all of you, telling you she saw Jordan go into the reliquary of the palace. And when you follow him inside, you discover the secret of the Primes: that they are coldblooded body snatchers, disguising themselves as gods.

Clarke, Bellamy, and the others are horrified. You, however, offer justification for their actions, something that confuses the two people closest to you. Maybe that's why they call a team meeting, under the guise of informing Madi of the danger she’s in, something your face lights up about when mentioned. But as Bellamy and Clarke fill Madi in on everything, their eyes stay on you, noting your mannerisms and the things you seem interested in. Their eyes only leave yours to calm down Jordan when he confronts Priya, a moment you use to carefully slip away, heading outside in search of Jade.

Bellamy and Clarke follow you and then confront you, finally confirming that something is wrong with you, despite your insistence otherwise. And it's only then, after you’ve drugged them both, do you reveal that you are not you after all.

You are Josephine Lightbourne, and your body is her new host.

The first thing Clarke Griffin does when she wakes up is scream.

It’s loud, and heartbreaking, and it wakes Bellamy, who’s chained beside her in a room deep within the palace.

And as soon as they lock eyes, as soon as they realize that you’re gone, they both lose it. When the guards arrive for the next shift change, the previous guards complain that Bellamy and Clarke haven’t quieted down since waking up. They’ve screamed and cried and then screamed again. They’ve smashed furniture, banged on walls, rattled their chains. They quiet down briefly with Murphy’s arrival, but as soon as they realize that he’s trying to play them, trying to force their hand into taking a deal that will leave your death unavenged, they kick him out and raise hell again.

Which is why the guards are relieved to see Josephine arrive later that evening, a knife carefully hidden in the sleeve of her jacket, because they realize they’re finally going to get some peace and quiet.

That peace, however, is short lived.

Because Russell comes in minutes later, Murphy in tow, and the yelling resumes again. Clarke and Bellamy present a united front, and unleash a verbal tirade against everyone in the room. Eventually the guards wander off, tired of listening to the chaos inside, both of them missing the climax of the evening. Josephine, using your body, your hands, cuts Clarke’s hands free. Clarke kicks Josephine’s hand, knocking the knife out of her grip, watching it slide over to Bellamy, and he reaches for it as Clarke hits Josephine in the neck, forcing her to start coughing and choking. Clarke immediately spins towards Russell, kicking him in the stomach and watching as he doubles over. Bellamy calls Clarke’s name, and she turns his way as he tosses her the knife, which she grabs from the air before turning back towards Russell. She wraps her arm around his neck and uses her other hand to hold the knife to the artery in his neck.

Russell’s eyes go wide and Clarke turns him slightly, until they’re facing Bellamy and Josephine. She’s held tight in Bellamy’s grip, the cord of restraint wrapped around her neck, just waiting for Clarke’s command to kill her. Murphy yells both of their names above the chaos, sounding panicked, “Stop, alright? You don't want them to kill all of us! Just think!”

“They won’t kill any of us if they’re all dead, Murphy.”

Russell struggles slightly in Clarke’s grip, and she presses the knife into his skin, nicking him. He winces, sucking in air through his teeth, freezing up completely, looking at his daughter with fear. “Josephine!”

Josephine looks at her dad, sounding apologetic, but Clarke can tell she only cares about saving her own life. “I'm sorry, daddy. Violence is all they know.”

She looks away from her father, her eyes moving to Clarke. “If killing him is what you need, then do it, but let the violence end here...an eye for an eye.”

“Why should I let the violence end here, Josephine? It took me and Bellamy seconds to get you and your father under control. Imagine how quickly we can kill the rest of the Primes when I tell the rest of our people what you’ve done.” Clarke looks at Bellamy, and he tightens his grip on Josephine’s neck, choking her slightly, proving her point.

Murphy yells, “Wanheda, stop!”

Clarke freezes, the nickname making her blood run cold. “If you kill them, that’s what you become. The Commander of Death. Is that what you want? Is that really what your twin would want? You’ve done everything in your power to escape this nickname! Killing these people in your twin’s name would go against everything that both of you have worked for! And it would make you a murderer, no better than the Grounders, or the Mountain Men, or Pike, or McCreary. Because this isn't a kill for survival, this is revenge, plain and simple.”

Clarke looks at Bellamy, feeling the conflict warring inside of her, unsure what to do. She has done everything to escape Wanheda and the horrors of her past, and she knows that if you were here, you wouldn’t want her to kill everyone inside of Sanctum. But you’re not here and that’s the problem. Clarke’s struggling to see the point in anything; why do better and strive for peace if you’re not here to see it? Maybe she should just kill everyone, and really give herself over to Wanheda, become the killer that everyone seems to think she is. Everyone except for you. Her mind spins with her conflict, and Bellamy can sense it, catching onto the panic in her expression with ease. “It’s your decision, Clarke. I’ll support you, no matter what.”

The words are enough to decide for her, and the fight leaves Clarke’s body in a rush. Her grip loosens and the knife drops from her hand, clattering to the ground at her feet. She drops her arm away from Russell and he steps away from her, reaching up to touch the small amount of black blood that drips from the tiny cut on his neck. Bellamy releases Josephine, who seems to think the whole situation is a joke, smiling as she steps away from him and passes a pair of mind drives to Murphy, repeating Murphy’s earlier words back to him. “Big swings.”

The sight of the drives makes both Bellamy and Clarke sick, unable to even look at Murphy or Josephine. Russell looks between the pair with apprehension, trying to calm the situation further. “If you let us live, I can guarantee safety for the rest of your people. We'll share everything we've learned about surviving on this moon.”

Bellamy steps towards Russell threateningly, his gaze hard and angry, and he grinds out, “We are not doing this for you, we’re doing it for her.”

Russell nods and Clarke glances at Josephine, your silver moon necklace still hanging around her neck. “If my twin is dead, we want her jewelry back.”

Clarke holds out her hand expectantly, and Josephine glances at her dad, waiting for him to disagree. But instead he nods, motioning for her to give it up, and she scoffs before she quickly unchains the necklace and pulls off the engagement ring from Bellamy, dropping them both into Clarke’s hand with an eye roll. “It’s tacky, anyways.”

Clarke’s fist curls around the jewelry and she steps towards Josephine, fully intending to punch her, but Russell steps between the pair with an apologetic look on his face. “She didn’t mean that.”

“Yes she did.” But Clarke backs down anyways, earning a nod of satisfaction from Russell. “Good. We'll meet tomorrow to discuss the details of your compound. Do we have a deal?”

Clarke and Bellamy exchange a long look, both of them silently communicating in the way that only best friends can, both of them clearly hesitant to let this go. But then they both think of Monty and doing better, and how much you truly wanted to do better, and they nod, giving their approval to Russell. “We have a deal.”

When Bellamy shakes Russell’s outstretched hand, it feels to him like he’s made a deal with the devil.

Clarke and Bellamy inform the others of your death as soon as they’re free from the palace, and the news is taken hard by everyone. Madi struggles with it the most, and Clarke carries her up to their room to comfort her, staying by her side long after the young Nightblood has fallen asleep. Eventually, she leaves the room in search of Bellamy, the ring still tucked safely in her pocket, and she’s unsurprised to find him mourning near the pond in the center of the village, tears streaming down his face as he looks to the sky, his eyes locked on the moon. He doesn't wipe his tears away when Clarke sits down beside him. He would if it was anyone else, but he trusts Clarke, and he knows that she understands the loss he’s feeling, because she feels it too.

They sit in silence for a long time, side by side, mourning the bright la lune that they love so desperately. Clarke eventually passes Bellamy the ring, and he stares down at it, his heart breaking all over again. “She only had it for a few hours before they-”

He cuts himself off, his tears rising again, choking on his answer. He can't say it, can't think about it, too horrified to think of what you must have been experiencing in that moment. Alone, betrayed by someone you thought you could trust, killed without a second thought. It's almost too much for him to bear. It reminds him of being on the ring, separated from you after Praimfaya, and it makes his heart ache. He already went through this once, sure that he lost you then, though he had no proof. But now, he’s really sure, because your body’s walking around, but you’re not in it. Someone else is in control, because you’re no longer inside. Your memories are gone, your thoughts, feelings, emotions, all gone. Wiped from your mind to make space for someone else.

The thought makes him sick, and he has a half second to recognize the feeling before he turns and vomits, overwhelmed by the emotions of the situation. Clarke is unable to do anything but cry, heartbroken by the loss of her other half, destroyed by the idea that she’s no longer a twin. She’s a single child, the way everyone thought she was, and the loss clings to her. It wraps itself around her, curling between her fingers, tangling itself up in her hair, letting Clarke know that she’s the only child of Jake and Abby Griffin that remains in this world.

Meanwhile, Josephine is back in her own room in the castle.

She is in her own clothes, with her own comforts, no longer forced to play pretend with the killers from Earth. She’s blissfully unaware, uncaring, of the pain she’s caused, or the trauma that she’s left behind in her wake.

She pops a sleeping pill in her mouth and washes it down with a sip of water, before flicking off the light and settling back into her soft sheets, finally ready for her first sleep in her new body. Everything slows around her, fading away until there is nothing left in the world. She slips into darkness, falling into the comfort of sleep, numb to everything around her. And as Josephine’s consciousness fades, a flip switches in her body, your body, another consciousness awakening.

Your eyes fly open and you sit up with a gasp, panic heavy in your chest, remembering your death at Russell’s hands.

And somehow, some way, you’re in Arkadia, in the room you shared with Bellamy, and you are very much alive.

#the 100 #the 100 rewrite #bellamy blake #bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake fanfiction

68 notes · View notes

littleoddwriter · 4 years ago

Note

So in the comics, Sionis's skull mask is actually NOT a mask and the result of him cutting off his face. What about a story where Roman entrusts with Zsaz with disfiguring him?

Perfection | Roman Sionis x Victor Zsasz | ZsaszMask

1) Anon, please, you need to tell me what comic you saw/read this in, because I've read pretty much all of the ones Roman is in and it's always a mask (he's called Black Mask for a reason after all). It's usually just fused with his face because it was burned to it.

So, I'm genuinely just curious in which comic book version he cut his face off, because I'm not aware of it, fjdhfjkskfsl. And I need to read it. Please, dhjgsdjfhsf.

2) This turned more into a character study, whoops. I hope it's still to your liking anyway. Thank you so much for the request, it was super interesting and it totally got out of hand again... (cue no one being surprised).

I hope you enjoy! :)

summary; see above.

notes; TW / CW // Dissociation; Delusion; Psychosis; Visual Hallucination; Murder; Violence; Blood; Cutting; Disfiguration; Scars; Identity Death. That should be everything important.

A/N: Also, Roman suffers from BPD, like always in my Fics, so that's where this is all coming from, as I headcanon that it started out as the general symptom of having a distorted sense of self, and developed into a delusion, and then he suffered a psychotic break with hallucinations and such, resulting in his disfiguration.

[And remember that psychosis is a very serious thing and that I'm not using it lightly here. Psychotic people suffer. They're not bad people for having psychosis. They deserve love and respect. Don't use it against people, don't disrespect them with it and do not under any circumstances use it as a synonym for evil. Thanks.]

Everybody knew just how much Sionis cared about his perfect looks. Always, at any time, he had to look and be presentable, and he had to be perfect doing it. His parents had drilled it into him from an early age on, not caring much about anything about him, other than his appearance. He was one of the faces of Janus Corp after all. He had to be perfect in order to make the cosmetics sell better.

Still, when Roman looked in the mirror he couldn’t recognise himself. It was as though he was staring at a stranger. He painted his face and took great care of it; always making sure it looked immaculate. It didn’t help the disconnection he felt from it, though.

Sometimes it only made it worse, because really – he was just putting on a mask, wasn’t he? He made himself look absolutely perfect, so that others couldn’t possibly see what was underneath the surface.

He was a cruel and sadistic man, one with many issues, and a crime boss behind his businessman persona. That was all him, but it also wasn’t.

No, this cruel man was Black Mask.

The persona he’s made up to make a name of himself in Gotham’s underbelly. That was who he really was. Not Roman Beauvais Sionis. No, that man was just a mask that his parents had constructed and that he’s kept up all his life in a desperate attempt to gain approval and respect.

But every single day, one more crack appeared on this mask, and another piece broke off on worse days. Soon, none of this ‘Roman Sionis’ would be left.

He could feel it.

He could see it.

When he looked in the mirror, all he could see then was this broken mask, an empty shell, waiting to fully break apart and let the inside rear its ugly head to its fullest.

Some days even, he would sit in front of his vanity and look at himself for a while, seeing the way he cracked and broke apart slowly, but surely, how his skin was crawling with the feeling of it. It made him itch. He desperately needed to get it off.

So far he hasn’t dared to do it, though. He couldn’t make himself take a knife and just carve into this fleshy mask.

He hated the way he hesitated every time.

This mask didn’t mean anything.

It was just an unnecessary hurdle he had to overcome to be who he really was, to the fullest.

He’s already made a good progress of realising himself with the Black Mask, but it was just there to hide his perfect exterior, to seem more malicious, to protect his precious skin.

That particular night, he’s worn his Black Mask and had gotten into a nasty fight with some other criminals. While Zsasz and his other goons were usually so good at keeping him out of it, this time wasn’t so.

Victor had been busy fighting off three men at once – and really, Roman admired the way he’s overpowered them after all, soaked in their blood, three new tallies on his skin. It was magnificent. Zsasz was so gorgeous to him. He knew who he was; he had no qualms about whether or not he looked perfect. He wore each tally as though it was a medal – and in a way, Roman guessed it was. Sionis envied him – this freedom Zsasz had that he so desperately wanted.

Black Mask had been attacked by two men of his rival. He had tried shooting them, but one of them managed to knock his revolver out of his hand. It was okay, he wasn’t entirely incompetent when it came to hand-to-hand combat after all. Still, that didn’t mean he liked it.

During the fight, he’s taken some punches to the face, which was fine; the mask saved him of some of the damage. But then one of the muscles took it off his head, leaving him vulnerable. He hated it. It enraged him. His rage caught on fire, bursting into roaring flames. He went to beat them up with more fervour. He didn’t care anymore. He just wanted them dead.

And he did kill them, after one of them had swung a knife at him, slashing his left cheek. He wrestled it out of the guy’s hand and stabbed them both in the neck, watching with cold eyes as they bled out right in front of him.

The turmoil around him and Victor had started dying down by then. Eventually, they were able to go back home, death and victory hanging fresh in the air, excitement buzzing under their skin. And for that one night, Roman hadn’t even cared that there was a cut on his otherwise immaculate face, or that it would most likely heal into a nasty scar.

Of course, that hadn’t lasted very long.

The next morning, he had started crying because of it, too upset over his ruined skin, the evidence that his mask was slowly but surely breaking apart. He couldn’t stand it.

When the cut had healed, though, and it was merely a pink scar, and not as ugly as he had expected, it was easy to cover it up with make-up. He did that for a while, until he seemed to have reached his breaking point.

Roman has just gone through his usual nightly routine, which always took way too fucking long anyway for the fact that he’d never look as perfect as he wanted – no, not wanted – felt like he had to. And like so often, he just sat there in front of his vanity and looked at himself, staring at his face.

Was it really his face? He just couldn’t tell.

Was that really what he looked like? He didn’t feel like it.

It was just all wrong, so far away, not him.

No, that was underneath.

Everything important was only skin deep.

Or was it?

What if everything important was under the skin?

What if skin was nothing but a fucking hindrance?

What if perfection was nothing but an illusion? He was sure that it was.

Perfection didn’t exist.

Nothing and no one was perfect. He should know. While his parents tried to appear as though they were above everyone else, they really weren’t. They struggled with the fact that the Wayne’s were above them financially, but also as humans. Roman’s parents haven’t ever felt human to him at all. All affection was nothing but a lie, all ‘perfect and happy family’ was nothing but a show.

So no, perfection didn’t exist.

Then why did he even bother conforming to something that was only a construct anyway?

No more, though.

As he looked at himself in the mirror, it had become distorted. That wasn’t unusual for him. It happened a lot, especially as of late. He saw the crumbling mask that was his supposed face. Pieces broke off, starting by the scar on his left cheek. Those pieces were falling away, revealing only darkness. It was as though one was breaking a porcelain doll’s face in. Hollow inside. But that wasn’t what he was. He wasn’t hollow. His true self just needed a little help to come out.

“Zsasz!” he shouted for his partner.

It felt far away, as though someone else had shouted it, someone that wasn’t him. But then again, this wasn’t who he really was anyway.

“Boss?” Zsasz came into his dressing room.

He didn’t take his eyes off the mirror, looking at Victor through that.

“I need you to help me with something. You’re the only one I trust to do it right,” he stated, holding up the carving knife Zsasz usually used to peel off faces and slit throats on his command.

Victor looked at the knife and then back at him, looking confused. “D’you need me to kill someone?” he asked, unsurprisingly.

“No- well, technically yes, but not really,” he answered cryptically.

“Uh, sure, alright. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it, boss.” Zsasz was always so fucking loyal and obedient. It was truly lovely. That was exactly why he trusted him with it – and because Victor’s knife skills were definitely superior to his own.

“Good boy,” he purred and let Zsasz take the knife from him. “I need you to ruin this,” he continued, gesturing his hand around his face in circles to let Victor know exactly what he was talking about.

“Your face?” He nodded. “Are you sure, Roman?”

“Don’t call me that,” he hissed angrily, “And fucking do as I say! Ruin my face. I trust you to do it right and not have this body end up dead. ‘Kay?”

He didn’t know if Zsasz understood what he was on about, although it was so very clear to him, he couldn’t fathom the possibility of someone like Victor Zsasz not getting it.

“Alright, sure. Whatever you want,” Victor murmured then, “I need you to turn around, though. I can’t reach you well like this.”

Nodding, he turned around in his seat, facing Victor, who stood beside him on his right. “Go on then.” He twirled his hand, index finger up, for emphasis, like he always would.

In a way, he felt giddy with excitement, although some underlying anxiety lingered beneath it all. It would be okay, though. He was certain of it.

This was right.

This was what was supposed to happen.

Zsasz took a deep, steadying breath. Then he pressed the blade’s point against his right cheek. For a moment he didn’t do anything else, looking him over, giving him an exit to all of this. But he was so absolutely certain of himself in that moment; he wasn’t going to back out.

Not this time.

“Do it, Victor,” he ordered with a steady voice, conviction clear in it.

Nodding, Zsasz put pressure on the knife and pressed the tip into his skin, drawing a three inch line down his cheek with it. He didn’t react to the pain. He couldn’t feel it. He was so disconnected from it all.

Zsasz continued to slice into his face’s skin, making bigger and smaller cuts, all deep enough to scar, just like he did for his tallies. Blood was oozing out of them, running down his face, his chin, falling on his precious pyjamas – those with his face on it. It was alright, though. He wouldn’t need them after this anymore, anyway.

Eventually, Victor stopped cutting. “Is that enough, boss?” he asked.

He turned around and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d have to wear bandages over his face for a good while, that was for sure. It was worth it, though, because now it was perfectly ruined – disfigured.

Roman Beauvais Sionis was no more.

Due to the blood all over his face and running over his lips, he could only nod a little. He didn’t dare talk just yet.

Then Zsasz cleaned up all the cuts and bandaged them, making sure it was all safe and secure for the night.

While his face was slowly healing, Zsasz had inquired why he’d asked him to do it in the first place. He explained it to him and Victor understood – just like he knew he would. That was exactly why they were so strong together; why they had been meant for each other; why there was never a question about whether or not their relationship had been a good idea.

No one but Victor Zsasz could understand him. And no one but him could understand Victor.

When he was able to leave the bandages behind, Victor ran his fingers over the would-be scars. His eyes reflected the admiration and wonder he must have felt. It delighted him. He knew it had been right.

“Thanks for trusting me with it, by the way,” Victor had murmured that night as they lay in bed.

“Of course. No one else could have ever done what you have,” he replied, kissing his partner, “Thank you for not refusing to do it,” he added, his lips brushing against Zsasz’s as he talked.

“Anything for you, boss. Told you so.”

“I know. Still, saying something doesn’t always have to mean anything. Only actions truly say what words can’t.”

“Yeah, I s’ppose you’re right.”

It was just so easy to be with Zsasz. He couldn’t have possibly asked for someone better at his side.

The next morning, he looked in the mirror without any kind of bandaging and for the very first time in his life, he felt a connection to his mirrored image. He could finally see himself.

Now when he wore his Black Mask it wasn’t to hide, or to protect – no, it was only to symbolise his true self, put emphasis on it. He had nothing to hide anymore.

Perhaps perfection existed after all. Just not in the ways that society believed in.

He realised that, when he stared at himself in the mirror, in awe.

“Perfect,” Black Mask whispered, stroking his fingers over the scabs on his face.

And he truly was perfect.

#blood cw #tw delusion #disfigured #tw dissociation #identity death #tw murder #tw psychosis #roman sionis #roman sionis fanfiction #black mask #black mask fanfiction #victor zsasz #victor zsasz fanfiction #zsaszmask #zsaszmask fanfic #fanfiction #i wonder if anyone catches the details from the comics i incorporated into this fhkdsgkdfl #i also wonder if anyone notices what i started doing here after bit into the fic #i probably think this is more inconspicuous and smart than it really is rip fjdhjhdsjkfgdl

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