#sewerslide mention

[l0vergirlatheart]

tw // sewerslide mention

why are the most banging vocaloid songs about suicide and death please

[failinghuman101]

did they make an unintentional swerslide joke IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO FUNNY

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Lunar: Moon, please chill. You’re going batshit.

Moon: I made the house kitten-proof. And the island too. There’s nothing Solar can kill himself with anymore. I even threatened the goose to behave.

[notaplaceofhonour]

inglorious basterds-like movie about a plot to kill hitler censored in the style of a tiktok

they have to “unalive” “Yahtzees” to get to “bad mustache man” but when they get to him they find he “kermitted sewerslide”

every time there’s a knife or gun on screen (every scene) text that says “⚠️ fake prop! ⚠️” appears next to the weapon

at a burlesque, “ADULT!” “⚠️ fake body! ⚠️” and “she’s wearing shorts!” pop up on screen with a translucent black box blocking any cleavage or skin above the knee

the characters are allowed to say slurs

[bughugs]

i’m so fucking lonely i don’t even know why i’m fighting anymore. Nobody will care when i’m gone.

[send-up-my-heart-to-you]

in honor of world mental health day heres my story below the cut :)

kinda hard to talk abt this cause its somewhat triggering and ik theres gonna be ppl who think im just an emo 15 y/o, but i swear im not tryna be dramatic. im tryna make peace with my past, and also show others that despite everything, you can make it.

also, im tryna show that healing isnt all sunshine and daises. theres the good, the bad, and the ugly. you can and will survive it all

tw: sewerslide attempt, abusive parents, self harm, violence ig ?

ive died two times in my life so far.

the first time, it was my parents who killed me. december 31st, 2020, ~1.15am. i remember dragging across the hallway in my house, a throbbing sensation in my thigh, the mark already turning purple. i walked past my younger sisters' room, where my cousin was sleeping over with them, and i remember climbing into bed, hugging my pillow, crying against the pillow. that night, it was my innocence that died. my childhood happiness, per se. i remember swearing to myself in those final moments before darkness that id never forget that day. december 31st, 2020, ~1.15am.

the time between my two deaths was filled with barely anything other than self loathing. i remember trying to set goals for myself, reasons to live. i tried out new hobbies. i was never able to meet those goals, and all the hobbies bored me.

i met some of the best people ever during that time. i also met some of the worst. i might sound dramatic, cause im young and impressionable, but the people i met during that time genuinely shaped who i am. i dont wanna act like im an old soul or anything, cause im sure that in a few years imma look back and think, "shit, i was really immature." but i matured faster than others my age. i found myself faster, found things i liked, found love, found out i hated being in love.

and then i died again.

this was a recent death. june 22, 2023. my mental health had been deteriorating for months prior – i still have scars on my arms.

it was a slower death compared to the last one. i started dying at around 4.00pm. it went on for an hour before the pain became unbearable and i confessed to my parents. i didnt want to go to the hospital, i was scared of what theyd do. i threw up seven times before giving in at about 8.00pm. they took me to the hospital. i was told told me i was lucky to be alive, that my liver was still functional. i didnt feel lucky. i felt like death wouldve been less painful. my head was spinning

i died in that hospital bed, at ~9.40pm, with my eyes wide open, my mom sitting near me. my thoughts at the time were along the lines of this:

im quite literally a child in the eyes of the world. ive done nothing. i have a psychology exam tomorrow. i have a book im halfway done writing, and a new story thats been brewing in my head for months. but if i die now, ill never get to finish any of that. ill never succeed. ill never be able to spit in the faces of the girls who bullied me, of the teachers who doubted me. why would i do this to myself? why would i rob myself of that chance?

so i died. but not the same way as last time. this time, it was the poisonous me that died, the me that whispered in my ear that my life would amount to nothing, that everyone else had it better, that you either succeed or you dont.

and when i died the second time, something happened that didnt happen the first time.

i was reborn.

at the time of me writing this, its been less than four months since my rebirth. in those four months:

i decided to change the world somehow. not necessarily by finding the cure to cancer or anything, id be satisfied if it was just a cute lil video i made going viral. as long as theres someone out there who i changed

i finished about six chapters of my book

i began writing the story that had been brewing in my head

i started lifting weights to make myself feel better abt how i looked

i got closer to god. stopped missing prayer

i moved schools, leaving behind both bullies and friends

i started focusing on my studies

i tried to fix my relationships with my parents and my siblings

dont get me wrong. none of these are completed. im still an extreme case of nobody-ness. i havent finished writing either of my stories. i still skip out on working out a lot i still only do the bare minimum in terms of religion. im still struggling to catch up in school to make up for my three years of burnout. my relationship with my family is still kinda weird

and i still feel like im dying sometimes. its not like i changed overnight and all those suicidal thoughts and feelings of drowning just disappeared when the sunrays came up. theres still a lot of issues in my life.

but i have faith in myself. in my ability to change the things that can be changed. in creating happiness where theres room for it to be made.

and if finding happiness a losing battle?

well, ill fight like its the fucking boudican revolt.

[yum-zlurplie]

gonna bake instead of cvtting myself are you proud

[chaaase69]

The day everything smelled like Nickels - Cyphmen/Shadowire

Hi Hello Wazzup, it is I, you until now dead author. Here to bring you all my lastest and greatest fic!

If you’d prefer to read it on ao3 feel free ! Check out my twitter for updates on new writings or more of my silliness <3

no warnings apply, sfw, m/m, cyphmen/shadowire

Most poeple would say that blood distincally smells like pennies, Amir swears it's more like Nickels

He could puke.

The air in the airship was heavy; it clung to his already sweating form. It reminded him of when there was rain coming, dark and heavy. A horrid storm. Yet there was a distinct smell of nickels—nothing like the beauty of rain that he knew. It weaved its way through the heavy fibers of his mask and wafted into his nose, making him want to recoil in on himself. Except he couldn't, even if he wanted to, for the ghost-like man nearly falling apart in his arms kept him from moving. Blue tendrils of smoke wisped their way up and dissipated into nothing. The bandages that normally clung tightly to the man's arms were now missing; they had fallen off or maybe even burned off in the bomb explosion. The spy's ears rang, and the pressure in the cabin only served to make the ringing seem louder. He vaguely recognized the other agents around him speaking, but none of their voices could be heard. He could see the way Viper glanced between him and the falling-apart ghost, eyebrows knitted together in worry. He didn’t have the mind to tell if she was faking it or not. Skye was nearby; she had been holding her healing aura over the two men, but neither gave any indication that it was helping; nonetheless, she still tried.

When the ship landed, he was off, gloved hands holding desperately onto what he could of the spirit. He nearly kicked down the door to Sage’s infirmary. Frantic words of jumbled Arabic spilled from the rattled man. English seemed so far from his mind that the only thing that mattered was getting help. Sage removed the man from the Moroccan's arms, ushering him out as she got to work. The spy stood outside her door, looking at his now empty hands. They were covered in a blue-ish purple liquid; it felt thick and sticky like blood but looked nothing like it. His back hit the nearby wall outside the door, and he slid down it, his hands coming up to cover his face. He could feel a wetness on his mask, but this was not blood. He became aware of the fog covering his blue lenses, making it hard to see around himself. The people rushing around him and asking him questions looked like streaks of light. The words they spoke sounded nothing like any language he knew.

It still smelled like nickels.

Cypher was hardly aware of the next few days; it felt like he was on autopilot. He could only vaguely remember changing out of his soiled suit that night; he tucked it so far into the back of his closet, hoping a black hole would open and swallow away those memories. Brimstone had temporarily placed him on field leave, meaning he stayed holed up as much as he could. He couldn’t bring himself to eat or work on his normal things. His dreams at night were paved in vivid shades of blue and purple as he watched his love be torn apart over and over again by the explosion. It had happened all so fast; he could still hear the echoes of his name being shouted as the blast consumed his voice. "Amir!" He’d often awake in a cold sweat, his nightwear clinging to his body the same way it had that fateful day. Even the air in his dreams smelled like nickels; it made his teeth ache as if he’d just bitten into a cold treat. Except this was no treat, no wonderful memory he’d want to share with their kids one day. This was fear. Anguish. Just like when he’d lost Nora. His days seemed to grow longer and longer as he forewent sleep in favor of not having to relive those memories.

A week later, there was a knock on his door; he didn’t even bother to check who it was, flinging the door open with reckless abandon, his mask skewed slightly to the left from having been hastily thrown on. He prayed it was his ghost, but alas, it was only Sage. Her hushed words led the man back to the infirmary. There was a warning that seemed to fall on deaf ears; it did not matter to him. His love was awake and breathing. Whole. The wooden door pierced the silence as he pushed it open, a wide smile plastered under the mask. Yet the air was so still. His sunshine seemed so dim and empty. Those eyes. The wonderful blue he had spent hours getting lost in felt icy. It was so quiet, you could nearly hear the crackling of his heart. Words bubbled up in his throat, but his lips remained sealed. The ghost turned away slightly, his gaze leaving the spy finally. Cypher swore he could cry. Why did it smell like nickels again?

Those eyes. So full of disdain, as though he wasn’t worth the ground he stood on. Where had his love gone? His ears barely registered the quiet "leave." He blinked once, twice, even three times. His mind was unable to process the words, and it felt like the whole world was shaking. "My love..?" Sage had gently begun to push the man back out of the door, yet he spun around, desperately searching the ghost's body for a sign of a response. "Please…" His voice shook just as badly as his hands did, yet his love did not reply. The healer kept gently urging him out until the wooden door swung shut in his face, leaving him all alone again. Alone. Again. The ground may as well have been spinning with the way he fell to his knees so suddenly. The ugly crack of his knees hitting the tilted floor rang out in the now quiet area. His entire body shook like a leaf trapped in a raging hurricane; the deafening sounds of silence made it hard to find his breath. He doesn’t know when he started running, but did the man run. He ran until his limbs burned with a fire he has since long forgotten, and the door to his quarters slammed shut with a boom.

It was quiet at first; the pain bubbled in the tips of his fingers like he’d just touched a hot pan by accident. The first tear that slipped from his eye didn’t even feel real; he hadn’t let himself feel vulnerable in eons. The pain traveled up his arms and into his shoulders; it reminded him of having to lug around a sniper rifle. It ached in just the wrong way for days, just so his body wouldn’t forget. The pain continued to travel down his side and curled around his legs, like a serpent trying to trap its prey. The burn of running is nothing but a dull ache compared to the constricting feeling of the snake. Then the pain shot up, ensnaring his heart, and that was all it took. A painful wail tore its way through his throat as his eyes leaked; he felt like he was choking from the way his mask absorbed the tears. The searing warmth caused his lenses to fog up, and he ripped off his mask, flinging it hard across the room. The blue lenses cracked softly as they came into contact with the floor. His hands dug their way into his soft, curly locks, tugging hard as his sobs tore through his body. The emotions of everything came crashing down onto him all at once, a giant tsunami of feelings worse than any pain he’d ever felt in his life. The fragile man screamed like it was the only thing keeping him grounded in this God-forsaken reality. It echoed through the corridors of the base, bouncing off the walls like rays of light. Everyone in the protocol felt the spy’s pain that night, and not a soul dared to mention it.

When the first rays of morning light peaked their way through the windows of the base, Cypher began to stir. Sore limbs and an aching throat throbbed as he shifted off of the floor. Now open, bloodshot eyes scanned the surrounding area as he tried to process why he was here. Then he remembered. His body slinked back onto the floor as if it were a sack of potatoes thrown off to the side. Small waves of tears trickled their way down the sides of his cheeks, far less explosive than the previous night but somehow even more painful. His thoughts seemed to spill out alongside the tears; empty babbles of ‘my love’ and ‘I miss you’ slipped from his chapped lips, falling on empty ears. How he desperately wanted to hold his ghost, squeeze him tight, and pretend none of this ever happened. That mission never happened, the spike never exploded, and Omen never forgot. The meager thought of being forgotten drove yet another spike into his chest, causing him to curl in on himself.

Hours later, the broken boy emerged from his room; tear tracks lined his saddened face. Deep-set wrinkles creased along his lower cheeks and over his forehead, and his feet seemed to drag behind his actual body. He stepped slowly into the common area, his eyes scanning the room of people before lazily heading towards the small counter. His mind was almost blank; he couldn’t bear the thought of anything besides Omen. All he wanted was his Omen. He didn't even acknowledge the stares from his fellow teammates; some looked sad, others looked amazed, and some looked away out of respect. No one had the heart to say a word to him; they were mostly too scared to provoke the emotionally unstable man. Deep down, that destroyed Cypher just a little more, chipping away at what little resolve he was so desperately attempting to cling onto. He ran a weak hand through his now tangled curls, trying to get them away from his face. He despised the feeling of hair on his face. He gave a tired sigh, giving up entirely on making any tea and just leaving the common area, returning to his dulled room.

The space seemed so empty to him now. Small things he looked forward to, like his projects or having new work to do, seemed pointless. His collection of expensive tea, including a special one he has specifically curated for his ghost, seemed like a waste of energy. The light that peaked through the blinds of his small window felt more like a burden than a gift from nature that would light up the room. He begrudgingly closed the curtains more, making sure no light went in anymore. His beautiful mask, which always protected him and kept him hidden away, was just broken and forgotten by now. He kicked it out of the way as he walked past it, slumping his body into his work chair. He let his eyes rest on his desk. There was a single photo resting in the far corner. He grabbed the framed photo delicately, letting his fingers run across the glass. His mind seemed to melt into the warm memory that snuck its way to the surface.

The two had finally gotten their schedules to line up, allowing them to take the day off and forget momentarily about their jobs. It was mid-to-late fall, and the air was just perfectly cool enough that the warmth from walking side by side was just enough (and some nicely knitted mittens from his ghost, which he will deny to all above that he has). The leaves had just begun to fall from the trees; beautiful reds, yellows, and oranges rained around them occasionally as the breeze shook the trees gently. Omen has caught one of the leaves, holding the beautifully golden piece of nature up to Cypher like a giddy child. He will never forget the way his ghost's hands held the leaf so gently, making sure it didn't crack or fall apart as he showed it to his lover. When he opted to let the leaf go, they both watched as the wind picked up and sent the leaf soaring off into new heights. He remembers the way the spirit giggled and pressed just a little closer to him, his free hand now reaching up to caress the spy's face. So soft, gentle, and careful. In love. The ghost gently lifted the spy's mask, but only just enough to see his beautiful lips. He would never push his love past his limits; he knew exactly how far he could go, and they were both okay with that. The touch of their lips against one another was soft, slow, and just right.

Emotions festered in the Moroccan's chest once more, ripping him right out of his beautiful memory. His hand had moved from the glass to rest against his own lips; the weight of his fingers wasn’t right. Too rough and not soft enough—nothing like his lover's lips. It hurt; he didn’t want to hurt. It hurt so bad. Why was he being forced to relive this pain? Wasn’t once enough? It made him so angry. What had he done to deserve this pain and this loss? He had gone through it once already, losing his entire life right before his eyes. He held his dead Nora in his arms, and now here he is again. Losing the love of his life. The thought made his chest seer with intense fury, as if a fire had been lit at the base of his heart, causing it to swell and grow with pure, unadulterated rage. He wanted to curse the Gods above and blame them for taking away everything he’s ever cared about, but he knows he doesn’t believe in them. The world is truly just too cruel to him.

The scream that broke through the silence could break glass. It comes from the bottom of his chest and is raw, pure, and unfiltered rage. The ground below him may as well have been shaking from how angry he felt. His throat stung from how hard his voice came out, yet none of that even mattered to him. His fists balled so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, creating little marks on the inside of the knuckles, some even piercing hard enough to draw blood. Yet he just continued to scream and scream; the might of years and years of accumulated trauma fueled his rage. His voice eventually cracked, and he coughed hard. His throat was on fire, and his mouth felt all tingly. The scream morphed into a high-pitched whistle before fading out entirely into nothing. Even if he had the will to talk, his voice would no longer let him. The man is pulled into the darkness of sleep at some point, the metallic smell of nickels invading his senses.

The next day, Cypher is taken off field leave and placed right into a mission, almost like the fates were taunting him. Laughing directly into his face at the sight of his misfortune. As he boarded the airship for the first time in what felt like forever, he could feel the stares of his teammates boring into the side of his head like they were trying to pick him apart without saying a word to him. One of the lenses on his mask was still cracked, but he did not seem to care whether or not he could see out of it. He sat silently for the duration of the trip; not that that was out of character for him normally, but everyone knew what was going on. They almost hoped he’d talk, wondering if Cypher was even there. When they finally landed, the spy stepped onto the ship without a word. He felt a passing pat on the shoulder from Raze and a simple word of encouragement, which he just ignored. He grabbed his usual equipment and walked off to the site without waiting for a debrief or instruction. He knew his job, and he knew this place all too well. He didn’t need to stick around for mindless conversations.

The spy's movements were slow; his arms felt like there were heavy plates attached to them. He couldn’t get his trips to place the way he wanted, either too high or not high enough. He wanted to toss the flimsy plastic across the site and say, “Screw it; it's not like it matters anyway." Nothing seemed to really matter to him anymore. He settled on leaving the trip just slightly too high and turned to place his camera on the nearby wall. The magnet stuck nicely up in a corner that was slightly hidden but was able to pick up enough of the site for information. He glanced around the barren wasteland of his previous home, the wind blowing slightly, causing the orange dust to scatter around, sticking to his broken lens almost like glue. His gloved thumbs traced along one of his cages as he let his eyes scan the surrounding area. In the distance, he could see the broken remnants of old homes and the way the sun bounced off broken glass and reflected even the darkest areas of the ghost town. A shiver found its way up his spine and out of his fingertips.

The man mosied his way into the garden, letting his fingers trace the dying flowers that lined the ground. When was the last time they had some water? A memory flashed before his eyes, buzzing his senses. He was suddenly hyper aware of the way his own breath stuck to his mask, how his sweaty skin pressed against the all but too tight fabric of his waist coat, and the way his heavy boots were now full of sand and dust that he may never be able to get rid of. He was once again aware of just how much his heart hurt; why was he even on this mission? What was Brimstone thinking? He straightened his back and pulled away from the delicate flowers, letting his eyes wander again. He faintly registered the sounds of his fellow teammates speaking over comms, but the words sounded fake. He removed the tiny earpiece from his ear, letting it hit the ground before he stomped it out under his boot. Silence. Loud silence. Unbearably loud silence. He covered his ears in an attempt to drown out the ringing, but it could not be stopped. Anguish bubbled in his chest once again, and he did the one thing he knew how to do.

Run.

The wind rushed by his ears and down his back; it swirled around his feet and seemed to carry him away. He ran like his demons were chasing him into the pits of hell, into the darkness of an empty building far off in the distance. He slammed hard into a wall that he swore wasn’t there a second ago; his vision spun as he tried to find his footing. Pushing off the wall, he kept moving, weaving in and out of building after building. Bile bubbled in his throat as he remembered the smell of burning flesh from when Kingdom bombed his beloved home and stole his life away. He panted heavily as his body tried to keep up with his intense pace, and his calves burned as he worked overtime to carry his body forward. His breath was sharp and ragged; he had little to no control over it, and the ground spun hard like it was trying to swallow him whole. As the sun began to crash into the skyline, the poor man continued to run, disappearing into the vast wasteland that once held everything he needed. Amir never looked back; this time, the air smelled like home.

--

The ghost wanted to understand what he was missing. Why had that spy looked hurt? What gave him that right? With special permission from Brimstone, Omen was allowed into the spy’s room to explore. The hope was that it’d spark his faded memory and allow him to return to his duties sooner. When he stepped into the dim room, a few things caught his eye—the mess being one, and two being the spilled box on the bed. He walked over carefully, picking up the box to inspect it. While most of the box was in a language he could not understand, he did pick up on the fact that the box seemed to contain tea bags. He lifted one of the small bags to his face, inhaling the scent. It smelled wonderfully of warm honey and mint; there were small undertones of a floral note. The ghost sighed softly as he relaxed into the smell. He was very sure he liked this, but when had he even tried it? Confusion swirled in his mind as he attempted to recount when he had ever had this, but nothing seemed to come to mind. His clawed fingers curled around the tea bag carefully, holding onto it tightly, hoping that maybe it’d eventually spark a memory or two. Small pinpricks of anger dotted his thoughts as nothing came forward. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and stepped back, glancing around the room more. He saw other boxes of tea, wondering why those ones were still neatly stored away while these ones had been scattered across the bed. He stored those questions away; they were not that important.

As he continued his exploration, he moved to the desk nearby. There was a framed photo of him with the spy. Guilt washed over him momentarily as he looked at the photo before picking it up. What was this, when did this happen, and more importantly, why did the spy even have this? He stared deeply into the picture, his eyes tracing over the spy’s partially uncovered face and then his own hooded figure. His heart ached in a way that he could not comprehend; why was this so special? It vexed him even more that he simply could not recall when or where this happened. Maybe this was just part of his past before the first light, and that's why he couldn't remember it. He used that thought to console his aching heart, but the little points of wrath still did not die down. He made himself a note to try and ask the spy himself later; maybe that would help. The ghost finally decided he had explored enough, setting the photo back on the desk. He did take the tea bag with him for good measure; he’d try a cup of it later to try and jog his forgotten memory.

The lone camera resting on Sage's desk made a small noise as it powered off. The healer glanced over at the gadget, eyebrows raised as she looked confused. She picked up the device and inspected it carefully. She was sure she hadn’t done anything to break it, but then again, she knew next to nothing about how the Moroccan agents' gear worked. With an offhanded shrug, she rested it back on the desk, making a note to let the agent know when he returned to base. She glanced over at the window; rain had begun to gently pitter-patter against the clear glass, and a continuous rhythmic thumping rang into the now silence. It was weird; the rain even seemed to smell like nickels.

[traumatizedjaguar]

[n-dreadful]

⠀Rosaria and Kaeya are the type of couple to help with each other's suicide, and you can't convince me otherwise.⠀

⠀

[iloveitaliansdotcom]

a bountyhunter with his weed and his beer

[bronbiala]

the things that hurts the most is seeing kids under those tags. it really does. you guys are soo young. it may sound like me being a baby-boomer but really when i was 14 i didn't have any socials beside insta (still destructive to my viev of self) and messenger and i still got depressed and engaged in some screwed up behaviors and i'm just so worried about those who have access to this app or tiktok. this place is so dangerous, triggering and nasty. some people here encourage others to get sicker and even clame that their issues are not that serious unless something truly horrible happenes. there are cases of underage people getting gross and creppy messages from grown-ups who are using the power imbalance to get the most out of minors who don't know any better and sometimes won't react properly to this. if you are a still a kid and you are hanging there please please please take a break and see if it makes you feel any better! i wish you all the best and hope that you reclaim your childhood just in time. (SLIGHT TRIGGER WARNING) life may be dificult but it is truly worth it and i say it as a sui atempt survivor

i love you all, i wish you an awsome day today! remember you deserve the world and all good things, don't let others break you 💗💗💗💗

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

If they kill Eclipse again without at least trying to help this pathetic little piece of scrap metal, I’m not going to forgive them.

The man literally doesn’t want to be alive and doesn’t know how he is alive! He literally walked into a place he could easily just be killed! The motherfucker is passively suicidal at this point and is basically emotionally numb.

Please someone just force him into a room and make him just cry already! We were so close with Ruin! We can do it again if someone just fucking traps him somewhere where he can’t get out and just start giving him therapy and talking to him like he’s an actual sentient being!

[novasvent]

relapse babys>>>>tw fresh cut tw feet

[bughugs]

Does anyone else just only do baby cuts? I do tons of em as fast as i can and only press until i see a little bit of blood because honestly i prefer the pain and the blood over having to wait a long time to heal. It’s easier which means i can do it more often :3

[publishedloveletters]

i could probably kill myself right now and no one would notice until they need something