#tw suicidal imagery

[cloudyydraws]

more saiki stuff

[crybabydraws]

I kinda like him and I may or may not think about him sometimes.

No one told me that blending modes like hard mix, difference, and exclusion fuck so hard. What do you guys think?

[pupperarts]

"Will you forgive me?"

"My best friend."

(Reblogs > likes)

[timefospookies]

DDLC headcanons in my AU!!!

(*MTF ON NATSUKI’S ONE IM AN IDIOT)

[psychology-department]

//Suicidal imagery

duality

(hiyori by @ecstaticmari)

[bgradehorror]

stupid cupid, you're a real mean guy! 💘

alt version under the cut (tws in tags apply to 2nd version)

A silly lil guy I made for a monster of the week campaign 💓

[ajihaew]

between the two of us, you're the only one that's trembling.

[lordoftablecloths]

In which the Town is left orphaned.

27: Hell

I think, in the worst possible end of all of their routes, they all die in their own special way. As morbidly hilarious that sounds, it's fitting. Explanation/headcanons under cut

So, first, Daniil: He jumps off the Polyhedron. This could be for a number of reasons. Mainly being that he feels that he has nothing left for him, particularly in reference to Thanatica. All his life work destroyed, so even if he does deal with this damned town, he has nothing to show for it. He comes to the decision as rationally as a man like him could. He weighs out his other options, realizes that he would find no particular satisfaction in them, so once the meeting in the cathedral is over, he climbs to the top of the Polyhedron and simply lets himself fall. Perhaps he remembers Eva, or perhaps he wanted to, like her, add something to such a hallowed piece of architecture.

Artemy (and Clara) are relatively simpler: He dies either in the fight with Oyun or dies to his "trials."

Clara in some way or another succumbs to the earth. I don't completely know how this would work out story-wise, but it felt like thematically. Do note that I haven't finished her route yet, haha.

anyway, this took fucking forever to finish, so despite having said I was going to do one more pathofest after this, i dont think i have the life in me to do so, ,, it was going to be for the prompt "our home" but i really want to work on and just do other stuff, NAMELY goretober !!!!

also scream fortress

i love you pathologic but i want to be free

[ronkeyroo]

Hanging On ✄ - - - A Thread

[reverintherevery]

Your silent ghost Cole au is so interesting to me I’d love to hear more abt it if you wouldn’t mind

You want to hear about MY AU???? hehehe [brushes hands evil-y]

(TW: Suicide Imagery)

okey so. Silent! Ghost AU is basically:

How would the events of the show play out if Cole is forgotten the moment he turns into a ghost aka he is forgotten the moment he dies?

His “Turning into a ghost” happens way more violently in this scenario. Yang cuts his throat, and hangs him, making it look like a suicide, Cole is disoriented for a few days, not really aware of what happened. When he makes it to the bounty everyone thinks he is a ghost working for Morro. When Morro goes to attack the Ninja, noticing that the rest of the Team doesn’t remember Cole, he pretends Cole is with him, going as far as to call Cole “His beloved”.

Morro’s Plan? If the Team thinks Cole is important to him they will attack Cole to get to Morro. Cole will have no option but to defend himself in return… Besides, an earth Ninja on his side? The Preeminent would be pleased with him if he got the Earth Master on their side.

And since Cole was made Mute when he died, there is no way for him to ask for help. His plan is flawless.

The story is a rewrite of Possesed, Skybound, DotD, and hands of time. And is meant as a slow burn redemption Arc for Morro, in which he slowly realizes the error of his actions and stars falling in love with Cole.

Sadly for him, it might be too late when he realizes all the damage he caused, and Morro might end up having to ask for help to save Cole from the path he sent him in.

sorry for taking so long to respond. Also feel free to ask more questions! 🫣

[ninja-grace]

mildly concerned

Gn guys <3 ✨✨♥️♥️

[citadelss]

Still images under the cut :)

[tsukasageorge]

[OMORI SPOILERS!!!]

they loved her and you killed her

[krillgarden]

it's so awful that ianthe has blue eyes. she's like a dog in that she shouldn't

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

They’re finishing up another session of looking into Tom Riddle’s past, Albus trying to lead the boy to an understanding of Horcruxes and the challenging task ahead of him. He wishes he had more time, but alas, his impulsivity and hubris have left his days numbered, so he is doing what he can.

Harry had reacted oddly during today's trip into the pensieve. It is more imperative than ever that Harry stick to the path Albus has made for him. So, to ensure the boy is not taking the wrong message from these memories, Albus looks into Harry’s eyes, into his mind, and sees–

–hands, gripping his limbs, dragging him down

Choking him, pulling his hair, tugging at his skin

Digging in, ripping through flesh, pulling him apart

Always wanting more, more, more than he can give–

–and stumbles back, horrified.

Harry is looking back at him, face blank aside from a brow furrowed in vague concern. “Are you alright, sir?”

Albus stares. “My boy, I feel I should be the one asking you that.”

“Of course, sir,” Harry says with a small smile, but his eyes are empty, and Albus is crushed to realise he has no idea when that happened.

—

In his dreams, Harry finds himself on a raised platform before the shrieking magical masses, demanding his life, his hope, his future.

He takes a deep bow, lowers his head and finds it on a chopping block. The executioner’s blade sings down and all is darkness, but he can still hear the cheers.

—

He’s fine; really, he is. Except, sometimes–

He misjudges the distance between one step and the next descending a staircase and the floor falls out from under him and he’s suspended from the ceiling by his neck, choking his air off and snapping his spine in an instant–

He’s speaking with Ron and between one breath and another, thousands of spiders come pouring out of his sleeves, his collar, curling up over his face and eyes and hair, spilling into his mouth and ears, covering him in a mass of constantly moving, segmented limbs.

(He knows this is only in his mind because Ron doesn’t have a nervous breakdown in front of him.)–

He blinks in class to moisten his dry eyes and feels thousands of quill points digging into him all over his body in the span of his eyes closing and reopening–

He’s staring into the middle distance, only to come back to the thought of his wrists snapping like dry kindling, and how can he take notes with broken wrists?–

He trips and falls to the ground, and suddenly he’s being held down by a foot on his chest, until they can drive stakes through his legs, his arms, holding him immobile so they can shove one through his chest – piercing the skin, the layers of muscle and organ, punching through the ribs. On the right side, because they want him in pain, not dead, not yet–

–except for when he’s not.

—

Sleep is a reprieve, but only in the sense that he knows, retrospectively, he wasn’t aware of his mind cannibalising itself for the time he was unconscious. Sleep isn’t restful – it feels more like an extended blink. He closed his eyes, and now they’re open, and it’s time to get up and go through the motions for another eighteen hours.

He drifts through the days, quiet and clear-eyed because he can’t let them know he’s a walking corpse, an empty husk dragging itself around, leaving a trail of blood and viscera behind it that only he can see.

He laughs less, talks less, but he’s present, and he can tell the people around him are just happy he’s less angry and volatile than he was last year. He catches the relieved exhales every time he doesn’t react to a comment that would’ve gotten an argument, an explosive reaction, something ugly out of him last year. They think it’s because he’s handling his negative feelings better.

He supposes they’re right, in a way. It’s easier to manage emotional responses when he can’t feel any.

—

He looks at the lake sometimes and considers it. One time, he even gets as far as saying goodbye to Hedwig and walking to the edge, water up to his ankles. But he just doesn’t care enough to keep walking, to let the water close over his head.

So he feels, distantly, a little silly and melodramatic, and walks into the Great Hall for a dinner he’ll barely pick at.

Hermione scolds him for tracking water through the Entrance Hall, and he apologises with a thin smile.

—

He begins to hear the whispers in his mind when he lays in bed, sleepless and staring at the canopy. The Dark Lord has somehow noticed his waning mental state and has swooped in to take advantage. Absently, Harry wonders what took him so long.

And he knows it’s not for his benefit. Voldemort’s offering him a poisoned apple because Harry’s death would give the man something he desperately wants, has wanted for decades beyond the sixteen years Harry’s existence has troubled him.

But Harry can’t pretend it doesn’t feel good to have someone acknowledge the fact that he’s fallen apart, a doll with its stuffing pulled out and hastily pushed back inside with black, thickly threaded sutures holding it in, which everyone else refuses to notice.

Acknowledge, and offer to do something, anything, about it.

It’s so appealing to have someone offer to take the weight of living off his shoulders.

And one day, probably sooner than later, he’ll take the out and embrace his end with arms thrown wide and bone-deep relief.

But not just yet.

[gregorovitch-adler]

What Will I Be, Without You?

John had dozed off on the sitting room sofa of his new flat, covered in his own mess. Worn-out, two-day old clothes, stinking with sweat and alcohol.

It had been a year since Sherlock's death. Well, a year and two months to be exact. John had moved out of Baker Street within two days after Sherlock had jumped off the building. He couldn't bear to live in that place anymore.

Not without being reminded of Sherlock in every single particle of that living space.

Not without thinking he saw Sherlock in public every time he stepped out of the house. Not without going through the entire line of thought and regrets.

Regrets about what could have been, if he had been honest about his feelings for Sherlock when he was alive. About how he called him a machine, hours before he committed suicide. All that.

He knew there wasn't any point in living any more, and absolutely not at Baker Street.

So he'd moved out. Having spent the time of his life with Sherlock for a year and a half, after they'd met, had made him somewhat hesitant to actually to take his own life.

That didn't mean he didn't consider that every now and then. The gun sitting on the coffee table probably had a lot of things to say.

A few hours later, the morning light from the outside hit his eyes and they fluttered open. He must have forgotten to draw the curtains last night.

His head was throbbing with pain as he got up. He winced and held his head in his hands. Must be the hangover from yesterday.

He felt disgusted and sluggish, the smell of sweat and alcohol making his nose scrunch. He turned around to drop his feet on the ground to get up slowly. To go on with yet another dreadful day.

When he looked up, a tall figure dressed in dark clothes greeted him. A man with curled hair, sea-green eyes and an impeccable dress sense. He was holding a bottle of tablets and a glass of water in his hands.

John startled and sat back as he stared at him blankly. The man looked strikingly similar to Sherlock, John thought, as he reached for the gun that he'd left on the coffee table yesterday.

"That would be hardly necessary, John," he said, holding held out the bottle and the glass to John. The voice was unmistakeably Sherlock's. John would know. "You should take these."

John's jaw dropped. He felt some dizziness, and he didn't remember the next few moments or probably hours.

*

John's eyes opened again and he found himself lying on the sitting room floor, covered with a blanket and a pillow beneath his head. He winced as Sherlock sprinkled some cold water on his face.

"You okay?" Sherlock asked, placing a hand on John's left shoulder.

"You... aren't you..." John was suddenly bolt upright on the floor as he stuttered. "You were dead! I saw it happen, I was right there! How... Sherlock, what the hell!"

Sherlock gazed at him for a bit and lowered his eyes. His lips were compressed too. "I'm sorry, John. Forgive me."

John opened and closed his left hand trying to process all the things he was feeling. His hangover wasn't helping. He massaged his forehead with his hand.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

John still remembered how he wished Sherlock would stop being dead when he was performing his burial.

Not just that day. John kept hoping (begging) for it to happen every single day since then. He thought about nothing but that only yesterday.

Just another day of his live since Sherlock died.

John knew how impossible it was, but he kept asking Sherlock - who resided in his mind, heart, soul, every part of his body - for the same thing: to stop being dead. And Sherlock was alive after all!

His whole body lightened up from within with joy.

But he dimmed again almost as quickly as he'd lightened up.

A whole year of his life had passed by, grieving for nothing. Everything he went through, all alone, was in vain.

John hissed and grabbed his head with both of his hands.

"Please take this. You're clearly not okay and -"

"You don't bloody get to tell me what to do!" he shouted, aggravating his headache some more. "You leave, make me grieve for more than a year pointlessly, I'm left here feeling like a bloody idiot, and you break into my flat pretending none of that happened? Now you're sorry? Perfect!"

John hissed in pain and snatched the bottle of pills out of Sherlock's hand.

John swallowed a pill and drank the glass of water that Sherlock had placed on the coffee table, before he had sat back defensively.

He got up from the floor and went straight to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a shower, leaving Sherlock behind in the sitting room on his own.

He spent the whole shower cursing Sherlock mostly in his mind (and a bit out loud) and going through a plethora of conflicting emotions. The whole time they spent together, after all they'd both been through, did that mean nothing to Sherlock? Not as much as it meant to John, apparently.

He scoffed bitterly as he continued to wash himself. Sherlock had probably gone to an adventure. Maybe the case was unusually complicated this time. Or, who knows, he probably solved a lot more than just one case during his time away.

Why didn't he let John accompany him then? Was he really that useless to Sherlock? At least he wasn't dead now.

No. Screw that.

John got out of the bathroom and slammed the door of the attached bedroom. He was getting dressed as quickly as he could, planning to head to the kitchen to make himself some tea and breakfast, all while ignoring the hell out of Sherlock. Probably this would make him leave John's flat.

He opened the door to go to the kitchen.

"John." Sherlock called from behind as he followed him. "John? John, listen to me!" his volume was getting higher.

John was not going to respond. He put on the kettle and looked for some eggs in the fridge.

John couldn't help wonder one thing though: why was Sherlock back now, if he thought John's presence in his life was that useless? What was the point?

Maybe Sherlock needed his expertise in his current case. Yeah, fuck that. He wouldn't even think of helping Sherlock after this.

"John, can you hear me? How long are you going to pretend I'm not here?" Sherlock's tone had become indignant. The audacity! "It's not like I'm invisible!"

John didn't even turn around. "Well, you were. For more than a year. Until yesterday." He kept his voice as cool as possible, suppressing his rage.

He took out the eggs and grabbed a pan from one of the cabinets and began to cook.

It must have been two whole minutes of silence in the kitchen while John watched the things he'd put on the stove. He served those eggs on a plate before pouring some tea in his mug.

He set the things on the kitchen table and sat down to eat, as though this was just any other day, and he was the only sign of life in that dark, lonely flat.

He could feel Sherlock's gaze on his face tangibly. Probably he was waiting for John to make eye contact with him. John shifted in his chair a bit.

Part of him wanted Sherlock to get the hell out of here. Part of him wanted the man to stay.

John sighed as he kept looking at anywhere but Sherlock in the room.

"Fine. If you're going to be like this..." he trailed off began to look here and there for his coat.

John's head snapped up. "If I'm going to be like this? Me? Sherlock you utter-"

"I did it for you," he said, looking at John in the eye with earnestness.

John scoffed as he continued to eat.

Sherlock shook his head with his brows knitted. "I'm not lying. Moriarty had appointed three snipers, threatening to kill three people who were the closest to me. You, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade."

John looked up at Sherlock again with his lips parted.

"His only condition was that I jump off the building. The keycode that I'd deciphered - it was fake. He told me those three snipers could be called off only by him. And then he shot himself in the mouth."

John placed the silverware on the plate. If Sherlock was to be believed, then... Oh God.

"You tell me. What was I to do then? I could either go ahead with Mycroft's plan that involved faking my death, or I could die for real and never come back. Did you really want the latter, John?"

"Jesus, no! Sherlock, I didn't... I thought you were - I thought you'd gone on with an exciting case or something. An adventure. Without me," he dropped his voice a bit in the last sentence. His stomach gave a pang of guilt.

"Why would I do that?" he asked, with a genuine-sounding confusion in his voice.

John shrugged. "Because you thought I was useless. Maybe you didn't need me anymore."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said and drew a chair for himself, taking a seat across from John on the table. "I always need you."

John swallowed as he picked up his fork again. He wanted to reach out for Sherlock's hand. Not now. "There's some more tea in the kettle," he said instead.

Sherlock waved this off. They gazed at each other and, if John wasn't imagining, there was surely something else he could see in Sherlock's eyes apart from the obvious frustration.

Something that probably reflected John's own feelings for him.

John cleared his throat. "What happened after that? Where did you go?"

"Many parts of the world. Russia, China, and India were some of them. I was trying to dismantle his network from its root. My last location was Serbia, before I came back to London, finally. It took me unexpectedly long to get out of there..." he trailed off and swallowed as he looked away.

"Why?" John took sipped his tea some more.

"Never mind."

"Sherlock," he warned and gave him a hard stare.

Keep me in the dark again and I might actually punch you in the face.

Sherlock seemed to have read his mind, because he looked up at John and took a sharp breath. "They captured me in a confined place. Worse than an average jail. They tied me up. Whipped me, starved me to death, and if I would dare to doze off, they'd whip me some more. I had to live with the smell of my own human waste for a whole month." Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed in a whisper. He looked down at Sherlock's slim forearms that were placed on the table. He wished to reach for them, but didn't, for some reason. His heart was on fire with anger. "How did you escape?"

"Mycroft showed up," he said briefly. "He managed to set me free. And now I'm here."

"When did you come back?" he asked, knowing nothing else to say.

"Three days ago."

"Why didn't you come here then?"

"I was in hospital the first night."

John nodded, blinking a bit with a strange, stinging sensation in the corner of his left eye.

"Then I was thinking of ways to meet you in person. Explain myself to you," he said and paused for a bit. "John, I know you've been through a lot. But I wasn't out there having fun without you either," he said in a cautious tone, sounding quite gentle.

"I know! Or I know now, at least." John swallowed and got up from his chair, his eggs forgotten on the plate. He went around the table and stopped behind Sherlock. "May I see?"

"John... I don't think-"

"Please?"

Sherlock turned around to face John. He nodded and got up from his chair to take off his suit jacket.

He unbuttoned his shirt slowly and shrugged it off, revealing his sculpted upper body and a completely battered back. Black and blue. Some blisters had appeared, too, on his lower back.

"Jesus Christ," John whispered and felt his eyes welling up. John wanted to find all of those arseholes and kill every single one of them. "You did all that for us?"

Sherlock began to put on his shirt again silently. He tucked it in his trousers. "For you, mainly," he said, in a quite tone.

John couldn't take it anymore. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, making him turn around and placed his arms around Sherlock's neck. He tried to be careful about his wounds.

Sherlock stiffened for a moment but then he relaxed as he placed his arms around John's waist.

They didn't speak for a long moment. John closed his eyes and sighed.

He turned a bit to breathe in Sherlock's perfume and his natural scent from his jawline and neck, enjoying his proximity for as long as he could.

Their arms were wrapped tight around each other and for the first time in a whole year, John felt alive again. John was living in the moment like anything.

"I'm sorry," John said, breaking the silence in the room.

"What for?"

"For assuming the worst about you," he said in Sherlock's ear, with his nose touching Sherlock's cheek. "For reacting like this when you returned."

Sherlock hummed.

"Who else knows about this?"

"Molly and my homeless network."

"Molly?" John's heart sank.

"She helped me with the plan along with Mycroft. It was only possible because Moriarty deduced the very specific people who were the most important to me. She was excluded from the list." Sherlock cleared his throat. "You were the first person I decided to meet as soon as I was discharged from the hospital after coming back to London."

John sighed in relief, feeling bad about jumping to conclusions again.

Another moment of silence fell in the room. Their breathing was synchronised.

Sherlock turned to face John, who did the same at the same instant. Their eyes locked with their noses touching.

Unsure of who initiated it but now John's mouth was on Sherlock's, and they were kissing. John placed one of his hands through Sherlock's curls and deepened the kiss as Sherlock tilted his head a bit.

They parted after some time and stopped for breath. The way Sherlock looked at him was setting John's whole being on fire with all the things he felt for Sherlock at the moment (always had).

"John," he breathed. "Since when?"

"Always. You?"

"Same." Sherlock leaned in to close the gap between them again.

John gasped with relief and kissed him back, trying to express everything he felt for Sherlock through his fervent kisses.

They found themselves moving to the sitting room. No one broke off the kiss, not until they both sank in the sofa, with John on top of Sherlock.

John moved his mouth along Sherlock's jawline and planted kisses along his neck, getting familiar with what that beautiful, long neck felt like at last.

"I always need you," Sherlock said, repeating his statement from before. "You'll never be useless to me." He grasped for John's jumper around his shoulders and held him tight.

"I see. Thank you for telling me," John said when he stopped kissing him. They looked at each other in the eye again. "I need you too. Right now."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. Then his eyes widened. "Oh."

"Please, can we...?" John trailed off, painfully aware of the tightness in his jeans now.

"John," Sherlock began, clearing his throat and shifting back on the sofa to look at him properly. "Let's not, I'm afraid."

"Oh." John shifted too and they were both sitting on the sofa now, facing each other. John cringed at what he was going to do. He was now getting soft. "Sorry. I shouldn't have -"

"It's not that," he said and took both of John's hands in his own. "You don't have to apologise."

"But what's the problem?" John wanted to know. "D'you think it's a bit too soon? I'll understand." He shrugged.

Sherlock shook his head. "There's no problem. I've never done this before with anyone," he said, gesturing between the two of them. "Never wanted to." He looked away and inhaled deeply. "And never will."

John frowned. "You don't want a... relationship, then?" (Please no.) "Still married to your work?"

"What? No, of course I want that! But not the other thing, what you wanted to do with me a moment ago."

"Oh." He looked down at the space between them.

"I've always been like that. Don't think it's personal."

John looked up at him again. Then he tried to recall the term he'd heard (or read) on the internet in passing for people like Sherlock. Asexual, probably.

Once he remembered that, everything fell in place for him.

John nodded in understanding. He stopped feeling anything negative after that. "That's okay," he said and pulled Sherlock in his arms again.

They arranged themselves a bit and John was lying on the sofa on his back, with Sherlock on top of him.

"Do you still want me?" asked Sherlock, with his face buried in John's neck.

"Of course, I do!" John pulled him closer and kissed him on his cheek. "With you gone for a whole year, dead - at least in my eyes - I was lost. Worthless. Feeling like a vegetable. A rotten one. I used to think about taking my life every other day."

"John!" Sherlock turned to look at him, alarmed.

"Why do you think I have my gun lying around, otherwise?"

"Don't do that again. Don't even think about it. Just, please," he rambled, gripping John tight around his waist.

"I won't anymore. I promise. But just saying. I'll never stop wanting you."

Sherlock kissed him on the forehead and smiled against his skin. "Neither will I."

John sighed in contentment. He could stay on the sofa all day with the love of his life.

"Let's move back in to Baker Street. I can't let you live like this. Please."

"I will. Move back in with you, I mean."

They gazed at each other, with John's heart brimming with fondness and love, and began to kiss again. Softly and slowly this time. There was no rush, after all.

They had the rest of their life to love each other as much as possible.

--

Tags: @helloliriels @gaylilsherlock @gaypiningshit @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @jamielovesjam @a-victorian-girl @topsyturvy-turtely @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear @inevitably-johnlocked @catlock-holmes