#tw: suicide attempt

[random-fandom-chaos]

(Wow the last idea got popular—)

BUT TACOPAD CLAN. YES, YOU.

🫵

Hear me out.

Mepad angst. Like there’s a bunch of Taco angst and do not get me wrong I love it… but Mepad angst where he feels like he is not enough and goes into a spiral of panic attacks/anxiety attacks/disassociation that kinda things… GUYS PLEASE SOMEONE WRITE IT. IF IT HAS BEEN WRITTEN TAG ME PLEASE.

//////

AND FOR GENERAL MEPAD NATION

Suicide warning! Also me being delirious this is all ooc or just my imagination and canon mixed

I saw a fic on Mephone tryna commit with a glass of water since it fried any Meeple products’s circuit. This takes place after II18 I think that OJ would eventually give Mepad and Taco a room, Pickle and Taco are in good terms but not best friends, same thing with Microphone. But anyways Mepad has basically a thousand cuts behind closed door, the oil seeping out of his arms (Test tube made him arms and made it physically able to feel everything.) as he sobbed quietly. He’s always known as the therapist friend but he needs help too. Mephone4 bursts in the room though, Mepad just texted him “I’m thirsty.” And that was it. It took Mephone a while to understand, by the time he got up to Mepads room and kicked the door down Mepad has the Glass of water to his lips and almsot about to drink and Mephone slapped it out of his hands, taking in the sight of someone he trusts about to commit. Then it’s just Mepad venting cuz I think Cobs did something to Mepad. By a wire or a day they went to Meeple he went to Meeple for whatever reason I can come up with…Cobs did…Unspeakable things, Mepad didn’t come back until 3 days later and was basically abused and idk violated. So YEAHH— idk I genuinely wanna learn how to write things and Mepad has NO angst

———

Also tags:

@aroaceweirdos101

@crumpet-doodles

[cuteguywhump]

Casualty - 38x30 - The Last Post

[brainrotcharacters]

What do you mean "Odysseus, get away from the ledge" 😃

[waitmyturtles]

Love In The Big City: An Homage to the Best Queer Show I Watched This Year*

(*that actually aired this year, because I watch a lot of old shows.)

(TW: suicide attempt)

The time I spent reading the novel and watching the television drama series of Love In The Big City by Park Sang-Young was some of the very best time I invested in art this year.

(credit: @/khunkinn)

I wanted to try to keep up with the amazing LITBC Book Club (click the tag below to see all the club's meta!) earlier this year, but I couldn't on my mom schedule. So here's a wrap-up homage to my overall thoughts about this amazing book and its equally amazing drama adaptation, and hopefully I won't repeat anyone's points from earlier meta.

Earlier this fall season, as the drama was just released, I noted my overall thoughts on Park Sang-Young's 2021 novel. What's so great about the moment in time when a book and its drama adaptation meet the same levels of excellence in art, is that you get to see what each artistic medium can really offer by way of its specific ability to penetrate and dissect certain emotional states. With the drama adaptation, we got a more in-depth sense of the visual and behavioral whimsy of Go Young's T-aras friend group. We got a living, breathing sense of the simultaneous quiet and frantic pulse of the Seoul that Young occupied. We could almost taste and smell the sweat, the tequila, the apple martinis of the nightclubs that Young danced in at all hours.

I happened to love the novel, as I wrote in my previous piece linked above, because I love to cringe at really well-written, pathetic narrators. Like Proust's narrator, like Karl Ove Knausgard in his hefty autobiographical series, "My Struggle," you can read the internal musings of these narrators, and you squirm and cringe, being all like.... "really, bro? I know I have trouble getting it together -- emotionally, physically, sexually, everything -- but, dude, YOU are taking the CAKE."

The reason for the squirm is because excellently-written narrators like Proust's narrator, like Knausgard himself (okay, we can argue about "excellently written," but that's for another piece), are emotional pathologists, dissecting every minute whim of a feeling into words, cutting words that account for every last iota of mental anguish that these narrators feel at every given moment.

It's a brutal accountability test for us readers to weather. And, of course, as the very best art does -- it forces us, the readers, to face our own recognition of the kinds of emotions these narrators are detailing, and asks us to relate to them, vis à vis how we ourselves understand these emotions. Thus, a resulting squirm and cringe, as we reckon with our own emotional accountability in that very moment.

I had so many of these wonderful moments when I was reading the novel version of Love In The Big City. Go Young was so cringe. So pathetic.

(credit: @/my-rose-tinted-glasses)

And while the novel delved brutally into the reasons WHY Go Young was so pathetic and cringe, I enjoyed the drama's ability to sensually and holistically take me into that WHY place as well.

For me, Go Young's journey into the adulthood he ends up in begins with the intergenerational trauma and the avoidant attachment he must have with his mother. I say "must" because he's all she's got, and Go Young, to his misfortune, knows this, and must deal with it, and with her.

This is despite her utterly rejecting his identity, his sexuality, and forcing him at a young age to face conversion therapy in as abusive a situation as possible, literally being kidnapped into the therapy. We know from the novel that his therapists end up realizing that his sexuality is not his "issue," and that the "issue" is his actually deranged, Christian-devoted mother.

The drama doesn't get into that level of details. I will absolutely estimate that it COULDN'T get into that level of detail due to potential censorship, and the portrayed meaning of such a comparison as to show a devout Christian mother as a neglectful, bigoted mother.

But what the drama showed me, in real time, were the spontaneous movements and moments that punctuated Young's life, that were totally derived from the low self-esteem, the lack of internal love and respect he had for himself for most of the series. The emptiness, the lack of BELIEF that he had in himself, that stemmed from the refusal of his mother to accept him lovingly and holistically. I'd recommend LITBC to any potential parent as a guide on how to NOT parent your kid.

As someone trained in the social services, and as a steadfast lover of intergenerational trauma in shows -- and how dramas demonstrate the long-term impact of intergeneration trauma unto their characters -- Love In The Big City is utterly SUPERLATIVE in this category.

And this kind of neglect that young queer people so very often face in their families NEEDS to be depicted in art, so that we can see the risks of what these young people could, and will, grow up to be, without nurturing love in their life.

So. Man. Go Young goes fucking ham on fucking hipster doofus Yeong Su in a restaurant. Yeong Su, who himself deals with a kind of internalized homophobia that results in him producing bigoted "research" on homosexuality. And Go Young, unconsciously hoping that he could find love with a most unlovable man, subsequently attempts suicide.

Go Young breaks up with Gyu Ho minutes before Gyu Ho is to depart to China. I saw that moment as Go Young "releasing" Gyu Ho from the burden that Go Young assumes himself to be -- emotional baggage, Kylie, and all.

Go Young cavorts with Habibi, a man escaping just about everything by way of luxury hotels and unfulfilling work. After his real relationship with Gyu Ho, Go Young follows Habibi on Habibi's orders, having little to no agency in the coupling until the absolute end, as he leaves Habibi with a note. Habibi, who himself is also a subject of clear internalized homophobia, another example of the absolute wrath that social bigotry can lay waste on a queer individual.

Love In The Big City balanced these brutal moments of internalized trauma, bigotry, and homophobia with LIFE as it could be lived: life spent working, writing, drinking, partying, sucking dick and moving mattresses, catching up with old friends, supporting engagements, comforting friends after break-ups, BEING PRESENT for yourself and your family and your friends.

There was a shift of growth and responsibility in Go Young's life when his cancer-addled mother sank her head down on his lap in the sunlight of a park at the end of the second chapter of the drama. But what was so OUTSTANDING about the drama version of Love In The Big City, is that the drama didn't assume that that shift would be a great dramatic moment. Go Young certainly got into a relationship with Gyu Ho afterwards.... but he damn fucked it up at the end.

AND IT WAS OKAY. Even though we viewers were fucking heartbroken, IT WAS OKAY....

... because I believe Love In The Big City was communicating to us that it's perfectly okay to stumble in one's continued growth, in the movement forward of one's life. Go Young gets a new apartment, new light in his windows and his life, and celebrates the move (and the end of Eun Su's engagement) on his rooftop with his besties.

The novel ends a bit more brutally than the drama. In the drama, we do very much get to see Go Young doing a moving-forward thing. I was screaming and pacing at @lurkingshan when I finished the novel, and I felt slightly more uplifted when I watched the drama.

I love that I felt those two ways about my experience with each medium. Again, it shows what I GOT from the experience of reading and watching this story separately. And the drama very much played up the T-aras group more for kicks and lights (especially in the hospital), but I still got such a brutal sense of Go Young's internal mishegoss, that maybe I needed those gworls, too, the way Go Young always did.

The other best queer show that I watched this year did not actually air this year. That one is 2022's The Miracle of Teddy Bear from Thailand, which I will review soon for my Thai QL Old GMMTV Challenge project. The Miracle of Teddy Bear was rooted in anger and accountability against parents, adults, and society, for the wreckage that bigotry and abuse can render, internally and externally, on the bodies and minds of young queer people. It was an utterly exacting exercise in a brutal breakdown of queer pain.

Love In The Big City, in comparison, was a visual meditation on the mundanity of an individual's life -- depicting all the cringe and the pain associated with it -- vis à vis broken and incomplete love from family and lovers. But Love In The Big City also had LIFE, LIFE LIVED, woven through it all. Go Young kept clubbing with his friends, because he needed it, because he needed his friends, because his FRIENDS needed the club, and because his friends needed HIM.

While I felt a broken heart for his relationship with Gyu Ho at the end of the drama, what I had for Go Young was hope -- a hope that, while I knew the man, in fiction, would still experience hurt while moving forward, would still very much move forward nonetheless, on his own accord.

(credit: @/khunkinn)

(tagging @neuroticbookworm for awareness <3)

[enqmind]

Well, this took a while. But we're here now and that's all that's important.

Ghost/Female Reader WC: 1.1k 18+ content

Warnings: Suicide attempt by reader, gaslighting, manipulation, Local Manc has worst possible reaction to a suicide attempt, ~*self indulgence*~

Reader notes: Thin enough to fit into a standard bathtub, light enough to be lifted from a standard bathtub by Ghost, mentally ill, pale enough for noticable blushing (feel free to ignore), atheist (ffti)

One Man's Treasure II

Previous Next

 He didn’t turn the big light on when he carried her into his living room. He didn’t need to, the floor clear of any clutter to trip him up.

 He didn’t turn it on after he lay her on the sofa and went to grab a towel. The light of his own bathroom spilling into the room was enough, he thought.

 Enough to wrap her in one of his big, barely used, towels.

 Enough to clean and bandage her wounds.

 Enough to blot the blood and water from her hair.

 She huddled into him for warmth and comfort and he did not deny her.

 How could he? For now he was her shepherd, guiding her until she went to the hereafter.

 In the dim and dinge, it would be easier for her to accept the reality of her situation.

 So he kept her in the dark.

---

 She stirred against him a few hours later. Wincing against the low light and putting a hand to her head.

 “Head hurt?” he rumbled.

 She froze and peered up at him. Blinking in confusion.

 “You’re… no. There’s no way.” She pulled away from him and rubbed at her face. “I keep fucking it up, there’s no way it worked this time.”

 “How many times?”

 “Four or five.” She looked ashamed, wrapping herself up in her arms, like she’d done in the bath. “Skill issue, I guess.”

 He watched her. He could see that forlorn hope dancing in her eyes that he was real. That she’d actually managed it this time.

 He put a hand on her shoulder.

 I am real.

 “I thought if I did it in the bath, maybe I’d drown if I fucked up again.”

 He tilted his head at her.

 She looked at him, eyes widening.

 Relief played on her face again, battling with misery.

 “I drowned?”

 “Was the bottle full when you started?”

 Relief won, a smile breaking out on her face.

 “I did it,” she whispered, a hand reaching out and grasping his jumper. “It’s over.”

 On some level he felt like he should be angry at that, like he’d been trained to be by an uncaring world, but it was hard when she started crying.

 “Thank you,” she sniffled, “I know it’s your… job? Or whatever, but thank you.” A watery smile. “I feel a lot better not being alone right now.”

 She removed her hand and pulled the towel tighter around herself, covering up her skin.

 Her head must still be throbbing from her hangover.

 He stood.

 “I’ll get you some water. Drink it, then sleep.”

 She nodded, resigned.

 “Some last solid rest before my trip to hell. That’s very kind of you.”

 Ghost turned to stare at her.

 “What?” he barked. “You're not going to hell.”

 Why would she? What could this small, sad looking woman possibly have done to deserve that.

 She frowned, “are you sure? I’m an atheist and I killed myself. You have to admit that it’s not looking good for me.”

 Both of those things were so desperately inconsequential that he found himself chuckling.

 “You’re not going to hell,” he repeated. A sly smile formed under his mask. “It’s so much worse. You’re stuck with me.”

 She stared back at him with wide eyes and a gently agape mouth.

 “Oh.”

 He turned away and went to the kitchen, leaving her to stew in that horror for a moment.

 It seemed to sink in as she took the glass from him and drank from it.

 He sat next to her again, arm stretched out on the back behind her. Watching her mouth as she drank.

 She had a pretty mouth.

 To her credit, she didn’t flinch away from him. Instead staring blankly into the middle distance as she drank.

 It was as she neared the end of the glass that the silence was broken.

 “Is- is that your face?”

 “It’s a mask. What people expect.”

 She nodded and finished her drink.

 “Okay.”

 He pulled the glass from her hands and put it on the floor.

 “Sleep now?” she asked, eyes wide as she looked at him. The towel pulled tightly around her again.

 He slipped his arms beneath her and pulled her up against his chest as he stood.

 Her eyes widened even more.

 Oh, he must be sc-

 “Gosh. You’re really strong.” She looked awed, mouth pulling up into a cute smile.

 Ghost found himself taken aback.

 “You’re not that heavy.”

 “At that angle I am.” She stared at her fingers, weaving them together, and was that a blush? “The mechanics being what they are, and all.”

 “You like strong men, huh?” he murmured as he carried her to the bedroom.

 Her blush deepened.

 “I admire the hard work and discipline.” A quiet protest, as she was placed on the bed.

 “‘Course you do.”

 “I do!”

 He dug around in his drawers, pulling out two sets of pyjamas. One with long bottoms and one with drawstring shorts.

 He put the shorts set on the bed.

 “Sure. You change into those and get under the duvet. I’ll be right back.”

 “Um.” Her meek call stopped him in the doorway.

 “Yeah?”

 “Are we going to share the bed?”

 Of course they were. There was only one in the flat.

 “Yeah.”

 “I could sleep on the sofa,” she offered.

 That was a stupid idea.

 “No. You need a proper night’s sleep.”

 Her nervous expression intensified.

 “It’s just, um-”

 “Sleep.” He walked over to her and crouched so they were eye to eye. “You need sleep, and that’s what you’ll get. Nothing else.”

 She searched his eyes in the dinge.

 “Okay.”

 He nodded.

 He found her curled up under the duvet when he got back. Towel neatly folded on top of the chets of drawers, bra and knickers on top of it. She must have believed him.

 A gentle touch on her shoulder earned him nothing.

 Out like a light. Good.

 He moved to the other side of the bed and climbed in.

 Sharing a bed with another person wasn’t something he’d done in a long time. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to sleep. That would be annoying, but he’d cope.

 He turned onto his side and looked at his bedmate’s sleeping face.

 She was smashing her face into the pillow, mouth locked in a grim line and eyebrows slightly furrowed.

 There was no way she was dreaming yet, her eyes remained stationary under their lids.

 Soon they’d start dancing, and he’d watch. Just in case she needed him again.

---

 Movement against his skin woke him.

 His eyes snapped open, hand reaching for a weapon.

 A head of messy hair filled his vision, and an arm around his chest stymied his reach.

 The light creeping under his blind illuminated the situation, his neighbour pressed up against him.

 It felt… quite nice, actually.

 She tilted her head to look up at him, the words on her lips falling away with shock.

 He looked curiously at her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

 “What’s the matter?”

 “You… look just like my neighbour.”

 Shit.

[inknanda67]

Everything was going right, only to go wrong.

My phone broke three times, I almost lost this chapter, but I finally managed to translate and correct it! :3

Receive chapter 6 of Pan flute!

Nanda we're finally going to have more Leshyca-

Shhh~ Angst.

But- Nanda we-

Cat and Worm love can wait! Angst first!

Yes lamb, give this worm nightmares.

[5a-alf]

I'm wondering at which point did jean really begin to believe the shit that was fed to him? When, in between the torture, did he start to tell himself that's what he deserves? When, between his suicide attempt and kevin leaving? Or was it after kevin left?

[avonne-writes]

After Gale's crisis (HS AU)

The lovely @freedomforthewin asked me if 1) Bucky gets nightmares of Gale not surviving after Broken Things and 2) if he wants to sleep in the same bed with Gale and cuddle him to keep him from slipping away. So I thought I'd expand on this a bit.

Original storyline (Gale doesn’t jump)

Although Gale didn’t jump off the bridge, Bucky gets nightmares of Gale dying. With varying frequency, he gets these well into his adult life. Each time, he has to wake Gale up to calm himself down, because Gale sleeping looks too much like death.

Bucky becomes clingy in general. He wants to be by Gale's side all the time. He’s even more physically affectionate than usual - holding hands, wrapping an arm around Gale, playing with his hair, he’s constantly trying to give Gale reassuring and loving touches.

Although affection feels nice most times, Bucky's clinginess clashes with Gale's need for personal space to process his emotions, so they have more fights than usual.

Related to this, Bucky does try to share a bed with Gale as often as Gale lets him, and always finds a position that allows him to embrace Gale.

Bucky initiates more deep conversations about feelings than before. He feels extremely guilty for not catching on how close to snapping Gale was, so he wants to encourage Gale to talk more about his feelings. This is really healing for Gale. He often ends up talking about his childhood, while before his crisis, he used to avoid the topic.

Bucky gets distracted at school, especially during the first few days after Broken Things, when he has to go back to school but Gale doesn’t. He texts Gale a lot and gets stressed if he doesn’t get a reply in a few minutes.

Alternate version (Gale jumps and survives)

Most of the above is also applicable for this version, just exacerbated by the severity of the situation.

But an important difference is that Gale sustained a spine injury from the jump, so he has to wear a back brace for months. His movement options are severely limited in the first few weeks, and he can’t lift anything. He’s not allowed to sleep with Bucky in the beginning because he shouldn't be jostled during the night. However, I can see Bucky choosing to sleep on an air mattress next to Gale's bed just to be with him.

Because of this spine injury, Bucky helps Gale with everything. He throws himself into caring for Gale. Helps him with getting dressed, moving, showering, everything. Georgia helps a lot too, of course, but Bucky gradually takes over.

Being helpless makes Gale feel awful. He’s cranky and frustrated all the time, hates himself, the world, everything. He doesn’t want to leave his bed due to his mental state, but Georgia and Bucky push him because he needs to try to increase his walking range.

In this alternate storyline, the long physical recovery and the severity of what happened put an extra strain on John and Gale’s relationship that might result in them breaking up eventually.

These are some of my thoughts about the aftermath of Gale's crisis. Do you guys have any additional ideas?

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Cornered

Pairing: Dark Peter Parker x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Peter can’t live without you and he’s not afraid to show it. 

WARNINGS: Fake Suicide Attempt; Manipulation.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

--

“Don’t! Please, Peter.” you cry out, watching as Peter pulls the knife closer to his wrist, the sharp edge pressing hard against his skin, dangerously close to his veins. 

You’re both crying after a huge discussion that started because you had decided that it was best to give your relation a small break. It’s getting draining to deal with Peter’s constant protectiveness with him always looking over your shoulder, trying to make your decisions for you. 

He’s overbearing and it’s sucking the life out of you. 

Nonetheless, Peter had always been a gentle boyfriend so you made the mistake of assuming that he’d be reasonable enough when you revealed what you had decided for your future. Apparently you were entirely wrong about him. 

“If you leave me, I’ll have no reason to live and then you can truly be free of me. Isn’t that what you want?” he practically chokes on his tears, a small gasp exiting his lips as he draws a cut into the skin. A few drops of blood paint this skin, dropping on the floor. 

“It’s not! Just… put down the knife, okay?” you beg, taking a step towards him. “We can talk this out, Peter.” 

“Why should I listen to you? You’re going to leave me, no matter what.” Peter gives you a sad smile, taking another step back as you try to get near him.

The knife digs again and he groans, the blood starting to roll down his wrist. 

“I-I won’t. I promise, Peter. I’ll stay with you, if that’s what you really want.” you panickly propose. His eyes light up at your offer, hope filling them as he loosens his grip on the knife.

“I want that. And we’ll be together and you’ll love me again? You promise?” he desperately asks, fingers clenching around the knife as he awaits for your answer.

You only hesitate for a brief moment, but you can’t allow Peter to do this. You have no other option but to take him back. 

“I promise. Now please get away from the -” you don’t even get to finish your sentence as Peter immediately drops the knife, which makes a loud noise as it falls down on the ground.

Before you can properly register what happened, Peter’s arms are around you. He lets out a shaky breath, pressing passionate kisses all over your scalp as you stand there, motionless in his arms.

You’re mortified by what just happened, but more so at the promise you’done to Peter. Now you’re never going to be able to leave him. 

Exactly what he wanted. 

[wyverningx]

jeremy's pretty darn good at exy, good enough to secure an athletic scholarship to the best D1 school in california. he doesn't even need to move away from his family to attend, which is a blessing and a curse. things have been somewhat uncomfortable since his mom remarried, but it's fine. he's a freshman at USC, now. he's more free and independent than ever before. the world is his oyster.

he's faced his fair share of sports injuries — who hasn't, given the nature of a contact sport — but the first time he deals with a soft tissue injury as a college athlete hurts more than it did in high school. not necessarily because of the pain, because jeremy's a quick striker but still deals with collisions on the regular, but because being benched for six weeks sucks. he wants to make a name for himself. he wants to shine on the gold court like its namesake.

he gets some vicodin to manage the pain, and it does help.

only —

it starts to help a little too much. it dulls the awkward edge to his family interactions, makes his day-to-day operations a bit more manageable. keeps him in a better mood, relaxed and chilled out, when he's so bored from lack of exercise and stimulation that he starts to go mad.

the doctor gave him a lot of pills. it's fine. he's hurt; he needs them. it's normal.

only —

it's way too easy to get a refill on the prescription. his PCP's been taking care of the knox family for decades, and their office understands jeremy's ambition. they know he's disciplined, given his health and physique. so what's another bottle, or two, for the star athlete of the family?

so it becomes a bit of a habit. it's not a problem, though. being high is just... easier. maybe he doesn't pop the pills for the pain so much anymore, but nobody seems to notice or judge him if he's a little spaced out. there's a lot of mounting pressure once he's back on the court, after all. he missed almost two months of practice. he has to make up for it, because this might be the year the trojans finally take championships and wouldn't it be great, perfect even, if jeremy was responsible for such an accomplishment?

surely nobody can blame him for wanting a little something to take the edge off. he's been to frat parties on campus — bingeing alcohol is so much more of a crutch than a tiny white pill or two.

only —

his family comes home one day after celebrating jeremy's first fall banquet and sees jeremy's brother passed out on the ground, his bottle of pills spilling out across the floor and nonono jeremy only has so many at least they're just on the floor and he can scoop them back into that orange bottle so that he has them for later just in case he needs the safety net but oh god what does it mean that jeremy thought of his stash before his brother's well-being in an obvious suicide attempt, but that's not jeremy's fault. it can't be. he isn't responsible.

right?

[madman479r]

Jaune: *Relaxing and watching TV*

RWBYNROE: *Enters room*

Ruby: Hey, Jaune?

Jaune: Yeah, Rubes?

Ruby: Settle this for us. Emerald said she saw you buy a gun but I said that's ridiculous because you never wanted one before.

Emerald: I literally saw him go into a weapons store. Plus, he spent 20 years in that fairy tale land. Maybe he wised up and got something with range.

Jaune: Why the big deal? What is there a bet?

Ruby: Yep. Me, Weiss, Nora and Oscar said you didn't get a gun and Yang, Blake, Ren and Emerald say you did.

Jaune: Hope there wasn't money involved because I did I fact get a gun. *Pulls out revolver*

Nora: Aw crapbaskets! *Hands over lien*

Ruby: wow! Is that a Mateba model 6 unica Autorevolver?!

Jaune: Oh yeah. Looked good so I thought I'd get it.

Yang: But I kinda have to ask why?

Blake: And a revolver of all pistols. They take forever to reload.

Jaune: Well you see *Scroll alarm beeping* 3:30 already? Alright.

Weiss: What does 3:30 have to-?

Jaune: *Puts a bullet in revolver and spins the cylinder before putting it to his head and pulls trigger*

**CLICK**

Jaune: Welp, back to the show. *looks at gun* I'll see you tomorrow.

RWBYNROE:...

Jaune: What?

[ca1e70]

she hates him. in this exact moment, she hates him. with his fingers down her throat and his hand holding her hair back, his own prescription pills are dangerously close to touching her tongue once again, and she hates him because she thinks he hates her for what she did.

he doesn't. not yet, at least. right now he's just scared and worried and upset and a little angry at her insistence to keep his antipsychotics down. they're still in the grace period of ingestion she doesn't need to go to the hospital. the grace period where he can piece together what was scattered on the bathroom floor with what he pulls out of her vomit and avoid a psych phonecall of his own.

she bites his fingers. he pulls her hair and digs in deeper. she doesn't even remember why she did this. why she's fumbling despite the assault to find more pills, finger tips snagging and palming them for later. as if he will turn his back on her for long enough to dry swallow them.

"youre like a fucking dog, throw up"

maybe she is. she always thought of herself like a cat, if she had to be any animal. calculated and adamant about her boundaries. only accepting of affection when she wanted it, when it fit her curated checklist, when the other person deserved it, but he was right. she was like a dog. she begged and pleaded and got into the trash when her owner was gone because any attention, even bad attention, was attention. she overdoses on his medication so she can be the most important thing in his life right now. she drinks herself sick, stupid, stumbling into his arms when the event allows so she can feel what it's like to be cared for. she doesn't like the now bloody fingers in her mouth. she likes when he rubs her back and holds her close and uses a wet washcloth to wipe the wine-filled bile from her chin so it doesn't stain. she stops fighting and lets it come up in his lap and over his hand. he's relieved, rather than disgusted. he lets go of her and she can feel herself tumbling eight stories onto bedrock bottom.

"how much did you take"

"I don't know, I didn't count," she coughs it up, wiping her mouth with the heel of her palm. Everything burns. "A handful?"

"a handful. great. good measurement"

is he mad? he sounds mad. he's worried, maybe frustrated. focused as he tries to count out the white pills fizzling in her throw-up. she tries to help by counting out the seven she has in her palm, but he reaches out to grab them from her like they would burn a hole through her hand if she held them a second longer, so she moves to put herself back together. her nose is running and her eyes are watering and her face is flushed and that isn't attractive. no wonder he's focused more on the pills than her. this is just like when her mother was more upset with the damage to their silverware and the fact the electrician couldnt come by to fix the kitchen wiring until friday. she didn't care that her daughters fingers were blackened, that her veins felt electrified. that she waited for hours until the woman came downstairs to jab that fork into the socket just to ensure she was there for the whole performance.

he looks handsome when he's focused. he looks better when he's focused on her, but this is close enough, for now. this isn't the time to think about the way he looks at her when shes underneath him with her hands in his hair instead. has he looked at someone else like that? is she second-best? third? is she just the only girl disturbed enough to hike her skirt up for him, or is she just the easiest? she's hard to stomach, she knows that, so there must be something in her he can't live without. he wouldn't have manhandled her like that when he came home.

"I could be dead by now. I thought you were good at math."

his jaw sets the same way it does before he punches a stranger at the bar in the face. she almost wants him to do it. to hit her. to let her corrupt yet another subsection of people he knows in his mind. another opportunity for him to think of her.

he doesn't. he keeps counting, carefully peeling each tablet off his jeans and dropping them into the empty bottle from the bathroom floor. she watches him for a while and she steals the lid from next to the toilet, so when he's done, he has to ask her for it back.

[bbcphile]

WIP Wednesday

I've finally worked up the courage to post the opening of one of the Mysterious Lotus Casebook fics I'm writing (Li Lianhua/Di Feisheng/Fang Duobing), specifically, from my post-canon fic where LLH's shiniang tried to sacrifice herself to cure him.

Tw/cw: suicide attempt, mention of off-page non-consensual medical procedure, internalized ableism

***

Li Lianhua crashed to his hands and knees on the ground as the last trickle of his borrowed qi abandoned him, the densely-packed sand doing nothing to cushion the blow. The impact rattled through his spine and ribs, shaking loose a bout of coughing that forced him to swallow down the burning flare of copper trying to escape from his mouth. He couldn’t cough up blood now, not here, too many steps away from the water’s reach. It would leave evidence of his route, a trail that his shiniang would undoubtedly follow once she had broken free from the immobilization. He couldn’t let her find him until the job was done. 

He pushed himself to standing, his arms and legs shaking hard enough to nearly drop him back to his knees, and he blinked to will the dancing black spots from his eyes. The waves awaited him, and he refused to crawl to meet them. He took a staggering step toward the sound of crashing water ahead of him, far fainter now than it had any right to be, and squinted against the sunlight to get his bearings. 

A large gray lump on his left snagged his attention, disrupting the blur of gold and blue that filled up the rest of his view. Why did that look familiar? He took an unsteady step closer, pressing his palm against his chest to convince his lungs to hold back a cough one more time, and the gray lump resolved into a rock. 

A rock that had once served as a pillow that was soft only in comparison to how hard the rest of the day had been.

Of course. He’d landed at Donghai beach. He swallowed back tears with a bitter laugh. Never let it be said that the universe didn’t have a sense of humor.  

He’d returned after all: three months late for the duel and over a decade late for bringing his decrepit body back to the waves that had so decisively spat him out. But surely this time, with all the mysteries solved and no business left unfinished, the sea would accept the offering of his broken frame. Li Xiangyi was long dead and it was past time for Li Lianhua to follow his example. He was already a ghost in every way that mattered. And this was the only way to guarantee his shiniang would live.

She would be furious, of course, but wasn’t furious better than dead? How could it be unfilial to make sure she lived on? Too many people had died for him; he refused to let her join those ranks. Dying to save her was already a far better death than he deserved. 

As for the others, Xiaobao would have his teachings and would be too busy climbing the heights of the jianghu to miss the weak physician he once protected. 

And a-Fei—

—well, how could he still fixate on defeating a ghost with Xiaobao shining more brightly than Li Xiangyi ever had?

No, this end was far better for everyone, and best of all, no one would sacrifice their life or be forced to play caretaker to an empty husk of a man.

A familiar chill seared through his veins and meridians, despite the warmth of the fur of his outer layer, stealing away his breath and the amorphous blue blur before him. He took another stumbling step toward where it had been, his heart stuttering painfully in his chest. 

Not much longer now. It seemed his frenzied dash here and self-shattered heart meridian were more efficient for what he had in mind than the weight his waterlogged fur coat would have offered.

Perhaps he didn’t need the coat for this at all. His body would certainly float further without it. And not even his shiniang could save him now, so what harm could it do to leave some evidence behind? Xiaobao might not believe the beggar’s words, but surely this fur cloak at the water’s edge would put to rest any lingering futile hopes. And then Xiaobao would tell a-Fei.

And if it brought them peace, if it let them say goodbye, then how could he not leave it behind?

It was decided, then. 

He lifted his hands to the coat’s laces, then paused. Were those voices? For a moment, he could have sworn he heard—

—Ah, no, the hallucinations must have started again. 

He smiled. At least he had heard a-Fei and Xiabao one last time, if only in his mind.

He untied his laces with fumbling, stiff fingers, and let the coat fall behind him. 

His heart and lungs clenched with another spasm, and a wave of dizziness broke over him, threatening to drop him to his knees once more. 

He fought against it, muscles shaking as they never had during battles. He couldn’t surrender now; not until he reached the water. He could manage three more steps. He had to.

He tried to lift his foot again.

The world swam before him, and darkness dragged him under.

[enqmind]

Okay, more fic. This is the one I should have done first, but what can you do?

Will likely turn out to be a multipart. (Word to the wise, I'm very easily bribed with reblogs, follows and kind words -wink wink-)

Ghost/Female Reader WC: 831 18+ content

Warnings: Suicide attempt by reader, gaslighting(?), manipulation(?), Local Manc has worst possible reaction to a suicide attempt

Reader notes: Thin enough to fit into a standard bathtub, light enough to be lifted from a standard bathtub by Ghost, mentally ill, might turn out to be pale skinned later (haven't decided yet. If so, feel free to ignore. I'm not here to gatekeep.)

One Man's Treasure

Next

 The hallway was dingy, even with the lights popping on at the slightest movement. According to the landlord, the lights were dimmed at night to prevent their circadian rhythms from being disturbed.

 Sure.

 Nothing to do with the cost of living crisis. Ghost believed them, thousands wouldn’t.

 He trudged along, each door uniform and bland as he headed to his flat.

 He was almost at his own door as a pocket of shadow caught his attention.

 Door after door after door with the same shiny printed veneer seemed to oddly glow in the dim light. One next to his had a dark shadow lining one side.

 He stalked over.

 Ajar.

 Of course. Fuck he was tired.

 He was about to pull it closed when a scent wafted through his mask.

 Lavender, vetiver and the familiar base note of blood.

 Who lived here again?

 The image of a woman rose in his mind. Pretty, polite, always offering a greeting smile if they happened to run into each other. Sometimes she seemed like she wanted to ask him something, but nothing ever came of it.

 That’s all he knew. She kept to herself and never seemed to have guests over.

 A perfectly functional neighbour.

 He pushed the door open.

 The dim light in the hall let him adjust to the darkness of her flat quickly. It was messy and a certain staleness passed under the perfumed blood scent.

 A soft flickering glow caught his eye, emanating from under the bathroom door. A rectangle of white standing out in the dinge.

 He crept through the living room, eyes constantly moving through the gloom for signs of danger. Ears pricked for any noise.

 A sigh from the bathroom.

 Ghost hesitated, but the smell of blood was strong enough to get his hand on the door handle and swing it open. Ready for any threat.

 All he found was his neighbour in the bath. Wearing only bra and knickers and lying in orange tinted water. A stanley knife dropped on the floor in a pool of blood.

 There was a lot of blood.

 Another sigh.

 But not enough to kill. Not even enough to knock her out, really.

 He approached warily, seeing a mostly empty bottle of spirits sitting on the far side of the bath.

 That explained both her unconsciousness and all the blood.

 Carefully, he took her closest wrist and examined it.

 She hadn’t nicked anything important, despite her best efforts. The lines went vertically, tracing the likely paths of the veins down her forearms. She was clearly seeking results.

 No shit, Sherlock. She lives alone, who the hell could she even get attention from?

 Wasn’t that the point of leaving the front door ajar?

 In the middle of the night on a Tuesday?

 It wasn’t worth thinking too much about. He needed to get her awake and to A&E, not ruminate on her train of thought. That was the psych ward’s problem.

 He rose to his feet and went to pull the light cord.

 The square of white on the outside of the door was a piece of paper stuck to it with some patterned tape.

 ‘Do not enter. Corpse within. Call 999.’

 A sigh more like a gasp came from behind him, accompanied by a splash.

 He turned to see her hugging herself, almost snuggling into the lukewarm water as her head started to slip under.

 He grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her into a sitting position.

 Her eyes fluttered open and she blinked at him, head clearly addled by alcohol and blood loss.

 Then she smiled at him. Lit by the candles that drew him to her in the first place, she looked radiant.

 “You came,” she whispered, eyes glittering with affection.

 She threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek that felt like nothing at all.

 She drew back with a wry chuckle and shy smile.

 “I thought you’d be taller.” A giggle. “But not by much.”

 He could almost see it reflected in her eyes despite the low light of the scented candles.

 The white skull of his mask making him look like death incarnate.

 How happy she looked, how relieved to be face to face with the Grim Reaper…

 He wrapped his arms around her and she snuggled into his chest.

 “Thank you,” she murmured. “I was so scared I’d fail.”

 He felt something crack inside his mind.

 Hers was a life she didn’t want.

 Ghost moved an arm under her knees and picked her up out of the bath, blood tinged water sluicing off her and onto him and the floor.

 He didn’t know why she didn’t want it.

 She clung onto him, eyes widening.

 “Where are we going?”

 Frankly, he didn’t care.

 “For now, Purgatory,” he answered. “Later? Who knows.”

 He felt her relax into his arms.

 “Okay.”

 All he knew was that if she didn’t want this life, he’d be more than happy to make it his.

[sorio99]

So, I’ve pretty much entirely stayed out of the James Somerton discourse, because frankly, I just didn’t think I had anything that valuable to say. I wasn’t a fan of Somerton’s, I never watched his videos or fell for his lies, the first time I heard of the dude was in HBomberGuy’s video, and the most impact he’s had on my life is encouraging me to watch Todd in the Shadows.

That said, I did have thoughts as things developed, about his “apologies”, about his claims of depression, and even about the “suicide note” he posted to Twitter. But, I really didn’t feel like I had anything to add to the discussion that wasn’t already being said by at least 50 other people.

But uh, I have thoughts. About the latest developments.

One of the thoughts I shelved about Somerton in the past was that I wasn’t sure if the “note” being real or fake was the worse option. I really don’t have much sympathy for James, given some of the really heinous shit he’s said in the past, but I’ve never wanted him dead. I personally wanted him punished for his actions, and then removed from public view; I didn’t think anything he’d done deserved the death penalty.

While I do still think that, him posting a fake suicide note makes me VERY skeptical.

Here’s the thing: I’ve talked before about my struggles with my mental health, with Suicidal Ideation, and just general depression. There have been many times in my life where I have wanted to kill myself, and even one occasion a decade ago where I actively tried.

I’m also not a good person.

A few years ago, I did something bad to someone I cared about. I won’t go into details, for both selfish and non-selfish reasons, but suffice to say, it’s the kind of thing where I think most people would say I deserve some kind of punishment.

And I can say, based on that point in time, based on what I was feeling then, I could very easily believe that someone like James was actually suicidal.

I knew it could still be a manipulation tactic, I knew it probably was one. I even knew that, if it was real, it was still arguably a manipulation tactic. But I genuinely thought there was a chance, even a solid chance, that Somerton had wanted to commit suicide.

That chance has gone out the fucking window.

Let me be clear, also: the fact that James was horny posting on an alternate Twitter account, and engaging with media was not what convinced me that it was all bullshit. As someone who’s used the god damned Professor Layton games as a coping mechanism during depressive episodes, I’ve seen far weirder and worse responses to being suicidal.

It was how he talked about himself, responded to his defenders and accusers. The fact that while people were genuinely panicked at the thought that he might have tried to kill himself, he was purposefully stoking the flames and trying to make himself look better.

James Somerton is a fucking bastard, and I never want to hear from him, or ANY defenses of him, ever again.

[writing-in-sin]

UMEMIYA HAJIME HC: GUILT

Warning(s): PTSD, mention of past suicide attempts, unprocessed grief and guilt

-----

I think ever since the accident, Umemiya might've develop a habit on taking the blame for things that aren't his fault especially if its tied to him somehow. He has a great sense of responsibility and tends to carry a lot on his shoulders it seems

So I feel like now that the dust has settled with the Noroshi and he sees the damage that's been done to his home and family all because Endo wanted to trap him for Takiishi, he might feel responsible for the whole incident

So, yeah. I think he has a tendency to harbour guilt for things that are out his control especially when its connected to him somehow. Guilt, I think, is what tends to trigger things within Umemiya

Particularly, his fear and tightly chained rage

When that happens, Umemiya tends to find himself unable to take proper care in his daily life. His apetite tends to suffer first. Then his inability to take care of his plants

The worst is the steadily slipping control over his temper. Unlike others, his rage isnt something that burns everything in his path. But it is fierce and intense

Most of all, it's quiet and can be self-destructive

Unfortunately, his guilt can also trigger his PTSD and nightmares which worsens his control even more. This causes Umemiya to avoid people until he calms down, which admittedly, isn't very easy for him to do on his own

The people who can are usually his foster father Yuki, his sister Kotoha and as an UmeSaku fan, eventually Sakura as well

The 4 Kings try to help and their presence helped a lot but it unfortunately doesn't stop the nightmares. It comes to the point where the lack of sleep and PTSD makes him dazed and not completely lucid when he's awake

So much so that muscle memory made him wander on the rooftop during a meeting to where there's no fence. He's not even close to it yet before he's suddenly pulled back hard enough that he stumbles and falls back into a terrified Sakura

Of course this causes a ruckus especially from Sugishita but Hiiragi quiets them when he sees the raw terror on Sakura's face and the dawning lucidity in Umemiya. When Umemiya tries to stumble away but couldn't because of his weary body, Sakura takes advantage to lay Umemiya's head down onto his lap and hugs him

"Stop, Umemiya." Sakura's voice is rough and shaky, doing his damnest to keep it steady even when fear makes it wobbly. Makes it harder to hide how close to tears he's in. Whispers so that only Umemiya can hear. "Please."

Because even though his family knows his history and the 4 Kings have been with him for years, Sakura's the only one he's ever told of all the times he tried to kill himself before

Which makes the terror and worry in heterochromic eyes all the more devastating

So Umemiya slumps into an exhausted heap and reaches up to gently pats Sakura's head. "I'm sorry, Sakura. I wasn't trying to- I just....I'm sorry."

"...idiot."

Umemiya laughs, half hysterical and half exhausted before blacking out

All in all, it'll take awhile for him to break the habit of carrying such self-destructive guilt but he'll get there especially with his trustworthy Kings and very stubborn kouhai right by him

____

I'll stop here for now. But if possible, I'd like to write a fic of this HC one day. Thanks for reading this far!