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lilac-gold · 7 months

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Flatline

AI-less Whumptober: Day 7 Flatline | Restrained CPR @ailesswhumptober

Fandom: OMORI Rating: Teen Word Count: 3057 Summary: Basil hears his grandmother die. The sound of her flatlining sticks with him for hours afterwards. AO3 LINK

Basil had never liked hospitals. He was familiar with them, having been a rather sickly child earlier on in life, but dreaded visiting them all the same. They were too… Sterile. Too bare. Too closed-off. They smelled like antiseptic and illness, a unique, juxtaposing scent that made Basil’s nose scrunch up. Almost every plant within the buildings was fake, the only sunlight came through half-open windows, and Basil hated being inside of them.

Death lingered in the air, the memories of countless ill patients haunting those white halls. The thought of how many people passed away inside of buildings like these made Basil shudder as he waited in the intensive care unit. Each second that ticked by made him feel more and more anxious, and he waited with increasing agitation.

He stared intently at his grandma’s face. She looked so frail like this, tiny and swaddled up, a needle in her arm and an oxygen mask on her face. He hadn’t expected her to get this much worse, especially not in such a short space of time. Everything after Polly called 911 was a blur, really, then hours of waiting. The steady beeping beside the bed provided a bit of background noise, some reassurance that his grandma was still alive and kicking. Well. Alive and lying down.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Basil tapped his foot against the floor to the rhythm of it, a steady thud. After a while, he got bored of doing so, instead looking around at the room he’d been in for the past few hours. There were fake plants around, plastic and brightly coloured. Basil frowned a little looking at them.

Beep. Beep. Beep. His grandma was a gardener, much like himself. They often planted flowers together– that is, they used to before she became mostly confined to her bed. Polly tried to help out with Basil’s plants, but her hands were too soft, and her aversion to dirt too strong, and she hadn’t the faintest clue what to do. Not like his grandma, kind and wise, helpful and happy to teach Basil anything he wanted to learn.

Beep. Beep. Beep. She was strong, his grandma, even if she didn’t look it just then. Her hands bore calluses, and her face, weathered with age, had deep lines embedded into it from years of smiling. Her hair was wispy and white, but Basil remembered how she used to scrape it back into a bun behind her head to keep it out of her way.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Basil sighed, resting his chin on his hands. So much had happened in the past couple of days, all in such quick succession. He’d seen Sunny again. He lost the photo album, getting it back later on and wincing at his new bruises. He nearly drowned after Aubrey pushed him into the lake– it hurt, knowing how much she hated him now. She’d been his first friend. Now, his grandma was in hospital, Basil shifting uncomfortably in a hard chair by her side.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Everything was going to be okay. He repeated his mantra over and over again in his head, a quick pace that didn’t leave much room for any other thoughts, least of all of Sunny. Basil hadn’t seen him in years. He didn’t sleep much the night Sunny came out of his house, despite how exhausted he was from his dip in the lake. Dark figures haunted him, accusatory eyes glared from all around, and guilt made his stomach spin and twist unpleasantly. Basil hated guilt. It was an awful feeling. It was constant.

Beep. Beep. Usually, when his mind was bugging him, Basil tried to distract himself, but there was nothing in the hospital room to distract himself with. Usually, his brain told him he should have spent more time with his friends while he still could. It blamed him for being just a minute too late, for dangling Mari’s corpse from the tree in her backyard, just as it should. Now, it whispered that he’d given up on his grandma too soon, that she was going to die and he wouldn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to her.

Beep… Mari’s death had been a bit of a wake-up call for Basil. It was a shock, something that pestered him relentlessly, his own actions making the memories of that day even worse. It had been what forced his eyes open, wrenching away his innocence and shoving it in his face that everyone died someday. His friends were all going to die. His grandma was going to die. He was going to die. It was inevitable, and scary, and for all he knew, everything afterwards just vanished. Either that, or they would be judged, and Basil would have to face an eternity of torment. Then again, he wasn’t sure what could be worse than his perpetual self-loathing and the feeling of rotting from the inside.

Beep… When different branches or leaves on a plant died, it was Basil’s job to clip them away. He could feel himself withering more and more by the day, and wondered when he’d be able to muster up the courage to pick up a rope once more. That would be a fitting punishment for all that he had done. Basil took a shaky breath. Nobody’d died yet, not after Mari. For years, he thought Sunny might have. For a quarter of that time, Hero might as well have been dead. The old Aubrey died years ago. Kel hadn’t. Kel was like him. They were both decaying slowly, the spread something they couldn’t stop if they tried. Basil stopped fighting it a long time ago.

Beep… He’d been alone for so long. His friends all left, his grandma got ill, and Polly was nice but Basil knew she only stuck around because she had to. She felt bad for them, and was getting paid. She wasn’t a friend, but rather a caretaker. Basil appreciated it, really, but knowing that she put so much effort into trying to keep him alive only made him feel worse about the unstoppable eventuality he knew was coming soon. Basil was rotten, after all. He missed being young. Being happy.

A terrifying, high-pitched screech sounded out behind him, and Basil flinched harshly. Wild eyes landed on the heart monitor, and Basil felt something inside of him shatter at the sight of the bright green, completely straight line running horizontally across the screen. Distantly, he heard himself scream for a doctor.

After that, he couldn’t breathe. Basil felt like his lungs were being crushed, like his trachea had collapsed in on itself, like a sword had been run through his heart. That piercing wail continued to tear through him, ringing incessantly in his ears, high-pitched and blaring and devestatingly final.

He should have noticed. Should have picked up on the fact that her heartbeat was slowing, that the blips were growing less frequent. Maybe then–

Adults ushered him out of the room, away from his grandmother’s corpse. She looked like she was sleeping. The neverending beep beside her proved otherwise. Basil didn’t think he’d ever seen her so pale. They were a pale family, but she spent enough time outside that her skin had a healthy glow to it, even despite its creases. Since being confined to her room, she’d grown steadily more ghost-like. Basil felt himself tremble harder at the thought.

It was like he was drowning all over again, plummeting endlessly downwards into darkness. Something freezing cold enclosed his lungs, his skin prickled with sweat, and his throat burned as tears ran down his face, a stark warmth in comparison to the chill he was experiencing.

The line shouldn't have been green, he thought suddenly. Green was supposed to be safe. Green meant plants, health, growth, his grandma. It had been her favourite colour, Basil's too. It wasn't fair that one of the last good things he had left had to be ruined too. Basil cried even harder.

It should've been red. Red meant anger, rage, danger, fear, death. Red was Mari's bloodshot eye, the colour that seeped from his skin some nights alone in the bathroom, the colour of his parents' car before they sped off into the distance.

Red was bad, green was good. But now, that green line was all he could think about, and Basil had never felt more miserable.

It was accompanied by that awful, wailing screech. The sound never stopped, piercing through him like nails on a chalkboard, echoing through every chasm of his mind. It was an unearthly cry, one that refused to leave him be.

Basil would even take the solemn silence of Mari's funeral over this. Then, even the sobs had been soundless, the only noise being the droning voice of a man in the suit as her casket lay before them.

It had been open, Mari looking like she was just asleep. But Basil knew about the bone jutting through her neck, the thread through her lips, the blood red glare under her closed eyelids. He knew about the poison of the lily of the valleys, seeping into and rotting him from within.

He'd been surrounded by mourners, by his friends, and said nothing as the thought that this was his fault ran incessantly through his mind. It was like a looping mixtape, showing the biggest mistake hed ever made. The day of Mari's funeral had been one of the worst of his life.

His grandma looked like she was sleeping, too. That day was another.

Basil couldn't do it again, couldn't attend another burial service. He'd already seen the bodies of two of the people he loved, he couldn't bear to stick around any longer. Everyone died someday. Basil was next. He refused to bear the burden of another corpse.

He was selfish. He always had been. Basil was selfish, and a coward, and it hit him that nobody was ever going to find out the truth. Sunny was moving away, and Basil would be dead soon.

He locked himself in his room, tormented by visions of the past and the future, of too-pale skin and scarlet stains.

He saw Aubrey, pink hair just as limp as Mari's had been. Her face was twisted into a terrified scowl, the inky blackness of her unseeing eyes obscured by that vivid teal. Her face, far too white and far too gaunt, seemed thinner than ever, Aubrey looking far more fragile than threatening. Basil should have been there for her. He wasn't.

He saw Hero, dark bags lining his closed eyes. Tear tracks glistened on his cheeks, the composed pillar of support and durability he'd become over the years crumbling once and for all. His hair was a mess, his clothes were a mess, Hero was a mess. This was Basil's fault. A pill bottle lay beside him, empty.

He saw Kel, smile finally gone. Kel would probably live the longest, try to move on, but he'd never be the same again after he found out about Basil's death. Basil imagined him disappearing, moving away from his family through a basketball scholarship. He imagined a lonely life and an almost empty funeral. He imagined Kel's beaming light finally being extinguished in its entirety.

He saw Sunny, a knife buried into his stomach. Blood dropped steadily onto the floor. Drip, drip, drip. Sunny was smiling, finally able to find some peace. Sunny was crying, in agony as he sought to join the sister he'd lost. Sunny was dying, because of Basil, because of what they did. Why Basil did. It was his idea to hang Mari, after all, and he was about to kill himself like the coward he was.

Basil hated himself. He was a failure. He didn't speak to his friends when they chose to stay over. He knew that if he so much as looked at them, everything would start pouring out. He waited until he was under the covers of darkness and everyone was asleep. He grabbed his shears. He opened his door, and stared into a million furious eyes.

He stumbled backwards, tripping over himself in his haste to escape. The high beeping that had receded to just background noise rose again, its screech forcing Basil's hand to clutch his skull as he trembled uncontrollably. The darkness followed him, quickly sweeping over his feet, glueing him in place.

No, no, no, nonononono. This couldn't be happening. This–

"Everything is going to be okay, everything is going to be okay," Basil chanted to himself hysterically over the screaming wail in his mind. His fault his fault his fault. "Everything is–"

The darkness edged further over him, Basil flinching helplessly as it began to overcome him, spreading over his legs too. It was just a shadow, it couldn't hurt him. Basil squeezed his eyes shut desperately, wishing that opening them would reveal no more eyes, no more darkness. Nothing happened. The shadows continued to spread.

The eye that had haunted him for years was reflected back at him a hundred times, tears streaming uncontrollably down Basil's face. He couldn't do this anymore. Not since Mari was dead, since his grandma was dead, Since Sunny was lea–

Sunny. Sunny was leaving, forever, and hadn't said a thing. Basil had sacrificed everything for him, and hadn't seen him in years. Sunny was Basil's everything, but Basil was nothing to Sunny. Basil was nothing. He deserved this.

In truth, Sunny had died years ago. Sunny was pure, innocent and sweet and shy, and would never hurt anyone, least of all Mari. This silent, sociable, knife-wielding murderer was not Sunny. To this Sunny, Basil was a stranger. Basil was nothing. He deserved this.

"Everything is going to be okay," Basil lied, the breathy whisper of his voice rivalling even the pitch of his grandmother's heart monitor. His throat squeezed with panic, constricting his air supply almost entirely.

He had to leave, to run, to do something he could still control. The house was full of danger, full of enemies. Full of pain, full of memories. Basil wrenched his feet from the floor and ran, wrenching the door open as he raced through the dark corridors of his dead grandma's house. Even if he did stick around, there was nowhere for him to go. No-one who would take him in. Basil was nothing.

He slammed the bathroom door shut, no longer caring if anyone heard him. The sound was muffled as that flatline continued to ring in his ears. It would never end, not unless Basil took matters into his own hands. As the darkness began to creep under the bathroom door, his heart pounded, and Basil clutched the shears to his chest with shaking fingers.

It wouldn't be an easy death. His shears were meant for plants, twigs, not people. Basil may have been rotten, but he was also difficult to kill. It would take a lot of effort. He would probably have to stab himself more than once. A shudder ran through him.

Amongst the darkness, a light flickered through, and Basil heard a light knock at the door. He froze, shears threatening to fall from his sweaty hands, his skin freezing. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything.

"Basil?" Hero's sleepy voice met his ears. "Are you okay in there?"

Basil didn't– couldn't respond. Hero couldn't see him like this. The darkness seeped towards him again, eye after eye focusing completely on him. Basil had never liked being the centre of attention.

"Basil?" Hero repeated, worry edging into his voice as he knocked again.

Basil couldn't stop a sob from escaping his throat as he looked down, pressing his chin against his collarbone as he shut his eyes. He knew how his shears worked, he knew the amount of force it took for them to pierce skin. Going through organs would be different, harder, but Basil had to do this. He couldn't keep living, not after all that had happened.

"I'm sorry," he forced out, his voice choked and despairing. He didn't want Hero to be the one to find him, but fate had never been pleasant to him. His voice was quiet, strangled, and even he struggled to listen to it over the incessant beeping.

He didn't expect Hero to hear him, but he did, and soon enough, the older boy was pounding on the door, rattling its handle frantically. "Basil, let me in. Please, please come out. You- everything's going to be okay."

Hero was as much of a liar as Basil was. They were going to end up the same, one way or another. He was glad he wouldn't have to go to Hero's funeral.

Despite Hero's pleads, Basil steadied himself, and shoved the shears straight into his stomach.

He gasped as his skin tore, innards screaming at the unwanted intrusion. Blood poured out, seeping through Basil's clothes. He focused on that, tuning out Hero's voice and instead listening to that awful, awful flatline. His grandma was dead. Basil hoped he'd get to see her again before he was subjected to eternal torment.

The stab wasn't deep enough. Basil pierced his flesh again, and again, until there was a satisfactors puddle of crimson beneath him. Then, be bent over further, instinctively shielding his wounded stomach as more mained tears mixed in with his blood. Hero kept rattling the door, and Basil distantly heard him shout for someone, but it didn’t matter anymore.

The shadows joined him, the eyes curious and approving. He’d done good. This was supposed to happen.

They settled around him, seeping into the wound. A physical manifestation of his guilt, they lingered with him even in death. His stomach was still in turmoil, but every sensation around him felt… Far away. Distant, somehow. He wanted to smile as calm washed over him, but couldn’t muster up the strength to even twitch his lips.

His neck was aching from the strain of keeping it lolling down for so long. His stomach burned, glistening shears still embedded inside. But none of that mattered now, not when Basil might actually be free. The ghost of panic still etched on his face, his hand fell limply beside him, and the world drifted away entirely.

As Basil breathed his final breath, the wailing in his head finally came to a stop.

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 1 year

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38 or 46?

Ohhhhh, when I saw this I KNEW I had to do the AU where c!Dream is convinced c!Tommy is a Prime >:3

TW: Religious themes, religious delusions, kidnapping, isolation, mental health issues, references to self harm and self hatred, abuse, restraints, forced sedation, Tommy not always using the best terminology for referring to mental illness as an uneducated teenager (hes trying), and literal idolisation.

With shaking hands, Dream fastened the gilded necklace around Tommy's neck, the bell on it's chain ringing lightly. All Tommy could think is, fuck, that was going to be obnoxious and there was no way he was gonna be allowed to take that off either.

“They say the bells provide great joy to the Primes, you know.” Dream's voice was the sort of soft Tommy wasn't used to- not sickly sweet nor mocking, a genuine, wavering vulnerability to it. “I know you may not remember things before you were trapped in this form, Tommy, but maybe your fellow Primes will hear it, and…”

Tommy had long since learnt it was pointless to argue Dream on this fact, but it still made his skin crawl. He wasn’t something holy, and it was blasphemy to treat a mortal like a creation of the Gods. After all, they’d created the Primes to watch over the world in their absence- in a sense, the Primes were also gods, the sort that inhabited every shrine and meadow and lake. It was no less sacrilegious than outright declaring Tommy a God, yet nothing he said could change Dream's mind.

Something must have snapped in the prison, that’s what Tommy reckoned. When Dream had… y’know, the whole killing and reviving thing, he was normal. Normal for Dream, at least. But after he’d broke out, he’d been convinced that Tommy was one of the Primes, fallen from Heaven and unable to remember their power. And honestly, Tommy couldn’t help but pity that. In Exile, he'd been convinced the Primes talked to him through the logs- he'd saw them peeking up at him, beauty indescribable. Sometimes, he still saw them out of the corner of his eyes. He'd always seen shit, since he wasn’t even really a Big Man, but it had never felt so real.

He still fucking hated Dream, though. Pity didn’t change that.

“Are you feeling okay, Tommy? I really don’t want to hurt you, y’know.”

“Too late for that.” Tommy's speech still came out embarrassingly slurred, even though he'd tried his best to practice under the potion induced haze he was always in. Because, sure, Dream didn’t hit him anymore, but he still kept him locked up as tight as possible. To prevent the mortal world from corrupting him, he said. So he still had the thick, heavy cuffs around his arms and legs, chained to the wall tightly, and he had the stupid fucking IV injecting Prime knew what into his veins, making him all sleepy and shit. “You killed me, remember.”

Dream had a genuinely guilty look on his face, avoiding eye contact with Tommy. He suspected he might actually be tearing up. “I know you may never forgive me for that. Once you’ve regained my power, you may give me any punishment you see fit. I've been ensuring that I’ve been punishing myself in the meantime, to ensure I do not fall into sin.”

“You've been hurting yourself?”

“Of course. I need to go through your pain a thousandfold to repent.”

“No. No no no, no you don’t, don't fuckin' hurt yourself, man. That’s awful. I don’t want you to do that.” He coughed and added on. “As one of your Primes, I mean. That’s an order.”

Dream stared at Tommy with such awe it made him feel worthless. The kind of look of pure adoration and admiration a man would have for their God, a trust Tommy could never live up to. “I still remember the first time I saw you. I- I thought you were just a human- how little did I know- but your kindness, your unending mercy… it’s always been a sign you're not like them. Humans hurt and beat and torture me. Not a single fucking one has ever really cared!” He sounded incensed at that, before taking a deep breath. “But you? You're… you're made of unending love and compassion, Tommy. Not flesh and blood. You can’t be.”

Dream took a deep breath, and smiled. “If- if you think I shouldn’t debase myself through daring to think I could be the arbiter of my own punishment, I’ll oblige, my Prime. You are truly wise.”

“That’s not what I- sure. Okay.” Tommy would have rolled his eyes if he had the energy. “Yeah, if that’s what stops you from hurting yourself, go with it.”

Dream ignored him, like how he ignored anything Tommy said or did that didn’t play into his delusions- and he didn’t fucking say that to be disparaging, he said that because that’s what he and Puffy had been reading about in one of those big old dumb textbooks, to try and figure out what the fuck was wrong with him. He knew how fucking suffocating they were, and he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. In fact, he was currently wishing it to stop happening to his worst enemy because at least if he was normal Tommy knew what pain to expect.

Instead, he muttered a prayer under his breath, head bowed, eyes averted yet occasionally glancing at Tommy with the same reverent look when he thought he wasn’t watching, and Tommy felt the same skin crawling sensation as he always did. He wasn’t a fucking Prime, so this was an insult of the highest order to everything he believed in- everything Dream believed in. It was a heresy of the highest order.

Tommy groaned and wished he was dead instead.

#My writing #primeboys (derogatory)#tw abuse #tw religious themes #Tw kidnapping #tw restraints #tw isolatiom #tw referenced self harm #Tw referenced self hatred #tw forced sedation

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aftgficrec · 6 days

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My favorite fics are soft andriel, and teen andriel.

Here’s my recs:

Raised on little light by maqicien

Falling is a lot like drowning by chaoticas_hell

This wasn’t in the prophecy (series) by Arirmis

(Account locked) Raise me up so you can watch me fall by Yes_No_ofcourse

And this last one is angst and dark but I do love it

Hiding scars under exy gear By rinz

Wow, that’s a lot of recs in one submission! Usually we just get one or two 🤣. - S

You can find some of those fics here:

‘Raised on Little Light’ here (since updated)

‘Falling Is A Lot Like Drowning’ here (since updated)

‘Raise me up so you can watch me fall’ here (locked, now complete)

This wasn’t in the prophecy by Arirmis [Rated T/M, 73294 words, incomplete, last updated Feb 2024]

Percy Jackson AU where all of the foxes are demigods, Andrew meets Neil shortly after his mom dies, and joins him on the run instead of going back to camp. Part one spans from their first meeting to their first kiss; Part two will take place a few years later, when certain circumstances force them to return to camp, and Andrew has to deal with what he left behind, on top of their current problem. While both fics should be able to be read individually, it does make more sense if you read them in order :)

Part 1: Cross your fingers, here we go (T, 25037 words, complete)

Millport is a horrible, dry as fuck little town in the vast nothingness of the dust hole that is Arizona, and Andrew hates it with vigor. He has been tracking a horde of Manticores for weeks now, and isn’t that something? A half-blood having to chase after the monsters. He is starting to feel like one of Renee’s hunters, when Andrew is pretty sure the nasty scorpion-cats should want to kill him more then he wants to kill them. Or, Andrew expected to find all sorts of things on his first quest. He didn’t expect a twitchy, blue-eyed half-blood with monsters on his heels, and he surely didn’t expect to fall in love with him.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death

Part 2: Mortal Bodies, Timeless Souls (M, 48257 words, incomplete)

„Minyard! Get your ass up and put some armor on! Abby, Greene, get the infirmary in shape, border control just spotted a motherfucking Drakon in the woods!“ As if Wymack’s order triggered it, a ear grating screech echoes all the way to the big house. The camp counselor curses. „Move it people, there are half-bloods out there that need to get to safety!“ Or, for two and a half years, Aaron has been grieving the brother he buried, only to learn now, that Andrew is very much alive. He also has a scarred little shithead in tow, that Aaron wants to punch in the face regularily. Life is fun like that.

tw: blood, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death, tw: vomit

Hiding scars (under exy gear) by rinz [Rated M, 34309 words, incomplete, last updated March 2024]

Juggling a mobster serial killer household and high school is harder than Neil had anticipated. and that goth kid on the roof really needs to mind his own business. OR a high school AU where neil and mary never run from nathan and neil meets the foxes in private high school instead.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: imlied/referenced torture, tw: graphic violence

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minusgangtime · 7 months

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(TW: Self harm and scars)

(*Doomsdays your Beta*)

(Transparent alt below-)

#mod's art #tw self harm #tw scars #i think i did a good job with this :>#anyways- this is referencing the doomsday cover i did with beta

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l3o-lion · 5 months

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TW: self harm

Alt version of this :]

This slight change from the other version is fanart for a fic by @hamletisabitch that I've reread a couple times now.

You can read the fic here! Major trigger warning for self harm.

#og leo post #my art #leo vents #sorta #implied/referenced self harm #self harm cw #self harm tw #injury #blood #only a tiny bit #i could've gone way further with the blood considering the sverety of the wound but I didn't #didn't feel like making it too gory/bloody

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philsleftnut · 2 years

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I Wish My Father Loved Me.

Chapter Summary: Steve’s parents meet him at his house after the Battle with Vecna. Notes: I actually have a funky little playlist I made while I wrote it. If you wanna take a listen.

Find me on Ao3!

Word Count: 4963 Tags: Angst, hurt/no comfort, themes of abuse, face grabbing, choking, hair pulling, degradation/belittling, PTSD.

Wind blew through the crack in Steve’s car window. There was a quiet hum of music that played through his car speakers. He couldn’t even hear it over his clogged, ringing ears, but he acknowledged it's calming presence. The wind brushed the greasy, unwashed, tainted hair out of his face. Tickled across the red bruising on his neck and mud caked face and skin. It swam into his eyes, drying them out in a foolish attempt to keep them open while he drove. They drooped low, seconds away from closing. Steve was afraid his tiredness might cause him to actually fall asleep behind the wheel. He shut them tightly for a second, blinking them open wildly, staring out his windshield to the pitch black empty road in front of him. Lit by his headlights alone.

He looked over at his dash, the time reading just a little past five o’ clock. In the morning. It was so late, well early. He’d been up since two days ago, preparing weapons, stealing vehicles, fighting demons you should only hear about in your nightmares. Yet here he was covered in the blood, sweat, tears of those exact dreams. And now he was driving home so casually, exactly like he hadn’t.

People died. And Steve was driving home.

Steve took one of his hands off the wheel dragging it down his dirty face, like his hand wasn’t just as. He could taste bile in his mouth. It combined with the muck that caught on his lip and dissolved in his mouth. He turned and spat it out the window. Saliva just continued to collect. He chose to swallow it this time, and all it wanted to travel all the way from his stomach, up his esophagus, and back out of his mouth. Onto the dash. But he couldn’t. Not now. It wasn’t his time.

Right now Steve had to focus on keeping his eyes open long enough to not crash his car before getting to his driveway. The familiar crackle of his neighborhood street could be heard under his tires when he turned. He slowed his driving, knowing when to stop. Steve stops a house early. His way too tired eyes are making images appear that aren’t there. He rubbed hard circles into them, looking back at his house. Nope, still there. A car. There was another car in his driveway. And it belonged to his father. He already begrudgingly started his car back up, driving up into his spot next to the second car. Steve just stared through his passenger side window at the vehicle. His mother's sunglasses hang from the center mirror. Along with a tassel for a graduation cap of the year he graduated. It didn’t belong to his cap. It was bought second handedly, almost not at all. There was luggage packed into the back seat. They hadn’t even bothered to pretend like they were staying. Steve had to wonder if they were home out of concern for him, or simply their own image. It made sense that they had returned home. Hawkin’s had gone through one of the biggest tragedies since the “mall fire”. God forbid his parents not be around to dote on little old Steve for their gracious community to see.

He shook his head, laughing to himself and turned his car off. Five a.m. It’s early. Early enough that there was time to wash the Upside Down off of him. Cover up the bruises. Act like he’d been asleep in his bedroom this entire time before they even woke up. If they asked where his car was he’d just say he had lent it to Robin or Nancy or something way more believable in the morning.

Moving out of his car was hard. His whole body ached. Simply opening the door used more strength than he was willing to admit. He pathetically pushed it open, swinging his legs to the side to step out. Sucking through his teeth at his fatigue. He sntached the keys out of the ignition and got out of his car, closing and locking his door as quietly as he could. Each step toward his front door was worse than the last. Like his body knew he was getting closer and closer to a bed, to losing adrenaline.

His thighs burned through the porch steps, and the walk to his door. It shot up his spine, leaving him in an uncomfortable bent position as he unlocked it. The second he heard the click, the knob turned and he’s using nothing but his body weight to push the door open. His feet followed by muscle memory. Steve shut the door with his back, placing a hand behind him to quiet the blow to not wake his parents. His legs wobbled. They might as well give out underneath him. Steve let them, just for a moment. He slid down onto the ground, legs falling out in front of him. He tilted his head back to rest against the door, arms lax to his sides and falling to the floor. It’s the first time he thinks he’s sat down without actively trying to focus on something in the last two days.

“Steven?”

Steve gained a sudden shot of energy. His head jerked up from its position, and he raised his eyebrow. Someone was in his dining room. And Steve would have normally ran to his room or car to get one of his well used bats if the voice didn’t sound suspiciously like his mother. Steve tilted his body to the side, looking down the hallway, and into the room where the light was on. He hadn’t even noticed it when he entered. From his place on the floor he could only see a pair of feet coupled with a pair of legs across the table.

He slumped the rest of his torso onto the ground. He wanted to just let the linoleum suck him in. Let him disappear. Because of course they were both awake and waiting for him. Pretending like they cared. At least the cold floor gave him something he needed. He pressed his cheek into it, curling his face further into its coolness. His dirty exterior was getting everywhere. Falling off of him and creating a ring around him. His face was a paintbrush and the floor his canvas while he felt the cold stimulate his nerves. There was an anxiety that was calming, but he couldn’t tell which one. The one he had just ran away from, or the one he had just run into.

Shoes stopped at the tip of his nose. His eyes raked up the body in front of him. Brown loafers, khakis, brown leather belt, with a blue dress shirt tucked into a nice lovely package that was his father. His arms were crossed across his chest, with a stern look across his face. Steve knew his father hated how late he stayed out. And he knew he hated catching him even more. Have to keep up appearances for those college apps, right dad?

And here Steve was, laid in front of their front door, looking as if he had just crawled out of a grave, wearing nothing his parents would consider presentable, at five in the morning.

Steve turned his head to look at his father. He plastered a smile wide on his face, as if nothing was wrong, “Hi daddy.”

“Get the fuck-” His father mumbled before reaching down, grabbing Steve by the vest, and pulling him up to his feet. Steve’s body is limp. He couldn’t have much of a reaction if he tried. He let him push him into the wall behind him. He let him hold him just a few inches off the ground. He would let his dad do anything right about now.

His arms go up instinctively. He dropped his keys to the ground, and fell to submission. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay” Steve whispered quickly. It was an apology without actually saying it.

The breath of his fathers is right up on his face. It smelt like pure tobacco and wine. His mint toothpaste covered up some of the smell. He was probably drinking it with his mom. They could finish a whole bottle off pretty nicely. Smoke a pack. Call it a day. Steve turned his face toward the door as his father's face inched closer. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited.

“Not okay, open your eyes.” Pressing his forearm into his chest to hold him, he grabbed Steve's chin with his other hand, pulling it to face him. His cheeks squished together through his father's fingers. Fingerprints melted into his jaw. Steve blinked his eyes open, avoiding any sort of eye contact. “Hey. Hey!”

He pushed him further into the door. Steve winced, shutting his eyes again tightly. “You look at me when I talk to you.”

A part of Steve feared his hand wasn’t gonna stop at his face. The things he said would just anger his father off enough one day he would drop it down to the giving space around his neck. Push against Steve's windpipe until he couldn’t respond. His brain would lose enough air that the only thing he left he knew was ‘yes sir, no sir, I’m sorry for everything sir.’ And an even worse part of Steve wanted it to happen.

He opened his eyes in defeat, “yes sir.” staring down at his father. Steve looked dead into his dad’s eyes. Him looking back into his. His father's eyes were dark, like all empathy for the person in front of him had left a long time ago. Steve tried to find it. He searched. He swore he did. Maybe some time ago he would’ve spent more time. But he heard the patter of his mother's feet down the hallway and his eyes tore away and over his father's shoulder.

The hold on his chin was still strong. Dad’s arm wavered, losing the strength holding Steve in the air against the surface. A small act of weakness. Never to be seen again. He was thrown from the door by his jaw back onto the ground. He crumpled, looking up as his father stood above him.

“Do you know what time it is? Where have you been Steve? Why in the world do you look like this, and at this fucking hour?” he spat, questions one right after the other.

Steve’s mom came up timidly behind his dad. She was a good few inches shorter than him when she wasn’t in her heels. She wrapped her arm around his gently. She stood above Steve now too. “We were really worried about you sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Love. Baby. Dear. Angel. Steven. It was endearing. It wasn't real.

He didn’t have an answer either. Not a good one. He smoothed his jaw and maneuvered himself back into sitting against the door. Legs into his chest, arms resting on his knees. “I mean, you probably saw the news right? Hawkins just fell in a major way, kind of hard not to get caught up in at least some of it.” That wasn’t entirely a lie.

His father scoffed, “Some of it? You look like you caused it. What, were you right dead in the center of it?” And that wasn’t either. Steve had been in the middle of taking down Vecna, causing the four point intersection of gates to open directly in the middle of Hawkins. How do you explain that to your parents? They already didn’t believe a word out of his mouth.

He opened his mouth to explain away further but his father just continued, “And what's with the damn JROTC getup? It looks stupid on you. Practically swallowing you up.” He walked away from his mother's grip and crouched down to Steve’s level. Steve stared at him afraid to look away. His mouth still open, ready to defend himself against nothing. His dad dragged a slow finger along the cloth of his forearm. “You’re so dirty Steven, how about you tell us the truth?”

Steve raised his arm, speaking with his hand. “The army is here, so the-” there was an abrupt smack as his father gripped his wrist. He held it tightly in place in the air. Every single touch from him seared its way onto Steve’s skin. He swore every time there were going to be red aching burn marks.

“Oh! The army is here! So you couldn’t even defend yourself, had to get the army to save our poor little Stevie.” Steve grazed his eyes from his wrist to his father's empty eyes and over to his mother. Their eyes met. His tired, scared, beautiful eyes. To her pitiful ones. His mother leant against the wall, watching. She looked as if she had words on the tip of her tongue. If she truly wanted to stop him. She would.

He ripped his arm from his father's grasp. “If you would let me explain sir,” He scrambled to his feet, almost knocking his father over in the process. There were two seconds where Steve looked down and his father looked up. And Steve stood over him.

Then his body ached, his wrist and jaw throbbed. His neck pricked in the memory of his ventures the days before. Steve’s legs were moments from giving out again. Dad standing next to him, they came to about the same height. His father standing a few centimeters taller. He glanced between the three of them for a moment. It was quiet. They were angry. And Steve was. Well Steve was.

He huffed and walked the three of them into their dining room. Steve sat in the chair at the head. A seat normally reserved for someone with great importance. Head of the family. When Steve sat there during times like these; it was more a seat of shame. His parents in the surrounding seats scolding him for the things he’s done. They sat down in their seats they had previously made comfortable and waited.

This was it. The moment Steve hated the most. The moment when the next few words were either taken with grace, or out of context. All depending on how his parents decided to wake up and feel about him that day.

“I’m sorry sir, for coming home so late.” An apology. Good start. “And dirty.” He added quickly. “I went out with Robin, Nancy, and some others earlier today before the earthquake. While we were out the earthquakes started and as I said we got caught up in some of it. It was kind of hard not to miss it. The car is fine, I got some minor injuries, my clothes got kind of messed up, which is why I had to get a change of clothes. And the army and the homeless shelters set up at the high school are here, which is why they look like, well, this.” Steve said, in all one breath. Inhaling another huge one after he had finished. His eyes wide as he looked for a reaction from his parents.

His mother stared at her manicured nails. Peeling the skin around them. She was thinking, except she wouldn’t speak before his father would. His father held a hand to his mouth, staring at him with disbelieving, disproportionately wide eyes. He barked out a laugh. Steve flinched. “If that isn’t the largest crock of shit I’ve ever heard.”

“Well I don’t think that it’s too unbelieva-” she started.

“For the love of God, don’t humor him.” He put his hand up to quiet her. He kept his glare at Steve. “After all the trouble you’ve put us through the past few years, you really expect me to believe that your story is that simple? That moronically put together?”

She pursed her lips, and stuck her fingers in her mouth chewing on the skin around them. A nervous habit. Steve felt a twinge in his heart for his mother. The small indications of submission to his father they both admitted to. She would never say it aloud. And neither would he.

Steve rucked his hands through his mucky hair, letting it fall back into his face. A nervous habit. “I-I don’t know wh-what you want me to say dad.” Voice wavering.

“I-I-I, want you to tell me the goddamned truth!” He said, mocking the fear in Steve’s voice. His hand slapping the table to accentuate his words. Both Steve and his mother cringed away from the loud noise.

“I am!” Steve defended. Leaning back in his chair, back hitting the frame. “There’s nothing more to say, I promise!”

There truly wasn’t. There wasn’t anymore to tell. Vecna pressed on him like an aching nerve. He couldn’t move without a nagging ping of remembrance. The people who he fought with. The people who he loved so painstakingly. And the people who died. Steve didn’t have the words to even articulate what he had been through in the last 72 hours to himself let alone to his wanting father.

“Steven I swear to go-”

He was tired. He was in pain. His fear bubbled into an uncontrolled anger. He couldn't blame himself for saying what he said. “Dude just let it go, this one fucking time!”

That’s all it took.

His mother widened her eyes, spit ridden fingers, slowly falling out. “Steven…” She whispered. It was a warning. Only one her and Steve could hear.

Before she could stop him, his father darted out of his seat and over to Steve. Hand gripped around his throat pinning him to the back of the chair. Finally.

It rubbed his already red neck raw. “Is that the kind of respect we give in this house? The kind you think I deserve?” He pierced his nails into the skin on the sides of his neck. Crushing his trachea. Steve couldn’t talk, there was no answering him anymore, just listening. “What have I told you about talking to me like that? Like I’m one of your goddamn sorry ass friends.”

Steve fumbled with his hands, wrapping them around his dad’s wrist. There was an attempt at pulling them away but his father was stronger, pressing harder. Steve’s mouth was open, his throat contracted trying to let out a word. All that was heard was a choked out whimper. He rolled his eyes around staring at his ceiling, his mouth clamped down, almost locking on his tongue, biting. A small amount of blood filled with the collecting saliva.

His thoughts wandered with his breath. Thinking that maybe if he tried answering he could gain at least some control back. Steve inhaled through his nose, the air getting caught where his father's hand started. He opened his mouth, teeth glistening with his own blood. The noise he let out was pathetic, “It’s-it.”

“It’s a bad look. That’s right.”

There was a shock of relief in his chest as his dad let him get a singular breath in. It singed his lungs, he was so desperate for air he breathed in everything in his mouth. Steve tried coughing out the blood, spit, dirt that entered him, but it was blocked again in an instant.

His hands pushed, pulled, tore against his father's wrist, tearing at the skin, there was no moving it. He was weak and unprepared against his father. His face was flushing, the fingerprints bruising into his neck. He couldn’t find another choice but to limp his entire body. Held to the chair, the universe by his father's hand. What he wanted, Steve was willing to give.

Steve dropped his arms and they settled next to him. He relaxed his body, small whimpers searching for breath that weren’t coming.

“Look at that. Our little boy is finally learning his place.” His dad’s face inches away, breathing the words onto his cheek. Mocking. His hand slowly let go of Steve’s throat. Red hand print painted across. “Be a good boy and keep it that way.” He tapped Steve’s cheek quickly, “disrespectful piece of shit.”

He stood. Steve fell forward, coughing. His hand coming up to his mouth catching all that was in his mouth, anything that was willing to come up.

His bloodshot eyes met his mothers gorgeous ones for the final time. They were empty. Sympathetic. In a way Steve didn’t need them to be. “Steven, please it doesn’t have to be like this.” She said, in her voice, that only he could hear.

“No, please mom,” He rasped out, voice raw. “Stop, just stop.” Steve leaned over the table rubbing his sore neck, attempting to swallow, attempting to breathe.

His father placed two hands on the table beside him, inching closer to Steve leaning into him. “I’m going to give you one more chance to explain yourself.” He talked slowly, threatening.

Steve shut his eyes. “I already told you what happened.” All he could see was the flashes of things he couldn’t explain. Ethereal things, other dimensional things that haunt the back of his head. And his father. He sighed out shakily. “I don’t know how to get you to believe me sir , but it’s the truth.”

“I bet you were a part of that satanic Hellfire shit. Following that freak murderer Edward Munson around like a lost puppy, huh?”

Eddie.

People died.

Eddie, Max, half of fucking hawkins.

“Don’t talk about Edd-”

“No? Why? You have something to say about what you were doing Eddie ?” His voice was low in Steve's. Implication shooting through his veins. He was testing Steve. Trying to get him to blow again. Pushing his limits through the fucking roof so he could have a chance to reprimand him. He loved it. He had an image to uphold. And beating the image into Steve was his favorite pastime.

Steve knew what his dad wanted. He wanted to give it to him. Some sick, twisted part of him needed to be choked, slapped, spit on, and told what to do.

He wasn’t good friends with Eddie. They had maybe three conversations in total. Yet, walking back up to Dustin Henderson holding the 20-year-old corpse shattered a huge part of his heart. Steve imagined he would never get those parts back.

Steve looked over to his dad, his holed out eyes. He made a quick decision. “No. No sir.” His breathing still ragged, he tried calming it.

“Good.”

“Good.” Steve repeated.

His father straightened. He looked down at Steve. Witnessing the mess he’s made. The expression on his face is almost jovial. Steve wished he had the strength to reach up and wipe the damn thing off. But all he could do was wait for his father's instruction, who had moved his eyes over to his mother. Having a silent conversation. Deciding what to do with the pathetic little boy sitting at the table before them.

Steve dropped his head, his breath shook, dripping sweat onto the tablecloth below him. If he thought hard enough tears might begin to join them. He refused to cry in front of his father. He felt them burning onto his waterline. He began to look up to stop them, his father finishing the job, pulling his head up to look directly at him by his hair.

He leaned into Steve’s face. “We’re not done, we’ll finish this conversation in the morning.” He let go of Steve's hair, tossing his head back down. “Now get the fuck out of my face.”

Steve didn’t respond. He didn’t look at his father. He didn’t look at his mother. He pushed his hands against the edge of the table and got up. Walked out of his dining room, down the hallway, and to the end of the stairs. He didn’t exactly know what energy was making his movement capable. He couldn’t feel his feet. Some smarter part of him allowed him to walk without permission, he thanked it.

He held the railing at the bottom of stairs, about to go up them he caught a glimpse of his parents arguing. Faint whispering, “We shouldn’t of even come back,”

“That’s not fair-”

“Why are you always defending him, it’s not like he has any respect for us anyway.” His father spat back. “The way that boy parades around, making us look bad, the company look bad, hell the entirety of Hawkins is an embarrassment.”

His mother sighed. He could hear the scraping of her chair as she stood. “If you think you’re any better than him you’re lying to yourself.”

“Any better than him? What the hell does that mean?” He was angry, his voice was raising.

“You know exactly what I mean, don’t play fucking dumb. You may have Steven wrapped, but not me.”

That stung. His moms admittance to being better than him. Handling his father. He wasn’t allowed to say the things she could when they were alone. Because he had cheated on her, and she held it over his head. Steve was just a child who watched and got abused. He would never be on her level.

His father's voice gained more volume, “Watch your damn mouth,”

“Watch yours.”

There was a slamming noise. A hand slapping wood. A scare tactic. His dad never hit his mother, just him.

Steve’s body jumped, one foot on the bottom stair creaking. Fuck.

“Steven?” His mother called out.

He ran. He sprinted up the steps. Avoiding any contact with his parents. He could hear his mother following him down the hallway, continuing to call for him up the stairs. Ignoring her he found his bedroom, shutting the door abruptly. He stood in the middle frantically looking, like it was his first time he had ever been in the room. His eyes met the door the bathroom adjacent to his room and he headed over.

Steve shut the door to his bathroom quickly. It was completely dark. He doesn’t bother turning the light on. He took one long stride over to the sink, holding himself over it. His hair hung in front of his face, it brushed along his cheeks and nose. His hyperventilating breath pulled the hair in and out across his face. It tickled his senses, heightening them. Steve’s air came quickly, leaving just as fast. It hurt his lungs, burned his nose, his head started to lose circulation, it pricked, throbbed at his bones.

He had way too many clothes on. They weighed on him. Some throw away camouflage shirt. A brown leather jacket patterned with patches, with a green army vest with heavy pockets atop. His father was right. They didn’t belong on him. Ripped and bloodied. But Steve felt as if the only thing keeping him from collapsing was the sink beneath him. He couldn’t move to take them off. Stuck in heavy, wet, muddy clothes, pressing on his tender joints. All that was left with Steve was to take impossible breaths and feel every nerve inside of him light on fire. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want an answer. He just was. Steve always just was.

He glided his eyes to the mirror. He couldn’t really see himself. There was a low glow around his silhouette when his eyes adjusted to the darkness around. It was low. His body was slumped. The things he couldn’t see, but knew were there. Cuts, bruises, burns, thick dried blood sticking the strands of Steve’s hair together. Trauma etched into his pores. He was broken. Ready for the cracks to finally break apart at a moment's notice. His eyes began to collect tears once again. They were warm and unwelcome. Moistening his overly dry eyes. That hurt too. The heavy implication of what was behind them, not just the physical sting. The love his parents refused to give. Falling down his cheeks, and into the marble sink. Soaking into his lips. Steve could taste the nuance of the tears he shed for his parents, but the ones they never cried for him. It was disgusting. Tasted like the bile that was already rement in his mouth.

Steve swallowed the taste in his mouth. The salty water mixed with his saliva. His face cringed as he choked on it, got stuck in his throat, attempting to itch its way back up with the rest of his stomach contents. He took a deep breath, fighting his body, swallowed anyway. The acid burning down his throat.

He trained his eyes directly on his own in front of him. The shadow of a reflection that stared back at him. He couldn’t see much, but his eyes were noticeable. Dark and scared. Wet and streaming worthless tears. If eyes were the window to the soul, he was looking into one that was so utterly tortured. Behind his pupils Steve was screaming. And not a single soul could hear it. His mouth wide open, with no one willing to listen. His family locked him behind a cage a long time ago, and Hawkins threw away the key.

Steve wanted to let it out. Let out the voice no one wanted to hear.

Anger boiled in his nauseated stomach. His knuckles wrapped around his bathroom sink gripped tighter. His hands an irritated shade of red and white. Steve squinted his eyes at himself. Challenging. Tempting. There was something thrilling about the way his depression turned so quickly into anger. A self hatred that dug deeper than Steve was ever thought about admitting aloud.

It happened in seconds. His tear soaked face swung back. And then swung forward. He let out a winding yell as his forehead collided with the mirror in front of him. “Fuck!”

Glass cracked, skin cut, blood splattered. Steve kept his face attached to the mirror, regaining his breath.

And then he did it again.

And again.

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koscheiisms · 7 months

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Whumptober Days 4/5/6/7/8

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

a bit of a longer fic to accommodate the amount of days it’s covering! this takes place in a Good Omens AU called Reverse Wives, which is Ineffable Wives where Aziraphale fell instead of Crowley. you can find lots of information about it in the fic’s author notes!

“You in there?”/“It’s broken.”/“It should have been me”/“Can you hear me?”/“It’s all for nothing.”

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aquatic-blade-of-justice · 1 year

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Ow, ow, my hooves hurt so much.

#is that blood?#!keldeo #pokemon irl #pokeblog rp #pokeblogging #tw: referenced self harm

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j-c-nth · 1 year

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Hi! I mentioned (or maybe thought I mentioned 😳) that I had some snippets written for ltlyc that I'd be posting here! Here's one of them. It's pretty rough but I didn't want it to waste away in the twenty page cutting floor Google doc so here you go. Hope you enjoy!

This is set just minutes after the end of ltlyc so if you haven't finished yet watch out for spoilers!

The screams of humans and curses alike cut off abruptly as Hollow Purple rips through the station, sound waves shredded in the air in the wake of the utter annihilation Gojo unleashes upon the Patchface curse. Mt. Fuji-Head meets the same fate before he can fully realize what’s happened, before he can even begin to comprehend the weight of Gojo’s unleashed wrath.

Gojo senses movement behind him. He whips around with raised fingers to finally face what he hadn’t allowed himself to think about, hadn’t let himself see while Yuuji was being taken from him, crying for him, confessing his love to him.

He’s looking now, the full force of his Six Eyes turned upon cursed energy Gojo knows better than his own, a body Gojo knows every piece and part of.

It’s Suguru’s energy. Suguru’s body. Gojo’s Six Eyes are never wrong and they cannot lie to him.

His soul screams otherwise.

This is not Geto Suguru.

That is not Suguru’s smile, these are not Suguru’s actions. Those are not Suguru’s hands, plucking what Gojo now recognizes as the Prison Realm out of its pool of ichor and carelessly wiping it with a hanging sleeve.

The being wearing Suguru’s face tsks at him, mocks him, in Suguru’s voice, Prison Realm held up in front of itself like a shield as it backs into the service tunnel behind it. Gojo cannot attack it, cannot unleash his own power without risking destroying the cube and Yuuji, more precious than all of the world, contained within.

Gojo drops to his knees, blood splashing up around him, once the body of his best friend is gone, such agony in his chest that he claws at it, wants to break past the shell of his ribs to dig his fingers into the soft, red tissue beneath and tear the hurt out with his bare hands. He’s desperate; he wants to offer his heart up, raw and weeping, to any deity that will bring Yuuji back to him.

His phone dings, a soft chime, jarringly gentle in the screaming silence of Yuuji’s absence. The veil closing off the station must have fallen, restoring its service. Hours late, his screen lights up with a message:

‘scary movie 2nite? got u a surprise! c u soon’

Yuuji’s face beams out at him beneath the words, eyes shining in the way meant only for Gojo.

The sight of that smile tears through him, violent, and in its wake leaves clarity, sharp and cruel as a blade thrust.

There is no higher power in heaven or earth than Gojo Satoru himself.

He will be the one to pass down judgment, on every single curse and every single human that has conspired to take Yuuji from him.

Any kindness or mercy that may have existed in him is now locked away, caged alongside his heart in the Prison Realm.

This time, Gojo will be the one to reach out, hands and teeth bared, and take Yuuji back. No matter the cost. There is no god strong enough to save any who stand in his way.

#i don't really plan to write the period immediately after ltlyc #because like gojo if it ain't about yuuji i've lost interest #but i liked it for all that it's a little rough around the edges so hopefully you guys do too #ltlyc #ltlyc spoilers #gojo x itadori #goyuu #ltlyc extras #and just in case because it's referenced #tw self harm

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v4l3nt1n3-ventz · 11 months

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When your family picks on you and questions you for wearing a hoodie while it's hot outside and you can only respond with "it's too cold" cause if they saw what was underneath they'd have even more questions.

#vent #tw vent #mini vent #tw #vent tw #vent post #mental health decline #sh #declining mental health #self h@rm #s3lf harm #tw sh #sh tw #sh discussion #implied sh #sh implied #referenced sh

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doomednarrative · 11 months

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It’s ugly but it’s all I want <3

I posted this wip before but I'll do so again ~

Tbh this is a fic that's mostly some catharsis writing for me, but also for a bit of emotional vulnerability between Leon and Chris in the days where their relationship is really undefined but definitely past the point of just being friends. They have a talk about Leon's scars, namely ones that are over a decade old as a result of some post RC struggling on Leon's end, but also some other ones that he's accrued over the years and has always been hesitant to let other people see because he hates them and views them as something ugly. It's a moment for he and Chris to be a little open with each other even if Leon isn't really in the mood to discuss it.

#tw self harm #cause that is whats referenced here obviously #but yeah #leon clearly struggles a lot with alcohol later on but this was something specific claire and i have talked a lot about for our au stuff #i think its something he struggled with a bit post rc and then didnt really have time for once the government got him #but theyre old and he doesnt like talking about it and its a part of why he wears the gloves and jackets everywhere too #ask #answered #my writing

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sorryiwasasleep · 1 year

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In this world, Mirabel Madrigal never sees the cracks.

Things don't change, and she gets left behind, because what else is new?

Mirabel is sick of it.

She doesn't feel like stepping aside. She doesn't feel like doing anything

She takes matters into her own hands.

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 2 years

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you: tommy being soulmates with someone that will put him into a hedgehog hug situation

me: tommy and eryn would be funny but also eryn might be posseggssed so still funny!

Okay yeah thatd be very funny but me being me I also have to point out how angsty that would also be.

Because, picture this. You make a friend when you're little, and when you're playing, when you get scrapes so does he. You know from your parents this means you're soulmates, the most important people in each others lives. You're warned to keep an eye on each other, for if one loses a life so will the other.

Time goes on, and after your village is burnt down, you lose contact with your soulmate, but each bruise and scrape he gets from his carelessness shows up on you and it makes you smile. He's still going strong, huh?

And then one day, you die. No warning, nothing, as a phantom sword cleaves through you. And immediately, you know what this means, and that pisses you off more than losing a life. You're a big kid, you can handle that (you can't, but you tell yourself that) but your friend was charming and loud and how could anyone extinguish that flame? Before the anger fades, again you die, an arrow through the head that still aches days, months, years later, and theres nothing you can do because you have no clue where the fuck your soulmate is.

Over time, things get worse. You feel phantom stabbing hunger, bumps stop being patched up, exhaustion rolls through you even as you sleep more. It's gradual until it's not and then for what may be weeks or maybe months but feels like agonising years your flesh is scarred over by constant injuries from what must be weaponry, you stop counting the numbers of bruises and instead the skin that remains, you grow used to drowning in air, and you're not sure whether the claw marks on your skin are ones you made in blind panic or ones he made for whatever reason. It stops as abruptly as it started and you're left with a dull agony through your nerves that leaves you shaking and weak.

You, of course, learn to adapt. Your employers wouldn't be much pleased, otherwise. Still, you hate and fear whatever did this to your soulmate. Once you get enough, you're going to use that money to find out who did this and make them suffer a thosuandfold what they did to you two.

And then you die again.

It is not quick but agonising like the last times. No, this one is painfully slow, bones breaking again and again until the life being squeezed out of you almost feels merciful, and you're in a dark void with him.

You only recognise him because he shares your scars. Everything else is different- he's taller, but somehow scrawnier. His wild hair is shorter, though still long, and without dirt matting it it is a much lighter blond than you expected. Skin that was once sunburnt is now pallid, eyes that were once an electric blue so dull they were almost black. He flinches violently when you pull him into a hug.

Time is meaningless there, but it takes far too long and far too little before you're abruptly pulled back into your corpse, arm covered in mysterious vines and thrown out for the wolves. Too long, because each second was an agonising torture both physically and mentally, too little, because all you could get from your soulmate between the sobbing and terror was something about the Dream SMP. Checking your communicator, it's a long, long way from where you're at, a few months walking, and you make the trip without hesitation. Your soulmate needs you.

#Dream smp #dream smp au #platonic soulmate au #tw violence #tw graphic description of injuries #tw abuse #tw referenced self harm #tw murder

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aftgficrec · 8 days

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oh i caught you open! can we get some either andrew & kevin or neil & kevin being best friends and supporting each other? i feel like they're not explored enough and the potential is right there :)

Luckily, Kevin and Andrew’ friendship is a topic the fandom is pretty interested in. So much so that we’ve split this ask. In this post we’re concentrating entirely on Andrew and Kevin, Neil & Kevin’s friendship will be addressed in another ask. - S

Some previous recs:

Andrew & Kevin’s friendship here

Kevin & Andrew’s relationship here

Kevin as Andrew’s best friend here

Kevin’s friendship with Andreil here

‘Where The Wild Things Are’ here

‘I know that you'll come if you want’ here

‘N for nebulous’, ‘And Then There Was One’ and ‘Wear it to Eden's’ here

‘Reckless’ here

‘Trust Me’ here

‘Searchlights’ here

‘fugue in red’ here

splinters beneath our nails by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 3719 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew hasn’t decided what to do about Kevin Day. A few days ago, he’d have said that Kevin was dead to him. If things had gone differently, that might still be true. Today, he walks up to the car and throws open the door.

Not again by LetThemCuddle [Rated G, 698 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew circled the stony striker when silence answered him. “Hello? Anybody home? The answer is yes, a lot of nobodies, just one is missing. I’ll give you three guesses.” “Pass.” “Never took you for a quitter. This is quite refreshing.” The goalie quipped, lighting a smoke. “Come on, the cars’ still running.” “I’m going to stay here.” Kevin’s quiet voice echoed through the abandoned stadium. Somber, lacking the usual spiteful energy he towed.

right on time by dayurno [Not Rated, 10915 words, complete, Aftg Mixtape Exchange 2023]

"Has your Butcher called back yet?" Oh. “No,” Kevin replies, frowning slightly. “It’s understandable. He is a busy man.” “Kevin Day making excuses,” pulling away, Andrew puts down, “at this rate, you might just write his name on the margins of your books with hearts around it.” “What? No, why would I do that?” “Why wouldn’t you?” Kevin gives him a perplexed look. “Andrew, do you think I like the Butcher of Baltimore?” Alternatively, when the Butcher of Baltimore issues an order for his subordinates to bring him his childhood idol, he forgets what his choice of career entails. Kevin would hold it against him if he didn't find the man so fascinating.

tw: (accidental) kidnapping

Rescue Me by Demiwitchwoodwalker [Rated T, 4564 words, complete, 2022]

“I can protect you, from him and yourself,” Andrew said in a tone Kevin couldn’t quite place after a long moment filled with nothing but the muffled noise of the game playing on Kevin’s laptop. “I can help you stay instead of running further or back.” Kevin stared at him then, finally letting himself actually look at him, and the same feeling from before returned, feeling like a hand clenched itself around his lungs and heart. He pushed his laptop closed, the game’s audio abruptly cutting off, and turned slightly to face Andrew, whose expression had shifted back into the grin that seemed to constantly be present in the day and whose eyes looked almost dead. Kevin’s lips parted, words rising in the back of his throat, but he couldn’t get them past his tongue. How was he supposed to do this? The memory of Andrew the night before floated through his mind again, when he was as close to sober as he could get, more vulnerable than Kevin felt he’d ever seen a person despite the fact that Kevin was the one halfway through a breakdown. "Why?" --- Aka, how Kevin and Andrew make their deal. (Potential triggers are listed in the tags, please be careful!)

tw: self harm, tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced suicidal thoughts

The Tide by zoeellendraws [Rated G, 20473 words, complete, 2022]

Kevin and Andrew participate in a showcase that could make or break their ballet careers and discover a promising new talent in the process. Or Mysterious Ballet AU

tw: implied/referenced violence

I came for the safety (stayed 'cause you made me feel) by Charcoalll [Rated M, 4621 words, complete, 2021]

“Day? We’re gonna get you out of here okay? Minyard’s gonna make sure you get out of here and down to the bus” Kevin looked over Wymack’s shoulder where he could see the figure of the small blonde man. Kevin nodded, how could he do anything but nod? These people were sticking out their neck for him in a way he couldn’t remember anyone doing before. No words could ever describe his thankfulness. Or: A little glimpse into Andrew and Kevin's relationship before, during and after AftG.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced alcohol abuse

biting down by vincevangothh [Rated T, 2257 words, complete, Aftg Exchange 2017]

kevin learns that in order to understand something, you have to allow yourself to learn, and talks to andrew about neil. '“Did I or did I not tell you that you have asked as many free questions as you are permitted to today?” This time, as Andrew snaps, Kevin hears it. “Free?” he asks around a mouthful of rice, swallowing hastily before he continues. “So if I give you something, I can ask more?” It's a rhetorical question, but Andrew grants him a small nod anyway. “Neil and I have - had - a thing.” Kevin agonisingly anticipates his next words as Andrew scoops up another mouthful of food. Static silence stretches out between them until he swallows again. “Truth for truth. For everything you ask me, I ask you something.” “Deal.”'

Reasons by orphan_account [Rated T, 1895 words, complete, 2016]

“You took me with you when you recruited him,” Andrew muttered, but he knew Kevin was listening. They both knew that it was the closest Andrew could get to a thank you, so they both kept quiet. A list of the times Andrew met Kevin, interwoven with the list of times Andrew met Neil.

Kevin, Andrew and their friendship by @andrews-jort-loving-pipe-dream [tumblr, 2023]

“Why are we here?” “I'm here because it's Josten's birthday next week. You're here because you can't be alone.”

Andrew and Kevin watching a movie together after one of them wakes up from a nightmare. by @foxesbettingpool [tumblr, 2018]

He’d been up the majority of the night, wasting away on a bean bag chair with textbooks, papers, and a mountain of notes surrounding him.

tw: nightmares

Future Andrew & Kevin hc by @thepalmtoptiger [tumblr, 2018]

Andrew and Kevin stay close friends after leaving the Foxes and going pro.

Kevin asks Andrew to be his best man hc by @palmettofoxden [tumblr, 2017]

Kevin asks Andrew to be his best man at his wedding and Andrew just stands up and walks out of the room without answering or even reacting.

Art

andrew & kevin brotp edit by @mint-and-memories

Andrew and Kevin meme art by @foxhole-doodles

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