#tw: suicidal ideation

[noahsresources]

hurt/comfort statements that hit me right in the feels.

pardon me please, i'm just having a moment. possible tw for suicidal ideation and references to death and loss. bonus points for specifying a scenario!

from those who are struggling. ❝ i never thought i'd ever make it this far. ❞ ❝ ... when were you going to tell me about this? ❞ ❝ i don't ever want you to die. please ... don't die ... ❞ ❝ we had our whole lives planned out. ❞ ❝ i just can't, it's too much. it's too fucking much. ❞ ❝ losing him/her/them was the cruelest thing i've ever experienced. ❞ ❝ people say things like, 'you're going green with envy', or 'there's smoke coming out of your ears'. you think they'd come up with a statement like that that describes someone who's in constant pain like this ... ? ❞ ❝ sometimes you need to make room for grief. make time for it. embrace it. it's all i've been doing as of late. ❞ ❝ how is it possible to hurt this much when nothing's wrong? ❞ ❝ drowning in sadness is more fulfilling than drowning in pleasure these days. ❞ ❝ it's hard to let go of the fact that i'm probably going to outlive everyone else in my life. ❞ ❝ i've already lost everything near and dear to my heart. everything except for you. ❞ ❝ i'm just so tired. i just want to go to sleep and never wake up again. ❞ ❝ i was so close to giving up once. ❞ ❝ i don't want him/her/them to die alone. i'd never forgive myself. ❞ ❝ please, don't go ... i just need to feel your arms around me ... ❞ ❝ there's a reason why i hide my emotions locked in a metal cage so deep in my heart. it's so i won't get hurt like this again. ❞ ❝ i've always had to deal with these kinds of things alone. i don't need your help. ❞ ❝ it was my fault. i did this to him/her/them ... ❞ ❝ i can't even see my future anymore. i don't want to. ❞ ❝ there's no way i could possibly be this important to you. ❞ ❝ if i lose him/her/them, then there'll be nothing else for me to live for. ❞ ❝ i don't see a point anymore. in going on, i mean. ❞ ❝ time won't slow down. it never does. i had to learn that the hard way early on. ❞ ❝ go away ... please, just go away. ❞

from those offering support. ❝ ... i'm sorry. i'm so, so fucking sorry that you had to lose him/her/them. ❞ ❝ it wasn't your fault. you did everything you could. ❞ ❝ just remember they'll always be in your heart. ❞ ❝ i don't know what to say to make you feel better, but ... i'm here for you, if that means anything. ❞ ❝ believe it or not ... i know how you feel. i've been through this exact same thing. ❞ ❝ he/she/they loved you. he/she/they loved you so much. trust me ... i know. ❞ ❝ you're not alone. i promise you, you're not alone. ❞ ❝ don't worry, i'll stay. i'm not going anywhere. ❞ ❝ you've been through so much ... be kind to yourself. please. ❞ ❝ it's okay to cry. you don't have to hide your emotions around me. ❞ ❝ you don't have to talk to me. hell, you don't even have to look at me. but, please ... give me a sign that you're hearing what i have to say. ❞ ❝ please ... don't tell me that you'd choose to spend eternity up there with him/her/them over an eternity with me ... ❞ ❝ you're grieving. it's an understandable reaction. but you should rest. you've been overexerting yourself far too much lately. ❞ ❝ the man/woman/person who you lost, who loved you ... he/she/they wouldn't want to see you doing this to yourself. ❞ ❝ crying is your body's way of telling you that you've been keeping everything in for way too long. so let it out. you're safe here. ❞ ❝ sadness is like an ocean. sometimes we drown in it, but other times, we're forced to swim in it. ❞ ❝ as long as i'm here, you'll never not have anyone ever again. ❞ ❝ i hope you know that you can talk to me about anything at all. share anything you need to get off your chest. i'm here for you. ❞ ❝ love is often felt the most in your favorite memories. honor him/her/them by remembering all the happiness he/she/they gave you. ❞ ❝ if you don't feel strong right now, then you don't have to be strong. it's okay to be vulnerable, weak, scared, and sad. ❞

#rp ask memes #rp ask meme #rp memes #rp meme #rp starters #rp starter #ask meme #ask memes #angst prompt #angst prompts #angst meme #angst memes #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: sui ideation #tw: implied death #tw: death #angst #memes #mine #ask to tag

[withacapitalp]

Countdown Pt 3

Part One Part Two

Tw: Slight suicidal ideation and general grieving

--------------------------------------

They only carry a couple things with them on the run. 

Surviving the apocalypse isn’t pretty, and it’s easier to make a quick escape if they’re always traveling light. Essentials only, with a few sentimental items so they don’t completely lose their minds. 

Nancy had her journals, Max had her skateboard (even if she couldn’t use it right now), Will brought a pack of colored pencils, and Steve was pretty sure Hopper had somehow saved a half a pack of smokes. 

And Steve….Steve has a shoebox. 

It’s an old thing, held together with duct tape and decorated with sharpie doodles. Wayne had given it to him right before he left town, along with the necklace that Steve kept around his neck every moment of every day. 

He’s never let any of them look in it. They think he’s insane, but they’re not the ones with zeroed out timers.

This shoebox is all he has left of his soulmate. 

What’s inside would seem like junk to most people. A handful of rocks of varying size, shapes, and colors. A leather cuff with spikes that Steve had immediately put around his timer wrist to hide it from view. A matchbook from a gay bar in Indianapolis, a Spalding bouncy ball. Some hand-sewn patches with logos he didn’t recognize, three different mini figures, a dozen faded beautiful photographs, and a single mixtape. 

Only Robin knew about the mixtape. He had only told her in case they needed a song for him. That mixtape was the only thing in the world that had the song that could save his life. 

But the most important thing in that box was the letters. 

He read one every night. He had promised himself he wouldn’t read more than one. It was routine. When it was his turn to be on watch and the rest of their family was sound asleep, Steve would open his shoebox, pull out a letter, and read it. 

The first one is probably his favorite. It was written in dark red marker on yellow construction paper, the edges ripped and torn with age. The marker bled through the back of the paper where the child who wrote the letter had pressed down too hard, and Steve could imagine the way his fingers must have stained from the ink. Blood red. The same way his fingers were stained when he died. 

7/4/1971 

TWO SULMAYT,

HI.

I AM EDDIE MUNSON. I AM FIVE YEARS OLD. I LIKE TRUKS. YU SHUD LIKE THEM TO. WE CAN WATCH THE BIG TRUKS! 

WHAT IS YUR NAMY? 

BIE

LUV EDDIE

P. S. I HAD A NANA FOR BRIKFEST. YUM. 

There was a picture of two giant monster trucks under the words, and a tiny thing Steve assumed was a banana under the postscript. Steve keeps that one tucked in his jacket pocket, just in case he ever loses his bag or his precious shoebox. 

He keeps the first in his side pocket, and keeps the last one in the breast pocket right above his heart

6/13/1986

Hi Love,

The first one says ‘Two Sulmayt’ but every one after that starts with ‘Hi Love’. 

Steve can’t help wondering if Eddie would have eventually called him ‘Love’ if they had gotten more time. 

Well, if you’re reading this, then I guess my plan to be the one that lived really didn’t work out. Damn, that sucks. Probably a little bit more for you than for me. 

I don't know how you dealt with knowing we only had five days, but I thought it was kinda fucked. Like damn, really? Five? The universe sure has a funny sense of humor, doesn’t it, Love? Or maybe it just hates me. That is also a very real possibility. 

Maybe. But if the universe hated Eddie, then it must hate Steve more for making him continue to live. For giving him other people to love, people to care about, people to force him to not give up. 

Anyways this is how I dealt with it. If you only get five days to have me, I’m going to make sure you know me. Or know who I was at least. One letter a month for the last 12 years, and a bunch of random one off ones from when I was little. Before I lived with Wayne it was kind of catch as catch can with paper and stuff, and I was also like seven, so how many letters do you really want from a seven year old who still can’t spell ‘Difficulty’?

I know how to now, by the way. Mrs. D, Mrs. I, yada yada. Do you ever wonder why all those women are married? I think that’s stupid. Forced conformity, even in our nursery rhymes. 

That joke always made Steve laugh. He’s read this letter so many times it’s starting to come apart at the creases, but it still made him pause and chuckle. 

Anyways. This is yours. Eleven letters a year for twelve years is one hundred and thirty two. Adding in the ones from before, it’s probably around a hundred and fifty. It’s not the same as having me around, but if you spread them out, you might get thirteen years or so before you have to start rereading them. 

Or read them all in one sitting. Do whatever you want. 

Steve had counted. It was one hundred and forty one. He read one new one a night, because every single day they survived seemed like a miracle right now. 

He only had seventy three more left. 

Not like I can stop you, haha. 

That’s probably not as funny to you as I want it to be. Sorry, Love. 

It wasn’t funny. Not in the slightest. Steve wanted Eddie here, wanted him to tell him to wait. He wanted Eddie to write him more letters. 

Oh, I also included a bunch of stuff I thought was too cool to lose, and a mixtape with songs that I wrote for my band. I thought you might want to get to hear my voice. It’s probably stupid, but you don’t have to listen to them if you don’t want to. 

Steve listened to it. They had been forced to scrounge up new batteries for his walkman three times because it kept dying. 

Everything in this box is yours, Wayne has strict instructions to give it to you. And, anything of mine Wayne doesn’t want is for you too.

Wow. A whole trust fund of trailer park trash. Some people leave their soulmates huge inheritances. I left you rocks and pictures and a shit ton of letters. Aren’t you lucky, Love? 

He was lucky. He had seventy three more letters. Seventy three more reasons to survive another day. 

After that…Steve wasn’t sure if he would be lucky anymore. 

Now if you’re good at math- which I hope you are, because I’m terrible at it- then you might be saying to yourself ‘Is my soulmate an idiot? Does he not know there’s twelve months in a year?’ 

No. I’m actually incredibly smart, even though my grades don’t really show it. I rewrite this top of the box letter every year on my birthday, and then I burn the last one. It’s a fun, extremely morbid, tradition. 

I’m 20 today, Love. I wonder how old you are a lot. I hope you’re close to my age at least. Maybe you’re like fifty years older than me, and I meet you when you’re on your deathbed, and that’s why we only have five days. 

They had only gotten five days because Steve hadn’t just taken Eddie and run. He should have just told Eddie to go as far from Hawkins as possible the second he realized. Fuck the rest of the world, fuck stopping the apocalypse. The best part of Steve was already dead. 

Two whole decades, but somehow I’m still in high school. I failed. Again. I wrote a lot about it in my letter last month, so I’m not going to talk about it again. Suffice to say I’m pretty bummed. I mean, c’mon, even Steve Harrington managed to graduate last year, and that guy barely even went to class during senior year. 

That part of the letter always made his stomach turn. He hated the reminder of all the wasted time, the little nudge that always told him it was his fault they barely had any time. 

If he had only looked up. 

Oh, well. This one is it. ‘86 baby! I’d say I want this to be the year I meet you, but I really want to graduate, so maybe hold off for just one more year? Stay wherever you are for just twelve more months, Love, just to be safe. Then I can put a picture of me flipping off my principal in this box for you. I’ll add my diploma in too, just to prove to you I did it. 

Eddie wasn’t going to get a diploma. 

If you wait a year, I’ll give you twelve more letters. So just wait one more year. By then, I think I’ll know what to say to make this better. I’ll know what to do to fill the gap I know you’re going to have. I’ll have something to say that will fix all this. I say that every year, and I never do, but hey, ‘86. 

Nothing anyone said would fix this. Nothing Eddie could write would fill the hole left in Steve’s soul. Nothing. 

I’m sorry. 

I say that every year too. 

Steve didn’t want apologies. He didn’t want letters. He didn’t want a hard to hear voice on a single mixtape. 

He wanted Eddie. 

Well. Happy birthday to me. One more year without meeting you. Eleven more letters. You better be doing something just as nice for me in case it's you that bites it, or I’m bringing your ass back just to kill you again. 

Steve didn’t care if Eddie killed him. Eddie could reappear right now and immediately shoot Steve and he would die happy. He just wanted one more minute. Just a little more time. 

…Wait just a little bit longer. I’ll have better words next year. 

Can you do that for me, Love?

P.S. You should read the first letter I wrote to you, just to appreciate how eloquent and charming I am in this one. 

Eddie called him ‘Love’. Eddie asked him to wait. Eddie wanted to have the right words. He wanted to live long enough to save Steve from his own broken heart.

Steve wishes he had waited.  

#Steve harrington #Eddie munson #steddie #steddie au #steddie soulmate au #tw: major character death #tw: death #stranger things #st #st4 #stranger things 4 #stranger things soulmate au #countdown au #Steve and eddie #timer au #Steve and Eddie #Wayne Munson #tw: suicidal ideation #Liam speaks up #Writing(withacapitalW)

[disillusioneddanny]

Bones Exposed deleted scene

I wrote this for my fic Bones Exposed but it just didn’t fit right in the scene I originally wrote it for but still really enjoyed the small scene. I might try to figure out where I can put it later on. If you haven’t read the fic, you can check it out here on my ao3 profile.

TW: talks of attempted suicide.

Danny sighed and ran a hand over his face as he stared down at the soft carpeted floor. Tim was sitting next to him, his eyes never leaving Danny’s form. And why would he look away? Danny had just shown him that he was Phantom, someone that Tim had said over and over was his favorite hero.

“I tried one time, you know,” he said, unable to look at his friend. “Especially after everything was over. After my parents were arrested and Jazz stopped talking to me and I was alone. It wasn’t even hard, that’s what was so scary. I was twenty years old and I got the gun from some random Gothamite. I tried and it was like my core spit it out.”

Danny let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Ironic isn’t it? My ghost half is actively killing me, every day my human side gets weaker and weaker, the chronic pain, the seizures, they get worse. But the one time I tried to actually just end the suffering, my ghost half just wouldn’t let me. How fucked up is that? So here I am, slowly dying and theres not even a way I can do it on my own terms. I’m a prisoner to my own body and there’s nothing I can do.”

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny phantom #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dis writes #batman #dc x dp crossover #batpham #dis dreams #TW: suicidal ideation #tw: guns #TW: attempted suicide

[monsieurenjlolras]

There is a phase you reach with suicidal ideation when you've been dealing with it for over a decade and you've done a lot of healing and growing and you know you're not going to act on suicidal thoughts but they're still sort of part of your brain structure when they just become like. A tool for your brain to utilize. Like its no longer your problem its everyone else's problem now. You get this kind of fuck it we ball mentality with it. Where you're sitting at work and instead of thinking "god I hate this I don't want to be here I wish I was dead," your brain is just like "what if I just killed myself in front of my boss. that'd show them for making me do this fucking spreadsheet. What if I just killed myself Patrick lmao what would you do then" and then you can just move on with your day

#its real progress #its no longer my prblem its everyone elses problem #im fully not going to im fine #but i love to imagine how bad that would fuck things up for corporatw :) #live from the musain #tw: suicidal ideation

[howlingtides]

A concerned Chuuya finds a drunk Dazai in the bath (Chuuya's POV) - Part 1/2

tw: scars, suicidal ideation, implied self-harm, drinking

tags: hurt/comfort, soukoku's version of fluff, drunk Dazai

Part 1 / Part 2

"Oi, Dazai." Chuuya pounded on the door.

It was nearly 3 am and Chuuya should be in bed sleeping - it was his day off - but instead he was here, standing outside of shitty Dazai's apartment, waiting for that histrionic mummy to open the goddamn door.

Dazai had called him.

Dazai never calls him.

And at this hour?

Chuuya had woken up to the sound of his phone ringing, had just missed the call. He'd be lying if he said his stomach hadn't dropped when he checked the caller ID. He'd also be lying if he said his heart hadn't begun to race when he'd tried calling back multiple times to no avail.

If it had been anyone else, he would've gone back to bed and tried again in the morning. Whatever it was, they could figure it out.

But this was Dazai.

And that's what scared him.

"Dazai," he called again, jiggling the door handle, "if this is some sort of elaborate prank, I'm gonna throw your phone into the river and strangle you with your own-"

The door opened as Chuuya pushed. Oh. It was unlocked. "-bandages," he finished to himself.

It was dark as he stepped inside, all the lights were off save for a light that was coming from around the corner.

Coming from the bathroom.

"Dazai?" Chuuya's voice softened as he walked towards the light, stopping in the bathroom doorway.

Dazai was in the tub. It was filled to the brim with water, and he was naked, arm draped over the side, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. A bottle of whiskey sat on the tile floor next to him, about half empty.

And he wasn't wearing his bandages.

Chuuya's breath caught.

Scars littered his arms, his neck, his chest, some deeper than others, some larger, some smaller. Chuuya knew they were there, had seen one or two of them before at the slip of a bandage from time to time, but seeing them all at once like this?

His chest tightened.

Dazai lifted his head from where it was propped against the tile wall. His hair was wet, pushed off of his face, showing off yet another scar on his forehead, just beneath his hairline, that was typically hidden beneath dark bangs.

He brought the glass to his lips and spoke as if he was speaking to no one in particular, though Chuuya was pretty sure he knew he was there, had to have heard him, had to have known by now that he wasn't alone.

"Do you think this is what Oda meant?" he asked before taking a sip. He swallowed, licking his lips. "To be on the side that saves people."

It ended as more of a statement than a question, and Chuuya wasn't sure what to say.

Dazai continued, keeping his eyes forward. "I might have fucked up, Chuuya."

The use of his name caught Chuuya off guard. So Dazai was talking to him.

He stepped into the bathroom, pulling off his hat and setting it on the counter. "You only just realizing that now?"

The sound of Chuuya's voice made Dazai jump a little as he turned, looking at Chuuya for the first time since he'd been there.

His eyes were red.

"I've been fucking up my whole life," he said with so much sincerity that Chuuya couldn't help but believe him. "It's no secret. A scar for every fuck-up. For every time I couldn't..." His words trailed off as he took another sip of whiskey.

Chuuya slipped out of his jacket, hanging it on the corner of the door. "If you're looking for pity, you're gonna have to try a lot harder than that."

The corner of Dazai's lip curled upward ever so slightly as he turned to face forward again.

Chuuya considered it a win.

"Why did you call me out here?" Chuuya said, crossing his arms.

"I didn't call you out here," Dazai said, because he had to correct Chuuya, because he always had to be right no matter what kind of self-destructive mindset he was in.

Chuuya sighed. "Why did you call me?"

Dazai thought about it for a moment, staring down into his glass. "You're the only one who understands," he said so matter-of-factly that it hurt before he downed the rest of his whiskey.

Shit.

What the fuck was Chuuya supposed to say to that?

He stood there for a moment, trying to decide how he was supposed to feel or what he was supposed to think or what he was supposed to do. His brain was fried and his soul was tired and he didn't have the energy to feel right now.

He'd been asleep a half an hour ago.

Fuck it.

He moved forward, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig, the whiskey burning his throat as he sat on the floor next to Dazai. He was suddenly bothered by the fact that he hadn't taken his boots off, and he handed the bottle to Dazai as he unzipped them, kicking them off.

Dazai refilled his glass. "So disrespectful," he said.

"Sorry I didn't think to take off my shoes when I came over to make sure you weren't dead," Chuuya spat, immediately regretting it.

He grabbed the bottle from Dazai and took another drink.

Dazai's eyes widened. "You thought I was gonna kill myself?"

"I didn't know what to think," he said, raising his voice. "What kind of asshole calls someone at 3 am and doesn't leave a message or text and doesn't answer when they try to call him back or-" He caught his breath, running his fingers through his hair. "That was such a shitty fucking thing to do, you suicidal prick."

The room went quiet for a moment as Dazai thought again, and Chuuya took another drink.

"You're right," Dazai said eventually. "That was a shitty thing to do." His eyes met Chuuya's. "I'm sorry."

They stayed like that for a minute, eyes locked onto each other until Dazai moved, turned his body in the tub, water sloshing as he raised his other hand and brought it to the side of Chuuya's face, holding his cheek.

Chuuya froze as Dazai leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You don't deserve that, Chuuya," he whispered into his hair. "I don't deserve you."

Anger boiled in the bottom of Chuuya's stomach as he covered Dazai's hand on his cheek with his own, squeezing it tight. He pulled back, just enough to look Dazai in the eyes.

"Don't," he said, shaking his head. "Don't you say shit like that to me."

To be continued...

#soukoku #skk #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd chuuya #bsd dazai #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #tw: scars #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: drinking #hurt/comfort #soukoku's version of fluff #drunk Dazai #kris drabbles #to be continued #tw: implied self-harm

[skyfallscotland]

I had a hard time today, so obviously I bawled my eyes out and started writing. I’ll be ok, it’s just…hard. It’s always hard. You think you’re doing fine and then something sets you off and it’s just…there’s no other feeling like it, the emptiness. 

If you know the feeling, check the tags and consider whether you’re in the right headspace to read this right now, or ever. I promise if you never read it, you’re not missing out, you already know what happens anyway 🖤

And if you’re feeling it right now, if it’s not too presumptuous to say, the message I want you to hear is this: your sign is right in front of you. Hold on. You never know what you could be missing out on. 

Remi / 14 years old / 628AU

“I don’t want to come out with you and Dain and listen to the two of you talk in your own secret little fucking language, ok?!” It explodes out of me, a yell I can’t control, can’t quite tamp down on.

“Remi, we wouldn’t use—”

“You always do.” I snarl. The two of them have all these dialects that only they know, that they’ve studied together without me and whenever they’re around each other it’s all they speak in. So they can ‘practice’ they say. Funny how they never need to practice Tyrrish. 

“I promise I won’t.” Violet’s eyes are wet with tears. “I just want to spend time with you.” She begs.

“Why?” I spit. “You never did before.” I roll my eyes. “Face it, you don’t want to spend time with me, you’re just worried that I’ll die too and you’ll be left feeling guilty.” I scowl. “So don’t worry about it, consider this me absolving you.” I turn on my heel and storm away.

My sister’s never cared about me before, she sure as hell doesn’t now. She wouldn’t even miss me if I weren’t around, she’s already replaced me with Dain. My arms are crossed over my chest, the oversized jacket on my shoulders covering the way my hands clutch at my ribcage, hugging my waist as I try not to cry. 

The jacket is my mother’s. I used to wear Brennan’s old one all the time, taking comfort in his things while he was off on the frontlines, but of course that was taken from me the moment he was—all his things burnt to ash in a heartbeat. 

I don’t know why I bothered trying to take comfort from something of hers, it’s not like she cares for me either—none of them do, except maybe Mira and she’s not here. I’m more likely to get in trouble for taking the damn thing than anything else. I stumble towards my favourite turret, the one connected to the parapet. It’s the closest I can get to my older sister. I hate the height, so I try to never look over the edge of it, but sometimes I go sit up there, just looking out hoping that one day I’ll see a green dragon fly towards me—my sister told me that’s what she’d bonded, a Green. But that’s only wishful thinking.

My chest burns, my lungs constricting as I climb the turret, in the dark, up and up and up. I want to scream, to see if that will expel this furious fire in my chest, the way the dragons always do, but I know it won’t. All it will do is bring people up here and I…I hate people. I don’t want any of them anywhere near me. None of them have any clue what it’s like, how much it hurts.

I’m crying by the time I reach the top, wretched sobs shaking my body as I steady myself with a hand on the stones. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this. For a moment, I wobble on my feet and fear has my heart leaping into my throat. I quickly make my way into the top section of the turret and slide to the ground, my back to the wall. I’d almost… 

For a long minute, my heart thunders, but then I think at least it would have been over. Over. I don’t know if I believe in Malek, but if the world holds any kindness and the gods are real, I’d hope they would reunite me with Brennan in the afterlife. My breath comes in fast pants as I rip the jacket off and toss it aside, grief overwhelming me to a point where I can’t breathe, can barely think. 

There’s a blade in my hand and my vision blurs as I stare down at it through my tears. It doesn’t have to be a fall. I could…

I look up at the sky, hoping for a sign, but there’s no dragon, no burst of flame or message in the clouds. All there is, is a few twinkling stars and an inky blackness. It’s beautiful in it’s own way, I suppose, like a living canvas of gold-flecked onyx. There’s something comforting about that and my sobs die down, a strange calmness washing over me. 

It doesn’t have to be like this, I realise. I don’t have to do it anymore. No one can make me. I can just…go. 

My brow furrows and I clutch the blade tighter. I’m ready. I’m so ready to just go. The blade glints in the low light of the moon as I lower it to my skin. 

“You know, you don’t have to be—”

I jolt, staring up wide-eyed as I freeze in place, icy dread filling my veins. Dain stares back, lips slightly parted and I swallow hard. Before I can think of anything to say, to do, he’s crossing the distance between us in two quick strides and wrenching the blade from my grip, tossing it off the side of the turret. A moment passes, then another.

“Get up. Don’t be an idiot.” His eyes narrow, and I scramble to my feet, my lip trembling. He says nothing else, just…watches me. His eyes are alight with anger and I squirm anxiously, my breath stuttering under his gaze. There’s nothing I can say—nothing I want to say—and eventually I can’t stand it anymore. I turn on my heel and run. 

#tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: depression #try and be kind to yourselves; always #basgiath (remi's version)

[void-ink-studios]

Lost but Loved, Forever and Always

Don't be alarmed by the title, no one dies in this fic.

I wanted to do this for quite a while. Prismo has been constantly comforting Scarab. It's time for Scarab to return the favor. We're talking about Jake tonight.

And, this is my own catharsis. I've had more death and health scares in my close family in the past 3 years than I have my entire life. So... this is to them, I guess.

So... yeah. Enjoy you guys.

TW: Suicidal Ideation and Alcohol Abuse

Word Count: 2,700

Prismo was missing.

This was a new worry for Scarab. He was usually the one to disappear into the Time Room's lower chambers, usually to recuperate his aching shoulders.

But it was Prismo missing today. Scarab hadn't seen the Wishmaster nearly all day, not since the one wish maker wandered in. Even then, Scarab's companion seemed very... withdrawn. Quieter than he'd ever seen him, at least not since before Fionna and Cake.

Prismo's energy had been draining out of his spirit over the past few days. He started going quiet at random intervals, with seemingly no trigger.

Scarab was fretting.

He was not used to fretting. Prismo always seemed... untouchable, emotionally speaking. Unflappable in the face of it all, always a lazy sort of happiness radiating off of him. But... this was not anything the beetle was used to.

He wondered if he should search for Prismo... The Wishmaster had gone looking for him more than once, he should return the favor. But what if he didn't want to be found?

Hmm...

Maybe he'd go find Prismo, then back off if he wasn't wanted. Yes, that sounded like a decent plan.

He closed off to entrances to the Time Room for now and scuttled down into the basement.

Okay, where to look... Scarab's first thought was the pickle room, maybe he was just working on a new recipe? It wouldn't explain the melancholy, but it was a start.

So, to the pickle room Scarab wandered. He idly thought about how well he knew his way around this section of the Time Room now. Oh, how himself from a year ago would have cringed...

Okay, pickle room is empty. No evidence of it being used.

Come on Scarab, you're an Auditor. You've tracked down things that could teleport across the multiverse. You can find one messy Wishmaster who can't leave the Time Room.

He took another look around. There had to be something, anything in here...

Wait, there!

There was a missing jar from the shelf, a trail of brine on the floor. Bingo.

Scarab followed the trail, the faint smell of alcohol slowly seeping into the air. Or, maybe it was stronger, but he couldn't tell. Either way it was... concerning.

"Prismo...?"

Hmm...

He doesn't recall coming this way before. The walls of the Time Room seemed to be coming more unstable the further he searched. Walls with random notches in them, the floor becoming trickier to navigate, drop offs appearing suddenly, walls sliding into each other.

Wait a moment...

Wait, this was familiar. This was where the chase for the Crossovers ended in the Time Room.

Which means...

Scarab found himself staring at Prismo. Both forms.

Prismo, the Wishmaster, staring down numbly at Prismo, the Dreamer.

"...Prismo...?"

Prismo looked terrible, for lack of a better word. He looked tired. Scarab wasn't sure how a dream could look tired, and yet, here he was. He looked... empty. Just staring blankly at his own body, slowly drifting up to Scarab. And, even with his own crippled sense of smell, Scarab was smacked in the face by the harsh smell of alcohol and vinegar. There was a half tipped over pickle jar in the corner.

"...hey..." he murmured. Just like his gaze, his voice was... empty. He said nothing else, drifting his gaze back to his sleeping body. He took a silent swig from a bottle.

"Uhm... What are you doing down here...?"

"...Thinking."

Scarab made a few tentative steps closer to his partner.

"What about?"

Prismo remained silent.

"Prismo...?"

"...You... wouldn't get it."

"I wouldn't?"

"You don't... talk to people. Talk to mortals." His voice sounded wobbling, his voice trailing up and down. Drunk. Prismo was drunk.

Scarab had never seen the Wishmaster... drunk. Tipsy on Star Punch. Maybe a bit too loud and cuddly after a game night with the guys. But this was just... sad.

"You're right, I don't talk to mortals. But that wasn't what I was asking. I was asking what you were thinking about."

Prismo didn't look up. It was honestly making Scarab nervous.

"...You ever think about how long immortality is...? Like... compared to the shorts that pass by upstairs everyday?"

Scarab blinked, pondering.

"I do, sometimes. It's... inevitable with beings like us."

"Hmm... Beings like us..." Prismo sighed blinking tiredly. "They're like... like a blink... Like a spark and then they're gone..."

"I suppose..."

"...Why am I still... here, Scarab? Like... I'm what, hundreds of thousands of years old? I think that's too long, don't you? I died at some point... I sometimes... wonder if I should've stayed that way."

Scarab felt his chest seize, suddenly also very fixated on Prismo's sleeping body. He... he wouldn't right...?

"I... I'm thankful that you are still here, Prismo... More so than you might think..."

"Hmm..."

Prismo took another drink.

"...I'm only alive because of a mortal..."

"Really now...?"

"Yeah. It was... well, super off the books. Wasn't even pinged by the Organizer... Not supposed to get involved with mortals and all that junk... But... well, he was one of my best friends... and... well, that's all I've got left of him."

Scarab gave him a confused look, approaching Prismo's body. It was unnerving, seeing the warm, soft old man the beetle loved so fondly being so still and silent... Wait, was that... fur?

Yes, right there, at the edges of the beard and hair were little whisps of yellow dog fur.

"What on Glob...?"

"Yeah... I got killed, and he helped me with my backup plan. Long story. Complicated. But, a copy of him became... me. It's his dream and memory of me keeping me alive. And... well, the original passed away. A while ago. And... Well, this is all I have left of him. Just... staring at him, looking like me, but that's not even really me..."

Prismo was spiraling. Scarab could hear it in his voice, he was spiraling.

"Prismo-"

"And what was it for? He's... He's stuck here or he's dead or he's a monster or whatever else, and for what? For... me? For everybody's pal Prismo. What a joke."

"Love, what-"

"I got nothing, Scarab. I've tried to have something. But... what do I have to show for it? The banjo? Fucking pickles? A hot tub? I got nothing."

"Prismo" Scarab hissed, sternly, gripping his upper arm, stopping Prismo's spiral.

"Prismo... how long have you... thought about this?"

"...I dunno, man. It comes and goes again..."

"Prismo. You know I, and many others, would be... heartbroken if you disappeared. Many were the first time. Even when I had my grudge, I felt... empty when you vanished."

"I... I know, I guess... Maybe that's why I haven't... done anything. Not yet, at least..."

Scarab warbled, nudging his head against Prismo's shoulder.

"...I might not know much about your... mortal friend... but I don't think he'd want you... wallowing like this."

"Oh, what do you know" Prismo snapped, startling Scarab. "You don't know him! You don't know how this feels!" His eyes flashed purple, a black color pulsing through his whole body before returning to normal.

Scarab took a few frightened steps back, looking up at the Wishmaster with wide, uncertain eyes.

Prismo's eyes sparked with immediate regret. He looked at the bottle, then back to Scarab. He groaned in frustration, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I just... I don't know how to be when I'm like this... I've... I've never felt like this before Jake... I don't know man..."

Scarab chirped out a soft sigh, feeling emboldened to come closer. "...It is not exact, but... I do know a bit of what you're feeling, Prismo..."

"...You do?"

"Mhm. So. How about this. You tell me about this... Jake. And I'll tell you about Cricket. We'll mourn together."

Prismo seemed to be considering.

"...Can we... stay here with him...?"

"If that's what you'd like, love. But let's not loom over him, okay?" Scarab gently tugged Prismo's arm. And he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when the Wishmaster allowed to be tugged. The beetle retireved the pickle jar, and the two sat down, leaning against each other.

"So... Jake?"

"Yeah... Jake the Dog."

"...How'd you two meet?"

"A wish. His brother, Finn, they were chasing their universe's version of the Lich into my Time Room. The Lich wished for the end of all life, and I granted it. Finn wished for the Lich to have never existed. They both got warped to their new realities. And then there was Jake..."

Scarab tilted his head. He'd heard of the Lich. One of those beings he'd have liked to take in, but couldn't. Vital to reality and all that nonsense. He didn't know Prismo met him before the incident with the Citadel.

"Jake... Well, I think he was in shock or something. He... seemed confused. Didn't know what to do, what to wish for. He nearly wished for a sandwich, but I talked him out of it. Like, I could just make a sandwich, no need to waste your one and only wish on it. So... we just hung out. We watched Finn's wish altered reality for a while, and we talked. Mortals never really... stick around long enough to talk. To know me as anything other than 'Almighty Prismo.' He chilled with Cosmic Owl and me. He had some of my pickles, said they reminded him of his dad. And I just... couldn't stop smiling. Some... some human part of me hoped he'd never make a wish, just so he could stay..."

Scarab could hear Prismo's voice shaking, so he pressed his head against his upper arm and nuzzled, chirping quietly.

"But... Something in Finn's wish reality started going wrong... He started to panic. I... I definitely broke protocol on this but I talked him through his wish. The wish that would make things go back to somewhat normal, and he was gone. I sent him some pickles, invited him back, but... Well, I never thought he would. No one just comes back to the Time Room, not unless you're a god. He got his wish, why would he want to come back? But... he did. Again. And again. And again and again."

Scarab wrapped around Prismo's arm, nuzzling softly as the Wishmaster sounded on the verge of weeping.

"He became one of my best friends. He was... something special. He'd level with me like a person. He didn't have this... weird, distant respect that everyone first comes at me with. He treated me like a person and... well, that was special to me. More so than I ever really noticed... not until he was gone for good.

"When the Lich killed my human body, Jake was the one who volunteered to help bring me back. That's him, sleeping in the bed. It's him keeping me alive. And... I don't know, I don't know how I could possibly repay him for that... I can't just bring him back to life, he belongs to Death now... and I don't think he'd want it. He's on the highest Deathworld, and he deserves to be there. I'm not gonna take him away from paradise just for my sake..."

Prismo trailed off. Scarab assumed he was done talking now, as he gently massaged the Wishmaster's arm.

"Thank you for telling me, Prismo. He does sound special. And I'm sorry you have lost that."

"...I can't talk to the others about it... They'd just say I was stupid. It is stupid, getting that attached to a mortal like that. So... you're the first person I've told, I guess."

"Is this... Finn still around?"

"I think so... Humans live a lot longer than dogs. I see him on the screen wall every once in a while."

"Have you thought to talk to him? I'm certain he's mourning Jake just the same as you. It might be nice to share memories of him."

"I dunno... I don't know if my heart could take it if I got attached to Finn..."

"Hmm... That's understandable, I suppose..." He reached up, gently rubbing away the tears from Prismo's cheek, nuzzling it lightly, even trying his best to kiss it.

"So... Who's Cricket?"

Scarab hummed. Time to hold his end of the deal, yeah?

"Well... My situation with Cricket doesn't align exactly with yours... I knew Cricket from when I was still mortal, rather than meeting them in the middle of eternity. But... well, they were my best friend."

Prismo's eyes widened at that.

"Cricket and I were neighbors, in the mounds. You tend to bond pretty quickly with those burrows around you, but Cricket was my first and best friend when we emerged. They farmed mushrooms while I patrolled. Our routines would have us pass by each other a few times a day, and we'd both get into heaps of trouble for slacking off to chat."

Scarab chuckled at the memory, trying to picture Cricket's face... Glob it's been so long...

"I told them everything. We told each other everything. What we thought about our other friends, who we thought we fancied, what might've been up in the stars, all of it. Thinking back, they actually remind me of you, in a lot of ways. They had this... magnetism about them, it made it easy to talk to them, they were charming and relaxed in ways I wasn't. I... I suspect, if my life turned out simpler, we could've been mates."

Prismo gulped at that, leaning down to listen.

"But... well, then I saw the mouth in the void. They helped me research, they helped me train, they helped me get that audience with the Pantheon. They gave me a crushing hug when I went to go fight. And they were the last I spoke to when I ascended. I promised I'd come back for them someday..."

Scarab rubbed his mandibles together, hesitating.

"I... I've said I haven't seen my home since then. But... that was a bit of a lie. I did go back, once. But... I hadn't realized how much time had passed between me leaving and coming home. What felt like, maybe 5 years to me was... almost 70 for them. Eternity messes with your sense of time like that. I never saw Cricket again. It's been so long; I feel guilty I can't clearly remember their face... I remember a few things, though... they had a deep blue shell, their antenna were long and curled, they laughed loud enough to get neighbors to complain about our late nights... But I can't remember their face. Not clearly anyway."

Scarab sighed, leaning into Prismo's open arm.

"...Does it ever get easier" Prismo whispered. "Knowing you've lose someone that important...?"

"...I'm not sure if easier is the right word... It never really stops hurting, when you think about it. But... it becomes a part of you. A part that prickles and catches you off guard sometimes, but a part of you none the less. You eventually evolve the hurt. The hurt mixes with everything else you felt about them. The hurt of the loss blurs together with the warmth of memories."

"Oh..."

There was a long silence, as Prismo looked between the body sleeping on the pedestal, and the drink in his hand. He gently set it down.

"...I might not know much about Jake. But I can tell he was special. It's okay to feel that hurt when you lose someone special. But... don't let it drown the warmth you felt with them. Remember them. The hurt just... tells you how much they were loved."

Scarab felt the tingle of light as Prismo wrapped around him completely. He could feel the Wishmaster's chest struggling to heave. The beetle shushed him softly, petting his talons against what he could reach.

"...One second" Scarab whispered. He conjured both himself and Prismo a small glass of Star Punch. He picked his up. "A toast. To Jake."

Prismo blinked wetly, a shaky hand reaching for his glass. "To Jake. And to Cricket."

"To Jake and Cricket. Lost, but loved, forever and always."

The two clinked glasses and took their drink.

Scarab knew talking about this would bubble up old emotions. That cloyingly harsh coldness, fighting with an aching warmth. Thinking too long about his home did that, sometimes.

But, it was worth it. Worth it to remember his friend. Worth it to bring some comfort to his partner. Worth it to bring some light onto the peacefully sleeping body across the room.

Lost, but loved.

Forever and always.

#prohibitedwish #scarab x prismo #scarab the god auditor #prismo the wishmaster #prohibitedwish fanfic #wrath of the wishmaster #tw: sucidal thoughts #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: alcohol

[resurrection-of-soul]

Fiery Scream | Rei Solo Translation

Before I knew it, I'd already grown accustomed to being thirsty While walking down this road with no hope for change I don't look back on the memories I left behind in distant days My heart is frozen, living each day devoid of any stimulation The screams calling for me gave me passion And revived my soul With that passionate¹ voice, sear into me A fire that will never go out again Please share it with me, light it in my heart It grows with my thirst, a craving² Which touches the back of my throat³, an unquenchable impulse Even pain turns into a sweet aphrodisiac⁴ ...which I'll return to you

Staring at the wedge driven into the meaning of life I spent yesterday decaying into apathy The feelings I'm now capable of were given shape by you Carrying both sins and freedom, living each day seeking stimulation I've been awakened by those screams which make my wounds ache And remind me of my soul All you have to do is listen and tremble with pleasure So much so that it drives you mad with desire I'll show you all my selfishness You'll accept it with your whole body, won't you? Whenever I drink from the unbridled passion deep within you It gives me joy...which I'll return to you "I'm buried in boredom, I don't mind even if it ends" If you can no longer bear to think that way Then it's best to turn those feelings into screams Call for me, with that passionate voice of yours Transform my life, let it be reborn I'll show you all my selfishness You'll accept it with your whole body, won't you? For the craving which kindled my passion I'll repay you with a singing voice sweeter than any aphrodisiac

¹ 熱い (atsui) is both "passionate" and, quite literally, "hot." So, y'know. Fire puns! ² The word used here is 欲望 which is like…so, so sexually charged. It's pretty much identical to the word "lust" in that 90% of the time, people are using it to mean sexual desire, but it can also just mean a passionate desire for anything in general. I'm going with craving here to keep in line with the whole "thirst" theme present throughout the song

³ 喉元 is "throat," but 喉 alone can be throat or "singing voice," so this + the previous line together sounds very much like "It grows with my thirst, a desire to sing which becomes an unquenchable impulse." Given the context of the song, this wordplay seems intentional.

⁴媚薬 can be either "aphrodisiac" or "love potion," so... Pick your poison. I went with aphrodisiac here since the rest of the song is so dang sexually charged

#ensemble stars #rei sakuma #enstars translation #song translation #tw: suicidal ideation #solo #fiery scream

[the-kingshound]

Ok, but Excalibur sensing the mc wants to end it and not only does it’s blade remain dull, but it makes itself too heavy to be taken off the mcs lap.

Yes. Also Excalibur sending MC exhausted feelings so MC can go to sleep with Excalibur firm on their lap if all comes to worse

#excalibur #tw: suicidal ideation

[creative-sense]

bro I'm just catching up to some of Tubbo's qsmp vods and MAN. What is up with this guy and making passively suicidal characters, my boy needs fucking THERAPY.

#qsmp #qsmp tubbo #qsmp sunny #Tubbo: Stop making tragic #Level: IMPOSSIBLE #tw: suicide #tw: suicidal ideation

[sunlitlemonade]

hold me before it gets too cold by sunlitlemonade

where i talk abt jason's suicidal ideation and trust issues

snippet:-

[“Does it hurt?”

Jason’s eyes snap open and he realises what he must look like with eyes squeezed shut and hands gripping the sink hard enough to make veins stand out. He relaxes his hands and snarls, “I’m not fucking fragile.”

But of course it hurts, the fact that this is temporary. Temporary because Jason always fucks up. Temporary because a sun and a black hole cannot co-exist side to side.

Dick frowns lightly, splays a rough, warm [always so fucking warm] palm over his back and stays silent for a moment. The pause stretches on, the heaviness in it making Jason itch. Finally, he says, completely oblivious to the turmoil inside his head, “Doesn’t mean I should be rough with you.”

And something about that feels like a gut-punch. His father saw a kid, small and trusting, and did not hesitate to grab his hair and use his belt. Bru– his tutors saw a young, malleable person and never saw young hands, uncalloused, unfamiliar with the weapons of war.

Dick sees a murderer, the void of a person and wants to be gentle.]

#tw: suicidal ideation #jason todd #dick grayson #dc #batfam #writing #i write stuff #damian wayne #only tagging characters that appear in the fic pls don't get mad at me #dickie and jay

[hannahssimblr]

I’m pretty sure I’ll throw up, it’s not a matter of if, but when. I sit shivering and grey faced in the boys changing room at nine o’clock, Friday morning and wish I was dead. Actually, I’ve wished I was dead rather consistently for the duration of the morning, from the moment I woke up at seven after maybe two hours of sleep, while preparing my sister’s breakfast, while showering, dressing myself in my horrible uniform and for the whole seafront walk to the school gates, where I kept imagining cars swerving over the cycle path and mercifully mowing me down. 

“Jude, man, what time you get home at last night?” Fitzy is in my ear, “I’m so hungover, man, my head is bloody pounding.”

“Dunno,” I reply, “Not long after you I’d say,” through the aura of my vicious migraine I peer at my phone screen where one new message notification blinks at me. 

Jude, darling. Just thinking of you after our call. I hope you’re doing okay. I know I shouldn’t be worried but if you want to talk again tomorrow I am available. Lots of love & miss you every day. xoxox Maureen. 

Jesus Christ. Did I call Aunt Maureen last night? I check my call log to see that indeed, I made a long distance call to New Mexico at four in the morning. A seven minute call. A groan of despair escapes me. I have no recollection. What did I say to her? Something unhinged enough to warrant this anxious text message, whatever it was. I bet I was an incoherent, embarrassing mess. 

Sorry Maureen, it’s all good. I was just a bit homesick. We should catch up properly at the weekend if you’re free. No need to worry. X J

It’s a cruel thing, P.E first thing on a Friday morning, but Mr. Doherty, a likely sadist, seems to love it. This is the same man who scheduled an African drumming workshop the day after our junior cert results came out, knowing full well what he would be inflicting upon a classroom full of hungover sixteen year olds. 

He’s got a basketball in his hands today, bouncing it around the gym floor with his legs spread out about a metre apart. I don’t know why he stands like that, though I suspect perhaps it's a part of his lifelong quest to become the world's most intimidating man and take up the maximum amount of space possible. I made up a story about seeing him on a public bus seat with his legs at a 180 degree angle once, and I still hear it repeated sometimes as though it's fact.

He’s going on about teams, explaining something involving those smelly polyester bibs that nobody has washed since 1972, but I am distracted by the sunlight from the windows edging the ceiling and the way that is so unmanageably bright. Doherty pulls the first of the neon bibs out of the bucket and the sight of it, the colour, the sweat stains around the armpits, makes my stomach lurch. 

“Bib, Turner,” he barks as he throws it at me and I catch it, along with a whiff of stale sweat and Jurassic era skin cells and I drop it right onto the floor, guts churning as I race to the toilets and retch and puke, fallen to my knees inside the filthy stall until there’s nothing left inside me. 

“Classic Jude,” someone is saying when they all filter into the changing rooms afterwards while I still clutch the bowl. I must be here forty minutes now. “Always throwing up.” 

“Y’alright?” Someone else calls out, and I groan. “Well Doherty wants you when you’re done. He’s waiting in the gym.”

“Fuck sake,” I fist my hair in my hands and considering knocking myself out and getting the nurse to send me home.

It’s another few minutes until I trust myself to exit the bathroom, and then, like a shell of a boy, I trudge out to the gym on rubber legs to where Doherty waits beneath a basketball hoop. 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while,” He begins, his voice echoing through the rafters.

“Uh huh,”

“It’s Friday. Jude. It’s a school day. How is it that you think you can show up to class in this state?”

“Dunno, sir.”

“I know that you’re a smart boy, right? You know better than this. So when you’re at school, that means you come prepared, well rested, homework done, and in a decent, respectable state, do you understand? You can’t be off doing whatever you like with your evenings, especially if you’re going to show up to my class like this. I shouldn’t even have to explain this to you.”

“Yes sir.”

“This is an insult to me, do you hear what I’m saying? You think because it’s P.E on Friday that you can rip the piss? That you don’t have to take it as seriously as other classes?”

“No, Sir.”

“You’re the same at my Rugby practises too these days, you’ve gone all soft and unfit on me. Is this why? Are you out galavanting every night of the week?”

I hesitate, “Some.”

“Is the boom back already? Sex drugs and rock n roll and whatnot.”

“I dunno what any of those things are.”

“Oh, give me a bloody break. You think I was born yesterday? I could smell your type a mile away, and this is my last straw. I want to see you in detention today from four to five.”

I leap to attention, “Wait, no, sir, I can’t do detention.”

“Seriously, Turner? Are you joking me right now?” “Yes, no, honestly sir. I have an agreement with the school. I don’t have to do detention on Fridays, ask the vice principal, I have-”

“Well that’s the biggest load of bollox I ever heard, do you know that? Special agreement,” he scoffs, “Yeah, pull the other one.”

“I’ll do it Monday, I promise, I just can’t tonight.”

“You’re heading out again, is it? More partying? More drinking and acting the mick? I don’t think so. Detention at four.”

“But sir, I-”

“Don’t talk to me. Decision is final, and if you’re not there, consider yourself suspended.” 

I pace the yard at lunchtime waiting for a call to connect. 

“Hello?” 

“Oh, Trisha, hi, it’s Jude Turner, um, Ivy’s brother?”

“Oh Jude, sweetheart, how are you keeping?”

“Good, yeah, uh, just wondering, are you picking her up from school today?”

“As usual… unless something has changed? She and Ella were planning to work on some sort of group project for school, but if you want to come and get her earlier…”

“No, this is about her piano lesson.”

“Yes, I expect I’ll drop her off at four as I always do…”

“Right, yes, is there any chance that maybe you could collect her too? Just for this week.”

She hisses through her teeth, “Ahh, well you know that we have swimming lessons Fridays at five, we’ll have to be straight on the road… is there going to be a problem collecting her?”

“Um, no, just school stuff, there’s a chance I’ll be delayed.”

“What about your mum, sweetie?” 

“She works until six usually,” there’s dead air on the line and I quickly babble on to fill the silence, “But I’m sure if I tell her what’s happening she’ll leave early, never mind anyway Trisha, I just thought I’d ask.”

“Alright! Sorry about that, love, I’m sure your mum will get it sorted.”

“Yeah. Same. Bye,” I put my phone back into my trouser pocket. No point even trying mom’s phone. She never answers and if she did she wouldn’t help.

The bell rings for the end of lunch. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2009 #tw: vomit #tw: alcohol #tw: drugs #tw: suicidal ideation

[tj-dragonblade]

Aaaaaa, so many interesting WIP titles to choose from! But I'm quite curious about what Nemo entails

Nemo is the newest thing I didn't quite mean to start writing! The full shape of it is not yet solid but I'm seeing where it takes me. In a nutshell, it is Retired Dream having existential angst about his retirement. Here is a bit more info plus a snippet with a link to the song it's spring boarding from, and here is a brand new snippet, which would actually take place before the other one (it leans mildly in the direction of suicidal ideation so under a cut it goes):

He does not regret his decision, he does not think; not entirely, at least. But at the same time, he is…lost.

His function is no longer his; his duty belongs to another. That which has sustained him for eons, for the entirety of his existence, is gone. Taken. No longer his responsibility. He is relieved, on one hand, to be free of its weight; on the other, he is now distressingly bereft of purpose, of any clear direction, and it is frightening to realize.

He does not know what he is meant to do with himself.

Anything you like!, he knows Hob would tell him, but therein is the problem.

What would he like?

It is easy, has always been easy, to frame his wants in a reactionary context. He would like Desire to not meddle in his affairs. He would like to not destroy the universe, to not be troubled by vortexes. He would like to not be held captive for a century, to not know betrayal by his own creations. He had wished to be rid of the key to Hell and all its ensuing headaches. He had wished for his son to not be trapped in what passed for his immortal existence.

He had wished to be unburdened of his duty, his mistakes, his failures.

He had wished to spare those he cared for the pain of mourning him.

And so he is here, struggling with the specter of proactive want, adrift on an ocean of freedom and fit to drown beneath its possibilities before he can learn to swim.

What is the point of him, now, like this? Why is he here?

WIP Title Ask Game

#TJs Writing #askmemes #Dreamling #Sandman #tw: suicidal ideation #just in case #wip: Nemo

[liketolaugh-writes]

I threw another scene into 'Star Light, Star Bright,' chapter 22. It was too short to put into Altador, but I wanted to share it here too, since I'm pleased with it.

Percy and Grover discuss the deeper implications of forming an empathy link with someone in the aftermath of a suicide attempt. Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts and feelings.

Percy pulled Grover aside that weekend to speak in private.

“Hey, you remember when we talked about restoring the empathy link, right?” Percy asked him, searching for an opening. Grover lit up.

“Course I do. You’re ready for it? Really?” The hope in his voice made Percy wince with guilt, considering what they were about to talk about. He made a so-so motion with his hand, and Grover frowned in concern.

“I’m doing better right now,” Percy said. “I think we could fix it and it wouldn’t bother you too much. But, um, there’s something you need to know first, because it might change your mind.”

Grover looked skeptical. “Really.”

Percy managed a laugh, though it was soft and distracted. They turned into the forest and walked quietly for a minute while Percy tried to figure out what to say. Even without the empathy link, Grover knew him well enough to give him time to think.

“Last time,” he said at last, “when you found out I was suicidal. Why did you keep the empathy link then? It could’ve been, like, really dangerous to you.”

Grover snorted. “I was kind of surprised you didn’t bring this up then,” he admitted. Percy’s stomach twisted, and Grover bumped him. “If I was worried about it, I would have brought it up, dude. But I wasn’t. You coming here was really more about your emotional health than your physical health. You deserve to be happy.”

Percy bit his lip. “And… if it was about keeping me from doing anything?”

Now Grover looked worried. “Perce. Did something happen?”

Time to bite the bullet. Again. “I tried to kill myself on this last quest,” he confessed. Grover stopped. Percy stopped, too, but kept his eyes on the path. “A few weeks after we got out of Tartarus. I didn’t even realize what I was doing, not really. I saw a chance to die and I took it.”

“Shit,” Grover murmured. Percy winced. “I wish I had been there.” Startled, Percy looked up and met his eyes. Grover’s were stormy, frustrated - not angry, not even really hurt. “You must’ve been so messed up by then. I could’ve helped you. I would’ve known something was wrong.”

“It’s not really anyone’s fault,” Percy reassured him, as much as he could. He stepped off the path, leaned on a tree, and slid down to the ground, and Grover sat across from him, borderline bad-tempered. “Everything was so chaotic out there. My mental health wasn’t exactly a top concern.”

“Obviously it should’ve been,” Grover snapped. Percy grimaced. “This- that settles it. I’m putting the link back.”

That- was exactly the reaction Percy had expected, though he was still wary of it. “Wait. Grover. That just- it’s even more dangerous now, okay? Because I can’t promise I wouldn’t…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the warning.

Grover paused, studying him with clear worry. “You think you’d do that? Even knowing…?”

“I don’t know what I’d do,” Percy said quietly, looking away to stare at a tree. “I was… so messed up, Grover. I mean- we were in the middle of a quest. The others needed me, Annabeth needed me, the world was at stake and stuff. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I- I was thinking about how I deserved to die. And…” His voice dropped, trying to explain the headspace he’d been in, the headspace that might- might make it not matter that he’d take Grover down with him. “It seemed like such a relief.”

“A relief from what, Percy?” There was fear there, and hurt. Percy didn’t hold it against him. With Percy being who he was, having the empathy link in place must’ve seemed like a failsafe to Grover.

“From being me.” Percy swallowed the ache in his throat and pulled out Riptide to fidget. “The guilt, the self-loathing, the pressure. Don’t you ever just want it to be over?” Stupid question. Percy sighed. “Never mind. I just… need you to understand that it might not ever be really safe to have an empathy link with me.”

“I’m going to hug you,” Grover decided. He scooted over and wrapped his arms around Percy, and Percy hugged him back and leaned in with a sigh. The pressure in his chest backed off, leaving a faint feeling of peace underneath the worry. A few minutes passed before Grover let go to look Percy in the eye. “Percy, it was never safe to have an empathy link with you. You’re a monster beacon of a demigod, and we were in a war that you were at the center of. And it definitely wasn’t safe for you when I first formed it, trapped in a Cyclops cave. But we kept it because we wanted to be there for each other. Remember?”

Percy did remember. “Isn’t this… different?”

“Not at all,” Grover said firmly. “With the empathy link, I’ll know when you need me. With feelings like that, like you just said - I’ll know, okay? I’ll call you. There’s no way it comes on all at once, either. You must’ve been building up to it for days.”

“I was,” Percy admitted. “It was obvious, once Raine and I talked about it.”

Grover nodded. “And once it reaches a certain point, I’ll feel it too. I’ll make sure you’re not alone.” He grinned at the wave of relief and affection that Percy must’ve given off. “So? Finally ready to hook up again?”

Percy laughed raggedly. “Yeah, G-man. Sounds great.”

#pjo #percy jackson #grover underwood #tw: suicidal ideation

[howlingtides]

Chuuya tending to Dazai in Meursault (Dazai's POV)

tags: soukoku's version of fluff

tw: suicidal ideation, bullet wound, blood

Despite the gnawing, constant craving for death, Dazai found himself grateful to be alive.

Phantom pain from the bullets that barely grazed his skin had him rubbing at his forehead, his abdomen, a feeble attempt at ignoring the hole in his shoulder, the break in his leg. He tried to sit up, tried to push himself up to lean against the wall, but his head was swimming with blood loss and fluorescent lighting, and every small movement was hell.

Chuuya had really done a number on him.

Chuuya had also saved his life.

If Chuuya hadn't shown up when he did, hadn't saved Dazai in that elevator shaft and alerted him to the fact that he was here and he was alive and he was not, in fact, a vampire, then Dazai would be dead, would have fallen to his death. Would have finally gotten what he wanted.

Is that what he wanted? It wouldn't have been suicide. Just dumb luck.

Still.

"You sleeping?" came Chuuya's voice, his usual edge of annoyance pulling Dazai from his trance. He'd just returned from the medical bay holding some sort of case.

Dazai looked up at him from where he lay on the ground, blinking a few times, focusing and refocusing his eyes. "Just taking in the view."

"I swear to god," Chuuya said, pointing at Dazai, "if you laugh, I'm locking your broken ass back up myself."

Dazai smirked. "Is that a promise?"

Chuuya frowned, and it took all of Dazai's will to not laugh at the sight. His eyes were still tinted red, fangs poking out just beneath his lip, and it would be kind of hot if it wasn't so pathetic.

"I'm leaving you here," Chuuya threatened, actions contradicting his words as he knelt on the floor and set the case down, grabbing Dazai's good shoulder and hoisting him up into a seated position.

Dazai grunted at the movement, plopping his head against the wall as he focused on breathing. "No you won't." He looked at Chuuya, panting. "You'd miss me too much."

Chuuya rolled his eyes. Or at least, it looked like Chuuya rolled his eyes. It was hard to tell behind the contacts. "Just shut up and let me look at you."

"Why Chuuya, there are cameras-"

"I said shut the fuck up, Dazai," Chuuya interrupted, forcing Dazai's hands above his head.

A sharp pain shot through his shoulder as Chuuya tugged the soiled shirt up and over Dazai's head, tossing it aside. He let his arms fall.

Chuuya pulled off his gloves, tucking them into the pocket of his jacket, eyeing the bullet wound in Dazai's shoulder. He opened the case and pulled out an alcohol wipe, tearing it open.

"I know you shot me in the shoulder to make it more believable," Dazai stated, "but you didn't have to keep shooting."

Chuuya ran the wipe across Dazai's skin, cleaning some of the blood wherever he could find it. It was weirdly calming, the word gentle never something that Dazai would have thought he'd ever associate with Chuuya, but in that moment, Chuuya was being gentle with him.

Chuuya must've caught on because it was then that he ran the wipe across the wound, the alcohol strong enough to make Dazai hiss.

That was the Chuuya Dazai knew.

"I stopped all the other bullets, didn't I?" Chuuya sat back, dropping the wipe and pulling some gauze and a bandage roll from the case. "Fyodor thought I was a bloodthirsty vampire. It made sense."

"It felt good, didn't it?" Dazai pried, watching Chuuya work.

Chuuya paused for a moment before placing the gauze over Dazai's shoulder. He began to wrap it with the bandage. "Damn right it did."

Dazai smiled at that. "Guess I deserved it a little."

Chuuya huffed, maneuvering the bandage around Dazai's shoulder until it was completely covering the wound.

"Or maybe Chuuya just wanted an excuse to see me shirtless," he added.

Chuuya slapped his wound.

"Ow!" Dazai grabbed at his shoulder. "Violent little slug."

Before he could say anything else, he caught sight of Chuuya's face. His cheeks were red.

Oh.

Dazai grinned. "Like what you see?"

"Fuck off."

"It's okay, Chuuya, this is a safe space."

Chuuya pulled a brace out of the case. "Do you want me to put this on your leg or not?"

Oh. Chuuya brought him a brace.

That was... thoughtful.

"It's either that or you're carrying me out of here, so take your pick," Dazai teased.

"In your dreams, mackerel."

He loved when Chuuya fought back.

It just made Dazai want to fight harder.

"Yes, it is."

Chuuya's cheeks went red again.

The only thing Dazai loved more than seeing Chuuya all worked up is knowing that he was the one who caused it.

"I'm gonna shoot you in the head for real next time," he spat, moving to kneel next to Dazai's broken leg. He lightly held Dazai's bare ankle, lifting it up and sliding the brace beneath his calf.

Again, with the gentleness.

Chuuya was really giving him mixed signals here.

"And what fun would that- fuck," Dazai choked, gritting his teeth as Chuuya worked at the brace. "Dammit, Chuuya, that fucking hurts."

"Thought we were having fun," said Chuuya, the corner of his lip curling up as he tightened the brace, securing it in place.

Dazai smirked through the pain. "You call that vampire impression fun?"

"Choose your next words carefully, asshole," Chuuya warned. "There's still time for me to shoot you again."

And Dazai...well, Dazai was tired. Exhausted, actually. So for once in his goddamn life, he kept a thought to himself.

He'd tease Chuuya about his vampire screech another day.

#soukoku #bsd #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #dazai osamu #chuuya nakahara #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: blood #tw: bullet wound #kris drabbles #soukoku's version of fluff #skk #bungou stray dogs

[sugarandstories]

Does anyone else daydream/write about Tav intensely and persistently loving the suicidal ideation out of Gale as idealistic self-care for the pain and loneliness that their own suicidal ideation causes them or is it just me?

#tw: suicide #tw: suicidal ideation #bg3 #Gale Dekarios #Gale x Tav #Tav x Gale