#'suicide is not an option' is a bad thing or whatever and i felt like punching a hole in a wall because like it isn't though!!!! like okay

[cvrnelians]

if the fates allow - chapter one

dark!bucky barnes x reader: As could be expected, you were just a tad upset about having to spend Christmas in a mental health facility. On the brightside, you didn’t have to spend it alone. Your friendship with Bucky Barnes, another patient on the unit, brought you a certain level of comfort during your stay. When you are discharged from the hospital shortly thereafter—and Bucky is forced to remain—you promise him you’ll be his pen pal until he gets out, after which, you’ll meet for coffee and catch up.

But when things don’t go quite as well as Bucky had hoped, he takes drastic measures to ensure that you remain the integral part of his life he always envisioned you to be.

warnings: stalking, kidnapping, suicide attempts, and non-con elements. proceed with caution.

(gif is not mine)

chapter two // chapter three // chapter four // chapter five

chapter one: losing time

music

🎄DECEMBER🎄 

“So. I got you a little something.”

Bucky smiled at you expectantly, clearly very eager for you to investigate further. You raised your eyebrows at him. It was just so ridiculous. What could he possibly have gotten you, a magic marker from the craft room? A rogue oreo from the kitchen? There weren’t many gifting options to choose from. But then again, maybe he had a creative capacity you were unaware of.

It was only seconds later that you were presented with an origami folded together on the cheapest construction paper known to man.

“Is that…oh, it’s a dog!” you said, carefully picking it up out of his palm.

“A wolf,” he corrected you. “See how it’s howling at the moon?”

That it was.

“That’s actually pretty impressive.”

Bucky looked at you sheepishly. “I can’t exactly take credit for it. I asked MJ to make it for me. I tried to do it myself, but well…”

He motioned towards himself. You didn’t know the specifics of what happened to his left arm, just that there was an accident while he was deployed overseas. He was hesitant to be fit for a prosthetic even years later. He said he had a bad experience with the first one he had tried, that he felt like he hadn’t healed quite well enough to be fitted for another one just yet.

“…you get it.”

You hated that Bucky was so diligent about letting you know what day it was. You already knew what day it was, but you figured if you pretended that you didn’t know it was Christmas Eve, then you wouldn’t feel so sad. So there you sat, side-by-side with your backs pressed up against the radiator in the group room. You were trying to derive as much heat as you could from that ancient radiator, but you knew Bucky was only sitting there for your benefit. It had to have been uncomfortable for him. He was always warm.

He just didn’t want you to feel alone.

“I didn’t get you anything, Buck. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “You can make it up to me one day.”

The gesture was sweet, so sweet that it almost made you tear up. You tried your best to ignore him as he observed you, shifting your focus towards the inflatable Christmas tree in the corner of the room. You were amazed that MJ hadn’t tried to pop it yet. She had been particularly bothered by the “tree” when she discovered it that morning. At first glance, she greeted it with a cheerful “what the fuck is this?”

You glanced up from your sketchbook (which wasn’t really a sketchbook. It was a marble composition notebook that you and Bucky had both been sharing for the last two days to write each other notes and play tic tac toe) and raised your eyebrows. “A tree apparently.”

“No, it’s not,” she said flatly. “Why can’t we have a real tree?”

Bucky sighed. “Isn’t it obvious? They’re afraid we’ll try to hurt ourselves with the glass ornaments or the branches or something. So we get whatever this is.”

“Come on, guys,” Sharon, one of the psychiatric technicians chimed in. “I think it’s cute. Cleaner than a real tree, too.”

“Sharon, seriously?” MJ scoffed. “This is insulting.”

At first, you thought the hot mess of a “tree” was actually kind of funny. But looking at it now—cheap and partially deflated with stickers and paper ornaments plastered all over it—you would have to agree with MJ. This was a downright shameful excuse for a Christmas tree.

All of it was shameful, really. Here you were, scratching away in your notebook with yet another dull pencil, trying as hard as you could to distract yourself from yet another painful wave of emotions. The “tree,” the “sketchbook,” the pencil. They all looked almost about as pathetic as you felt.

Almost.

Bucky was eyeing you carefully, just as he always did. You had a few friends in the past that were pretty empathetic. Bucky, though…

He was on a whole different level.

He was particularly perceptive when it came to picking up on others’ emotions, namely yours. When you first arrived on the unit, you felt an instant kinship with him. You weren’t sure what he was like with people on the outside, but any time you were together, you felt like the only person in the room. It was equal parts comforting and unnerving. He shone a light on things you weren’t willing to say, things most people preferred to ignore. You wondered if that sense of intuition had anything to do with his military training, with his PTSD. It had to have been. Or maybe he was just always like that and those things amplified what was already there. You would never know for sure.

Sharon sat on the bench nearest to the door, fully absorbed in her sudoku book. You turned to look out the window, slowly clenching and unclenching your fists as you tried to hold back tears. It was snowing outside. Not the ugly kind of snow, either. It looked soft, like it would be easy to shovel or build a snowman with. Was it sad that you would be more than willing to shovel the parking lot just to have an excuse to go outside?

Tomorrow would mark six months since your mother passed away. Half a year. You hadn’t seen or spoken to your mother in half a year. Worse yet, tomorrow was her birthday.

It should’ve been, anyway.

Before you could stop yourself, you let out a sob that clearly startled Bucky. Your voice sounded strange and shallow, and as you continued to cry, you began to breathe faster and faster. It didn’t take long before tears were streaming down your face uncontrollably.

“Hey, hey, no! Come on, don’t do that,” Bucky said, turning to face you. “Hey, come on. Don’t cry.”

You shook your head, raising both hands to cover your face. Your notebook slid to the floor, the pencil rolling across the room until it bumped up against the inflatable tree. The notebook and your new gift fell to your side. You felt resistance against your fingers, like Bucky was trying to pry them away from your eyes, but you kept leaning further and further away from him. You curled yourself up closer into the corner of the wall, pressing your forehead up against the cool glass of the windowpane. Your chest was starting to hurt from the hyperventilation.

Bucky closed in on you, his chest pressed up against your back as he rested his chin in the crook of your neck. He had never been that close to you before.

Shannon immediately perked up. “James, back up right now. Don’t touch her.”

Bucky ignored her, hooking his arm around you and squeezing onto you even tighter. “Shhh. Come on, cheer up. It’s not so bad.”

After a great deal of squirming, he finally managed to pull your hands away from your face. You turned your gaze towards him and he nodded towards the window.

“See, you’ve got the nice view of all the snow out there, you’ve got your new Christmas present, you’ve got your book here.”

“Our book,” you corrected him, your voice thick and pitiful.

“Ah, there she is,” he chuckled. “Our book. And, uh, you’ve got the…you’ve got the tree.”

You let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. You felt unbearably hot, and Bucky was only making it worse with his warmth. Somehow, though, you didn’t mind. You clung onto him even tighter, a wave of exhaustion rushing over you. You wanted to melt into that exhaustion, into that warmth.

“You’ve got, uh…”

You suddenly felt pressure against your arms, someone’s fingers pressing into them. They were attempting to shake you away from Bucky’s grasp, but he wouldn’t budge.

“James, get off her now!” Sharon yelled.

“Sharon, h-he’s fine,” you stuttered, clutching onto his shirt. You were coughing, struggling to breathe as she yanked on your arms. “Seriously, he’s—”

“No, he’s not. Boundaries, James!” she shouted. “We’ve talked about this! Scott, get in here!"

“Let’s see what else,” Bucky continued, his voice low and soothing in comparison to the yelling reverberating off the walls. “We’ve got Sharon over here, our babysitter.”

Maybe it was the way he was joking around with you, maybe it was his warmth, maybe it was finally getting the chance to experience intimate human contact in such a confined, depressing place. Maybe it was the intention behind it all, a genuine attempt at comforting you. The concentrated effort to get you to stop crying. You weren’t quite sure. But in that moment, you were struck by something you thought had withered and died in you long ago.

The eager and persistent desire to live. To be alive. And not only that.

To be wholly, completely, fully alive.

“And I’m here. You’ve got me. See?” he mumbled. He was so close his lips were almost pressed against your neck. “Nothing to worry about.”

For just a split second, you actually believed him.

It didn’t take long for reality to set back in.

Sharon started violently pulling on Bucky’s arm. At a certain point, he chuckled and rolled his eyes, shifting away from you. Even with one arm, he was still ridiculously strong. He let his limbs go slack and allowed her to pull him up with one quick tug. Her eyes widened, perplexed by his sudden obedience. He rarely, if ever, did what anyone told him to do. You partially wondered if that was why he had been there for so much longer than everyone else.

Staff rushed into the room, followed by a few nosey patients. Once they entered, Bucky raised his hand up in front of his chest defensively, meandering towards the doorway as if nothing had happened. Much to your chagrin, he would probably be monitored more closely when he was around you now. 

They couldn’t stop you from talking to each other, though, could they? 

Right before he was escorted into the hallway, he looked over his shoulder at you and winked.

“Merry Christmas, doll.”

❄️JANUARY❄️

You hadn’t composed a handwritten letter in a very, very long time. You had a penpal when you were growing up, a boy you befriended at summer camp. From what you could recall, it had been a fun experience. You loved the anticipation of waiting to receive another letter, and the rush of excitement you felt when it finally arrived. The writing part was fun, too. You loved the process of filling Peter in on whatever was going on in your life at the time.

You would never forget how sad you were when Peter stopped writing back. You sent him three letters in a row before your mom finally convinced you to give up.

“He probably just moved away and doesn’t remember our address,” was her explanation. “Or maybe it got lost in the mail. He’ll get back to you eventually.”

You were all too happy to accept her version of the truth back then, delusional as it was. Every once in a while you wondered what Peter was up to nowadays. You once even considered looking him up on Facebook or something, but then you realized how psychotic that was and refrained from doing so.

As you stared at the little origami wolf sitting on your dresser, the prospect of writing to Bucky felt a lot less joyous to you. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to hear from him. You did. It just hurt you to think that he was trapped in a hospital during the most depressing month of the year. It was just so unfair. You had only been there for a few days, and you got to leave before he did. Granted, his situation was much more dire, and perhaps he only had a few more days left before they were going to let him out.

Likely not, though, based on the fact that he asked you to send him letters. That implied that there would be ongoing correspondence between the two of you, meaning he somehow knew that he’d be there for a while. You just wondered for how long. He probably wondered the same.

He was a “repeat offender” in that particular hospital, meaning he wound up there following a suicide attempt more than once. He had been a prisoner of war, and with that came severe PTSD. You would never be able to forget the sound of him screaming in the middle of the night, waking you up out of a dead sleep from several rooms away. Out of everything he endured, all of the symptoms he had been living with on a daily basis, he always said the nightmares were the worst.

“Hey, on the brightside, they let me have the room all to myself this time,” he had said the morning after one particularly rough night.

Bucky had been suffering so much, and for so long. He didn’t deserve to be under anyone’s control anymore. He hadn’t deserved it to begin with. However, you knew that his physical safety took precedence over everything, and if he posed a threat to himself, maybe it was better that he was there—as upsetting as it was.

To get yourself in the spirit of writing, you had purchased a set of multicolored gel pens. You sent three to Bucky and kept three for yourself. Yours red, orange, and yellow, and his green, blue, and purple. You thought he might get a kick out of them. You hoped he would, at least. When you were in a place that was so bleak and void of color, it was the little things that stuck out to you. They were ballpoint pens, not exactly sharp and lethal instruments, so you were hoping the staff wouldn’t intercept them.

You kept your first letter short and sweet, just so he wouldn’t feel any pressure to write you a mile-long response if he was tired or disinterested. You felt awkward and self-centered writing him a three paragraph update on your life, so you ended it with some questions about how he was, what he had been up to. That was what you really wanted to talk about.

As you went to put his name on the envelope, you stopped yourself short.

Bucky 

Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes

You received a reply in less than a week. You were delighted to find that your wish had come true. He had been allowed to keep the pens. Not only that, he had used them to write to you. You thought your decision to give Bucky the cool colors while you kept the warm colors for yourself was an apt one. When you were in the hospital, he was always wearing dark colored sweaters, most of which were black and gray. He told you that when he was first admitted, one of his friends had stopped by and dropped off a bunch of clothes for him to wear. There was one blue sweater he owned that you particularly liked. You weren’t sure why he didn’t wear it more often. 

He looked nice in blue.

Hey dollface,

Sergeant Barnes, huh? And here I thought we were on a first name basis!

How are things on the outside? Miss me yet?

I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate you writing me this letter. Not sure if you’ll think this is pathetic or not (and even if you did, you probably wouldn’t say anything, would you?), but it gives me something to look forward to. I was having a pretty horrible day—and let’s be honest, every day is a horrible day in this place—but when Sharon told me I had mail from you, my mood was instantly lifted. It reminds me of when my pal, Sam wrote to me back when I was in basic training. That feels like a lifetime ago. It kind of was.

God, I feel so old lately. And I’m only getting older. I’m becoming more and more aware of that with every minute I spend here, the fact that I’m losing time. Wasting time. My sisters came to visit me the other day. I haven’t seen them in a while, probably a good year or so. You’ve only ever known me with long hair, but they were shocked when they saw me. They were absolutely relentless about it. It was strangely comforting.

Sometimes I wish I would have met you when I looked the way I used to. Back before all of this happened. Way back, before I was ever deployed. I was a completely different person then.

Although maybe you wouldn’t have liked me so much back then. I was much more sure of myself. Probably too sure of myself. I had a lot to learn. 

You seem to like the person I am now.

I’m not so sure I agree.

I’m slowly but surely getting better. At least that’s what everybody is saying. I’m feeling a bit calmer, less jumpy. Even Dr. Banner can see it. I think the meds are working. They have to be at this point, right? The nightmares are still there, of course. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop having those.

Oh, before I forget - MJ won’t admit it, but I can tell that she misses having you around. She made a little sketch of everyone on the unit the other day, and she included you in it. I might miss you a little bit, too.

Come visit me sometime, won’t you?

James

P.S. - Ever seen a decorated soldier write a letter in purple gel pen before? If I could roll my eyes in writing, I would.

Only for you.

-

this is a reupload of a story i wrote over a year ago. it's good to be back on this hellsite lol. thank you for reading 💌

#yandere bucky barnes #yandere bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader #yandere marvel

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Sangwoo x Wife!Reader In the games HCS

Summary: How would Sangwoo be with his Wife in theg games Warnings: Death - Canon violence - Angst - Mentions of suicide -

At first Sangwoo will try his best to hide the fact that he is in debt. He feels shame over it, how he lost his composture and ended in this type of situation.

Sangwoo its someone who fakes and hides his feelings a lot. He alwyas as felt like he needed to be the best for his mother to get a better life. Later on you came into the picture and the pressure got worse.

However, you are his wife and can tell something is off about him. As soon as he admits what is happening you will be reasuring him that everything will be fine, and that both of you will find a way out.

During games we can see different routes:

He has two things in mind, win and protect you. He tried to stop from coming with him but you insisted.

"Till deat do us apart, remember?"

You are the only one who he truly cares about besides himself. He will tell you to be close to him all the time and to not trust others, not even Gi-hun. He also tells you to follow him in every game, whatever choise he makes you must follow it.

Will talk to you away from the rest and tell you to rely on him. And to not question him.

During the first night when everything went to chaos he has you at his side through all of it.

If you two go with someone else at the marbles game and end winning Sangwoo is keeping himself close to you and thanking heavens he decided not to team up with you, even if you were a bit ofended by it at the start.

It ends with both of you hugging each other after it. Sangwoo does not want to be seen as "soft" or "weak" so he will take you to the bathroom where he will let you cry in his arms and even him will cry a bit, the idea of losing you and the fact that it was a close call was too much.

If you two went together then Sangwoo will insist you are the one who must survive and get out, making you promise him to take care of his mother and telling you to live a better life. He will call you names and say things like he never loved you to make you angry at him so you will decide to let him die in there.

"Cant you see we are here because of you? Because you always wanted things that were out of our reach? I tried my best and look around now. We are surronded by bodies because of you"

"Do you know why i decided to date you? Because Gi-hun dared me and I accepted. You just were so dumb and fell right for it. I never wanted to marry you, but i could not pass the chance to get a better image for my friends and mother"

Bet you wont believe him and will pull him down for a kiss. You would bait him into thinking that he lost but at the end he sees with desesperation how the guard is going to take you instead of him.

"I love you Sangwoo, and i cant imagine a life without you, so please, please win this game and live for the both of us"

He will be heartbroken after it but wont consider suicide since he promised you to live for both and not for himself. He gets more distant and cold toward others for the rest of the games.

With the game of the glass bridge he will try his best to protect you. Does not mind a bit once he pushes down that player to save you. If he needs to calm you down after it he will do it.

"It was our only option, we would have died otherwise"

For the final night pre final game he will still go and kill Sae-byeok only feeling bad about it because she was close to you in the games. If the game master insist other has to die then it will be a fight till death with Gi-hun.

If he wins and both of you have to fight against each other in the last game, Sangwoo will still sacriface himself for you, even if he is the one with better chances of winning.

If it comes down to Gi-hun and you its going to be a serious fight. Gi-hun knows you and likes you but he cant help but see Sangwoo on yourself and how he acted in the games. He also wants to see his daugther again.

#squid game x y/n #squid game imagines #suicide squad imagine #squid game x reader #sangwoo x reader

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[damagedintellect]

Nakahara Chuuya x Reader

💌 Would this be considered a social suicide? : Chapter 2 💌  

Summary: You knew it was dangerous to take walks at night but hearing the water rushing under the bridge was calming to your nerves. You didn’t imagine you’d ever fall into the river and somehow wake up in your favorite anime. The isekai that I’m sure will come back to haunt me. It’s kept me up all night but I might as well get the brainrot out.

Notes: Reader is Isekai’d into BSD, Slow to start, Chuuya is endgame but there’s a fair bit of reader & Dazai moments too 

💌 Word count: 2,929 💌 Available Chapters [1] [You are here] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

The next morning you were woken up to a phone call. It was weird since the ringtone was not the one you were used to and the phone wasn’t placed where you normally put it by your side. You tried to keep your eyes closed, you were still tired. Eventually your hand found a flip phone and you picked up the call. 

“Yeah.” you sounded dead tired but sure enough Dazai’s chipper voice filled your ear. “And good morning to you~”

You groaned only half heartedly mumbling “It’s too early for this. Call Atsushi to get you out of the oil drum or whatever you got yourself stuck in. I’m going back to sleep.” You ended up slurring some of the words but you were on the precipice of falling back asleep.

“Wow, that's rude to say to someone who saved your life last night. I called you in good faith that my darling (Y/N) would help me with this emergency. Although that does leave me wondering, does your ability make you psychic?” That’s when the events from the night prior stirred you from your sleepy haze. Oh shit. You felt like you were dunked in cold water. Too much, you fucked up. Fix it. Lie. Lie like your life depends on it. What would Atsushi do? He’d panic and apologize right?

“OH GOD IT WASN’T A DREAM! I thought I was still dreaming. It was just a guess, I’m sorry Dazai I’ll-” you were cut off. Perfect.

“Calm down, I was only teasing you but you should come out once you’ve changed. Atsushi’s already downstairs waiting for you.” He ended the call swiftly after. 

That could have gone better but at least it wasn’t the worst thing having him think you had an ability. Maybe it was a good thing but still you didn’t like the casualness of it all. Dazai was one of your favorite characters that you knew way too much about. Naturally you don’t want to get on his bad side but you wanted to be kept close. Even though you feel like you can anticipate where he’s coming from, the fact of the matter is he’s supposed to be unpredictable. The problem is you want to be important but the man is a walking redflag and boy do you love flags. You already know romance was not an option especially with the way he flirts with women. He clearly doesn't have much interest in such a thing anyways. His idea that everything he desires will be taken from him always gets in the way of developing any deep meaningful relationship anyhow. Or at least was your guess based on what you’ve read. You feel like that’s the reason why he’s always annoying everyone all the time so in the event something were to happen to either them or himself he could continue without much worry. Especially since he wants to die without being a burden to anyone. You shift your focus to the clothes provided for you, a white button up shirt, pants and boots similar to Atsushi’s but instead of suspenders and a tie you were given a lightweight sweater vest to complete your look. You thought it was cute as you looked in the mirror on your way out the door.

You didn’t say much on the way through town, still embarrassed about how you spoke on the phone. Dazai spoke primarily about the job he would help get you both. Sometimes he would glance back at you just to make sure you were still listening. He even winked at you when he was talking about how good of a fit the two of you would be. The man had no right to be this attractive. As Dazai finished talking himself up Kunikida stormed in to set the record straight. 

Atsushi looked over to you “I’m starting to have second thoughts about accepting his help. Maybe I should just look for a job on my own.” 

“Eh, Dazai might seem like a moron but I’d trust him on this one. Think about it, you don’t exactly have the greatest credentials to get a job anyhow.” You shrugged, shoving your hands in your pockets. The reason you didn’t get much sleep last night is because you were dreading the next thing Kunikida was about to say. You're afraid you'll be absolutely useless.

“We have an emergency. A man has taken a hostage and threatened to blow up our office.”

Atsushi tried to protest but Dazai and Kunikida were not having it. You followed along without complaint, of course as was your plan from the beginning. If you’re being honest you forgot half of what Junichiro’s speech was about until you heard it right now. Like who was he talking to if not you guys hiding behind the decorative shrubbery. The office workers and hostage had been there for a while. Why wait till right now to say those things. Atsushi was still trying to whimper his way out of helping and Dazai was trying to coax him otherwise. You only nodded along.

“Then there’s only one option.” Dazai said taking a stance with Kunikida following suit. The game of rock, paper, scissors was short and the face Atsushi was making was priceless. Kunikida stood up and approached the “mad bomber” as calmly as he could. “Hey, easy does it kid.”

“Stay away, I only want to see the president! Don’t you try anything funny or I’ll blow this place to bits.”

Kunikida put his hands up slowly and backed away “Okay.”

“I know who you are. You’re Kunikida. You want me to lower my guard so that you can use that annoying ability of yours to stop me. Well that sure ain't happening. Lay on that desk on your hands and knees, and keep both feet above your head- ” as he continued on, you shook with laughter, suppressing the sound at the strange but clearly not well thought order. You saw Dazai side eye you and you whispered “Sorry I know this is bad but the request he was making, how would Kunikida, just never mind. This means you can’t go out there either, Dazai.”

“It would only make him more angry. Oh my whatever shall we do now?”

You both looked at Atsushi “Absolutely not.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“I already know what you’re gonna ask.” 

You sighed “Atsushi we are the only option.” Dazai nodded “You’re not a formal member and the bomber doesn’t know either of you at all.”

Before Dazai could move you were already rummaging through the boxes to grab newspapers. “Listen, you just need to distract him long enough for me to back you up. We got this alright?” you looked at Dazai for confirmation.

You took the words out of Dazai’s mouth but he just shrugged continuing the thought. “Yeah. How bout you put on an act. Make it depressing like you think you’re a real worthless human being. I know you can do it right?”

You handed Atsushi the newspapers but he still looked worried. Dazai dropped the smile whispering “Trust me, scuffles on this scale are child's play compared to what we normally deal with. You can handle this Atsushi.” He was quaking in his boots as he started his speech. Dazai looked at you and raised an eyebrow. You gave a pointed look at Kunikida “Since Atsushi looks around the same age as the guy it’s better for him to be the one to reason with him. Worst case scenario I’ll just run and throw myself on the bomb. I already don’t have any memories anyways” you don’t look at Dazai’s face you half expected him to make a double suicide offer. Atsushi got right in Junichiro’s face making the perfect opening for Kunikida. While everyone was distracted with relief you started to untie Naomi, ushering her to the other side of the room. By the time Dazai started messing with Kunikida you had already walked behind the desk ready to move the bomb to the far corner.

“Now you’ll pay. I swear anyone with supernatural powers is not totally right in the head.” Tanizaki declared pressing the detonator.

Once the bomb started ticking you were already in the corner. You turned crouching around the bomb “Thanks for last night, it was great we should do it again sometime!” You smiled fearlessly at Atsushi as he grabbed the bomb from your arms and pushed you away. Dazai caught you as you stumbled back. The bomb didn’t go off of course and you all stood around Atsushi. Dazai helped you to your feet asking if you were okay and you nodded.

“Geez you know I figured the kid was stupid but I didn’t expect them both to be suicidal.” Kunikida groaned while Dazai chimed “It seems I’m rubbing off on them. Wouldn’t you agree, Tanizaki?” The redhead peered around Kunikida’s side hesitantly “Sorry, are you okay?”

"Heee?"

You laughed at Atsushi’s confusion as it shifts to clear irritation. “I’m guessing that was the entrance exam?” you turned towards Dazai for confirmation as the president walked in.

“You’re exactly right.” Fukuzawa then explained the rest of the sentiment with Dazai’s plan to get you both into the agency. You leaned on the desk behind you waiting for Atsushi to come to terms with his decision. He was arguing with how violent the job is for him but you pointed out “Way too violent? I don’t think you can say that when you pried me off a bomb to protect everyone.”

He still needed more convincing but you stopped paying attention. Sitting in the closest chair you relaxed into the piece of furniture. Wasn’t your best but wasn’t your worst. Eventually you all went to the cafe downstairs. You got a hot chocolate not really being a fan of coffee and not feeling like tea. You were already tired but it was still only afternoon. You guys still had the whole day ahead of you. 

Junichiro was apologizing to you both but you told him not to sweat it. You made the claim that at some point you realized that he and Naomi were siblings. Naomi didn't even need to be prompted to start molesting her brother. As the siblings did their thing Kunikida came up to talk with you both about upholding the agency’s good name. Meanwhile Dazai was doing the exact opposite by flirting with the hostess. That’s when Atsushi asked what they did before working at the agency.

“Take a guess. It’s a game we play a lot here actually. Newcomer tries to guess his colleagues' former occupations. Think of it as part of training to be a private investigator.”

Atsushi looked at you before you added “I’ve been pretty good at guessing games so far. I'll take my guesses once you get stumped.” You folded your hands behind your head giving him the lead. He hummed “I want to say Junichiro and Naomi were students?” 

“Whoa you got it. Nice one.”

“How did you figure that one out?”

The siblings looked surprised but they really shouldn’t be. It was so obvious given their age and the fact that one of them was literally in a uniform. Why else would they only be part timers “Not half bad Atsushi. What about Mr. Kunikida?” The aforementioned blonde spat out his coffee. “Nobody cares about what I used to be alright!”

Atsushi tried to focus again “Hmm, an official? Did he have a government job?”

“Almost. What do you think (Y/N)?” Dazai gave you time to answer “It might be the glasses but “Mr. Kunikida” screams math teacher.” 

“I could totally picture that actually.” Atsushi responded flatly. Kunikida was grumbling “It was another life. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“What about me then?” Dazai perked up in his chair.

“What did you do?”

“Yup my job.” Dazai smiled knowing he would have no way of guessing. Atsushi went on a rampage trying to guess it. You just sipped your coco waiting. Debating if it was a good idea to frazzle the brunette by letting him know but you wanted to see his face. Kunikida huffed, betting he didn't actually have an occupation before this.

“Not true, I would never lie about something like this. You've given up right?”

Junichiro’s phone went off, drawing everyone’s attention to the call. It was work, Higuchi to be exact. Dazai tried to wrap it up "Let’s save the guessing game-"

"Actually I would like to take my shot in the dark if it's all the same to everyone else. I only need one guess to be right." You interjected immediately. You made up your mind. This was happening. It's about to go down.

Dazai perked up cheerily like he had been for the past few minutes as you leaned in between him and Kunikida. You cupped your hand around his ear whispering “The demon prodigy and ex- port mafia executive himself, Osamu Dazai.” When you pulled away he fiend ignorance and kept up his usual comical persona “Ding ding ding we have a winner! Now let's go meet with our client shall we.” He stood up and started ushering everyone upstairs shooing Kunikida when he tried to ask questions “Wait just like that! I wanna know.” Atsushi followed after. As you passed Dazai he put his hand on your shoulder. The weight was feather light to the touch but had a more threatening presence than a simple hand should have. Had you not thought about your answer the moment you woke here you might have been shaken but your resolve stayed firm. 

“What gave it away?” his voice was warm against your ear. You took a deep breath turning to stare at him and recited the line you practiced in your head. “Ability or not I can see it in your eyes.” you smiled before going after the others. That’s all you should say for now if you continue who knows what the consequences will be. You still had to come up with something to avoid being gunned down by Higuchi or worse killed by Akutagawa.

—

You decided that while Higuchi was leading you to the alley you would start idle chit chat. If you could convince her that you had an ability, maybe she'd feel threatened? That sounded stupid. You could just use Atsushi as a meat shield. You're not picky. "Ichiyo, do you perhaps have someone dear to you who has obscure coughing fits. I apologize if I'm being forward." You skipped alongside her fast pace. Her face shifted for a second. She never gave you her first name. "I do, it must be allergy season right?" You could almost feel the sweat drop at the possibility of the mission being compromised.

You shook your head "If their name is Ryunosuke I'm afraid it's a lung disease. My ability is random foresight but never wrong. It's not my place to say but you should make sure he gets it looked at." You smiled innocently as she was taken aback. Once you got to the threshold of the alley she announced your arrival ignoring your comment. You made sure to stand behind Atsushi knowing she wouldn't risk it. Until Akutagawa showed up, standing behind Atsushi was a good strategy.

As Akutagawa was about to attack you held up your hand and he paused, unsure if you were about to use an ability he didn’t know about. Since you were so new to the agency there wasn't any information about your level of skill. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, not unless you want to make Dazai very angry." He tensed at the mention of his former mentor. "Oh? And why is that?" He pointed a tendril to your neck drawing the slightest bit of blood.

"Because I'm the woman he's going to commit a double suicide with." You smirk knowing he wouldn't dare touch what "belongs" to Dazai. You wonder if he could hear that through the wire. Hopefully you were far enough away from Higuchi. "Very well. Don't get in the way and I'll spare your life." You backed away and watched the show. Junichiro struggled to look back at you making an attempt to glare. As subtle as you could you tried to give him a reassuring look that it was part of a plan and not you being scum. Technically you were being scum but he should cut you some slack. You weren't a fighter.

When Dazai was finished resolving the issue he bounced over to you. "So you're the woman who will commit suicide with me?" He marveled at you with a twinkle in his eyes and sarcasm on his tongue. "I mean you never actually asked but if I get to pick the cause of death, I don't see why not" You had planned for this too. On top of that you were surprised at how long it took for you to be in contention. You must look younger than you were or you could just not be his type. Who knows really when it comes to Dazai.

His eyes widened and you weren’t sure if he thought you were being serious or if he was just playing it up "Of course! What did you have in mind?"

You giggled "Old age." He didn't look amused. "Har Har. You're so proud of yourself aren't you?" He helped Naomi on to your back as he tried to figure out how to carry the boys. 

"Extremely."

<= Previous Chapter | Next Chapter =>

#BSD isekai au no one asked for #chuuya nakahara x reader #nakahara chuuya x reader #bsd x reader #bsd imagines #don't mind me just playing around with BSD like dolls #xreader #x reader

[mysteriouslover1516]

Lost without You (Part 2)

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of heartbreak, depression, alcoholism, and thoughts of suicide.

MC sat on the edge of the bathtub, her stomach churning as her vision grew hazy. She probably shouldn’t have drunk that fourth thing of vodka, bad idea. Two months had gone by since the incident at the mine, two months since Richy’s death, two months since Jake had disappeared without a trace.

Her eyes started to well up with tears at the thought, Jake was dead too. There was no way he could have escaped the mine undetected, he probably weighed his options, favoring the odds of dying in the mine over facing capture by the FBI. She couldn’t blame him, not really. The FBI would have never let him go, who knows what they would have done to him. MC sat there perched for a while, reveling in how the cool porcelain of the tub felt against the back of her legs, eyes squeezing shut as her head felt like it was being split in half. Hangovers were no joke, and apparently it didn’t take till the next morning for the symptoms to attack with a vengeance.

After finally determining that she could make it to her bed, she stood up unsteadily. Managing to not trip over her own two feet, MC collapsed onto her bed. Her eyes glanced towards the alarm clock that sat on her nightstand, the time digits glowing dark red: 1:58am.

It could have been the alcohol taking its toll, or perhaps she just wanted to reminisce, or maybe she was hoping for some sign of life; whatever it was she picked up her phone. Her long, slim fingers shakily danced over the screen, opening up the messenger app. There he was, at the top of her list. His contact pinned, messages locked, his mysterious profile picture looking back at her. Her eyes carefully took in the last message he sent to her, one that she would never forget, but the butterflies in her stomach returned as if reading it for the very first time again.

MC, I love you.

All the promises he had made, the promises that he’d never let anyone come between them, they had all simply vanished into thin air. “Did you know you were going to die, Jake?” She whispered to herself, tearing up once more. “Did you know this was the end?”

MC closed the hacker’s chat, mindlessly scrolling through the chats she had shared with all of her friends from Duskwood. Her finger stopped on someone’s profile picture, a cap placed on top of his blonde hair, lips twisted into one of his iconic side smirks. Richy.

If I told you I was sorry

Would you believe me?

If Dan hadn’t shot him, Richy would still be alive…..no. If Richy had just come clean in the first place, it would have never gone this far. It was funny how much you could miss someone even if you never met them in real life, and Richy was one of them, and then there was Jake…..

As she neared the end of her messages, her eyes fell on the picture with an eye, Nymos. Back then she had feared she would never hear from Jake again, and now it seemed to be her reality, a living nightmare, her personal hell hole. All of those texts that she had spammed to Nymos,  as if those messages would bring the hacker back; he had never received them. Apparently Nymos was programmed to only activate when MC and Lilly discovered the right password to view the video he had left, rw47vr. A crazy, intoxicating idea struck her; those messages had never been delivered to Jake. Her fingers involuntarily started to type upon the screen, this was her way  of letting him go, providing closure for herself, perhaps she could finally move on…….

It’s been two months since the fire at the mine

Since you disappeared

It was Richy, Jake, it was Richy all along

How had Richy fooled them all like this? How could he do this to them, to his friends? Part of her wanted to hate him for everything, but she could never bring herself to do it.

He was the man without a face

He kidnapped Hannah

Marked his own shop with the mark of the raven

Faked his own death so he could plant the evidence

Richy killed Jake, didn’t he? It was Richy’s fault, Richy’s fault Jake was dead.

Amy is dead because of him

You are dead….because of him, Jake

Deep down she knew the truth though, it wasn’t Richy’s fault. She was the one he wanted, not Jake. It was her fault, her fault the hacker had died.

You shouldn’t have gone

It’s all my fault

If I had gone, you wouldn’t have been in the mine

The FBI wouldn’t have trapped you underground

You’d still be here

You’d still love me…

MC’s crying grew worse as she wiped her damp hair out of her face, she couldn’t continue on like this, the pain was growing worse, it felt like it was slowly but surely killing her.

It’s my fault

My fault you’re gone, my fault that you’re not on the other end of this line anymore

I miss you, Jake

I miss you more than I could ever explain

Instead of it healing, her heartbreak was slowly infecting her whole being, the sickness coursing through her very veins. It was harder to get out of bed every morning, harder to socialize with those who were once her friends, everything was harder now. What was the point anymore?

I’m trying to be strong, Jake

Trying to keep on with life as you would have wanted

I try to numb the pain, but the alcohol always wears off

What if there’s only one way to escape it, Jake?

Maybe then we could be together again

You once asked me to go with you till the end of the road, is that what you meant?

She knew she shouldn’t be considering it, but the thought was still tugging at her, inviting her in. What if this was the only way to finally find peace? What if suicide was the actual answer? Is this what Jake would have wanted? Something inside her echoed the answer she already knew in her heart, Yes MC, join me.

I love you, Jake

Hey lovelies ;) So here is part two, please like and leave comments below! I love hearing from all of you! The third and final part will hopefully be out in a couple of days! Thank you for all your love and support, love you ;)

#duskwood jake #jake donfort #jake x mc #duskwood jake x mc #duskwood mc #hackerman #hacker boy #iamjake #jake4life #duskwood hacker #hacker duskwood #duskwood #everbyte studios #duskwood game #duskwood everbyte #everbyte duskwood #everbyte game #duskwood community #duskwood fandom #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood drabble #duskwood imagine #richy rogers #richy duskwod #duskwood richy #LostWithoutYou

[themostsanebug]

TEEHEHE!!! I WROTE MORE OC ANGST!! <33

[ooo,, this one is BAD,, blood, vomit, suicidal thoughts, and just,, massive amounts of physical and mental pain in general,,]

Boris gripped onto the radio that was now his head. The tips of his fingers had been sprouting into claws for a few weeks now, but he supposed now they were nearing the finish line. It felt like fire was being injected straight into his veins as the claws grew out and scraped against his head. He wanted to scream. Call out for help. Yet, he couldn't. He knew that stupid messenger god would shut him up.

Still. He called out. A strangled cry before the wound around his neck split open again and the blood poured out.

"Fool. There is no one here who cares for you. Just give in. Hand yourself over to me, body and mind." Tobias' voice boomed throughout his mind. It flooded all his senses and sharpened the feeling of pain without him. "For a feeble man your spirit is quite strong. How long will it take to break you down, young one?"

He wanted to sob. Everything hurt. The spikes shooting up from his spine, the tail growing from the end of it, the blood coating his newly formed claws from the gaping injury on his neck. It was all too much. He wanted to rip his head off. No.. he wanted to be human again. Not.. whatever the hell he's become. Whatever he has been turned into. Fuck, he'd ran out of bandages a while ago, leaving him unable to tend to the wounds he now had. Static cut through his speaker, his vision was starting to blur and his head felt lighter than usual. Shit.. shit, shit, shit.. He couldn't pass out now! He didn't.. he didn't need that.. thing in his mind when he slept. He didn't need it in his body.

He should never have joined that damned cult. All he wanted was to find a way to get this stupid radio off his head without dying in the process! Now dying seemed like the better option. Just rip off the radio and bleed out on the floor.

"Pathetic. You truly are a sniveling, slimy creature. You could make this so much easier on yourself if you just gave in." He winced as that voice overtook him once again. He wanted to slit that voice's throat. God or not, he wanted it gone. A scream cut through his speaker as the spikes growing along his spine grew out of the skin containing them. His breathing grew more ragged as a blur crept back into his vision. He scrambled to pull his shirt off so he could assess the damage being done to his body. He.. He really shouldn't have looked.

The mirror showed him that the area of.. infection from the god had grown up to the area around his shoulder blades, dark colored markings painted across his shoulders and steadily spreading. Turning around revealed his back was in fact bleeding from the unexpected growth of his spine. Some of the spikes had grown in improperly due to being rushed leaving a few gorey wounds behind that would take forever for him to heal. He looked disgusting. He was slowly turning into a monster his tormentor had created and there was nothing he could do. He felt light headed. Much worse than mere seconds ago which he had assumed was impossible. He felt nauseous. Seeing that much blood did something to him. All of that mutilation done to his own body. He turned back around and gripped onto the edge of the sink. His claws scraped against the glass, leaving marks in their wake and a horrible noise that rang through his head. He couldn't take it anymore. He leaned into the sink and threw up. The bottom of his radio practically split open to get out the amount of bile he coughed up. Once all of the vomit was out of his system, he continued to dry heave over the sink for a few more minutes. He could hear the mocking laugh of Tobias echoing in his mind. Whether he was imagining it or it was actually happening was hard to tell through the haze covering his brain.

He could tell his body was ready to give out any second. His legs about gave out from underneath him when he tried to walk. He settled for just sitting down on the floor and "resting" there. He was still bleeding, red pouring from his open injuries and covering basically everything. His vision blurred for the last time as he finally passed out. His body curled in on itself as he lay on the floor of his bathroom. Just an average day of the week for Boris Madden.

#object head oc #oc lore #oc fanfiction #boris madden #fly man yaps!! #oc #my oc #my oc stuff #oc angst #tw blood #cw blood #tw vomit #cw vomit #tw pain #cw pain #tw sucidal ideation

[mwolf0epsilon]

15 Lines Game

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture their character/personality/vibe. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you’re free to include those as well.

Tagged by @alwayskote , thanks! This was a bit of a challenge because I couldn't decide on which OC I wanted to do, and then I wasn't sure if I had enough dialogue for them that encompassed the entirety of their personalities (；′⌒`)

No pressure tags: @milfcutlawquane , @lost-on-kamino , @squirrelno2 & @gaeasun

Clone Medic Sponge

"His name was Jelly." They say. "And I killed him because I asked him to come with me to the 501st…"

"She likes pats on her hind-quarters, like playing a drum… And don't give her anything even if she tries to beg, she's already been fed and she knows it."

“Not enough pay in the world to deal with you.” They snarl, bared teeth and a fire in their eye. “But I’m not about to let Rey'vod’s little stupid Ey'ika rot to death…”

“We all look alike to them! They get to have identities all of their own without having to fight tooth and nail to distinguish themselves, and we… We’re interchangeable! Just copies!” CT-2525 hated them. They hated them for it. For the unfairness of it all. “I thought he was my friend…”

“Gender identity is, in my opinion, much more important than what goes on between someone’s legs or inside their bodies. It’s who you choose to be that should precede all things. Even natural processes that would mark you in a different box.”

"He'll rest, I'll make sure of it…" Sponge huffed, a mischievous spark in those dark eyes of theirs. "If he doesn't, Beau will get him for me."

"You're both gross…" Sponge grunted in revulsion at the sight of Pitch and Coric speaking with their mouths full. "Have some manners…"

"That's why you use thick gloves when handling bitey critters and kih'vode." Sponge pointed out matter-o-factly.

“Next you’ll be telling me to sign my own decomm paperwork and deliver it to the Chancellor’s office while tap-dancing in clown shoes…”

“I can’t believe Crayfish is somehow less of a menace to society than Conch…” Sponge snorted. “I think it was better when we used to try to smother each other with a pillow. At least then whatever nonsense came out of his mouth was heavily muffled.”

"Nothing that glows in the dark is meant to be pretty." Sponge pointed out with an exasperated grunt. "It's meant to lure you to the light so that it can snag you unawares."

"Krell is sending us on suicide missions, and ignoring what viable options we have for a swifter less costly success! He's is KILLING us, and your response is to roll over and show him your belly like a dog?!"

"What else did you do Captain? Get on your knees for him? Suck his big fat Besalisk cock like the little bitch you are?!"

"Admit it, you're nothing but a sniveling coward who'd rather save his own skin than do the right thing by his vode!"

“Bitter resentment hasn’t set in yet. It’s what makes them better…” Sponge had seemed resigned to that, but not in a way that felt particularly bad. At least not from the way they’d sounded. “It’s our job now, to make sure those of us that are still so eager to hope can live freer lives than the ones we’ll surely live.”

Riot Trooper Olly Olly Oxenfree

“Is it as annoying as the ukulele you showed me last time? Or the recorder? Or the clarinet?”

“It’s… Not as indigestible as the last one…” The somber lullabies had filled him with melancholic feelings.

“If you keep thinking so hard, you’ll burn out the tiny lightbulb that lives inside your thick skull…”

“You need to take things slow Rhythm. Something will eventually pop up into that scattered brain of yours. Preferably, something he might actually find enjoyment out of… I can’t imagine what degenerate actually likes the banjo…”

“I’ve been told I’m very good at slapping away rapidly moving objects… I suppose it had to do with the fact Pretty Boy enjoyed throwing stuff at both myself and Lichtenberg during training…”

“….Rhythm, that’s a frog. Not a dog. And its eating the tablecloth…”

“My body hurts sometimes, big kriffing deal. It’d hurt from long shifts and violent altercations anyway…”

“This stupid condition is nothing special, so DON’T treat me like I’m made of KRIFFING glass…”

“I’m being pragmatic.” He rebuked bitterly. “I was going to die anyway… Every moment of my life as a cadet I knew I was going to die. Might as well make myself useful before I do…”

"The medbay is currently off-limits to anyone who is not a part of the Coruscant Guard, due to unforeseen circumstances involving both a lack of resources and equipment. If you have any injuries you may need tending to, I would suggest going to your own battalion medics, an on-planet hospital, or sucking it up and dealing with it instead of bitching about it."

“This is Cabur. She’s a shiro that I found in one of the upper floors in a public fountain…” He offered as a form of explanation. “And I’ve been looking everywhere for her. I was afraid she’d gotten lost.”

“…. You never asked.” Olly shrugged in turn.

“Turtles can’t catch rabies.” Olly pointed out calmly.

“The Phase I armour was perfectly fine…”

“I really shouldn’t be taking painting advice from a vod who put volume sliders on his own armour, only to then nearly deafen himself by playing loud music all day…”

#Writing Game #Tag Game #star wars #the clone wars #clone ocs #clone medic sponge #riot trooper olly olly oxenfree

[froggyworlds]

@shmorp-mcdurgen

you wear guilt… like shackles on your feet (like a halo in reverse)

I can feel… the discomfort in your seat (but in your head it’s worse)

/lyr

trigger warnings for MAJOR SUICIDE MENTION. IM NOT KIDDING., body horror, and uhh… I think that’s it actually

Mark irls and fictives pls stay safe

There were, of course, a million ways Mark could kill himself.

Now that he wasn’t made of forever-regenerating porcelain, it wouldn’t be hard. The window was right there, accompanied by the memory of shattering glass and the snapping of a neck. So was his revolver, to finish the job it had started so long ago. Not to mention about a thousand other solutions to the problem labeled, in big red letters, “THE LIFE OF MARK HEATHCLIFF.” There were knives in the kitchen downstairs. A bottle filled with pain medicine in the bathroom. He could even just sit here until he starved.

Currently, the last one seemed like the most likely option for him.

He’d lost count of how long, exactly, he’d been sitting on the side of his bed, picking absentmindedly at his fingernails, staring at the bloodstained carpet still littered with bullet shells he’d never had the strength to clean up. For… at least a day (Probably more. Time was a blur.), he’d listened to nothing but his heart beating. It took him a while to convince himself it was real.

It was a welcome sound, honestly. He hadn’t felt his own heartbeat for… Nevermind, not even going to try to think about that right now. Having his own body heat was nice, too. Being human again, for all the pain it brought, was far more favorable compared to the other option.

Mark had no idea how bad he looked at the moment- yes, he felt like shit, but his appearance was either a hell of a lot worse or a hell of a lot better than he thought it was. He hadn’t dared look in a mirror yet, or even move from this spot since… whatever had happened. He still wasn’t sure exactly why he was human again, but at least all of his face was intact.

He was also thankful there wasn’t a chorus of voices coming from the side of his head every time he thought about something too hard. The memory of the CRACK of concrete against skull sang through his mind, and for once it didn’t repeat at him out loud. There were no voices he could actually hear muttering about broken friendships when he remembered the twisted satisfaction of finally, finally getting the chance to punish Cesar for leaving him to die.

Even without the voices, he could still remember in awful clarity the first time he’d gotten so furious… the sickening snap of bone and muscle rearranging, the tangy smell of blood and wail of screams piercing the chilly night air-

Mark felt like he was going to throw up.

Thatcher probably feels like that, too.

The boy pulled his knees into his chest, the movement taking considerably more effort than what one would think was required. …That wasn’t a great sign.

Good.

He deserved to die alone here. That’s what he was supposed to do in the first place, anyways.

It was strange, having to walk places instead of hover above the ground. He didn’t know when he forced himself out of the fetal position, when he decided that starving to death and drowning in guilt wasn’t what he wanted, but the next thing Mark knew he was standing on wobbly legs and leaning against his bed, head swimming with vertigo.

He deserved the discomfort, he knew, but that didn’t make it feel any better.

Where had all of that anger went? It was so much easier to hate everyone. It was exhausting, and it hurt, but it was better than this. Now all he wanted to do was scream and sob and feel something other than the invisible shackles dragging him down by his ankles.

Like a halo in reverse, some almost-forgotten song lyric offered, though Mark didn’t remember anything else about where or when he’d heard it from.

He managed to find his way to the door of his room, turning the knob with a pang of finality. He didn’t want to come back here after he left. He wanted to go and bury himself in a ditch somewhere and never speak to anyone ever again. It’s what Mark deserved.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, fighting back the sudden wave of tears trying to escape his eyeballs. Maybe this was a bad idea, trying to get up and do something; he was already feeling overwhelmed. Starvation was a pitiful way to go, but Mark Heathcliff was a pitiful boy.

Somehow, he managed to make his way to the bottom of the stairs. He’d finally realized that all sight in his right eye was gone- no depth perception, and a weird tingly feeling around that side of his face to match. He did his best to ignore it, but part of him just wanted to claw his entire face off.

Mark doubted there was anything edible in the fridge downstairs. His whole house had been collecting dust for years, and it wasn’t like he’d gone grocery shopping or even had the need to eat since-

A choked sob escaped his throat, and Mark only partially consciously tapped out a string of curses in Morse code against the wall he was leaning on.

The boy’s mind once again circled back around to the knives laying around in the kitchen, but the couch was closer, and he hesitated only a moment before remembering that he wasn’t made out of porcelain anymore and he wouldn’t shatter on impact.

He let out an “oomph” and just layed there for a while, trying to work up the strength to get into a sitting position. Eventually he did, which was surprising.

Now came the hard part.

A shaky hand reached for the phone nearby, and Mark managed to half-blindly stab in the phone number he was looking to call.

It rang. Then rang again. Mark internally counted off until the receiver picked up, and a voice - one he recognized all too well - answered.

“…Hello?”

Mark opened his mouth, then shut it, unable to form a coherent line of dialogue or even a single word.

He could practically sense Jonah Marshall’s quiet confusion from the other end. After a few beats of silence, the other man said,

“If this is a prank call… haha, very funny.”

Mark heard another voice in the background, one that sent his nerves firing, and inhaled sharply. He couldn’t make out what Cesar said, but he was there, and he apparently had a mouth again.

That was a good sign. Cesar didn’t deserve an existence of agony at Mark’s hands. If only Mark could’ve gone back in time and told his past self that before all of this happened in the first place.

He heard something about “hanging up” from Cesar and panicked. If there was ever a bad time not to be able to speak, it was now.

Finally he wrestled a sound of his throat:

“Wait-”

Any movement on the other side of the call immediately ceased.

Jonah’s voice was suddenly much smaller than before, a slight tremor of fear in his voice that simultaneously made Mark feel oddly powerful and tremendously guilty.

“…what?”

Mark panicked for a moment, because now he had Jonah’s attention, but he still couldn’t- and then he mentally slapped himself. Duh.

He quickly tapped out a pattern in Morse code: Is Cesar there.

He knew he was, but, y’know, common courtesy; also his brain felt like overseasomed scrambled eggs at the moment.

Some shuffling noises, and after a moment he heard something of a whimper from the other end, clearly belonging to Cesar.

Nerves spiking, Mark took another deep breath and started tapping again. He had to make this apology count. If nothing else, he had to at least try to make amends with the one man who might forgive him, even if he didn’t deserve it.

Maybe Mark didn’t deserve anything. But he was allowed to be a selfish bastard and apologize anyways, right?

#alt return au #alt au tmc #mark heathcliff #jonah marshall #cesar torres #gotta finish this one before I can write the one about mark getting attacked by alt!Adam #mythic's drabbles

[titleknown]

KAIJUNE NEO: HOLY DIVER

...God fucking dammit I missed it. I think I was drugged, and not in the fun way. Probably wouldn't have been at the entrance in the rain if it were in the fun way.

I'd been rooming with the monks for a while, since probably after the Virgin Killer incident, but before the debacle with Ocean Man. And now they were all dead, strewn across the place row-by-row like war poppies in a mandala of suicide.

One time when phoning back, the site asked me "What religion were they?" because the boss is as incurious as a bag of drunk turkeys, but my answer is "buddy, take your pick."

I think a lot of people turned to God after the monsters, and I think a lot of god-fearing people turned to each other across lines. Well, the good ones anyway.

I know, I know about the fucking prophet, that fucker's next in line. But I digress.

The temple's old. I can smell the old stone and the old wood replacing older wood. I talked with Sammy, and they said that the place was older than most major religions. Maybe even older than people.

But it was alive with people, that's for sure. Sammy the know-it-all, Jane who cheated at cards (And was a shit liar), Randy the young convert, the old master with the stone mask who bummed cigarettes off his second in command (I never did get their names), all of them dead.

The red and white decor made the blood look like a pattern. A part of the scenery, like the grim patternwork of the bodies. It's so fucking elegant, god dammit. Of course it was going to be a pattern, this place was made for sacrifice!

I looked down, trying to see a familiar face. There was nothing. Not the dull surprise of a dead sleep, not a rictus rigor-mortis, every face had been blanked smooth not to mar that precious fucking pattern.

They'd told me. I'd known about it. I knew I couldn't prevent it. The had their goals in mind, they saw the horrors outside, and they were going to fucking do it. Maybe that's why they put me up front after that fucking "tea," so I could walk through to that sentiment. through the pattern of people I'd been growing fond of over the last months to the center for that thing they were summoning.

It was some protector for humanity, chasing that dragon of hope, fed with a pound of flesh of the human soul. I've never been one for sacrifice. But I've never been one to come up with any better options, not in a world like this.

The lights grew brighter at the center. The place was designed to let light in, but I don't think light bright as a summer's day coming in through a rainstorm has shit to do with architectural planning.

And through the horrors of death, up the marbled-red steps, through the line of bodies, I saw it.

There's that moment in the bible where Job, a man exposed to all the cruelties of the divinity, all the horrors a man can endure from God's bad side, is taken by God when he asks "Why?" and sees the Leviathan.

A titanic thing, the serpent beyond serpents, from before nothingness was parted for light and dark to emerge, a thing primordial that existed aeons before and will exist aeons after.

And he gets it.

I think I know how Job felt at that moment, in some small way.

I saw the great beast at the center of the temple, the resplendent dragon of crystal and metal, the divinity made of mortal death blazing halos and beams of light, of aeons amalgamate and aeons to be amalgamated.

Before it flew off, it looked at me. I don't know if it was the mind of whatever god-thing it had been before or the humans making its form, but it looked at me.

God I hope it doesn't still bum fucking smokes...

-D.W. Devlin, Gonzo Journalist #1.5

-----

So, yet more Kaijune, named after the song Holy Diver! Which apparently was about a guy begging a messiah figure not to leave them according to the writers, but which I always interpreted as a devil mocking someone for their descent into corruption.

Both interpretations kinda converged into this figure with a holy nature and heroic intentions but a dark origin.

And, for the record, DW Devlin's is this universe's version of the reporter of the same name y'all might remember from my older Kaijune entries, he's a multiversal kind of recurring character, like Sans Undertale or the Marx Brothers!

Ability Notes: She has control over light, in particular the ability to store and release it in powerful short-range "halo fields" and long-range beams, with her most powerful application being releasing it in a "death blossom" from her crystals; eyes and mouth. She also has the ability to "fly," though it's really more like swimming through light.

Fun Trivia: In-universe it's Devlin's fault that all the monsters have Jojo-type musical theme names. He used it in an article once and it sort of stuck. He apologizes and regrets it every time he has to hear that someone's mom got eaten by Disco Duck (More terrifying than you'd think) and so-on.

Holy Diver is also known to steal a packet of smokes whenever she ends up crashing into a store that sells them.

And, in that grand (exceedingly late) Kaijune tradition, this character and all related narrative elements are under a CC-BY 4.0 license, as long as I, Thomas F Johnson, am credited as their creator.

#my art #kaiju #kaijune #holy diver #dragon #monster #horror #microfiction #suicide #mass suicide #creature design #sculpture #kaijune 2023

[erudianokabe]

THERE ARE TOO MANY ARTWORKS OF REINER IN THAT DAMN CHAIR WITH A FREAKIN' GUN TO HIS MOUTH.

I'm going to fucking cry. They are all such good artworks tho and I love them, but my feelings. When I first saw that scene... DJFLSJF So help me, I wanted to slap him SO bad.

Anyway, I'd like to thank Falco. If he wasn't there, Reiner's brains might have splattered all over the wall. I say MIGHT because a part of me wants to believe that despite his, at that time, 99.9% need to just kill himself... I think that the .1% miiiiiiight kick in. Again, might. He was already constantly at a really low point (he's good at hiding it, I feel), and remembering his time in Paradis after talking about it with his family just triggered things. Regrets. Feelings... about what a piece of shit he felt he was; not a hero... just a murderer when he realized there were no devils. Just people like him.

I mean, Reiner's a good person through and through. And just because you're good, doesn't mean you're immune from making bad decisions. You can be the smartest dude and still make shitty calls (hi Zeke, ilu bestie). And Reiner's a pretty smart guy specially when it comes to being one step ahead, making plans... based on what he learned in Marley, but mostly because of what he learned through experience... in what he felt would be the best course of action that will keep him alive long enough to get the job done. Because more than success for Marley, again... his need to be a hero, to be respected, came from the fact that he wants to bring his family together again (which failed when his father blatantly said he wanted nothing to do with them), and then to simply just make his mother proud and give her a good life.

We gotta understand that when he made the decision to stay in Paradis, he was a scared, brainwashed kid that didn't know any better apart from the fact that if you fail, you die. And he couldn't die just yet... not without doing anything to make a difference, not when he's hardly at the starting point to his goal. I mean, they got by eight years in Paradis without getting caught. Correspondences sent by him when Annie was in the MP were all done through secret code. Eight years of living with people he believed were demons, eight years of relearning how to live in a society that's less advanced than what they're used to. A lifetime of shouldering the guilt of Marcel's death. Eight years of having to be the leader to their trio because he was the one who made the call to stay. Eight years of carrying the burden of the truth that will continuously eat at him for the rest of his life. Eight years of hate from Annie. Four years and counting when it comes to blaming himself for Annie's capture and Bertolt's death. A lifetime being haunted by the fact that he was never really good enough, that he was just the option so that Porco wouldn't have to die... but he died either way when Eren attacked. A lifetime of blaming himself for the failure at Paradis, and because of what he did, he understands he was part of what caused Eren to turn this way...

And you know what? Despite the fact that he almost committed suicide, almost gave up after saving Falco... he still forced himself to do the right thing. Taking accountability for what he had done, rather than running away via whatever means available. And he could have done it too. He could have just stopped listening, or went back to trying to shoot himself, but he didn't. He could have told Connie and the scouts "no" when they went to him to put an effort to "save" the world. He could have stayed behind like Annie; I'm 100% sure he's just as exhausted from all the fighting. He had 4 years of being Marley's damn shield in the Mid-East Alliance War. He did his best to prove himself and is still continuously doing so. Besides. I think he did his utmost to cling to the armor because he understands the responsibility and the curse of becoming a titan shifter. That's why he was so adamant about Falco taking over him so that Gabi wouldn't. Admittedly, that's a dick move on his part... threatening Falco like that, but he was doing it so that he could save his cousin. That doesn't make it right, of course. But he's just the type of guy to do what he can to stop losing people that he cares about. He's already suffered so much loss. And understands that he can never be forgiven for what he did. He doesn't expect it, doesn't even want the forgiveness... he just wants to atone for what he's done... he doesn't even make excuses for himself, and simply takes it, accepts his faults and works out ways to make things better not for himself but for others.

That's so attractive of him.

Of course, deep down. Even if he doesn't admit to it... I think that he just wants to be accepted and forgiven... but knows he's done too much to ever be granted that. That's why what Jean said, I could see, meant so much to him. The acceptance. That he was still regarded as one of them, as part of the 104th; or what his mother told him at the end when everything was over.

He's so endearing. I love him so much.

Anyway... I ended up gushing again. Sorry. Don't mind me.

#◤ .beyond the walls. ◥ ooc #◤ .field tests & experiments. ◥ character study #‖▤ reiner braun ◈ the armour #I've been so tired from work... however every time I come here... I'm always just posting about Reiner. dhfksdf #I love him so much.

[trans-axolotl]

I'm in a very dire situation mentally. I think I will take my own life. Can I ask for more support from you/can you point me to where I can find help? I'm very isolated right now.

💜I'm glad you reached out, anon. I'm sorry that things are so rough right now--I know how overwhelming and exhausting dealing with life can get. Sometimes, it really just feels like we've hit our breaking point, and it can be really hard to see any way forward out of how we're feeling. I want to share some resources with you and give you some more options that make it feel more possible for you to stick around.

For me, something that helps me when I'm in crisis is looking for things that help me feel even just 5% or even 1% better. Usually, by the time I've gotten to a crisis point, my emotions and experience have gotten so big that it can be really frustrating to try out coping skills that I knew couldn't solve the problems I was having. Thinking about coping through crisis as trying to "turn down the volume" on the experiences I was having so that I could survive through the moments and access longer term support helped me feel a little less horrible.

This is a set of questions taken from a zine by Carly Boyce that have really helped me to get through some really tough moments in the past:

If you've felt this way before, what got you through it?

Who are folks you trust to talk to, ask for help, be near you?

What is a physical space you can be in? can you/we do anything to make it feel cozier, safer, better, etc?

Are there things/people/objects/meds/environments you want to avoid? What can help make that happen?

Are there basic body needs that if met, could make you feel just 1% less bad? ie-water, snacks, shower, baby-wipe bathing, warmer clothes, more blankets, a fan, deep breaths, deep breaths outside, stretching

Have you slept lately? eaten? changed any sort of med/drug use lately? seen your therapist/support worker/whatever sort of healer you see lately?

Sometimes it helps me if I tell myself that the rule is that I have to try something from this list to see if it even makes me feel 1% better before trying out more risky and drastic coping mechanisms. Sometimes if I'm feeling like making some really big choices and suicide seems like a super urgent threat, I ask myself if I can just do whatever is the next most drastic option. If I'm thinking about killing myself, can I quit my stressful job instead? Can I take some time off? Can I use a riskier coping strategy that will still keep me alive? We're allowed to make room in our lives for whatever helps us survive.

Something else that has helped me in the past is looking at different ways of understanding suicide. Sometimes for me, it wasn't always about wanting to die-it could be my body + minds way of giving off a bunch of alarms that shit wasn't okay in my life right now, and that I needed something that I wasn't getting. This slide has a lot of different possibilities for ways that suicide might show up in our lives, and can sometimes help us identify needs that might not be getting met. Sometimes, being able to identify what it is I really want and find ways to express the depth of my pain helped me feel a tiny bit more secure and safe to get through the next few weeks.

This stuff can be so fucking hard to deal with, and can feel really isolating. I know this can be a complicated message to hear, so ignore if it doesn't resonate with you, but I'm really proud that you're still here and for everything that you are already doing, however big or small, to get yourself through the day and keep surviving. You deserve support and care, and if there's anyone in your life who might be able to provide some of that for you, I hope that you might be able to reach out to them. If it's helpful for you, filling out a crisis plan like this one with a support person might help you make a plan for what to do in the moments it gets really tough, and think through the practical strategies and coping skills that are relevant to you.

I also want to share some online resources that you can reach out to for support. If you want to talk to a crisis line that doesn't call the cops, you can check out any of these lines: Trans Lifeline: 877-565-8860. THRIVE: text message line at 313-662-8209 Promise Resource Network: [phone]. I'd also really recommend the Wildflower Alliance Discord server and their alternative to suicide zoom groups. They are a great community where lots of people come to get peer support, vent, get advice, and usually there's always someone online at any time. Project LETS also offers peer support with trained peer supporters who might be able to offer you some crisis support. Please feel free to reach back out through my inbox at any time if you want to vent, if you just want to give an update, anything you want to share--I'm here to listen and support as much as I can. I am not online 24/7 and it might take me a while to respond, but I do care and will respond when I can. If you need an urgent response, the resources I've listed above might be able to help you more quickly.

If you need irl support and feel like you want to be in a different space beside your home to keep safe, I want to share a directory of peer respite. These are non hospital settings that provide 24/7 support for you to stay in for about a week, and give you time and care to help get through this tough time. If you want to send another ask with your location on anon, I can send you more specific resources for places like mental health urgent care, non hospital crisis stabilization options, and peer respite for your area. There are options that can help you have space and time from your normal life to get through this.

I know it's not easy and I'm not going to say any of the cliche things we hear a lot when talking about suicide, but I do want to say that lots of messy, complicated things can be true at once. It can be true that we feel absolutely horrible and in crisis, and like things will never get better, and at the same time there is always the possibility for more future moments of joy and connection. You're allowed to exist fully as a person with whatever complicated emotions you might be feeling right now, and there is room for you. I'm glad you're here.

Please feel free to reach back out and share whatever you need--I'm here to listen and I'll be keeping a closer eye on my inbox through the next few days. 💜💜💜

#asks #suicide tw #suicide mention tw #sending love and solidarity your way anon #tw suicide

[damonjuicyscock]

Pictures of you-Chapter 12 (90's Liam Gallagher X Reader)

Pairing: 90's Liam Gallagher X Reader

Warnings: Language, Angst, fluff, suicide, Y/N being in MH, maybe a few spelling mistakes.

Words: 3058

Summary: Y/N and Liam face a bad era, Y/N goes bad, she's sent to a mental hospital to be cured.

A/N: Hello everyone, here's chapter 12. It's a sad and was a very hard one to write. I take you to a trip into a borderline's head and mind in some way. The next chapter will be a rollercoaster, I prefer to warn you so you can prepare the tissues. You can also guess (because I quoted it twice now) that Stand by me is my favourite Oasis song (yeah, I even have a tattoo of it and also one that has to do with Damon)

Also, as a French person who's a British at heart, The Queen's death saddened me. And as I know Liam is a great fan of the sex pistols, so let's remember her with "God save the queen" (even if yeah, the punk era clearly showed that they didn't like her but anyway, I'm kinda punk too). Anyway,

Enjoy !

(Look at this handsome man OMG)

October 1996- London:

The “Be Here now” era wasn’t far.

The boys were rehearsing the new album in the Abbey Road studios, and I went sick for a week.

And this October week was the beginning of a nightmare era for me.

When I went sick, Oasis rehearsed with two known girls, and one of them was Liam’s ex.

Kate Moss was with them as she was Meg’s friend, but Lisa Moorish also was there, and it worried me. Maybe I was paranoiac, or maybe not.

I knew it didn’t end well between Liam and her, because Damon had also tasted the forbidden fruit with Lisa.

And I hoped nothing was coming between Liam and I, because she was far more prettier than I was, her personality was far more attractive than mine and I felt insecure.

This led to so many arguments between Liam and me.

Fer fuck’s sake Y/N, it almost has been a year we’ve been dating and ye still can’t fucking trust me? We’re living together and I even fucking asked ye to marry me! We’re fucking engaged!

But Liam, she’s your ex-girlfriend! How am I supposed to react? I said, crying

Ye said it yerself, she’s me fucking ex!

It bothers me!

Well ye’ll have to fucking deal with it!

I was crying more and more when hearing his words and punched the walls in frustration and distress.

Can’t you see it fucking hurts me?

It doesn’t hurt ye, yer only jealous because miss Y/N isn’t fucking confident with herself, she whines like a fucking little girl because she’s frustrated, and she can’t fucking trust me!

I’m not jealous, I’m fucking insecure, and as if you were not jealous! Remember my fucked-up date?

It’s not the same thing!

It fucking is!

Whatever, as I said, ye’ll have to deal with it!

And think I left G…

A silence settled in.

What were ye going to say? He asked with a threatening tone

Nothing. I answered dryly

Finish yer fucking sentence.

No.

Fucking say it! He yelled

Fuck you Liam! I yelled as well

The silence came back.

What were ye thinking? That I would drop every female friend I have just fer ye just because yer insecure?

No, and I never asked you to do it. But your ex, Liam, your fucking ex with whom there’s still so much ambiguity… I can’t take it.

Then take it or leave it.

What do you mean?

Take it or the door is opened for ye to leave.

I was stunned by such indifference to me and my emotions, to what I could feel.  It was as if my words and my tears didn’t touch him at all. I asked for nothing. Nothing but to be reassured, because despite my paranoiac side due to my illness, my instinct’s rarely deceived me, and I was sure that between Liam and her, the story was not over. It might only be platonic, I didn’t know, but knowing Liam, it wouldn’t last long, and I wasn’t an option, nor the third wheel.

Still stunned, I couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore because the pain of his words caused me to dissociate. I only took my bag without saying anything and walked out the door, walking under the rain.

*

My mind came back when I was sat in a pub, the bartender asking me what I wanted to drink.

A glass… a big glass of pure vodka please.

Have something to cope with?

Yeah, like every second of my fucked-up life.

The bartender filled a big glass with vodka.

It’s on me sweetheart, good luck.

Thank you.

I drank it all in a row. The alcohol quickly went to my head and burned my stomach.

I was clearly drunk, so fucking drunk. And the last thing I was waiting for was to meet him in the pub.

Y/N?

Hi Graham. I answered without looking at him

I wasn’t even aware of his presence. I just recognized his voice. Then suddenly…

Graham? What the fuck are you doing here? I asked

Graham laughed

You act as if you’ve seen a ghost.

Well yeah, a bit, you’re the last person I expected to see here.

Huh…remember I brought you to this pub first?

Oh…yeah…whatever.

You seem… preoccupied dear.

Oh really?

I know it didn’t end well between us but please don’t act sarcastic with me and let me help you.

Oh thank you Gray, but there’s nothing you can do. I stammered

Then at least tell me what’s going on.

I chuckled

Confessing to my ex-crush about my fiancé, what a funny situation.

I knew it had something to do with Liam…

Why? Is he that mean?

No! No, that’s not what I meant! I was only going to say that he’s complicated.

Yeah. Yeah, he is. I chuckled again before starting to have hiccups

Well… tell me!

Oh you know… the typical thing, a couple arguing and hurting each other.

How serious is it?

As serious as it looks like! I answered, ordering another glass

You mean… you broke up?

Yes. No. In fact, I don’t know fuck.

Okay, I’ll try something else. What did you argue about?

About a problem invading my couple and which is trying to steal the only good thing I fucking have. I answered, starting to drink my second big glass of vodka

Graham smirked

And what’s the problem’s name?

Lisa Moorish.

No fucking way!

I swear.

I know you’ve never been jealous and that you’re insecure but it’s not your fault. So something is happening between Liam and Lisa?

I don’t know, but they’re close and there’s ambiguity.

You’re not having a paranoia attack?

Not this time.

I’m sorry you have to go through this, I really do.

Yeah, thank you.

If you want, I have something that can cheer you up.

Oh yeah? And what’s that?

Find me in the loo in 2 minutes.

Oh, you’re finally going to fuck me then. I said sarcastically

Don’t be fucking ridiculous Y/N, I don’t touch women in relationships.

That was humor, dickhead.

Graham rolled his eyes and went to the bathroom. I finished my drink and joined him in the bathroom.

Ah, here you are. Come here, there’s something for you next to the washbasin.

White powder, or also known as cocaine. That was what was next to the washbasin. Only problem, slowly I was becoming the gold dust woman.

I was deeply addicted to cocaine. In fact, I was addicted to any kind of white powder.

Be careful, this isn’t cocaine.

Speed? MDMA?

Heroin.

Oh let me guess, Damon gave it to you.

Huh yeah, why?

It’s no secret that Damon chases the beetle. And so do I when there’s heroin somewhere.

Yeah. Do you want some or not?

At this point, I’m not losing anything.

And oh, big mistake Y/N. Mixing vodka and heroin together, where did it get me? To a 3 hours blackout. I was lucky I didn’t overdose, once more.

*

I don’t know how and when I got home, I couldn’t remember anything until 4am, when I heard the door slam shut.

Do ye know how long I spent looking fer ye out there? Do ye know how fucking worried I was? Liam shouted

Oh fuck you Liam, my head hurts.

What the fuck Y/N?!

You told me I could leave, that’s what I did. After all, you don’t need me this much, do you?

Shut the fuck up!

Oh and why so huh? You know what? I don’t even want to talk, I don’t have the strength to argue with you, I’m tired. Tired of all this.

Oh so ye want to fucking dump me then?

No Liam, think again and about what you’re about to do to us. Now please, I beg you, let me sleep. I said, tears threatening to spill from my eyes

Liam sighed and went in the kitchen to get a whiskey bottle. He almost drank it all.

At 6am, I opened my eyes.

I had fallen asleep on the couch again. Liam was in the rocking chair opposite me, asleep and snoring.

My head was still fucking hurting, so it was my turn to go in the kitchen and grab a glass and aspirin. I took what was left of the whiskey bottle and drank it all.

Immediately after, I laid back down on the couch and fell asleep again.

At 8:36 am, I reopened my eyes and saw Liam, standing in front of the window, a cup of tea in his left hand and a lightened cigarette in his right one.

He was watching outside. It apparently was a rainy day.

Liam saw me move and looked at me.

Good morning sweetheart. He tried with a weak smile

Morning. I answered

Tea?

Gladly.

I made some toasts and there’s butter and strawberry jam.

You’re perfect.

I know, me. He said, a smirk on his lips

I rolled my eyes in amusement.

He went in the kitchen and came back with a tray of everything he had previously said.

I started eating while he was looking at me with a husky look.

I don’t deserve ye. He said

Don’t say that…

I mean it. I’m behaving like a fucking bastard with ye. I’m so soz Y/N. I swear nothing is happening between Lisa and I but I should have listened to ye. I can’t say I know how hard it can be fer ye, because I don’t, but I had to understand. And ye made me yesterday when ye went missing. I thought I lost ye. Ye made me realise I can’t lose ye. I can’t live without ye. I want to go to town hall today so we could choose a date for our wedding, because I also really want to marry ye.

Okay…

What okay?

Okay we’ll go to town hall today. I said, a smile invading my face

Liam smiled as well and came to hug me on the sofa.

I love ye Y/N.

And I love you too Liam. But don’t make me angry. You don’t know what I can do when I’m enraged, and I don’t either. Don’t make me sad because I love you, and I’ll always treat you right. I said on a threatening tone

I don’t know if I scared Liam, it wasn’t my goal. It was a warning. Because I really didn’t know what I was capable of if I had to lose my temper.

And he would discover it very soon.

*

April 7th 1997- London:

I had chosen a simple long silk dress for the day. After all, there would only be us two on this day. No one was invited. I was the one who would have wanted a ceremony with at least our families, but Liam didn’t want to and neither of us was fond of great celebrity wedding ceremony. Though, it still is today one of the most important days of my life.

And one of the beautifulest.

We woke up at 7am, preparing each of our own before joining each other in the living room.

Liam was normally dressed. I had added a small lis on my ear, wanting to make the atmosphere a little romantic for this special say.

Yer perfect. He said when he saw me

And so are you, handsome. Did you remember to take our wedding rings?

Liam tapped on his jean’s pocket as answer.

Ready? He asked

More than fucking ready!

A driver drove us to town hall and 30 minutes later, I became Mrs Gallagher.

We didn’t go on honeymoon. Most of the time, Liam was out, he was always telling me he was with friends and I felt alone. I was alone.

*

I was often staying with Meg and her friends, doing drugs and other stuff. I missed my husband. I was already chronically depressed, but it was getting worse.

And to keep me from feeling depressed, from feeling anything, I was doing more drugs. Mainly cocaine to feel energized.

But it started doing more than that.

Paranoia and deep hallucinations were possessing me.

I always had a bad voice speaking to me in my head. She really wasn’t nice. Insults, denigration, announcements that serious things would happen, that Liam never loved me and never would…

And I couldn’t take it anymore.

Only three weeks after my wedding with Liam, I tried to kill myself once more by opening my veins.

One of Meg’s friends found me. I was driven to hospital.

Liam only came 4 hours after, Meg and Noel shouted at him.

Liam wanted me to heal. For me to get better. He made the hard but necessary choice to send me to psychiatric hospital in psych ward where I would be wired to wean myself off the drugs.

May 1997- Saint Ann’s hospital- Daisy ward- London:

So Y/N, tell me about you.

There’s nothing to say about me. I’m nobody. I grew up in Winchester with a daddy and mummy who loved me but not correctly and not enough. I have a younger brother and a fucking useless life.

Why do you think your life is useless?

Because I’m always alone, I have no purpose. I was just born, and I asked nothing.

But you became a successful photographer, and you are married.

We all have to carry our burden for the rest of our lives. The trick is just to find something that makes you feel at least a little bit vibrant and someone who makes you feel at least a little bit vibrant too. I found that person, my husband Liam, but what is a husband when he is always away?

Do you love him?

If I love him? Would have I married him if I didn’t love him? Please doctor, be serious.

I am.

Oh are you? I know therapists like you. You try to make friends, propose a nice cup of tea and blabber about my life, wanting to know if I grew up in a loving family to make sure I’m not a fucking dangerous sociopath. Why don’t you ask the real questions? like why I am here, why I tried to kill myself…

I wanted to make you comfortable first.

I have no time to lose. I need to get the hell out of here and be cured.

Oh how I wish myself you could. It’s been 4 sessions you’ve been here, not wanting to talk during the first one. The only thing I can do for you is stabilize you. With therapy and an adapted medication. Your borderline personality disorder might get better one day. But your bipolar one can only be stabilized at the moment.

Bipolar?

You also have bipolar disorder. It’s common for borderlines to also suffer from a bipolar disorder.

Well well, my life was really meant to be shit then.

Don’t say that. I’m going to do everything in my power so you could live an almost normal life.

I laughed

The things with you psychiatrists and therapists, is that you don’t seem to understand that there’s nothing normal with us and nothing will be. You might be the docs, but try walking in my shoes for a day and you’ll see how it is, I wish you good luck.

Together we seem to have a lot of work ahead of us.

Yeah it seems so. But if you want it to work, allow me to see my husband. I need him to come and visit me, please, and I promise to do my best, even if I have to cry and suffer and bleed and that it’s what I always do.

*

I was allowed to see Liam; he could visit me during the visiting hours. He was coming to see me 3 hours a day.

I knew he didn’t like to be here; he was often looking at his watch as if he was impatient to leave.

And when I needed him the most, he wasn’t there.

Always being true to him, I told him about it and how I felt about this. How it felt.

And he made efforts, coming with me in therapy when asked and needed. He wanted to help me. He also wanted me to get the hell out of here.

I was released from psych ward in June 1997 but had to pursue therapy. At least when I wouldn’t be on tour with Oasis.

Liam made me listen to the new album and I loved it a lot, I said it was one of their best albums despite what critics and mags or the public thought. But he made me listen to stand by me as the last song.

Okay huh Noel wrote the song when he had food poisoning one day but listen carefully to the chorus okay?

Alright.

I listened to the whole song carefully, but the chorus was magnificent and just a bit inspired by all the young dudes by Mott the hopple. And even if Noel wrote the lyrics, there was my husband’s voice on the record. As if he was speaking to me.

“Stand by me, nobody knows the way it’s gonna be”.

Liam wanted me to understand I had him, my husband lover and friend, someone to cry with, that he loved me.

I kissed him passionately at the end of the song, crying a little.

I’m here, and I’ll always be fer ye, me.

And I heard it and believed it. I just didn’t know what was going on behind my back…

#liam gallagher x reader #liam gallagher smut #liam gallagher fluff #liam gallagher fanfic #liam and noel #graham coxon x reader #oasis band #oasis

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Fourteen: Revelation

Seeds planted. Gods compelled. A difficult request.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

-----

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: REVELATION

In the quiet aftermath of tears, as they lie together and just are together, Martin finds himself in a very strange place.

The initial shock of butting heads against someone so good at manipulation has faded, and now, Martin can think.

He sees one good thing, one awful thing, and one hard thing.

The good thing: Jon is not “the damaged one” in this relationship.

Martin has spent a lot of time thinking he is the conscience, the sane one, the stable one. The one who pulls Jon back from being too inhuman, who can face the bad things and make the right choices, blah, blah, blah.

It’s bullshit.

They aren’t nearly so imbalanced. Seeing layers of himself exposed, revealed, has had that benefit. He knows he’s been selfish. He knows this moral superiority is just one layer, one paper-thin certainty, and right now, in this post-storm quiet, with Jon quietly breathing against his shoulder, he knows it’s false.

He’d rationalized pushing Jon to kill people just because he didn’t like them. What the Jiminy Cricket hell, Blackwood?

Martin brushes Jon’s hair back from his face and kisses his temple. It’s easier to see how complicated it all is, now. Easier to see what happened at the end of the world.

When Jon stabbed Jonah and became a god, Martin had tried to take the high ground, to tell himself Jon got what he wanted out of it, that Jon was just giving in.

But that wasn’t true, was it?

Jon had thrown that power and godhood away the moment Martin was endangered.

Like it meant nothing.

Because it had meant nothing.

Pleasure was not permission. Deification, the Eye’s rewards, none of that was why Jon had done it.

Jon really had just wanted it all to end, and whatever the Eye gave him along the way was incidental.

And that brings Martin to the awful thing: It means that Jon, the person Martin loves more than anyone or anything in the world, had been in full-on suicidal ideation while Martin was busy dreaming of a magic button that could end the apocalypse without any cost at all.

Just thinking that makes it hard to breathe, a little.

Focus, Blackwood, he thinks, because that’s done, and needs to be discussed, but it’s also past, and he needs to think about now.

“What do you want to do, Martin?” says Jon, his eyes fluttering open. Jon, who, with a few exceptions, always goes overboard trying to make sure Martin gets to make the choices.

Martin can see the reason for that, now, too.

He’d thought it was guilt, but if he lets himself see—

Lets himself feel it like he had the people in the Village, seeing how they talked and smiled and stood—

Lets himself feel it like he had Peter Lukas, seeing how to give Peter what he wanted while secretly getting what Martin wanted, all along—

If he really looks at Jon, he sees that so much of Jon’s life has been utterly without choices.

From being shamed for his awkwardness, and tricked into contracts and power and fear, to being shoved into a position where he’d call the Entities or never see Martin again, Jon has almost never had a choice a day in his life. Not really.

It’s not a choice if your option is (a) take someone’s nightmare but leave them alive, or (b) die yourself slowly and in agony, and possibly go crazy and end up taking those nightmares, anyway.

That’s not a choice. Come on.

It’s not a choice when you believe whoever killed your predecessor is coming for you, and the only way to stay alive is to find who did it first—or you, too, will die underground in a tunnel, shot and bleeding, alone.

How was that a choice? Was Jon supposed to accept magical, soul-wrecking paranoia and then sit at his desk with his eyes closed, waiting to die?

(Soul-wrecking paranoia which, Martin now sees, affected every damn person in the archives—and because Jon was strongest with the Eye and felt most like it, everyone turned on him. Tim. Basira. Melanie.)

(And if he was being honest about choices, maybe Martin has no right to judge their choices the way he had, either.)

(This honesty thing was not fun. Ow.)

Jon has so few choices, and he loves Martin; he probably hasn’t thought about the fact that ensuring Martin has choices is the greatest love-gift he knows how to give—a treasure he doesn't even have himself.

“Martin?” prompts Jon.

Martin kisses him like fire.

Jon makes one small sound and goes with it at once, eyes closed, arching against him, fingertips warm as they trace his collarbone, and his jaw, and bury themselves in his curly hair.

Martin rolls on top of him, supporting his weight on his arms, covering him—hiding him, accepting him, warming him, wanting him. They’re reunited, they’re stressed, he’s always found Jon attractive, wants Jon to feel loved and good and safe.

And that brings him to the hard thing: he knows he’s going to be taken away from Jon.

“Martin?” gasps Jon, who’s been kissed breathless and flushed, and is looking the question at him with a sweet vulnerability that makes Martin ache.

Martin’s eyes sting, wet.

It’s so damn simple. All Hastur had to do was tell most of the truth, and then hint at the conclusions he wanted Jon to reach.

Martin is good at putting himself in other people’s shoes. Always has been. It’s how he managed to survive his mother’s (say it, Blackwood) hatred, how he avoided being too bullied even though he was gay and a poet and sewed costumes, how now he manages to get people to like him, even though he is big and takes up too much space.

It’s how he fooled both Jonah and Peter, and caught the attention of Annabelle—and Kayne.

The King never should have let Martin see how he worked.

And the plan was simple, if not easy. Wielding honesty like a scalpel was required, or Jon would see through it. John Doe had clearly gone through some dark nights of the soul after he’d lost his heart, but he’d somehow turned those wounds into weapons.

Well, Martin can do that, too. “I love you.”

Jon cups his face. “I love you. What do you want to do?”

As though Martin’s erection, pressing through the overalls, wasn’t a clear indicator.

But it wasn’t, though. Martin had never, ever pushed Jon for sex. Jon didn’t hate it; he wasn’t repulsed, but he could have literally gone through his whole life a virgin and never cared one whit.

It was another thing Jon chose to give Martin out of love, and it had to be Jon’s choice to do it.

“You were right, in London,” says Martin. “They’ve been watching us since we got here.”

Jon goes solemn. “Yes.”

“Including our first night together, after we got here.”

Pain now, tensing around his eyes. “Yes.”

“Are they watching now?”

“Probably. I’m… I don’t want to look.”

“Good. Just look at me instead.” This kiss is slow and heady, feeding the fire he started, granting much needed respite. “Just look at me.”

Because this timing was part of the King’s plan, too. Obviously, it was. Of course, Martin would reach for his lover, try to comfort him in the only clumsy, human ways he could.

And Jon would be grateful, and even more ready to empathize with the poor, bereaved King.

It makes Martin sick.

The King may say Kayne claimed Martin, and it’s too late, blah, blah, blah—but he also seemed keen on boasting that he ran the whole universe, and Kayne was subject to him.

Ergo, the King let Martin be taken.

And Martin knows that is real. Kayne has some grip on him there may be no way out of—but that isn’t important right now.

The King let Martin be taken because he’d actually begun the torture long before he took Jon away.

Shaking Jon’s foundations to make him desperate for hope, contact, intimacy? Check.

Casual admissions of power and inescapable inevitability to narrow the road? Check.

Torture, but only so much, not enough to break Jon, just weaken him, make him receptive? Check.

Flooding him with kindness, impossible to swim out of or catch one’s breath? Check.

Vulnerability revealed in true and relatable ways, guaranteed to make Jon dig in with the need to learn more—and possibly trigger an empathetic response? Check.

Oh, it all made sense, didn’t it?

But now, Martin sees it.

The King should never have let Martin see how he worked.

Somewhere in his head, Kayne applauds.

Anger quickens Martin’s kiss.

Jon is flushed, breathing quickly, and his hands drift down to Martin’s hips. “Do you… do you want to?”

“Only if you do.”

Jon smiles, his eyes soft, his heart on display for all to see.

Annabelle thought Martin could manipulate.

Kayne thinks he’ll make some kind of sleeper chaos agent.

Martin is furious.

Fine, he thinks at all of them, at a life that never gave him a break, at a universe that only ever gave him one beautiful thing worth protecting, and then keeps threatening to take it away.

“I love you,” says Jon, pushing Martin’s shirt further up.

“I love you,” says Martin, and accepts Jon’s choice.

#

Nobody bothers them.

Martin can only hope they don’t care, have zero interest in lower life-form behaviors, but whatever. They’ve already seen it all, anyway.

The goal is to make sure Jon forgets they’re watching. What’s coming next will be hard, and he wants to give Jon the break that Jon never seems to get.

Martin thinks he managed.

Giving Jon pleasure he has no reason to regret, getting Jon to make that face without any worry or shame or sorrow or grief or agony.

Just look at me, Jon, he thinks, all throughout. Just look at me.

And he mentally flips the universe off.

After, as Jon lies against him, breath steady and deep in sleep, Martin thinks hard.

Kayne is going to take him back; Martin knows this, is terrified of it, and is well aware he can’t stop it. But maybe he can see Jon freed before that happens.

He keeps coming back to one point: the John Doe with an Arthur genuinely believes futzing with the Fears is stupid.

Which it is. And a being as intelligent as the King (not to mention aware of Jon’s own nature) should not make such a foolish demand.

So then, maybe the Fears were never actually the goal.

So what was?

How close had Jon come earlier, asking what the King truly wanted?

What if the King did know what he wanted?

How would Jon be the key to that?

And how can Martin use this to get Jon free?

Martin knows the trick to getting powerful people to give you what you want is making them think they’re getting what they want.

Granted, that often means actually giving them what they want because you’re not powerful enough to fool them. Martin had to legitimately be swallowed by the Lonely to get Peter to leave Jon alone.

That’s okay. That’s how the scales balance. It’s worth it.

I’m glad you think so, my little cinnamon roll, says Kayne, which Martin knew he would.

Knew this was coming. Knew this moment was on the docket, planned (or at least hoped for) from the moment Kayne carried him out of the Lonely.

Martin takes a deep breath. Let me finish this.

Why should I?Kayne thinks at him, which is incredibly annoying, because they both already know.

If you let me save him, I’ll give you whatever the hell you want, Martin thinks, which is true, and has always been true, and they both knew was coming.

Deal. There wasn’t even any hesitation.

Martin breathes carefully. More tears squeeze free.

Jon shifts, coming out of his doze, and with a concerned look, wipes away those tears. “Are you all right?”

No. “Yes. It’s just a lot, you know?.” Martin kisses his forehead. “Don’t suppose you’re up for wandering? I’ve never been in a big, ugly squid-god’s house before. Kinda curious what it’s like.”

Jon’s expression changes exactly how he hoped it would—into barely disguised hunger. “I haven’t seen a lot of it, either. I’ve been… kept busy.”

“Well,  I’m a guest now, right? Privileges, or something. I say we go look around.”

Because Martin needs to see how Jon makes a way.

“Well—all right. I’m no guide, though. I know precisely one path out of here. And Hastur talked about having education here, for the smartest humans, before he… I don’t know. Went crazy and started punishing questions. Maybe there are still resources here, somewhere.”

“Then we’ll start with that.” Martin tries to rise.

Jon won’t let go yet.

Martin is happy to lie still.

“Tell me,” says Jon, nuzzling. “Is there a tray or something on top of the dresser?”

Martin stiffens.

“Thought so.” Jon sighs. “So, good news: we don’t have to forage.”

“What is it? What’s on it? Is it safe?” says Martin.

“It is.” Jon sounds solemn. “I can compel him. He doesn’t like it. But I can, and… yes, it’s safe to eat.”

Well, that is news to store away for later. “You stay. I’ll bring it.”

While there, Martin checks the drawer.

This time, it’s carrying a perfectly sensible set of trousers and a simple, thick sweater.

Also, two pairs of fuzzy socks.

The trousers are dark green; the sweater is an even darker green, patterned with yellow eyes.

“He’s really big on the colors, isn’t he?” says Martin, leaving the clothes on top of the dresser so they can’t disappear, and bringing over the little tray of cheese and fruit and bread.

“His color, yes.” Jon sighs. “He keeps telling me he’s my god now. As if it could be that simple.”

“What, he wants you to burn incense, or something?”

“No. Though he wanted me to think he did. He wants Arthur back. That’s what he wants, but I don’t know if he’s willing to admit it to himself.”

So that was confirmed.

Martin is now sure he understands what the King is trying for. And he’s pleased; but he’s also heartbroken, because it means his time with Jon is short.

He’s not sure he can do this, with that coming at him like a train.

No, no, says Kayne. Not that I’m trying to comfort you, because, ha! Ha ha. No. But he’s going to just toss this guy aside when it’s done. And I… hate him—but he sure works as a motivator for you, doesn’t he?

Oh.

Wait. Then what the hell was the deal they already made?

Wait.

Martin hadn’t specified what he was saving Jon from.

Shit. This is bad. This is very bad. Leave him alone.

You don’t have anything left to trade for that, my love. Lesson one: never give the whole basket away until you’re sure you won’t want anything else.

Martin’s heart jolts. Wait, no. I… there has to be something.

There’s not! How will you ever learn your lesson if you don’t face consequences? That cackle hurts, makes him want to dig out his own eyes.

No. Oh, no. No, no, no—

Buuut… but, but. I see the benefit of playing with this.

Martin suddenly thinks he’s made another mistake.

You did! So listen: I’m going to hurt him. I can’t… abide what he is. Blech, you have no idea how he just, nnng, grates on my everything like sand in my blood (which I wouldn’t recommend as it is VERY scratchy), but we can make him into a little reward system. If you succeed in the little games I give you, I’ll let you have him until the next one. Fail, and I take him back until you win again.

Kayne does not make it sound like a deal. It’s just a promise.

Martin closes his eyes.

Panic threatens to wash away every inch of progress he’s gained in the last hour, but at the last second, he pulls it together because he has to.

Future. That is future (future hell), and he hasn’t even navigated this mess yet.

He needs to focus on now.

He takes a deep breath and a big bite. “Mmph?” he says, unplanned, because damn, the fruit is good.

“Right?” says Jon, who understands.

Martin can’t help making some sounds. It’s unfairly delicious, and the sharp cheese makes for a magnificent pairing.

Drowning Jon in kindness. Son of a bitch.

Jon goes to get the bathwater running.

“That’s really sad,” says Martin, finally, innocently. “To lose your person. I mean, I don’t even know Arthur and his John well, but it’s obvious that’s what they are to each other.”

“What is he like?” says Jon, softly. “John Doe.”

“I don’t know, since I only get to hear him through Arthur, but… honestly, kind of cute?”

Jon blinks at him from the tub.

Martin joins him in it, moving carefully so as not to splash. “I don’t know. Fussy? Argumentative. Kind of foul. Huffy, like a cat.”

Jon snorts. “You know, I think I can see that.”

“Super possessive, though. When we all became that Adra woman, he—”

“When you what?” Jon’s tone is flat.

“Became that Adra woman? That was her name, wasn’t it?”

“What… what do you mean, became her?”

Oh, so the King hadn’t told Jon. Wasn’t that an interesting choice?

Martin has his absolute best wide-eyed, stammering thing going. “We… when Adra? You….”

“You became her? What do you mean, you became her?” says Jon, louder.

“Jon… that… statement, or whatever it was?” says Martin. “It… sort of took over. I couldn’t remember anything else. There wasn’t anything else. I was her. So was Arthur. And I think… so was Kayne, because he was really pissed about it.”

Jon stares. He’s lost all color in his face.

“Jon?”

“I wasn’t even in the same world as you. Why?” Jon’s looking around, as if he’s dropped a thought and needs to find it. “Why? It doesn't make any—”

He gets the look.

“Oh,” he whispers. “The Dreamlands.”

“Meaning what?” This is following what Kayne said. So far, so good.

“Meaning as long as I’m here, the power of the Archivist is… hacked,” says Jon. “Fuck.” He puts his face in his hands. “Anything that dreams would be affected. Fuck.”

Martin takes a slow breath, grabs a washcloth, and washes Jon’s back. “Okay. Hacked doesn’t sound great?”

“Not great? Martin, I could’ve destroyed you!”

Martin feels pale himself. “But you didn’t,” he says. “So, let’s maybe figure out how not to do that again?”

“I can’t leave the Dreamlands. They’re all that’s keeping the Fears from just crash-landing on any place I go. But if I stay here, the Eye gets more powerful, and this… whatever this was threatens… what, reality? What, am I just going to paint over everybody, like some reused canvas?”

It figures Jon would go for the palimpsest idea instead of a digital overwrite. “Jon—”

“No, hold on. Hold on. I’ve got to think.”

“You’ve got to come over here so I can wash your face, is what you’ve got to do.”

Jon stares at him. “How can you be so calm?” His voice breaks.

“That’s easy. I have you. It’s been ten days or something since I did, and I’m with you. We’ll figure it out, like we have everything else.”

“We haven’t exactly figured it out well,” Jon says, quietly. “Or I haven’t, anyway.”

“We’re still breathing, last I checked. Come on.”

Jon stays quiet as Martin takes care of him.

He waits what feels like a long enough time, until they’re both squeaky clean and the bubbles are almost gone. Then he gets out, offers a hand, pulls Jon after him.

“That walking through a wall thing you did,” says Martin.

“A way,” says Jon automatically. “That’s what Hastur calls it.”

The first-name issue grates, but it’s too late to get in front of that horse. “Is that like what you did to get through the Lonely? And the domains?”

“Yes, I think so. Why?” Even though his own clothing is neatly folded atop the bureau, Jon checks the drawer, and finds another outfit—this one a soft gray jumper that could be cashmere, and darker gray trousers. “Had a feeling,” he mutters and hands them to Martin.

Martin sighs. Not the place to put his foot down. “Thanks, I guess. Anyway—you legitimately can walk between worlds.”

“I….” Jon blinks at him. “I suppose so?”

“I wonder,” says Martin, and here’s where he shoots his shot. Once he says it out loud, it’ll be out there. No turning back. “He wants Arthur. Right?”

Jon sighs. “Yes.”

“Arthur’s dead. Right?”

Jon slumps a little, fiddling with his eye-sweater. “Yes.”

“So… do you think you can see a way to the Dark World?”

Kayne cackles in his head.

Fuck off, he thinks.

“The what?” Jon looks at him, and his face does the thing. “The world of the dead?” He blinks several times. “That’s real?”

“Real enough to produce freaky books made out of the King’s skin, apparently.”

Jon’s expression at that is perfect. “What?”

“Right? So gross,” says Martin with relish. “Kayne’s freaky book from London. That thing.”

“That’s disgu… Oh, gods,” says Jon, looking ill.

“Why do I get the feeling you just know how that book got made?”

“It involves Kayne making himself vomit, so let’s not go into it?”

“Oh, ugh. No. Still—do you think you can?”

Jon looks stunned. “I don’t know. But even if I could, that doesn’t mean… it’s not as though I could bring him back here, or he’d be some kind of ghost. And I don’t know if I could go there without dying.”

If Martin’s guess is correct, the King has a way to avoid the whole ghost thing.

Regardless—it’s time to plant seed number two. “What if you did and could trap the Fears there?” says Martin brightly, like it only just occurred to him.

And there it was. Out in the open.

Time to see if this plan would take root.

#

Jon stares at him. “Huh,” he says.

“At the least, if he got what he wanted, he might let you go.” Martin says, eager, the same way he’d urged Jon to the Panopticon, the same way he’d spurred on the idea of a reckoning with Jonah.

Yeah. Okay, sure.

There are so many problems with this idea. “Maybe?” Jon says. “I don’t know that he’d let me go, Martin. I don’t even know if something like this is possible.”

“But what if you can get his Arthur back, and then leave the Fears there, somehow? I dunno, like… deposit them, or something,” Martin says. “What if they do crash-land on a world, but it’s the world of the dead, and you can just leave them behind?”

“This is… I need to think about this.”

Martin looks excited. “We might have a plan, Jon.”

Martin hasn’t looked this happy since the King first showed up, and it’s enough to erode 90% of Jon’s resistance.

“I need to think about it,” says Jon again, with effort. “What if it backfires? Why wouldn’t they just follow me back here, for one?”

“Well… maybe we could use the tapes, somehow. I mean, if all it took was you going someplace, Annabelle would’ve tossed me into the pit in Hill Top Road so you’d go leaping after.”

That is completely true. “Maybe, but—”

“If they can throw meat in a pit and it counts as a ritual, or burn some lady alive to make a fire-baby, why the hell is this any different?” says Martin. “We can make this work. I don’t know how, but we can make this work.”

Dream-logic.

It’s true. This weirdness is the way the Fears work.

“They followed you, but they also followed the tapes. Jon, we can use that. Trap them. Which, where are they, anyway?”

Jon frowns. “Hastur has them,” he suddenly knows.

“Pretty sure he’d hand those tapes over to get Arthur back.”

Hastur would absolutely hand them over to get Arthur back.

Still. Jon doubts they’d work as a honeypot. “There’s still too much I don’t know, and I can’t, because it’s future, and new, so the Eye’s no help. What if by doing this, and leaving them there, I’d make it so the Fears can infect every living world? What if I’m creating some kind of multiverse invasion?”

Martin gets a look Jon knows: the about to tell you something painful look. “They’re already in other worlds, Jon.”

No.

No?

He has to sit down.

His head is heavy. His heart is heavy. Everything is heavy. “They are?” He sounds a million years old.

“Yeah,” says Martin, gently. “Arthur’s marked by the Lonely, and I don’t think it’s our Earth he came from. Pretty sure, anyway—we had no King in Yellow, far as I can tell.”

They hadn’t. Jon would have known.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He puts his face in his hands. He’d thought they were a unique cancer. A one-off nightmare. But now… “They’re elsewhere.”

“Yeah?” says Martin.

“Is there any point, then?” he whispers.

Maybe he wasn’t saying it right, using the right words, because Martin doesn’t seem to understand why this matters so much. “Jon! Of course there is. You could be free!”

Sure.

Assuming he’d survive leaving them behind, which he highly doubts.

Assuming the Fears weren’t everywhere, invalidating self-sacrifice and great risk.

He doesn’t like the question that rises, that floats like a bubble to the surface: why go through all this suffering if they were already through all the universes, if nothing he did made any difference at all?

He takes a deep breath, trying to shove it all down. Trying not to cry, or…

Or rage.

This isn’t fair. It’s even less fair than he ever imagined.

Of course, Jon thinks he deserves to suffer, at least on some level, but not like this. Not this badly. And Martin does not deserve it at all.

Jon takes another deep breath, pushing it down, trying to think. “But there are some worlds without them, like Somewhere Else. What about those?”

Martin cups his face, and Jon melts, lets that touch quiet his mind. If he has Martin, maybe it will be worth it. Somehow.

“I don’t care about other worlds,” says Martin.

Jon snorts. “Very mature.”

“I don’t, Jon. Not after everything we’ve been through. I’m done. Sorry if that disappoints.”

Oh, that calls something in him, the part that wants to rage, that wants to just stop being the good person and fucking crash through toward his goal.

Jon exhales slowly, keeping it together. “If it helps, I understand.” He cups Martin’s hand over his. “I’m inclined to agree, if I just listened to my heart and not my head. After everything we’ve been put through, everything that’s been taken from us—”

“And everyone, and our home world, and the way they keep hurting us,” Martin adds.

“There is a part of me that thinks reality deserves what’s coming to it,” Jon admits.

“Fuck yeah, it does,” says Martin, viciously. Then he shudders.

“What?”

“Kayne.”

Jon’s rising anger has a flavor, like the metal of anxiety, but worse. “What did he do?”

Martin looks uncomfortable. “He likes the nihilism, I guess? Just… ignore him. Keep going.”

So, this is rage.

Wrath that just wants to descend on something and see it until it dies.

Anger he tasted briefly in the Panopticon, but it wasn’t like this.

That was dirty, soiled, reeking and confused.

This is pure, in some weird, clarified way, like light breaking through a prism.

How dare that thing touch Martin, anyway?

What the hell did it want with him?

It didn’t have the right.

Damn it, no one did. How many times would he have to watch some predator luring Martin away with promises of—

Jon goes still, because suddenly, he knows. “He’s got something on you, doesn’t he?” he says. “Some control, or bargain, or deal, or trade or—”

Martin stiffens. “Let it go.”

“I will not let it go!”

“Just—” Martin closes his eyes, visibly struggling. “One horrible god at a time, okay? We’re still talking about yours.”

“He does not—”

“Please.”

Fuck.

“Fine. Fine.” Jon can’t refuse him, but he also can’t stop baring his teeth. “I was only saying I can’t just listen to my heart in this. I can’t just make this decision so lightly when I know so little about what it would do. I don’t even know if I can pass into the land of the dead. I don’t know if I’d survive. I don’t know if I could find his Arthur, if I could deposit the Fears there, if I could get back. This is a lot of ifs.”

“Do we even have an alternative?” says Martin.

Jon has no alternative.

All he has is don’t give in, and all that’s achieved is floating terror that he’s going to be tricked into it, somehow. Again.

Jon doesn’t like where this is taking him. This anger is bigger than he expected, and it’s only growing.

“Come on, Jon,” says Martin. “Let’s go explore like we said we would.”

“All right.” He stands, feeling strange. “Let’s do that.” It’s something that is in his control. Something not so hopeless.

It’s time to focus on exploring the palace.

Focus on Martin.

Focus on the one thing that matters, no matter how many Fears there are, or what it all means.

It’s time to make a way. He hopes Martin is impressed.

#

Martin has the look he did after Jon blew up Not-Sasha. “It’s there?” he says, staring at the wall.

Jon grins. “Right in front of us. Hold my hand.”

Martin flinches before his face touches the wall, but it parts for him like mist, obeying Jon’s will.

Jon’s not sure what Martin is seeing. To him, this is a clear, misty, luminescent path; it’s beautiful, if ephemeral. He knows he can’t rest on it, or stay his foot; it’s there to be traveled on, and that is all.

It feels good.

When Jon steps into Hastur’s empty throne room, he crunches on the sharp remains of the skull Kayne threw at him, and that feels less good, and he hops on one foot. “Ow! Damn it.”

“What? What?” Martin stumbles forward and stares around himself as though he’s been in a dark room for a month. “Where are we?” He rubs his eyes, which are tearing heavily.

“Are you all right? What did you see?”

“Nothing, Jon. I saw nothing. I don’t mean… the dark, or something. I mean nothing.”

“Don’t look down from any windows while we’re here,” Jon quips.

“I couldn’t see or feel anything except your hand,” whispers Martin. “How did you do that?”

Yup, that’s the look: impressed, intense, and distinctly randy.

Jon laughs. “This shouldn’t be flipping your switches. There is something terribly wrong with you, really.”

Martin laughs too, and kisses him. “What, I can’t be into my boyfriend’s magic powers?”

“Not when they’re awful.”

“Jon, you’re incredible.” Martin is holding him.

Jon wants nothing else for the rest of his life. “All right, well. Let’s keep going. And watch the, ah. Skull.”

Martin startles at the shards still on the floor. “Why is that….”

“Kayne.”

“That’s… weird?”

He’s not wrong.

Jon leads, though he has no idea where he’s going.

The throne room has several doors behind the throne itself, but Jon has no interest in those. He knows they lead away, to other worlds, and that isn’t safe; so instead, he heads the other direction.

A wide entry faces the throne, broad and high to admit underlings to bow at Hastur’s feet. Limbs. Muscular hydrostats. Whatever.

The underling he destroyed passes through his memory, and he shudders.

It was horrible. Not as bad as Kayne, the Undoing, but still echoed him in some way.

He hadn’t meant to blow it up.

It had come at him, feeling like the smudging of words, the erasure of minds, the covering up of memory behind a thick and sticky glue, and he’d just… reacted.

Seen its core, its solid essence around which it wrapped writhing, tentacular chaos, and when he did, that essence came apart.

It told Jon everything about itself and exploded into gallons of black goo.

Jon doesn’t remember the next few moments. He was too busy living this creature’s centuries of life. Being fed, feeding the Eye, delighting the Eye, delighting himself, and when Jon came back to wakefulness, he was being carried, and they were back in the King’s palace.

The guilt took… a minute to kick in, that time.

He’d never tasted anything so perfect.

Glorious.

Extant.

Insane.

So many lives, so much fear, so many people it had hunted and driven mad and terrified. And it wasn’t just him blissed out on this.

He’d never felt the Eye so… joyful. Jon was getting the weirdest feeling that the Beholding might be as addicted to him as much as he was to it.

At least no one had been overwritten. It happened Somewhere Else and not the Dreamlands, and that kept it limited.

“What?” says Martin.

“What, what?”

“You sighed. Like the weight of the world’s on you.”

“It sort of is.”

“Not alone. Not ever again.”

Jon stops and leans in. “I can’t believe you’re here. It changes everything.”

And it’s funny, how he keeps feeling like Martin is angry, but there is no indication of that at all. Martin is soft, and afraid, and warm, and concerned; and here, and passionate, and hopeful, and these are all things Jon desperately needs.

Martin kisses his forehead.

“Let’s keep looking,” says Jon.

“Are you really hoping for a classroom, or something?” says Martin.

“Yes. Why not?”

“The last library you went to ended up with Adra.”

“He forced that. I’ll know immediately if it’s something like that, and I have you. If it’s bad, we can just leave.”

“Right,” says Martin, dubious.

Which, fair.

But he has to try. “We’ll make it work,” says Jon, and almost believes it. “Come on.” He takes Martin’s hand and pulls him out of the throne room.

#

The room with whispers is not safe, and Jon goes right past it.

The Eye wants the stories in the room with the whispers.

No, he thinks at it, irritated that all the deities in his life (which is a journey of a phrase) refuse to listen to him when it counts.

It’s funny, though; he knows that the Eye really would hate everything being overwritten—all the stories becoming one story, the palimpsesting of the universe—but it’s also too stupid to understand that risk.

The Eye knew everything. It comprehended very little.

Hastur, on the other hand…

Maybe Hastur would finally listen about this? Maybe the whole Adra event would be enough to get through to him?

But then, he had to already know it had happened. If even Kayne had been scraped clean and written over…

“I wonder what the socks are made of,” says Martin.

“He calls it sleep-wool. When people count sheep to fall asleep? It’s from those.”

“Get out.”

“I’m serious! I expected them to be slippery, or to get cold on all this marble, but they don’t.”

“Could make a killing with these at Peacock’s,” says Martin.

“Now, I think the magic socks are at least worth Selfridges,” says Jon.

Martin laughs.

Jon’s proud of that.

“Oh,” says Martin.

They’ve come to one of those open walls again.

The one overlooking the same iron-dark sea, capped with white froth, predictable waves disrupted by deep and giant beasts.

Two moons, two suns.

“Whoa! Did you see that?” says Martin, who is staring at the waves, and at the occasional ebon-black fins that break through them.

Dear lord, it’s beautiful, Jon thinks, because it is, and he yearns to see it closer.

Jon yearns to see every changing landscape outside the window of his bedroom, too.

There is so much to see.

He must be tired. For one selfish, awful moment, the fact that being the good person means he will be denied ever seeing these things makes him bitterly angry.

He just wants to see the new things. Why does he always have to be punished for seeing the new things?

“Jon?” says Martin.

Why is he feeling this way? Maybe because of his dry soil; because he’s just been pushed too far.

Maybe because he feels, deep down, that Martin is saying goodbye.

It might just be that, in truth. He’s not ready to face it.

Jon is not okay. “I’m fine, Martin.”

He’s not.

From childhood, he’s been punished for wanting to see the new things. For exploring too far, for asking too much, for watching too long. There’s not even any reason. How many times was he going to be punched, or shoved, or yelled at, or burned, or confused, or tormented just for asking a few questions?

He just wants to see. Why does it have to hurt?

“You’re making some faces,” says Martin.

“I don’t like myself particularly right now,” Jon says, and leans in.

“I like you,” says Martin softly.

Jon smiles against his neck. “Well. You might be fooled. Lured in by my arcane charisma.”

Martin snickers. “Sexy Gandalf, that’s you.”

Jon laughs and takes in the scent of him, settling.

Thinking.

“Say it, Jon,” says Martin. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What is ‘the thing?’”

“It’s a stiffness? I don’t know how to explain it. You hold yourself differently when you’re getting ready to do something you think I might not like.”

“Funny,” Jon says, watching the iron waves. “I’m thinking about what you said. Your idea.”

Martin swallows. “A way into the Dark World.”

“I think I should try. It doesn’t mean I’ll go in. Doesn’t mean I’ll do anything. But I feel like… I don’t know, Martin. I don’t know why, but it feels like everything turns on whether or not I can actually pull it off.”

Martin starts to say something, then startles. “Arthur?”

Jon pulls back just far enough to look.

#

Arthur stops upon hearing his name. “Martin?”

Oh, fuck, that’s not human, says John, getting his first good look without distraction from Hastur.

And other-Jon reacts.

Hunches, shoulders forward as though he wants to disappear into himself, and leans into Martin.

Oops.

The look on other-Jon’s face isn’t great. It’s hurt. Shocked. Suspicious.

“So you’re still here, too?” says Arthur, who has no idea other-Jon clearly heard. “Great. We should start our own cult, focused on the idea of getting the fuck out of here.”

Martin laughs. “You know, I think I’d sign on to that,” he says, who must feel other-Jon’s tension, and is mitigating that tension like an expert. “Sign-up would definitely be free. Arthur, this is my Jon. Jon, this is the man who distracted the King for us.”

“Thank you,” says Jon. “I can never thank you enough. I can’t… I can’t imagine what that was like for you.”

Arthur is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t remember.”

Other-Jon blinks. “Oh.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “I’m fine, though. Maybe we both are. We’re not… um. The one that belongs here? It’s really fucked up. Pardon my French.”

Other-Jon signs. “Yes. Kayne is a monster.”

Martin visibly swallows.

Hello, says John, trying to mitigate, too, because he doesn’t want to risk Arthur’s safety. I didn’t mean to offend you.

“You didn’t,” says other-Jon, eyes downcast. “It’s not like I didn’t know.”

He is a very bad liar. That’s just weird for a god.

“What?” says Martin.

“He can hear you?” says Arthur.

Which meant only Martin could not. That wasn’t awkward at all.

But Martin figures it out at once, and like an expert captain, adjusts his sails. “You can hear the creepy little guy, huh?” he says. “So, was I right?”

“Yes,” says other-Jon. “Cat.”

Excuse me? John huffs.

But oh, Martin is good at calming things, managing this discordant orchestra like a maestro. “I knew it. Arthur, we decided your John is basically an eldritch cat.”

Arthur laughs. That concept imprinted at once.

John warms. Arthur hasn’t laughed in so long. Still, he has to play his role. That is not funny. There is nothing cat-like about me!

“Actually, he’s got a point, John,” says Arthur, still chuckling. “You’re demanding, and you get your back up easily enough. Good observation, in my book.”

John can see himself in Arthur’s thoughts, that tiny black and yellow blob in a cloak—but now, the figure inexplicably has cat-ears and a tail.

The image delights Arthur.

John puffs. It seems easier to go along with it.

Though it is frustrating, too: he can’t let on he knows.

A bigger concern is this Archivist. John is having trouble not being afraid of him.

There is a lot of power—and it’s not properly contained.

It’s surging all over and through him, every cell altered, every thought become a precious substance. And unless John is reading this wrong, the man has no idea how much power he has.

No wonder the King swooped in to grab him.

Other-Jon had been deified, which almost never worked. John had only seen it successfully done once; most of the time, it would just explode the poor bastard trying to survive the process.

Well, it worked here, but for whatever reason, other-Jon wasn’t handling it.

“Anyway, nice to meet you,” says Arthur. “So, Martin: what the fuck?”

“What the fuck, my man,” says Martin in solidarity.

“Are you… going somewhere?” says Jon.

“No?” Arthur’s newly acquired uptalk is taking some getting used to, but John doesn’t hate it. “We’re sort of stuck unless Kayne decides to send us home.”

Other-Jon looks grim. “And we want him not to show up, because when he does, he’ll take Martin.”

Martin flinches.

Arthur sighs. “Figures. They’ve already put us at odds. Well, I refuse to fight you like bugs in a box, or whatever the hell they’re after. Copacetic?”

“Absolutely,” says Martin. “We’re good.”

I’m not sure that’s what they—

“What do you know about the Dark World?” says other-Jon while that liquid green power flings itself around him with wild abandon, looping and glowing and reaching and—

It pierces John like a hook on a rope, and he can no more not answer than he can actually become human the way that Arthur hopes.

#

I know a lot of things, says John, speaking to the Archivist, because there is no one else here, and answering his question is all that matters. I’ve been there.

John? he hears far away, distant, barely audible.

It’s fine. This is fine.

“I can feel that. I feel the story in you. How does one go to the Dark World?”

You die. That’s how I did it.

“How did you die?”

I don’t remember.

“Can a living person enter the Dark World and return?”

Not as far as I know. It’s like the Dreamlands—it’s grown from all living things, all worlds, everywhere—but to step into it is to step into quicksand. You will be swallowed, and the more you struggle, the quicker down you go.

There’s silence for a moment, and John hears… his name again, somewhere unimportant.

Another question comes, and it is beautiful. “What if you had an anchor on the outside, still in the living world?”

That might work, says John, who finds, suddenly, that he can think through his vast arcane knowledge with the ease of flipping through notebooks. But it would have to be a strong anchor—the kind that lasts beyond death, that might even assure your souls found each other after you die.

“They can find each other?”

Yes. If the love is enough. It feels amazing to be answering these, open, free, like some block was removed, some door opened, and John doesn’t want to stop.

“Is there a way to get there without dying?”

If we had our knife—but no, that wouldn’t be enough. The Dark World is far removed from any living one, and I don’t know of a way to cut an opening through—not that it would be safe, even with an anchor.

“How would it not be safe?”

There’s another voice now, shouting, Jon! Jon!

And John knows there’s a difference in their names, and also knows it doesn’t matter.

Because anything could come through. Some dead things should stay dead.

“How could we prevent them from coming through?”

That’s a hard one. Oh, I know, says John, who would cut open his heart and pour it onto this Archivist if that’s what was needed for answers. You can ask my alternate.

“Hastur?”

Yes. He’ll have a way to mitigate that, or he should. He’s been planning this for such a long time.

And very, very small, a tiny bit of John knows he shouldn’t have said that.

Why? He has no idea.

He wants more questions.

He wants to give more answers.

He’d happily answer until he ran out of breath and melted and died.

“Thank you, John,” says the Archivist, and pulls away, and the great loops of beautiful power that throb through John’s soul retreat, taking with them all purpose, and fulfillment, and bliss, and the glorious sense of having answers to important questions.

Bereft, John begins to cry.

#

Then he remembers who he is, and stops.

“Jon!” Martin is shouting.

“John?” Arthur is crying.

The Archivist is on the floor, on his knees, curled forward, looking up at John through his hair with teeth bared and eyes glowing a terrifying green.

John feels…

John is…

He’s fine, he tells himself, he’s absolutely okay, he tells himself, because he’s still in Arthur, and nothing could pull him free, and this was just… this was just…

Fuck you and your consent! he bellows. How dare you! You fuck!

And the Archivist finally drops that horrible green gaze.

Other-Jon is shaking, violently, hugging himself as though he thinks he’s going to fly to pieces.

John wishes he would. Fuck you!

“I’m sorry,” the other whispers, barely audible beneath Martin’s shouting and Arthur’s shouting and John’s growls.

And fuck, fuck, John can see he means it, see he didn’t plan to do that, see this was no act of malice, but simply a reaction to the existence of Dark World knowledge in John, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

He sees, but that doesn’t mean he forgives. You fucking monster!

Other-Jon’s head is down. John can’t see his face at all.

“What just happened?” Martin shouts, kneeling, pulling Jon against himself.

“John?” says Arthur. “John. Answer me. Please. You’re scaring me.”

That’s putting it mildly, and Arthur’s welling panic helps to pull John's focus out of his rage and back toward his person. I’m fine, he snarls. I… are you okay? What happened?

“Felt him,” whispers Arthur. “Felt him, right there in me, right next to you. Like he’d just stepped into my soul and jammed himself alongside you. It hurt.”

Oh, gods. John’s rage renews. You FUCKER!

“Jon. Talk to me, Jon,” Martin is saying.

Other-Jon hasn’t replied. He’s gasping. He might be crying.

Good. John hopes he is. I hope you’re suffering for that, you fucking malevolent son of a bitch!

“I’m sorry,” whispers Jon. “I don’t understand what… I don’t know what happened.”

You don’t have any damn control, that’s what happened! John bellows.

Other-Jon looks up.

His eyes are human now, completely human, brown and ordinary and pleading. “Do… do you know how? To have control?”

That question is absolutely damning for everyone involved in this man’s life, and John suddenly knows why Kayne looked afraid.

Who the fuck gave you deification? They should’ve taught you!

“They… they couldn’t. They were… he was just a man,” says Jon.

And he looks so lost that even in the middle of his rage, John is moved.

Moved, but not calmed. You should go and stab that motherfucker until they’re sorry.

Other-Jon makes the weirdest noise. It’s a choke. A laugh. A sob. “I did.” And then he curls down over himself and weeps.

#

Arthur feels weirdly bruised. Weirdly because it’s not physical, for maybe the first time ever, but it’s bad enough that he can’t just think.

John is still here. That’s what matters. That’s the thing that makes it okay.

But John is also furious, and that engenders a sympathetic resonance in Arthur, who knows fury, who lives in it almost all the time, who wants to hunt and stab and kill whatever makes John upset.

The problem is that John is angry at a thing that is not prey.

And it should be. That makes it even worse.

Arthur can feel the thing John yells at.

In the moment, he can’t make the connection between that and a person, the man named Jonathan Sims, whom Martin loves.

He wants to hunt what upsets John. He can’t.

Whatever that is over there, Arthur’s entire being knows it cannot be Hunted. At least by him.

He’s more concerned about John, anyway. “John. Come on, you’re… please. Calm down. You’re still scaring me, all right?”

John is breathing like a Brahma bull. He had no right!

Familiar. “Like Kayne?”

Both those things were his fault, John declares, as though blaming this other-Jon for what was happening.

Arthur breathes slowly, pushing down panic, trying to fight his fear. He’s had a lot of practice. “Did he seriously just ask you to teach him how to be a god?”

I don’t care! He can die, for all of me!

“Sure, but… can he help us, maybe? If he’s some kind of god, even by accident, maybe he can get us home?”

John seems not to have thought of that, because he goes quiet as if punched in the mouth.

In the silence: “Jon, what happened?” Martin says again, and finally gets an answer.

“I d… I didn’t mean to. I compelled Hast…  I compelled John.”

Martin sounds like he is so done with this day, and Arthur can relate. “Well… shit.”

Motherfucker! John howls, anger renewed.

“John. Please. I want to go home.” And that’s not the right wording, that’s implying things Arthur doesn’t want to imply, but he doesn't know how else to say he just wants a few hours away from all of this and away from gods and kings and away from anything or anyone other than John and maybe a soft, thick pillow.

The weirdest thing happens, then: John understands.

You… fuck. Yes, Arthur. He might be able to, I don’t know. I can’t tell. He’s completely out of control. Fucking crazy power—you remember what I said. About the Fears in the Dreamlands.

“The growth. You said… you said it would be horrible.”

It is, and it’s all being channeled through his scrawny ass.

Arthur considers this.

“Jon. Look at me,” Martin is saying, and Arthur knows that tone, recognizes it as from a loved one who is deeply concerned and certain you’re about to drive your vehicle off a cliff, possibly while on fire and screaming.

From the sounds, Martin’s Jon is crying. It’s the ugly hitching sound Arthur made when Faroe died. It’s a bad, heart-broken, heartless sound, only uttered when you believe all hope is gone.

He can’t think of him as prey or not-prey anymore. It’s Jon. Martin’s love.

Arthur sighs. “I think we need to help him.”

Fuck him. He can burn in hell for all I care.

Arthur knows he should be in hell, too.

He knows the way other-Jon is weeping does not mean innocence. There’s too much anger in it, too much recrimination.

But Arthur deeply wishes someone had been there to talk to him, when it happened. When he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Faroe could not be brought back.

There is a dark place, at the end of hope, and though Arthur doesn’t know for sure that the Archivist is there, it feels like he is.

And Arthur wants to run away.

He doesn’t know how to rescue someone from such a place. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

He’s ashamed, and he wants to go home—but he doesn’t want to be the person who encounters someone at the end of hope and runs away. So, he makes a choice. “Can you teach him?”

Arthur. John sounds infuriated. Arthur, I…

“Can you?”

Fuck. Some things. I don’t know how much. All right? Nothing that could counteract what those Fears are doing.

“What did he do to you?” says Arthur.

John sighs.

“Jon. Focus. Breathe with me—in. Out. In. Out. You’re all right.”

Other-Jon laughs. “No, I’m not. I am not. And no one around me is, either.”

“John,” says Arthur.

Gods damn it, Arthur. Are you really asking me for this?

No one had been there for him as he held Faroe and tried, desperately, to think what to do. “If you can, John, we… we should.”

“Okay, all right, here’s what I think,” says Martin loudly. “We all need to calm down. I say we go find someplace with some tea, and sit down, and talk this out. Whatever it was.”

John huffs.

“Sure,” says Arthur. “But we haven’t found anywhere with food.”

“There’s one,” says Jon, his breath unsteady. “Down there. Not far. I… I can lead us.”

We already looked, John says.

Those green, dripping loops flip wildly around. “You missed it. Come on.” And Jon stands like he’s a hundred years old and weighs five hundred pounds.

Martin steadies him. Murmuring softly, he helps him down the hall the way he indicated.

“Please, John,” says Arthur.

Fine. Fuck. I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll try. Are you happy?

“Thank you,” says Arthur, and means that for so much more than this.

It’s hard to feel so ungracious in the face of that, and John calms down a little as he directs Arthur after the other two.

(part fifteen)

NOTES

EVERYBODY'S at a turning point today!

Also, while John Doe can make some legit terrifying sounds, he also huffs like an offended cat, and no one can tell me otherwise.

[the-bjd-community-confess]

TW: Mental health discussion, addictive behavior, depression

 I left the hobby because it had become a bad coping mechanism for my depression. I was buying to soothe my depression even though I know retail therapy only gives momentary relief. I had to wash my hands of the hobby beyond a singular doll to stop my habit. It had almost been a year before I considered buying again. I had been feeling good or at least what my ver. of good is. I seemed to get my meds in a better place, did a full round of TMS treatments - google if you don't know what it is - and gave myself a much needed breather from a lot of things. I had been saving money. I decided it was okay to buy a couple of dolls I really liked and were well within my budget. It seemed fine...and then I stumbled again. It seems to happen every time. I get comfortable cause my mood is up, I come back into the hobby and then, unfortunately, I slide into my depression to the point of becoming suicidal.

 Everything falls apart once I'm that low. I start to buy whatever I see and it gives me excitement till it gets to my door and I feel nothing. I know this is my fault. I know that I'm responsible no matter where I'm at mentally. I understand why this is a coping mechanism I seek when I'm in the depressive haze and I understand why it isn't healthy. I've talked to my therapist about this and I am continuing to do so. I am just so mad at myself. I was doing REALLY GOOD. It felt like, finally, I would be able to handle the worst of my depression without this reoccurring behavior. I'm so disappointed in myself. Now I get to look like the nut job selling dolls left and right that no one even knew I had.

 I want to be healthy and enjoy my hobby. Every time this happens I wonder if the answer is to just give up and commit to quitting forever. I've tried to do this without success 'cause I just love it. The dolls, the creativity. When I'm good it can be really grounding. Yet, I'm just hitting this wall of not being able to trust myself anymore. I want to enjoy my hobby within my limits, but I break them every time I fall down that depression rabbit hole. I can't seem to find the safe spot. I know my impulsiveness is one of the hardest things for me to reign in when I'm like this, but at the scale I'm dong it (hundreds to thousands within a short period of time) is beyond reason and is not okay. I'm just lost at what the right option is. Like I said, I talk to my therapist about this. I guess I just wanted to throw this out into the world to release some of my frustration and for the smallest hope that maybe I'm not the only one who's had to struggle with this. Maybe someone out there understands the struggle of wanting to collect what you love, but due to mental health, it ends up being unhealthy. Maybe someone understands my particular dilemma because they do bring me great joy, but not when I'm acting like this.  

~Anonymous

#BJD #ABJD #BJD Confessions #Community Confessions #Health #<3

[abraxos-the-phantom]

Hey would you ever make sequel of you god of Egypt fic? It’s cool if you don’t though. I enjoyed it overall awesome work

This is so damn old I feel bad for throwing an answer out of the blue - but in short, there is a sequel sitting in my drafts partially written - the issue is plot. Most of the Gods of Egypt fic was based on the movie so plot was easy, this one not so much. As a treat tho - you can see what I had written so far. If I ever sit down and try to continue it it may change/not change at all.

The Aftermath

At first, Bek wasn’t sure what to do when he was named the Chief Advisor to the Pharaoh. In fact- his first thought was, that sneaky stupid peacock upon remembering just how many duties could be passed on to him if Horus did not feel like doing them. Fortunately, there was a little catch to his title.

As much as Horus could essentially, sick some of the duties to him, there were also other things that no one but Bek could do. Some of which were requests from Nun, which would have been near suicide to refuse. (Now to be clear, Bek actually could decline if so wished, they would have just asked when he was available to do it or did it themselves if he said no, but the less Horus knew the better.) Another unique duty he held as Advisor was the rebuilding of the House of Life. Many Magicians from the former (by actual choice rather than take-over, technically speaking) ruler had gone into hiding due to the dramatic murder, as such Bek was also in charge of getting everyone back on their feet. As well as spearheading the effort of finding new blood to join the ranks. The scattered Medjai who had come together for the fight soon after finding out about Horus, Hathor/Sekhmet, and Bek’s retaking of the kingdom were rewarded with resources and options of where they and any family they had chosen to live. Slaves were freed, those who had supported Set’s cause due to their beliefs were tried and punished. It was a busy few cycles the following weeks after.

Especially with Nun.

In some cases, Nun had made it easier on them. The Kingdom’s money issues would have been disastrous due to both Bek and Horus’ mutual decision to free the slaves, but Nun had come in and quietly added more resources to the Kingdom. Muttering to the land to bear more bountiful fruit than usual in order to encourage the need for more workers.

Then there were the more complicated cases, like when Nun had paid a visit with the child of the former chief of the Medjai, Ardeth, who had been silently trudging near the outskirts of the Kingdom despite the malnourishment and constant threat of sandstorms. The young man immediately taken in by Horus to live and train in whatever trade he wished within the royal grounds. Later she had come back with a promising boy about Ardeth’s age who they told Bek and Horus was named Ricadene, much to the young boy’s protest as he muttered a shortened Ric to Bek.

In private she told Bek that he had found the boy to the furthest North of Egypt near the sea, starving and back riddled with whip wounds. Bek didn’t asked for any more details after that.

When all was said and done, Horus had decided to throw a party for the ages since Egypt had officially recovered from Set’s ridiculous ruling.

Given the fact that the big dolt had invited everyone without warning, Bek spent a majority of close to four cycles running back and forth and asking if they could use this or if they could cook that or if they wouldn’t mind terribly helping him set up places where people could sit or eat- or if this people could cover for this band of musicians when the hour was up.

Frankly, Bek felt more tired than he did after banishing Set.

Crashing onto the seat in the chambers Horus had given him, Bek threw back his head in a groan. His entire body feeling exhausted from running around, and climbing, and avoiding death.

So there were still the soldiers of Set around- but as long as Bek still had his skills, he was fine.

Picking up a sound at the edge of his chambers, Bek let out another groan. Obviously having jinxed himself.

The movement seemed oddly familiar as he threw himself off of the chair, avoiding the flying dagger that came his way. Exhausted from his recent duties, Bek was slower than he would have liked as he avoided the blade, too tired to summon anything from Duat as he resorted to using the dagger he had always strapped to his thigh to parry the korpesh.

It wasn’t long till Bek found himself growing more tired, as almost never ending as his energy could be, he hadn’t been able to do anything more than snack all day. His muscles straining from the extra use as he ducked and rolled to the other side of the chamber, the sounds of singing metal screeching across the stone chamber.

That was until said attacker was lifted to the air.

“Attack him again, and I will not be so forgiving,” the familiar accented rumble said before the assailant sailed across the room and out a window.

Senses heightened, Bek straightened himself in a more defensive position, angling his dagger towards the stranger. Tiredness fading into the loud roar of adrenaline as immense threat became apparent to Bek’s instincts.

There Set stood- for some reason the same height as he was.

At the sight of Bek’s defensive stance, Set snorted, crossing his arms as he angled himself away from Bek. Oddly holding himself in a defensive manner given the fact that he had just showed up out of the blue with little to no context about why or how he was here.

“Oh don’t be so ridiculous mortal, Nun assured that I wouldn’t be doing anything but…” Set’s expression twisted into a sneer, “protecting you.”

Bek paused, looking at the god of chaos, “That doesn’t sound like Nun.”

“My father suggested it as punishment,” Set deadpanned, face still set to a scowl. “I gain every wound and ache you gain- and I would appreciate if you began telling that buffoon nephew of mine to stop overworking you. I don’t understand how you work with the constant throbbing.”

Bek unconsciously shrugged in sheepish admittance, far more acute aches than before slowly making themselves known again as the adrenaline wore off, ”I’ve learned to ignore it.”

“And for that you are stupid,” Set gruffed. “I don’t understand how Horus forgets that you are still a mortal, despite being more like a cockroach than any living creature.”

“Thanks,” Bek said sarcastically, paying the chaos god no more mind as he proceeded to move and crash himself on the hammock that stretched across two pillars in his room. Mind catching the ending part of the statement. “But out of curiosity, what do you mean?”

Set gruffed, obviously annoyed by his apparently lessoned powers as he walked to drag a chair closer to Bek’s hammock crashing on it with his legs spread wide across the seat.

“You glow,” Set’s expression turned horrified as he seemed to register the fact that he had said it out loud.

“What?”

Set sighed, turning an annoyed glance to Bek with a clenched fist before a sharp hiss of pain overtook, Set quickly setting down his hand as he glared back at Bek. Words of power glowing in a warning red across his skin. Obviously holding Set back from doing whatever he was thinking of doing.

“That,” Bek noted quietly. “Looks a lot more like Nuns’ work.”

Set rolled his eyes, his mouth moving as if forced to, “You have an aura. Apparent to gods. Like you’re one of us, but not.”

Bek raised an eyebrow, “That’s not anything I haven’t heard. Nun’s mark is sort of obvious.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse,” Set barked. “It’s more than just Nun’s mark. It’s a glow that says you’re a mortal and a god. It’s vexing.”

“That…” Bek hummed thinking about it for what felt like hours rather than mere seconds. “Might actually-“

“BEK!”

Horus barged in, his own spear held high as a sudden barrage of, “There are intruders in the palace” echoed through the room before Horus finally spotted the God of Chaos sitting idly in a nearby chair.

“You,” Horus growled. Odd for a bird. Kawed angrily? Somehow that didn’t feel quite right either despite the fact that it was as accurate as Bek was going to get when it came to an apt description. “What are you doing in Bek’s chambers.”

“Punishment from Nun and Ra,” Bek said quickly before any golden blood would spill across his floor. Which despite the fact that it looked different, it was equally as difficult to removeif not even more so. So Bek didn’t want to (or anyone else for that matter) deal with that mess. “He’s supposed to protect me.”

Bek turned to Set, “By the way- did Nun leave any hints about how long the curse is? There’s normally a condition.”

“Till I learn my lesson would be probable,” Set gruffed. Causing Horus, whom was still cautious but now slightly less on guard, to snort.

“Learn a lesson? You?” Horus laughed. “You’ll be here until Bek dies of old age or Apophis wins over Ra.”

“Says the Peacock who was so hell bent on revenge that he did not see the true purpose of his quest until on the brink of failure,” Bek grumbled under his breath. Causing the Chaos God to bark with rough laughter at Horus’ expense.

“Bek,” Horus whined- because that was definitely a whine and Bek was still too young and durable to hear otherwise.

Bek rolled his eyes in response, “Nun doesn’t do things without reason. She may think this to be hilarious- she absolutely would, but she is a being of incomprehensible wisdom and age. If she believes Set can be…reformed, then most likely he can be.”

He gave a side eye to Set, who had crossed his arms defensively.

“You’re faith is honorable,” Horus had begun to say, “But Set-“

“Faith is for the blind. I trust Nun.” Bek breathed deeply, casting Horus what Nun had called his ‘disappointed father’ look. “For the first few months of knowing you, I knew you were ready to push me off a cliff if it meant reaching your goals. I trusted that you put your revenge before everything else. Then I trusted you when you started showing me some basic respect for another living breathing thing.”

It was brutally honest- but it was the only way to get his idea across as he watched Horus guiltily recalled the events of what seemed years but had been only months ago.

“That being said,” Bek said with a sigh, eyeing the god of Chaos currently lounging. “I can’t leave you with anyone else, so you’re sleeping here.”

“What.” “What?”

Rolling his eyes as twin yells of anger and rejection made themselves known, Bek scoffed quietly to himself before muttering, “Truly you two are uncle and nephew. You whine the same.”

That got them to quiet down.

“Oh so you are in fact individuals over hundreds of years old, that’s very good to know,” Bek added mercilessly. “Excellent, so we all agree that Horus is to keep his tail feathers in his chambers and Set will be in my chambers so I can watch him. Good? Excellent. A swell talk, I’m glad we came to an agreement.”

There were times were Hathor took relish delight in how quickly and efficiently Bek could make other gods shut up, and this was an example as to how: With Bek promptly tugging a more relatively smaller size Horus out of his chambers while simultaneously corralling Set into a cot.

It was a whirlwind of a couple of minutes before both gods found themselves wondering what in the name of Ra just happened.

Bek just settled into his own bed and passed out.

-

It was another few days before Nun decided to visit.

“So, how’s good old Set?” They had asked out of the blue while hovering by Bek’s desk. Currently filled to the skies with paperwork and reports about harvests, food, products and of the like. He was currently addressing the newly freed slaves labor and had been trying to work out a way to get them their own land based on a sectional system for a while now. As sad as it was, Set’s take over had aided somewhat in that since his rule had killed off a large number of people who were loyal to Osiris and thus- Horus.

“He’s patrolling the grounds, he caught two of his former soldiers since he came,” Bek replied automatically before looking up in bewilderment. “Why exactly did you assign him to me?”

“Horus would make his life extremely difficult- and Hathor would- well she’d make his life a lot more difficult than Horus ever could,” Nun replied easily, settling down on a clear spot while looking over some of Bek’s paperwork. “So should corral some assistance for you in some of these or are you good? I’m pretty sure Bes and Tharquet could use some stuff to do. Especially with these birthrates, do you even have enough people for that?”

“They aren’t too numerous thankfully, and if anything I think we’re doing rather well for the most part,” Bek said with a sigh, leaning back against his desk. “The people of Egypt are happy about the changes for the most part, even the former slave owners are content with those under their employ. Your bounty had no small part in that, but I have a feeling things will go back to precious gems soon enough- but for now everyone is concentrated on the festival.”

“And I assume Horus isn’t being too much of a pain?”

“Not more than usual,” Bek sighed. “Though- we haven’t had much time to talk about anything since…all that.”

“Yeah-“ Nun nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“Just- what exactly do you expect me to do?” Bek cocked his head to a degree as he looked at Nun, features on an eternal shift. “With all that’s been happening, I don’t think there’s much else I’m going to be doing other than managing a whole kingdom. Horus is good at leading the people, but logistics are something that bird-brain doesn’t have a shred of sense in.”

“As a god of War, I think you would only have to change the way he thinks about kingdom matters, but unfortunately- that is not really what I came here to talk about with you Bek.”

“It isn’t? If not so then what?”

A wiry smile spread itself amongst the sea of features that made up Nun’s face, equal parts sad yet also somewhat…it was an emotion Bek wasn’t sure how to describe. “The events to come to pass are soon upon you Bek, it isn’t going to be a pleasant ride.”

Bek paused at that, attempting to more or less- solve the puzzle that Nun had presented him with. Talking with the old god was always a strange mixture of games, especially when it came to grand plans that weren’t technically supposed to reach his ears.

But with that expression, Bek knew for a fact that what was coming was not going to be anything good.

“Just…” Nun trailed off slightly, shrugging after a moment of awkward pause. “Be careful, alright?”

Bek nodded. “Of course.”

Nun left after that, leaving their ominous message in his lap. It wasn’t until several months after that Bek would experience the reason for Nun’s warning.

-

#it's been so long since that fever dream #ironically kind of relevant now due to the PJ live action #which i'm excited about #people who are mad about annabeth can shove it #I'm sure she'll do great #'A Story Told A Thousand Times' #Gods of Egypt fic

[maddy-ferguson]

i just watched the glee episode where blaine sings cough syrup and karofsky tries to kill himself (they happen at the same time) and i remember the first time i rewatched it in 2019 this episode made me SO MAD quinn is like how could you ever want to kill yourself that's sooo selfish and they're like have some compassion you wouldn't get it the usual whatever and later they have this little suicide convo and will (not that will) has them say something they're looking forward to and he has them promise they would NEVER think of suicide as an option and mercedes is like i know we're very dramatic but i don't think anyone here would ever consider taking their own life...and they were like that's a wrap! they made it sound so easy and i was like. i don't have a single thing to look forward to rn because i want to kill myself. like your solution is not very good. and it's like i remember very well what it was like before my 2019 suicidal era i saw a tweet in my last year of high school that said i think we were ALL depressed our first year after hs and i was like no that will never be me i could never be depressed cut to a year later i was as i was just saying depressed and suicidal and this episode of glee and that conversation is literally 2018 me for whom being depressed seems impossible and a this would happen to someone else but not me because i'm a happy person and i could never not be happy. and i only hated the episode so much because i was depressed and angry and whatever but like shouldn't your depression is sad don't kill yourself episode (well they don't actually talk about depression in the episode they only talk about suicide) make someone who's going through exactly that feel better lol. but also yk everything that was supposed to make the depressed feel better made me feel worse like the "it gets better!" "you're not alone!" things people tweet made me feel so bad because i was like no it will NOT get better and i don't have everyone because no one cares about me enough to hate me or think about me for more than ten seconds or love me but whatever. my point is it's very superficial and watching it now that i'm no longer depressed and suicidal it doesn't make me angry anymore but it still feels incredibly naive. and of course it's glee so it's not like they're exceptional at handling...any issue but it's just always weird watching this episode and this scene for me. i remember watching euphoria for the very first time later that summer and you know how rue goes to the hospital in one of the later episodes? she's like i love being in the hospital because i don't have any responsibilities and no one can hold anything against me and time doesn't matter and things like that and i was like wow she's so me because i fantasized about putting my life on pause so much and the best option for that was being in the hospital or being in a coma and she was literally saying exactly that it was so fun in a not fun way. i don't know what my point was but season one of euphoria (but tbh i still like rue's storyline in season two it's the only thing sam is good at) will always be famous and that scene from glee felt like a slap in the face😭

#tw suicide #like the example will gives of the time he considered killing himself...you guys cannot be serious😭 not saying you can't want to kill #yourself after a very specific event without being horribly depressed but the anecdote is so weird and warrants the okay just don't #kill yourself it's very easy reaction they have. lol #rue was born exactly seven days after me did you guys know this we both turn 22 this september #and like i say: brf slt

[hxrpooner]

just finished mass effect 2 here is my brain vomit

The Good

The combat was sleeker and more polished than ME1. Overall I enjoyed the gunplay a lot more. Being able to vault over things was also really fun.

I really liked the paragon/renegade interrupts. A good way to spice things up. Enhanced the feeling of player choice. Just a really nice touch.

LOOOVED the crew. I also thought the conversations with crewmates were just better overall than ME1.

I liked the loyalty mechanic and loyalty missions. I thought those were cool.

I think the decision to kill Shepard, resurrect them, and have the whole crew break up, was pretty fucked up and awesome. It was cool going to see where everyone was at after all that time. I especially thought the angle they took with Liara was really cool and interesting.

I liked listening to the news reports and seeing all the other ways Shepard’s actions from ME1 carried over with NPCs and stuff.

In general there were so many moments that harkened back to ME1 that I enjoyed. Like yeah it was very fanservicey and yk what I am a sucker for fanservice. No notes.

The DLCs were really good, especially Lair of the Shadow Broker. Except Overlord. I have beef with Overlord.

I’m glad they took out exploring planets with the Mako. I mean don’t get me wrong, I loved the Mako. But driving over featureless terrain for long periods definitely lost its charm after the first several times. On that note, I appreciated that they made the vehicle sections in the Firewalker DLC a lot more interesting than the ones in ME1. 

I like the overall concept of the Suicide Mission. I like how unique consequences unfold based on the choices you make. And I think it’s good that they made it legitimately difficult to keep your whole team alive without looking at a walkthrough. Would have been really silly if it was easy. 

The Bad

The atmosphere was much more “sleek modern sci fi shooter” than the more... space opera, vibey situation of the first game. I don’t really know how else to describe it. The new vibe wasn’t BAD, but it drew away from what I feel was a big draw of ME1, which kind of sucks.

I don’t really like how they changed charm/intimidate checks to paragon/renegade 

I wasn’t very fond of the reloading mechanic. I mean, I think adding reloading itself freshened up combat, which was good, but I didn’t like that it auto-reloaded for me sometimes but not others. And it felt like some guns ran out of clips way too quickly.

The powers in 2 were kind of boring, ammo powers especially. Squadmate combat was very lacking because they had so few powers.

Whatever the fuck was going on with David in the Overlord DLC was bad. I’m very iffy on how they treat his autism and how that relates to his personal autonomy. But I also feel like the game just does not treat what was done to David with a sufficient amount of revulsion. I wasn’t happy that the game didn’t give you an option to kill Gavin outright.

I kind of wish there was more conflict over the decision to blow up all those Batarians in the Arrival DLC. Because that was like hundreds of thousands of people and we just.... kablooey!!! There were scarcely any moments for Shepard to even wonder if there might be other options. It’s fine for the game to force you to kill them in the end, but I wish we gotten to linger on it a little more at the time (especially since the ethical ramifications of exploding all those people ARE shown to be important later on... just not until AFTER the mission is over, and even then it’s honestly more about Shepard being in trouble than anything else).

I was sad that a lot of the ambient dialogue stuff got removed. You can’t chat with squadmates and get flavor dialogue about whatever area you’re in unless you happen upon a specific “talk to X” location, and there were far fewer times where your squad would idly comment on whatever mission you were doing. It made them feel more like inanimate objects than characters.

I did Jack’s romance path, and I thought it was really bland. I don’t know about the other romance options, but... idk, I wasn’t impressed. The dialogue just wasn’t that interesting.

I think they blew their load a little too early with the Suicide Mission. It felt like it should have been the end of something; I’m sensing that they kind of set ME3 up to fail, here. The end sequence of the game was also shorter than I would have liked.

I felt like a big skeleton robot monster was a very silly choice for the final boss. The concept of THOUSANDS of humans being disappeared and then literally turned into goop is appropriately horrifying. But all that, only for it to be used to make this goofy looking skeleton thing... idk, it mostly just made me laugh.

#i know i know i am so late to the party #whatever #mass effect 2 #yelling.txt #i feel like most of the stuff i liked was stuff they kept from me1 #overall me2 was... fine. like yeah it was pretty good #but not as good as me1