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steddieas-shegoes · 1 month

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cw: discussion of past parental death due to overdose, mention of drug use

Steve stumbled upon the article when he was helping Robin collect articles for a project for her Industry Studies course.

He didn’t think much of reading about another small time musician getting caught up with the wrong crowd, and overdosing or getting in a drunk driving accident. It seemed like a pretty common theme. It was terrible, sad, horrible, but he’d seen about 30 stories like that in the last two days and he was kind of getting numb to it all.

Until he saw the name Munson.

Until a picture of a woman with long, curly hair and Eddie’s smile stared back at him next to a headline that read: “Kentucky Country Queen Dead at 27.”

He read the article with tears in his eyes.

Elizabeth “El” Munson, a hopeful country singer and guitarist, was found dead in her home by her six year old son, Edward. The boy reportedly tried calling his father at work with no luck before finally calling his uncle, Wayne Munson.

Toxicology reports show that she overdosed on multiple illegal substances. At this time, it is believed to have been accidental and no foul play is suspected.

It has now been made clear that Elizabeth was seeking a divorce from her husband, Al Munson, but had not been successful as lawyers were unable to locate him until her funeral. Their son has been put in the care of Wayne until further notice.

Robin found him 20 minutes later, staring at the page with swollen, red eyes. She took the paper, read the article, and put it back in the files wordlessly.

“I don’t think he wants us to know,” she finally said.

She was probably right.

But Steve had grown pretty close to Eddie over the last six months, had opened up to him about his parents, his fake friends, his concussions and nightmares. Eddie had started opening up to him, too.

He thought he had, anyway.

He told him about how his mom died when he was young and his dad was awful so he moved in with Wayne. He told him about how his dad appeared every couple years looking for money or a place to stay and Wayne always turned him away.

But he never really talked about his mom, always said he barely remembered her.

Did he know what happened?

——

Steve asked Wayne the next morning.

He’d come by to pick Eddie up for a day with the kids, but Eddie hadn’t set his alarm and was still asleep.

Perfect opportunity to find out more.

“So. Eddie’s mom.”

Wayne tensed over his plate of toast and scrambled eggs. He didn’t look up, just took another bite of food.

“Does he know how she died?”

“Do you?”

“Newspaper said overdose,” Steve tapped his fingers nervously against his thigh. “Says Eddie found her.”

“Trauma messes with your memory.”

It was final, a statement that left Steve with more questions, but a certainty that he’d get no answers.

“Yeah.” He gulped. “I’ve heard.”

——

Steve doesn’t bring it up to Eddie for a while.

He figured Wayne’s reaction said a lot about what Eddie knew or would be willing to share.

But they were a little high and alone and Eddie’s hand was warm in his and his filter was broken.

“I’m sorry you had to be the one to find your mom.”

The air around them was thick. The silence was deafening.

“Me too.”

Eddie’s voice was quiet, nothing like his usual playful tone.

Steve immediately wanted to put this conversation in reverse, pretend his curiosity didn’t matter.

“I’m sorry.”

Eddie moved closer to Steve, his arm a constant pressure against Steve’s. His head leaned against Steve’s shoulder.

“Wayne doesn’t know I know how she died. He doesn’t know I know my dad gave her bad drugs, convinced her all the up and coming musicians were doing a new strain of heroin. She’d kicked him out of the house,” Eddie’s breath caught. “She shouldn’t have let him come back that day. I heard them arguing before I left for school. She told him she was finding a manager and recording an album and that she was divorcing him. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it was bad.”

“Eds, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I know, Stevie. But you know everything else.” Eddie’s face turned until his nose and mouth were pressed against Steve’s arm. “I went to school. Didn’t think about it. Figured my dad would be gone when I got home and might come back in a few days once they cooled off. But when I got home, he was gone and my mom’s bedroom door was closed. And I opened it and there she was.”

Steve turned so he was face to face with Eddie, cupping his jaw and rubbing his thumb along his cheek in encouragement.

“I don’t even know why I tried calling the store first. I didn’t even know if he still worked there. But then I called Wayne and it’s like he just knew.” Eddie’s eyes closed for a moment. “Don’t think he’d ever gotten to our house so quick.”

“Did he know all this?”

“He knew enough. I stayed with him and then my dad gave up his rights. Lied to the counselor about what I knew so Wayne wouldn’t freak. Kept it up for a while,” Eddie let out a small exhale that slightly resembled a laugh. “I read the article about eight years ago. A kid in my class made a joke about me being an orphan because of the drug problem in America as if he even knew what that meant and I decided to see what the newspaper reported.”

“Do you play because of her?” Steve asked.

Eddie blinked back at him.

“I play for a lot of reasons. But I started because of her, yeah,” he whispers. “You’re the first person to ask me that instead of give me that look of pity.”

“I’m sad about how it happened, but giving you pity doesn’t change it. I’d rather hear how it changed you,” Steve whispered back.

They were close, legs intertwined, hands touching bare skin under shirts and on faces and necks.

“It changed everything for me. Wayne packed us up and moved us here as soon as he legally could. Probably for the best. Well,” Eddie gave a small smile. “Definitely for the best. Wouldn’t be here with you if he hadn’t.”

“Do you ever go back?” Steve did his best to ignore the fluttering in his stomach.

“Her birthday every year. She’s got a nice spot near her mom.” Eddie bit his lip. “It’s actually coming up in a couple weeks. Maybe you could come with me?”

“Me? Are you sure?”

Eddie nodded. “If it doesn’t weird you out that I talk to her. I like to give her updates on my life, Wayne’s life, music. Think she’d find it quite funny that I bring the guy I’ve had a crush on for two years.”

It takes a minute for the words to sink in.

“Two years?” Steve’s lips curled up into a smile. “I hope I live up to expectations.”

“I think she’d like you. She’d definitely make fun of me for having a boyfriend who wears polos though.”

“Is that how you’d introduce me?”

“If you’re okay with it.” Eddie leaned his forehead against Steve’s. “I know we haven’t talked about what we-“

Steve pressed his lips to Eddie’s, nearly knocking their noses together painfully in the process.

After the initial shock, they both relaxed into the kiss.

“I’d love to go. As your boyfriend,” Steve said after pulling away for air. “What was her favorite flower?”

“Gardenias. Always wore perfume that smelled like it. Why?”

“Because I have to impress her, right?”

“You realize she’s not gonna actually see or hear you? She’s definitely dead.”

Steve snorted. “I know. But she can still have nice things. Maybe us bringing her nice things in death is a way to apologize for the not nice things she had in life.”

“You’re a pretty incredible boyfriend, sweetheart.” Eddie kissed the tip of his nose. “And you now know more than Wayne, so it’s time for a pinky promise.”

Steve giggled before holding up his pinky. “I swear I won’t tell Wayne anything.”

“And you’ll kiss me whenever I want…”

“That’s a guarantee.”

“And you’ll let me win at Go Fish…”

“Not a chance, Eds.”

Eddie laughed. “Worth a try.”

Steve curled his pinky against Eddie’s. “So do you think she’d like me?”

“Oh. Oh god. She’d love you. You’re exactly who she’d want for me,” Eddie rolled his eyes when Steve flipped his hair back confidently. “And she’d braid your hair every night while you gossiped and sipped tea.”

“And what would you do?”

“Probably just soak it in. Appreciate having her and you around. You’ll just have to gossip with Wayne.”

“Wayne doesn’t strike me as-“

“Oh, he’s got you fooled! He’s a worse gossip than the ladies at the hair salon. Just ask him about the mailbox at the end of the road sometime. Make sure you’ve got an hour to spare.”

“Really?” Steve’s eyes lit up. “Is he home now?”

Eddie pulled Steve forward until he was flush against his front. “No and I have much better plans than gossiping with my uncle.”

“Oh?” Steve’s brow raised.

“It involves my bed and handcuffs. You in?”

“Hopefully you’re in.”

“God, you’re ridiculous. C’mon, now I’m even harder from your stupid flirting,” Eddie sat up and tugged until Steve followed. “Can’t believe this is how my night’s going.”

“Believe it, baby.”

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #picturing Eddie’s mom as someone similar musically to Wanda Jackson #she was big in her part of Kentucky #might’ve made it even if not for Eddie’s dad #cw: parent death #cw: mention of overdose #cw: mention of drug use #first kiss #getting together #angst with a happy ending #sorry for the sad part #they kissed about it at the end tho

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deepfakefart · 1 month

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EDIT: please see @cliffsideview's replies for more info! Tragically it is sounding more probable that it was a suicide spurred by a long period of bullying. Every person who participated, every teacher who stood by, every legislator who is a proponent of the anti-trans bills – every one of them is complicit in Nex's death. Ryan Walters specifically has blood on his hands.

They're ruling Nex Benedict's death a suicide. Death due to "combined toxicity" of fluoxetine (Prozac) and diphenhydramine (benadryl). Let's explore this.

Fluoxetine is known to cause seizures at very high dosages but rarely causes death. In one case study, 1.4 grams of Prozac likely caused a seizure but not death in an adult woman. "A dose as low as 520 mg of fluoxetine has been associated with a lethal outcome, but there’s record of someone taking 8 grams of fluoxetine and recovering," according to Healthline. ("Associated with" does not necessarily mean the sole cause!) Diphenhydramine overdose has been known to cause death at doses of 20mg/kg or greater; in the USA in 2017, it was involved (but not necessarily the sole factor) in 3% of OD deaths according to the CDC. I've no clue how much Nex weighed but I based my math on a 100lb person. A lethal dose of diphenhydramine at that weight would have been approx 900mg. There is no known lethal dose of fluoxetine for humans. It can vary greatly but is generally safe and generally requires very large doses to cause seizures let alone death. There are no known serious drug interactions between these two drugs.

But let's say there is some interaction at unusually high doses that I don't know about because this is an extremely unusual combination for a suicide attempt. We know that Benadryl is much easier to OD on than Prozac is. So let's pull some numbers out of our asses and say 750mg of diphenhydramine plus 3g of fluoxetine equals lethal dose for a 100lb teenager.

The typical upper range of fluoxetine dosage is 80mg/day. If we assume that Nex was taking 100mg of fluoxetine/day and he had access to a full 30 day supply, that's 3 grams. Add confounding head trauma and diphenhydramine toxicity and...maybe???

But we're talking about someone downing a full or nearly full 30 day supply of high doses of fluoxetine AND about 30 tablets of Benadryl. And there were no signs until he entered the living room and collapsed? Fluoxetine toxicity can cause rapid heartbeat, irritability, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, etc. Diphenhydramine toxicity can cause confusion, irregular heartbeat, agitation, nausea, vomiting, etc. This combo seems like a very uncomfortable and unpleasant way to go and I'm meant to believe he was quiet, not vomiting, not agitated, not terrified – just walked into the living room and collapsed? Unless he was exhibiting those symptoms and Sue didn't say anything about it which doesn't add up either. She said Nex went to bed with a headache and we have audio of the 911 call. She mentions their eyes rolling back and their hands "posturing" (both those things could be related to brain damage or a seizure).

With the added complication of head trauma (blacking out due to head injury = concussion = brain injury), I guess death is feasible but this just doesn't feel right. I don't know. Maybe it was a perfect storm of circumstances but those two drugs are so hard to OD on, not to mention unpleasant to OD on, and this state is so hostile to trans people it's hard not to approach this with a TON of skepticism.

I hope the Benedict family had their own toxicology and autopsy done.

ETA: for the record, im not saying I agree with the suicide decision, I'm saying "I mean I guess technically it's possible but it seems highly unlikely and incredibly sus and I am not convinced"

#nex benedict #transgender #non binary #cw death #cw violence #cw overdose #oklahoma #cw sui mention

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occultradio · 6 months

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CW: mentions of overdose

Dumb band lore in one spot so it's not scattered.

Planetary Demise was a synth metal band. Staring Orin as lead singer, Trace on synth, and Viscera as backup vocals and guitar.

Orin introduced the band to Quill who became their drug dealer. They started off as friends but Orin's power hunger and self destructive nature quickly started putting a wedge in things. Orin only sang while Trace and Viscera wrote songs and picked up any other slack because Orin refused to bring in another member.

Viscera quickly married a groupie who never stopped her secret flings with Orin and who later died from an OD due to Orin and Quill's partying.

Trace had became the best of friends with Viscera and slowly developed a major crush on him, the two were inseparable. Trace never acted on their feelings respecting their friends marriage.

As their fame grew Orin's alcohol and drug addictions progressed causing him to lash out at the two. Becoming an abuser to Trace with purposely getting their pronouns wrong and just saying derogatory things about Trace being intersex once he found out in a changing room.

After Orin and Quill got scared and abandoned Viscera's wife Tilly during an OD causing her death, the three bandmates scattered.

After 20yrs it's now assumed that Orin is in jail for constant drunken fights. Trace is now a solo synth artist frequently doing live music for clubs and fetish fashion shows. Viscera is now a bartender and has learned some medic skills and is determined to help with any OD in his bar...he hasn't lost another life yet and also took up writing trashy romance novels.

The two recently reconnected and are currently dating.

#CW: mentions of overdose and death #story lore #simblr #ts4 alien #ts4 story #alt sims #goth sims #queer sims #oc: trace #oc: viscera

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yardsards · 11 months

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also. amber gris as a character is really important to me as an appalachian.

not just her accent or the specific type of person justin based her off of but like

the feeling of losing someone to addiction/overdose while the government does nothing to help, just criminalizes and stigmatizes and makes things worse. which obviously happens in more places than just around here, but we have one of the highest rates of overdose death in the whole country and that whole set of scenes felt like they were really informed by growing up around that

#eliot posts #taz #taz ethersea #the adventure zone #amber gris #drugs cw #death mention #i've made posts like this and deleted them cuz i never feel like i'm wording it just right but just. god.#i'm lucky enough to have never been addicted or to have a best friend or immediate family member die from it #but i've lost or nearly lost extended family to it #and it's like.#my own accent isn't that thick and neither is my immediate family's or best friends'#but i've known ppl who talked like her.#specifically a man named larry who lived with us when we were real young #for some reason especially the way amber says ''come on'' just always reminds me so strongly of larry's voice. he said that phrase a lot #he was the one who taught me to tie my shoes even after my parents lost patience with me for being 'too old' to not understand #he drank excessively like my dad did but he never got mean with us kids #he came and went a few times over the years. the final time he left was when i was in late elementary #he died of an overdose when i was in high school. i didn't feel much of anything at the time.#it had been so long since i'd seen him but also i was at a point in my life where i'd've been numb to big emotions like that anyway #so my parents got drunk about it and i did nothing. just went to school and shit as usual.#i did not expect those feelings to get dredged up by a goddamned comedy dnd podcast #but they did it well i think #even though i had to pause it to take a breather multiple times. i enjoyed it overall. cathartic i guess?

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painsandconfusion · 1 year

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Rot

(tw: character death, murder, overdose, broken bones, sliced vocal chords, hospital setting, drugging, abuse mention) [Drabble Masterpost]

Whumpee’s feet ground to a stop as they entered the hospital room.

Eyes locked on the bed.

The bandage-wrapped being lying on it.

Whumper.

They step softly into the window-lit room. It was grey. Silent. Just the bustling sounds of nurses moving through the halls, a few children playing in a waiting room below, and the steady whirr and beep of machines that faded listlessly into the background.

It felt like a dream.

Familiarity surrounded Whumpee. Their scrubs - the soft fabric pressed to their skin. The room they worked in every day - or at least ones just like it. The sounds and smells all around them.

Then Whumper’s face.

Also familiar - far too familiar, but…not here. It didn’t belong here. It made the familiar unfamiliar in the most unsettling ways.

Whumper still wasn’t looking at them, sleepy from painkillers and the exhaustion of the pain itself.

About fucking time they got a taste of pain. Exhausting, isn’t it?

Whumpee stepped closer, fingers dipping down to a bandage that wrapped Whumper’s leg.

Whumper winced - their entire body recoiling and tensing under Whumpee’s grip as they pressed against the wound - still tender from the reconstruction surgery.

Whumper’s eyes lock soundlessly onto them.

Fear.

All Whumpee could see in them was fear.

About time.

Whumpee’s fingers bit down, thumb pressing into the stitches and pulling a hoarse whine from Whumper’s throat.

“They told me you were here. I didn’t believe it. Thought there must be two people with the same name. But no.” They gripped tighter. “Here you are.”

Whumper squirmed under Whumpee’s grip. Warm and wriggling and panicked, all wrapped up and absolutely nowhere to go.

Whumpee’s eyes flicked to the door. “Technically, you’re not on my floor.” They release Whumper’s leg to pluck up their chart from its place, skimming through it. “So let’s make this fast.”

Whumper’s lips moved, but no sound came out - windshield glass to the trachea would do that to a guy.

“You always drove too fast,” Whumpee mused, eyes locking on ‘morphine - 15 mg’. “Breaking the law got you killed.” They tisked softly, tongue clicking against their teeth as they shifted to the cabinet and unlocked it, rifling through the supplies.

They turned back with a small bottle of morphine.

A syringe.

They stabbed it into the rubber and pulled out 30 more mg, eyes tracking the filling of the syringe. Plenty.

Flicking it idly, they replaced the bottle and closed the cabinet doors.

Whumper was wriggling now, cast-clad arm trying to bend up to the call button.

Whumpee took it, shifting it a few inches - just out of reach.

They directed their attention to Whumper’s other arm, holding it down with one hand while the other pricked the morphine into the access port as Whumper hissed lightly, trying to pull away.

“Shhhhhhhh,” Whumpee cooed, pressing the syringe down and letting it drip through the tubing. Manic, focused eyes watched the clear liquid’s journey down the catheter, through the needle, and into Whumper’s bloodstream, heart beating faster at their own audacity and the thrill of this moment.

Whumper’s lips kept shifting, shaping around the building blocks of a word. “P-s - pls- ps- d-dnt-”

Whumpee’s eyes flicked up, dark and wild. “How many times did I beg you to stop?”

Whumper shook their head in desperate, twitching jolts.

“And how many times did you listen?” They pressed the rest of the morphine into Whumper’s bloodstream as Whumper tried to thrash away.

But Whumpee’s work was done. They popped the syringe from the access point, capping and pocketing it to throw away in a different garbage.

“Never. You never stopped. Not even once.”

Whumpee stepped back, watching Whumper fumble uselessly for the call button, hoarse, pathetic attempts at a whisper-shout whining from their lips.

Whumpee pushed down the urge to watch, hand finding the doorknob. “I hope you rot.” They shoved the handle down and disappeared into the hall.

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @cat-anony @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

#character death #murder #overdose #drugging #abuse mention #drabble #whump #whump scene #broken bones #sliced vocal chords #throat gore #hospital

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onceagwen · 7 months

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in light of a friend who passed away on tuesday

my friends struggling with addiction - if you have any amount of clean time, and you relapse, please know your body cannot handle the same dosages you took before you got clean. it’s very common for addicts to pass away after gaining a stretch of clean time because they misjudge how much their body can tolerate during a relapse.

relapse is a normal part of the struggle with addiction. it happens. just please make sure you’re working your way back into using with smaller dosages. your tolerance will not be the same as when you stopped using.

anyway stay safe out there. love y’all.

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justanotherbuggysimp · 3 months

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#hazbin hotel #angel dust #molly #poll #tw murder mention #tw death mention #tw drug mention #tw overdose mention #vivziepop

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dicblo · 5 months

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Mom,

If this letter were to ever reach you I would want you to know I'm okay. Please don't miss me and I hope you're taking care of yourself. I hope everyday you're still alive and that the inevitable hasn't happened yet. If God were real I would pray every single day, morning and night, that you are kept safe. I'm sorry I can't be there to protect you and take care of you. I hope you aren't lonely without me and haven't done anything reckless. Some days I miss you so fucking much but these days all I have are hazy memories of us arguing or finding you on the bathroom floor from an overdose. I will always remember that you were the most special person in my life and did everything in your power to protect me from my father and take care of me. Things weren't always great and neither was I. I'm sorry I was such a problem my whole life. I tried to stay out of the way and I'm sorry I wasn't enough for you to get off drugs. I wish I could say the same.

I'm in this place called Evermore now. It's alright here. You'd be happy that I made a few friends and have a girlfriend. Her name is Sibella. I think you'd like her. I hope so, at least. I wish you could meet her and I wish I could remember what your voice sounds like. All I can hear is the screaming matches you had with dad in my nightmares now. My voice is still as deep as you would remember. Don't worry though, I haven't grown another inch since we've seen each other last.

There's so much I wish I could say and so much I would never say. This letter will never reach you so I suppose it's alright to say. I resent my childhood. As much as I loved you it was never enough for you to love me the same. I know you did your best and cared, but even you have to admit that any child deserved better. I wasn't planned, I know that, but when I was young I wished I would have had different parents or had been adopted by a nice family. Maybe I would have turned out better. Maybe I wouldn't be such a let down. Sometimes I wonder if you do actually miss me. Was I just a nuisance to you my entire life? Were the punches and black eyes from dad not enough for you to realize things weren't okay? That was my normal though and I know now I deserved so much fucking better. The endless overdoses from the both of you and fighting was just too much. My head isn't right these days. I wish I could blame you, but I can't. When dad left why wasn't that enough of a fresh start for you to get clean and be the mother I needed? Don't worry, I found another one.

These are all the thoughts that run through my head daily. I'm sorry mom, but as much as I love you I resent you just as much. You let me be kicked to the ground by a man that didn't think twice about doing the same to you. The amount of times I was locked in a dark room for hours while you guys got high and fought was torturous. I was so scared and I hate being in a small, dark room to this day. I couldn't even get through an escape room with my girlfriend because the anxiety was too much. How could you let something like that happen? For years of my life I was tortured and depressed. I was going down a dark road, maybe it's what led me to where I am now. I sometimes wish I were never born, but then I think about where I came from and where I'm at now. It might not be perfect but it sure is a damn improvement.

This is getting longer than I intended and I have so much more I want to say. I want to scream at the top of my lungs every thought I wish I could tell you. I love you mom, please don't be dead.

Love, your little devil-- Di.

#evermorehqstask #tw: addiction #tw: abuse mention #tw: drug mention #tw: overdose #tw: mental illness #tw: death mention #tw

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atlas-atsus · 4 months

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Short story I wrote in notes about one of my ocs because the Trolley Problem game on steam wouldn't let me sleep

Can one ever truly be a good person? Only bad people ask themselves that question. Only people with blood on their hands; with sins hanging fresh on their breath. Only those planning on doing something awful, or facing the recoil of that loaded gun.

Novikov stared at the mark that hellfire had left on his wrist, the twisted injury from that recoil. It was a proof of his sins. So many young men sent to die under his order. So many young men lied to on the daily, lied to to keep filling in to volunteer for service. Could society function without lies? As long as it had existed, society had been built by those who could tell people what they wanted to hear, even without means to deliver. Leaders could not fix crime. Doctors could not stop plague. Farmers could not end famine. If the war machine was raging on, was Novikov liable for feeding it bodies? War was gluttonous, greedy. It would take and take and take, fueled by a taste for blood. Yes, young men were forced to sacrifice their bodies to the war, but the blood taken from them to feed the machine would save hundreds of others. The ends justify the means. At what point does a ratio become too close? Is it fair to measure human life in numbers? When did blood become a drug? When did war become an addict? Feed the machine… that was Novikov’s only job. Feed the machine. It was not his job to negotiate a peace. It was never his job. Had the circumstances of his life been slightly different, he would be one of the young men giving their lives to close that ratio. Could be be forgiven? His blood stained hands gripped desperately at his shot glass. The cold glass slipped through his finger tips. Red fingerprints engrained themselves upon it. Incriminating evidence. A match. A match. A match. A match to the fingerprints left upon all the men he had shaken hands with. A match to the fingerprints left on every body that died in his war. A match to his desperate attempts to grasp onto relief and free himself from the burden of sin. A match to the hands pressed to the church floor, begging for forgiveness. Novikov thought about what it felt like to die. Could war possibly overdose? Could war experience the choking feeling of its lungs coming to a stop; of bile, phlegm, and blood mixing in its throat as the light left its eyes? Perhaps the next body would be its last. Perhaps with the next one the war would finally end.

#writing #oc #oc writing #original writing #short story #tw mentions of overdose #tw mentions of death #tw mentions of war #tw alcohol

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aita-blorbos · 7 months

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(NEXT-GEN OCS)

aita for sacrificing myself for my twin?

so me, my sister (16F) and 14 other people (all 16F) had been trapped in a (weridly kept clean) abandoned school made to kill eachother, long story short people did infact die and then get executed, and me and my sister were alive for all of this (even when she got a werid disease where she was highly guilliable and i was one of the few people not to have gotten it)

we were nearing the end, with 7 people (including me) when the headmaster introduced a motive that was "if we kill someone, we get information on our parents"

i was worried about my sister being vulnurable in this situation, since we are very close to our parents (and considering our situation, one of us would have to choose to get on the throne) or she could have been killed by her close friend or just- i dont know, i just didnt want her to get effected by this alright

so i grabbed a bat and i just swung it at someone in some dark room no one was using, i made sure it was an instant death as i didnt care for the motive, just my sister (i told the headmaster to fuck off and to not tell me what happened to them) so she could move on and atleast survive this

my sister walked in and we have a conversation which led to her disguising herself as me (we are identical, the only difference is that our heterochromia is flipped and i have a small scar from a can opener) and i had to stall time and hide somewhere, and then i saw the mastermind

the mastermind was someone we thought died awhile ago (we had a small party at the time, and someone tried to overdose me at lunch so i was out most of that time), ill call the mastermind K, so K and i just kept talking with me trying to not be so pissed off, (I TRIED TO KILL K! I DID! she threatened to break my arm and to kill my sister with me if i tell everyone who the mastermind was) she just acted so different, i didnt expect it

and at this killing game we have to guess who the culprit is, and my twin had told everyone she went to sleep in her room while she disguised herself as me while hanging out with them, she was SO close to making everyone vote for her instead of me, untill we were talking about alibis, and because i wasnt there i didnt know what we were doing, my twin said something she shouldnt have known (they were hanging out on the 3rd floor, the bedrooms are on the 1st floor) and they peiced it together that it was me,

in the end the headmaster revealed everyones parents situation (our dad was apparently dead but our mom was alive) and since we were splitting images of our dad (me in particular, since i have a scar on the same side of my face) the headmaster made fun of us by saying that our mom would have a hard time looking at us because of that and such and how were "like father like daughters" or something

i remember how i told the headmaster to send me off to my execution and my twin tried to grab me away and stop it, how she looked at me when i gave up before death, it was scary

it turned out, all a simulation by some jackasses that chose us because our parents were also in these simulations for no reason other then "yeah you guys signed a paper to play a game, sorry not sorry"

my sister had "survived" before getting executed last minute by K, turns out K doesnt act like that a virus that makes her the mastermind took over like a possessed corpse and she is terrified, MY DAD WASNT DEAD AND THEY BOTH SAW EVERYTHING BECAUSE MY TRIAL WAS SENT TO THEM VIA MAIL VIA RECORDED VIDEOS AND MY SISTER EXECUTION WAS JUST SHOWN ON TV

my sister tells me she still has nightmare about me dying sometimes and i feel so bad that i wanted to sacrifice myself and she still died in the end and im worried my parents wouldnt look at me the same and the girl that died has no idea it was me

AITA???

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality #child death #child endangerment #OVERDOSE MENTION

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bignoseagenda · 1 year

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a lil comic on the things we see in the streets.

Learn about harm reduction here.

Follow my team's outreach work here.

#harm reduction #comics #overdose mention #drug mention #death mention

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velvetnviolentviolets · 5 months

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@wySpotify wrapped: 5

The linoleum against her back had long since numbed Kats skin to the cold. How long had she been here pinned by her labored breathing and concave sensation in her chest?

As her vision blurred her mind shifted in and out of blackness, nausea almost as rampant as the spinning that kept her from becoming sure footed enough to stand. Was it the alcohol? Had any of the other party favors shed indulged in that night to silence the noise in her mind been cut with something she hadn’t expected?

Either way the reality in the matter was that at some point in her devel may care rockstar performance she had hit a limit that didn’t become evident till she was locked in the bathroom as the party raged on outside the cold confines of this liminal space. Was this it? Did she even really care that this might be the end? She opened her mouth to reply as she heard what sounded like a muted pounding on the bathroom door. Unfortunately, her voice failed her as the edges of her vision began to darken once more. The voice from the other side of the door called to her again but the slow sink into the comfortable dark began to slip in again muffling their words and robbing her of everything but two word.

“I can’t. . .”

@wyntersecret

#Spotify #wyntersecret #tw: overdose #tw:drugs #tw: alchohol mention #tw: depression #tw: death

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 months

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My website

Chapter 86: July 2016

It’s probably going to be another scorcher of a day; Gerry can sense it, even though the sun isn’t up yet. Lucky thing he doesn’t really feel it anymore.

Well…that’s not exactly true. He does feel the heat. It just doesn’t affect him as badly as it affects everyone around him. He’s taken to avoiding people…for a lot of reasons, actually…but one of the biggest is that he’s trying not to draw attention to himself, and he knows people are staring at him.

He’s lucky, actually, and he knows it. Not just to be alive, although that’s a pretty damn big thing, but to be able to wear the kind of clothing he prefers. He arrived in Washington, DC six weeks ago with no money, no identification, and no real clue what he was going to tell people. The only reason he hadn’t turned up in the borrowed—okay, stolen—scrubs from the hospital was because the man who’d first offered him a ride, a long-haul trucker called Jeff, had insisted on buying him real clothes at the first truck stop they’d come to. Which of course meant he turned up in a pair of navy blue work pants and a t-shirt with some macho bullshit about being a truck driver, but at least they weren’t tissue-thin bits of cotton meant more for keeping clean than protecting from the elements.

It took him two days, four different cars, and one close call with a police officer wherein he only managed to avoid an arrest for hitchhiking on the grounds that he was British and didn’t know it was illegal in the state—which was true—to get here, and he was exhausted, strung out, and aching. He can only imagine what he looked—and smelled—like, and it’s only that he was too weary to be embarrassed that he was able to walk into the British Embassy and ask for help. It might have done him a few favors, actually, since he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t have been so keen to help him otherwise.

Actually, everyone at the Embassy has been uniformly helpful and kind to him, and he appreciates it. One of the staff members even helped him find a job—a temporary one, one that pays under the table in cash and therefore doesn’t have to worry about whether their employees are in the country legally or not, but it’s something that lets him afford food and a roof over his head…in theory. In practice, Gerry is somewhat disquieted to find that he needs neither. Food does nothing for his hunger; he doesn’t sleep, and when he does, he doesn’t get any rest from it. It’s a constant struggle to focus, to remember what year it actually is and where he actually is and what he’s actually doing, and sometimes it seems like every moment he’s ever experienced is playing all at once, like he’s standing in a room full of tape recorders all playing different tapes at the same time. He can pick out a word here and there, sometimes focus on a single tape, but for the most part it’s just…noise.

It’s all makeshift, a way of marking time, and really his life—such as it is—revolves around his daily visit to 3100 Massachusetts Avenue Northwest.

They’re…doing their best. He knows that. He gave them very little to work with, in the grand scheme of things, and the mills of bureaucracy grind slow but fine. It’s also not their only job, and this is apparently an election year (Gerry’s been hearing the chatter, mingled parts anxiety and vitriol, from the other guys in the kitchen; their dialect of Spanish is a little strange to him, but he can follow along okay, and he’s learned a bunch of new curse words), so they’re very busy. He can’t expect miracles, not after he already got one.

Honestly, going every single day is probably overkill, and under any other circumstances Gerry wouldn’t bother. But the ambassador has taken a shine to him for some reason and insists he come by for breakfast before he goes on shift or dinner after he gets off, depending on when the restaurant manager needs him. Today either is an option, since the restaurant is closed…which is technically Gerry’s fault…but he thinks he’ll probably go to breakfast anyway.

He doesn’t want to be alone too long right now.

Gerry lights up the cigarette—a Dunhill menthol, not his preferred brand, but Woodbines are apparently hard to come by in the United States and he can’t buy any without ID anyway, so he has to go with whatever he bums off his coworkers—and leans back against the stone curving around the base of the statue, a half-dressed man with his arms outstretched. It’s a memorial, which isn’t exactly a shocker; you can’t swing a dead cat around here without hitting at least three memorials or monuments to the past or the dead. He’s seen a fair few of them since being here, since most of them are free to visit, so it gives him something to do. The war memorials, of which there are plenty, make him a bit uneasy, but he hasn’t encountered anything particularly troubling, not even traipsing around Arlington National Cemetery. This particular monument is to the Titanic, more specifically to the men who stood aside and let the women and children go ahead. There’s something comforting about it, but Gerry’s pretty sure it’s nothing to do with his connection to Terminus and everything to do with him empathizing with people willing to sacrifice themselves so that their loved ones will survive. After all, they had to know they were likely to die if they remained.

The face of the man in the restaurant’s toilet swims before him. Something turns in his stomach, and it’s not because of the nicotine.

An overdose, the paramedics said, one of the local junkies who’d finally pushed things too far, bought something too potent, hit the wrong vein. Probably quick, he was likely dead before they ever arrived. They seemed detached over the whole thing, although Gerry guesses they have to be to stay in that job; if you started breaking down every time you lost someone, you wouldn’t last long. The restaurant owner doesn’t really have any such excuse, so his reaction—to curse the dead man up and down for picking his bathroom to shoot up in, forcing him to lose a day’s business—seemed callous and disproportionate. The other undocumented workers in the restaurant made themselves scarce, understandably when the cops showed up, but at least when Gerry went back into the kitchen to tell them the coast was clear he found them in a circle praying for the man’s soul. They invited Gerry to join them, and he did, even though he didn’t understand the words…or believe there was anyone on the other end listening.

He can’t even pretend it was an accident. Not really. The glowing black ichor running through the man’s veins tempted him, sang a siren’s song to the hungering ache inside him, and Gerry knew he had to find an excuse, any excuse, to touch his arm, so he made a pretext of helping the obviously staggering man get to the bathroom and it flooded into him, filled him with the sensation he was growing accustomed to in a way he really shouldn’t.

The man was his fourth, not counting the coroner at Christiana Hospital. Gerry tried to convince himself that it’s a kindness, that it’s not like he’s really doing anything. He’s come to realize that what he’s seeing, the black masses or ribbons or striations, are the mark of Terminus, a sign of how the person is going to die, and he tells himself that he’s just giving that death a purpose, that if they’re going to die anyway it’s better to serve a higher purpose than just be dead, right?

He can almost feel Martin frowning in concern over his shoulder.

He knows better, of course. It’s the kid that told him otherwise. The kid he didn’t touch despite seeing the black band wrapped around her torso, partly because he’s not going to go around grabbing random kids and partly because he refused to feed off a child. He made himself watch, though, made himself see her die because she deserved that, and sure enough she chased a ball into the street and he knew the car was going to hit her—but it stopped just in time, the girl was safe.

And then came the pain…

So he knows now. He doesn’t have to touch them, and if he doesn’t, they don’t actually die. But if they don’t, if he doesn’t touch them when he sees the mark, then he gets punished for letting them live.

Which is fine, because that was a goddamned kid. Gerry almost bites the cigarette in half and has to force himself to relax. She wasn’t any older than Melanie was when he met her—she deserves a chance to grow up, not to just be fodder for something like him. But it meant he was weaker than usual, frail and hungry and shaking, and his boss accused him of being drunk and he swore he wasn’t, which was true. It meant it was harder for him to resist taking the next time he saw a mark to take. Thank God it wasn’t another kid.

Not for the first time, Gerry tells himself that he has to get back to England, and soon. He needs to get back to Melanie and Martin. Not just because he needs to know they’re okay and for them to know he’s okay, not just because he needs to apologize for not sending for them, not just because he could really use a hug right now, but because he needs them to give him both some perspective and some help. The three of them worked out how to burn Leitners and figured out the sea shanties as a protective spell, they can come up with a solution to Gerry’s problem. He’s not altogether confident he can come up with the answer on his own.

He’s afraid.

It’s not fair, he thinks angrily as he takes another drag on the cigarette. Every other avatar—not that he’s met terribly many, but he’s heard of plenty—gets to have their feelings burned out of them. They enjoy what they do. But no, not Gerry. He’s not fooling himself, he definitely qualifies as an avatar, willingly or unwillingly. And he still has to feel—guilt, loss, yearning, all of it. He just hopes he still gets to feel positive emotions, too, but he won’t know until he sees Martin and Melanie in front of him.

In a way, that’s what scares him the most—the fear that he’s lost the good feelings. That there’s nothing left of him but death and despair. That he’ll see his brother and sister again and feel nothing, just an empty hole where his joy should be.

The sun crests the horizon, staining the statue and the pavement around Gerry the color of blood, which is probably a bad sign. With a sigh, he gets to his feet and turns to put the river at his left shoulder. Time to start heading towards the Embassy. It’s going to take him at least an hour, and he’s got to get there before the ambassador finishes breakfast or he’ll have to wait all day to talk to him again.

The city wakes up around him, as much as it ever sleeps, as he makes his way along the river, finishing his cigarette. He flicks the butt into an ashtray set on the corner where he parts ways with the Potomac, sloping past the Swedish and Icelandic embassies before heading into a more residential neighborhood. People are beginning to start their days, and one or two wave to him. Gerry waves back politely, but luckily none of them are so friendly they want to talk. The only exception is a small child who’s apparently quite excited about getting to go to his very first baseball game and wants to share that with the world; Gerry is trapped for several minutes while he rambles and only minds a little. He eventually gets away and continues his walk. He picks up speed a little. It won’t do to be too late.

In all, it takes just shy of two hours for Gerry to walk the five miles from where he started to where he’s going. He can hear the bells at one of the cathedrals in town tolling the hour as he makes his way past the statue of Winston Churchill and up to the ambassador’s residence. Eight o’clock on the nose. He’s timed it exactly right.

The housekeeper greets him with a warm smile and a hug before ushering him into the opulent hall and up the stairs to the morning room, where the ambassador and his wife are just sitting down. They look up with smiles of their own as they come in.

“Mr. Delano is here, sir,” the housekeeper announces, rather unnecessarily.

“Gerard, my boy, come in, come in,” the ambassador says jovially, rising and indicating the seat next to him. “Hoped you’d be joining us early.”

Gerry smiles wanly and takes a seat with polite greetings to both of them. He’s about the same age as their children, maybe a bit younger, which he thinks is part of the reason they’ve been so keen to help him; this is definitely above and beyond what the Embassy staff usually does for expatriate Brits lurking about the States. The ambassador’s wife studies him. “You look much better today. I was worried you were coming down with something.”

“No, ma’am, I’m fine, thank you,” Gerry assures her.

Breakfast is a relaxing affair; Gerry can’t really taste the food, but eats it mechanically and joins the conversation as appropriate. The ambassador has a few things to say about both the election currently going on in the United States and the turmoil apparently going on back in the UK, as well as a few other incidents he’s trying to craft his response to. When they’re about halfway done their meals, however, his wife turns to Gerry and says, “Gerard, how are things at the restaurant? What’s your schedule like today?”

“Oh…we’re closed today, actually,” Gerry says, a bit nervously. “Some bl—a man overdosed in the bathroom last night, just before closing time. The restaurant has to be closed today while they investigate and get things cleaned properly.”

“Ah.” The ambassador’s wife glances meaningfully at her husband. “So they aren’t expecting you to come in tonight?”

“No. And tomorrow’s my day off.” Unless Paolo can’t make it in again, in which case Gerry will likely be called in, assuming the owner can figure out how to get hold of him. Not having a mobile phone does help in that regard.

“Well, in that case…” The ambassador wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I have good news and bad news for you.”

Gerry’s stomach flips with nerves. He pushes his plate away. “Tell me the bad news first.”

The ambassador nods, as if he was expecting that. “The bad news is that we can’t expedite a passport for you. The office is just so backed up, what with…everything…that even under ordinary circumstances—which I think we can all agree these are not—you wouldn’t be able to get a passport inside of eight to ten weeks. And without being able to send copies of your documents to the office, it’s going to be harder. Especially without anyone to verify your identity.”

Gerry nods. He’s been expecting that, honestly. Especially since he gave his name as Delano and not Keay—he doesn’t want to be associated with his mother, thank you very much—but of course they can’t find his birth certificate, or a copy of his old passport. He supposes he could come clean, maybe by pretending he’s had some sort of amnesia, but there’s still the matter of verifying his identity. Legally, Martin and Melanie aren’t actually related to him by birth or marriage, so they qualify, but Melanie probably doesn’t count as working in a “recognized profession”. And then there’s the fact that they both think he’s dead, which would mean they would think an email asking them to verify his identity was a hoax or a scam. No, he’s right to keep them out of this.

On the other hand…eight weeks? He doesn’t want to be here that much longer. Martin’s birthday is in less than a month, and Gerry desperately wants to be home for that.

He says none of that, however. All he says is, “And the good news?”

The ambassador beams, reaches into his pocket, and withdraws an envelope. “The good news,” he says, “is that the rules regarding emergency travel documents are a bit easier to work with.”

He hands the envelope to Gerry.

With suddenly shaking hands, Gerry opens it. Inside is a small blue booklet folded over; when he opens it, he sees his own pale, washed-out face staring hollowly from the page. Listed alongside his name, age, and citizenship is a very precise travel itinerary…one that has him arriving in London just before noon tomorrow.

He looks up at the ambassador in surprise. “What…but I don’t have a ticket.”

“That’s in the envelope too,” the ambassador says, gesturing at the envelope again. Gerry looks and finds a folded piece of paper with instructions for checking into a flight.

“It’s the least we could do for you,” the ambassador’s wife adds. She smiles and pats his hand. “I thought you looked familiar, and I finally made the connection—you’re Eric Delano’s boy, aren’t you?”

“You knew my dad?” Gerry asks, surprised. He honestly didn’t think either of them were old enough, but…

“He was my uncle’s roommate in university. I didn’t know him well, but what I knew I liked.” The ambassador’s wife smiles again. “I think I would have married him when I got older if he’d asked.”

“Hey, now,” the ambassador protests, but he’s laughing. “Gerard, we want you to get home as soon as you can. And we know the restaurant doesn’t pay much. So, yes. You now have your travel document, and your ticket. You’ll need to apply for a passport when you get home, but this will at least get you there.”

A sense of relief washes over Gerry’s mind as he realizes that one, at least, of his earlier fears is unfounded. He hasn’t lost the ability to have positive emotions at all. He’s delighted—and grateful—and relieved. Tears well up in his eyes as the emotions threaten to overwhelm him.

“Thank you,” he says, a bit huskily. “I’ll never forget this. You have my word.”

“You’ll have to come see us the next time you come to the States for a visit,” the ambassador tells him. “Meanwhile, you have six hours, I’d say, before you need to get to Dulles and start checking in. I need to get over to the Embassy, but if you’d like to use the phone to call someone and let them know you’re coming…”

“They’ll be at work right now,” Gerry says, glancing at the clock.

“Well, before you leave for the airport, then.”

“I’ll call from the airport,” Gerry lies. He’s not going to call anyone. They think he’s dead; he can’t spring that on them over the phone. He needs to tell them in person, show them his tattoos and scars, let them feel him and know he’s real. Maybe let Martin See him properly. But for now…it can be a surprise.

“If you’re sure,” the ambassador’s wife says uncertainly.

“I’m sure.” Gerry smiles at her as warmly as he can. “Thank you again. Both of you. I don’t know what I can do to repay you.”

The ambassador stands and pats him on the shoulder. His expression, as he looks down at Gerry, is more serious than he’s been in the last six weeks. “Be safe. Be well. And use the opportunity to do good in the world.”

“I will,” Gerry promises. He doesn’t know how, but he will. There’s got to be something bigger than burning Leitners that he can do to help push back against the Fourteen.

That’s a problem for the future, though. For now, he’s got to check himself out of the temporary lodgings he’s been staying in, gather his few things, and figure out how he’s getting to Dulles—and where Dulles is, for that matter. He has a plane to catch.

He’s finally going home.

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #tma #gerard keay #melancholy #smoking #mention of death (specifically death by drug overdose)#misuse of Terminus powers #implied/referenced US politics #implied/referenced Brexit

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godborn · 4 months

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@lovesigned / prompted .

a reverence for life is often misconstrued as a blind hatred for substances that threaten its potential , but giorno could never afford to offer his detractors even a scrap of his regard , lest he allow an interference in his blossoming dream . it’s the wilting potential itself that he abhors , & the devils that knowingly place the lives of the flowering youth on the sacrificial altar , their burgeoning identities up for slaughter for the sake of soulless profit . he’d seen the toxicity of this dynamic at play in napoli & across italy ━━━━ he first had to know the monster before he could exorcize it with a force that dwindled a rampant epidemic to naught but fearful whispers .

with all the heartsick empathy he’d endured ; the weight of a golden heart that forged this passion , giorno had never thought the object of his crusade would deal such a personal casualty ( but isn’t that the nature of war ?? for the beast to strike close to home , & when he’d least expect it ?? ) . since he’d met his dear brother , the possibility loomed above his head like a rain - bearing cloud , but giorno refused to manifest that tragedy in his thoughts , too superstitious that he’d unwittingly pave an avenue to reality . besides , ungalo holds sobriety tenderly in his hands , valuing the liberation , the clarity with which it endows him ━━━━ & giorno upraised him through his best days & solaced him through the rest , extending an understanding , an empathy , a love that ungalo had so long lacked through the figures & institutions that routinely failed him .

he’s conquered the odds stacked a mountain high against him . so why has it ended this way ??

distance rendered the relapse harder to identify . giorno’s life is tethered to napoli & the majority of italy under his thumb , & ungalo is comfortable in florida ━━━━ he’d made that resoundingly clear each of the countless times giorno nigh on begged him to cross the mediterranean & reside where he can better protect him , at least temporarily . now , giorno can only wonder how long this has gone on ; how long he had been so foolishly blind to it ━━━━ if he could have done something , anything , to change this wretched result , to spare his brother’s precious life .

yearning to alter what’s already been done is useless . yet , giorno cannot stop himself , even as a thirst for closure drives the pearl - handled dagger deeper into his heart , the ache of grief tearing through his core & numbing all that it connects .

the laid ground is still fresh , the funeral less than twenty - four hours into the past . lowering to one knee , giorno does not mind the dirt that blemishes the otherwise pristine leg of his pants , their sable hue hardly allowing the stain to catch the early morning light . he’s too focused on the permanence of the epitaph etched into the polished blue granite he himself had paid for , delicate hands trembling in their objective to place a dozen lilies , immaculately white , at the headstone’s base .

“ i don’t know if you thought i would be upset with you , ” he mutters , voice ringing through the silent serenity of the cemetery ; even the whistling of the wind between the trees seems to halt for him , “ but i can’t imagine why else you didn’t tell me you were struggling . ungalo … this wasn’t your fault , & i would never think of you with disdain . i hope , wherever you are now , you know that . ”

his dainty cadence becomes watery , an unbearable pressure building in the sockets of his eyes . more than just his hands are shaking , now , but the whole of his frame from his shoulders to the knee that props him up . “ why wouldn’t you let me help you ?? ” giorno whispers the words , though it fails to mitigate the way his voice tears with sorrow , distress . as he bows his head , a single tear scalds a pale cheek , prior to spilling out onto the tightly packed dirt .

“ why , why , why , ungalo ?? ”

#lovesigned #[ 春 ] : 🌸 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 › stone ocean .#[ 春 ] : 🌸 𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 › novellas .#sibling death //#overdose mention //#haha oops my hand slipped

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chaos-in-one · 1 year

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If I took a shot for every time I saw someone, including other systems, make fun of introjects like me, belittle us, and mock us for our source, I'd be straight up dead. That's how often it happens. And that is just talking about my source specifically, expand it to all introjects sources it gets even worse.

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xwesley · 11 months

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tyler lawrence gray. he/him. cis male. › spotted at the met steps , wesley lafleur , most likely listening to hysteria by muse with their airpods pro . the twenty one year old gained quite a reputation , known to be - impulsive yet + adventurous to anyone who knows them . you'll easily spot them when you hear about the loud banging of the drums at ungodly hours , a laptop with deleted history and secrets , green eyes gazing into the sunset , snorting lines off your cellphone as your agent urgently calls you , followed by toy boy by moschino . latest nepoupdates article talks about wesley lafleur rumored to be the reason behind the divorce of uppereast side’s favorite couple after sleeping with both of them , but i guess any reputation is good reputation .

basic stats ;

⟶ full name: wesley frederique lafleur kapone ⟶ nicknames: usually just goes by wesley or wes ⟶ three things he likes: people who smell good and have general good hygiene, profiteroles, making fun of people from reality tv shows ⟶ three things he dislikes: dirty fingernails, being alone with his thoughts, instigators ⟶ gender: cis male ⟶ height: 5 ‘ 10 ⟶ age: 21 ⟶ birthday: august 18, 2001 ⟶ zodiac: leo sun, aries moon, capricorn ascendant ⟶ right handed or left handed: left handed ⟶ eye color: emerald green, looks light hazel depending on the lighting ⟶ hair color: light brown ⟶ piercings and tattoos: a cartilage piercing on his left ear, usually covered by his hair, earlobe piercing on that same ear, no tattoos ⟶ languages spoken: french ( native tongue ), spanish and english ⟶ sexuality / romantic orientation: homosexual / homoromantic ⟶ place of birth: marseille, france ⟶ last five songs listened to: trust in you by the offspring, if i’m james dean, you’re audrey hepburn by sleeping with sirens, shadow moses by bring me the horizon, i’m not okay ( i promise ) by my chemical romance, faint by linkin park ⟶ five aesthetics: black nail polish and golden rings, a laptop with constant deleted history, a flirtatious smile, turning up your music loud emo music to drown out your heavy thoughts, smudged eyeliner and dilated pupils after a crazy night ⟶ character inspo: harlan briggs from wolf pack, ian gallagher from shameless, effy stonem from skins, even bech næsheim from skam ( og skam )

background story ;

wesley was born in the french city marseille to french parents lisa kapone and alain lafleur, five minutes after his twin sister ( wanted connection ). his father was heir of lafleur lounges ( basically hotel resorts and lounges similar to a french version of hilton hotels ), while his mother was miss france in 1999 and a well known fashion designer ( the vera wang of europe, if you must ). him and his sister were born into a lot of money, practically a golden spoon in his mouth, spoiled to the core. anything he wanted, he received, and shortly after the twins were born, his parents got married, basically those parents that are head over heels for each other, an envy worthy love story with golden twins – they were the it family in europe, that rich, opulent family in the public eye that everyone wanted to know

his childhood was anyone’s wet dream. he was rich, he was spoiled, and his parents loved him more than anything in this world, that much was evident, and for the first few years of his life, wesley was a happy kid. around the time he was seven years old however, he began showing unusual signs

! tws for very brief mentions of self mutilation, please skip over this if it triggers you, your safety comes first ! the first time he showed a sign that perhaps not everything was okay for him was in his classroom, at not even eight years old. without thinking about it, wesley stuck his finger inside a sharpener and sharpened off nearly the entire nail from his index finger along with his skin. when his mother rushed to pick him up and asked him why he would do that, his exact response was “i don’t know, i just wanted to feel something, i’m sorry”

it was an emotional day, but after making sure he didn’t seriously damage his finger, his mother turned a blind eye and pretended like wesley’s actions were normal, never telling his father the real reason behind what happened to his finger, and claiming one of his classmates accidentally slammed the door against it. wesley never debunked his mother’s lie, and never really spoke of it. it was a topic they both knew about, but neither one of them bought it up ever again

for the remainder of that year and the next, things were okay, for the most part. it’s mostly him, his sister and his mother, or him, his sister and his nanny whenever his mother couldn't be around, considering her job. his father however, is barely present. by the time wesley is nine is when he unintentionally catches his father cheating through listening in on a phone call. not sure what to do with this information, he doesn’t know if he should tell his mother or not. really, he doesn’t have to decide, because soon enough, his mother catches his father in the act and it just turns into a huge argument

that happy, perfect family they once were is no longer there. his mother forgives his father, but things are never the same again. wesley didn’t understand why she forgave him for what he did, but really, it was just for the appearance, for the sake of keeping the family together and, because she had too much to lose. by the time he’s ten, they move to the states in an attempt to patch things up, but it only gets worse from that point on

wesley’s father is never around, and, as a way to cope, his mother turns into one of those wine moms that spends her day daydrinking with her group of friends and taking valium and xanax, quitting fashion altogether and living off the fortune they've already created. it’s like his mother is there, but it’s like she’s also not really there. wesley’s form of coping is through music, mostly the drums

soon enough, wesley learns to take care of himself, as his mother grows more and more detached from his life. in a mansion filled with fast cars, work staff and anything anyone could ever dream of, wesley has never felt more alone

his early pre teen years, literally age twelve, is when he begins to realize that there might be something wrong with him. he doesn’t know what it is, but he realizes he hates being alone with his own thoughts. it gets too loud, it’s too dark, so he attempts to do everything in his power to try and distract himself, but it’s easier said than done. his mind is already a dark place, but soon enough, it becomes even darker

! tws for overdose, death, self harm, mental illness and baker act for the next two bullets, please skip over this if it triggers you, your safety comes first ! one day, when he comes back from school, his sister is at a friends house, so he does his usual routine but his mother never comes out of her room, clearly drunk to ask him how his day was. when entering her room, he notices she’s sound asleep, or at least, this is what he thinks. fast forward a good five hours and wesley decides to try and wake her up. finding her unresponsive, he immediately calls 911, only to be told that his mother passed away from an overdose. with the amount of pills and alcohol that she mixed together, her body just couldn’t take it. obviously, wesley’s father, and his sister, rush back home, the first time he’s seen his father in over three weeks, they just mourn together. that day, wesley was never really the same person again

the day of her funeral, right after, wesley finds himself in the bathroom, angry with himself. why didn’t he walk in sooner? why did it take him so long to realize? why is it all his fault? his thoughts consume him, one thing leads to another, and he finds himself punching the bathroom mirror, over, and over, and over again. to not get too into detail, his father hears him having a break down, walks in, and immediately calls the police on wesley when he see’s the condition his hand is left in. this is the first time he was ever baker acted, he was involuntarily admitted for five days. during this period, he officially gets diagnosed with bipolar disorder with mostly psychotic manic episodes, gets put on abilify ! end of tws !

as much as he hates it, it does help, for the most part. his father becomes a hundred times more present in his life, practically watching him like a hawk, making sure he takes his meds, but he can’t help but feel like there’s something missing in his life. like there’s some hole in his chest that he can’t seem to fill, but he can damn well try

his teenage years consist of him coming out of his shell and trying just about everything, from narcotics, to alcohol, to first times, you get the idea. he’s quick to realize that he gets a lot male attention, and he uses that to his advantage. hooks ups and partaking in drug use become a frequent thing for him, and by the time he’s around fourteen is when he starts building his social media platform

it’s funny how easily it comes to him. he posts pictures on instagram and immediately starts gaining attention because of his looks. this, during the years, opens doors for him. it starts off with modeling gigs, then sponsorships, then a few commercials, until he’s landing small movie roles, extra roles in tv shows, and finally, permanent character roles on both, before he’s even of legal age

his coping mechanism is narcissism and narcotics, or 'nn' as he calls it. it’s just so easy to act like he’s better than everyone else when he couldn’t hate himself more, despite the countless thirsty comments on his posts, those people just don’t know him. he manages to make a name for himself in the industry, leaving his past behind him, but… it can really only be so long before it all catches up to him

headcanons ;

wesley tends to bury up his childhood traumas. from his cheating father, to his mothers death, to the time he got baker acted – he keeps this side of himself hidden. in a way, he wants people to believe that he’s perfect in every sense of the word, when his mind is really a crippling mess. that’s why his hair is so big and curly, because it’s full of secrets

he hasn’t taken his medication in over two years already and he never wants to take it again. it helps him, but he hates feeling like he has to rely on something to be ‘normal’ like everyone else. as long as no one knows about his personal life, he’s more than fine with that

he blames himself for his mother’s death. it’s honestly one of his biggest regrets and childhood trauma’s, knowing that if maybe he had realized sooner, something could have been done. he replays that image over and over again in his head and he hates it, it’s something that genuinely scarred him

he’s one of those people that you would never even remotely imagine has the conditions that he has. he’s so cynical, it’s scary how easily he can convince you that he lives a perfect, envious lifestyle

he’s like… a whore. anything to get his mind off shit. he loves attention, whether it be negative or positive. maybe it's the attention he lacked growing up, but he just wants to feel valid in whatever way possible

this is a huge secret of his, but at around the age of nineteen, he did some camboy shit on a dare. the only problem with this is that he really enjoyed the attention he received from this and he kind of? low key continues to do it. he wears a mask, so no one knows it’s him, but the desperate, thirsty comments are such a stroke to his already inflated yet damaged ego. he can’t help that he loves the validation strangers give him, and if no one knows it’s him, what’s the harm?

his hobbies ( or job description ) consists of playing the drums, modeling, acting, posting pictures, and secretly, getting behind his webcam for thirsty people online ( you know where this is going ). he has a youtube account in which he posts drum covers ( literally think like matt mcguire and tobines on youtube ). he’s a good drummer, takes it as a stress reliever, just banging on shit if he’s had a rough day

deep down inside, wesley knows that he has a problem. he’s very well aware of that fact, but he stopped going to therapy and getting genuine help when he was of legal age. his father can’t force him anymore and he refuses to let anyone know just how dark his thoughts really are

has a huge scar across his knuckles from where he punched the mirror repeatedly that day, but tells people it’s from a fight he got into ages ago, shows off about it and all, but if people really only knew the truth

he just wants to be loved secretly, but a part of him feels like he’s not worthy of shit, so meaningless sex, flings, and drugs it is. i genuinely don’t think there’s a single person that knows him for him, because he thinks that if he ever shows this side of himself, no one would ever want to stick around, it’s so much easier to just detach yourself

coke problem? most definitely. that’s awful for bipolar disorder, but he’s an idiot, so what else can even be said in regards to this

he hates being alone with his thoughts, which is why he enjoys partying so much. he’ll go to three after parties once the party is over, just wants to have a good time, turn up the music to drown out just how depressed he really is

he really enjoys working out. it keeps his mind occupied, he likes the idea of having a nice body. kind of overly obsessed with his looks as well, because secretly, he kind of feels like him being attractive is the only thing he has going for him, hence the camboy stuff, hence the influencer status

he has a bunny he named honey bunny, he impulsively bought him after getting stoned out of his mind and named him equally as stoned. he loves this bunny with his entire life, definitely his emotional support animal

constantly paints his nails black, doesn’t like any other color, will wear black eyeliner when going out to parties, honestly believes that clothes shouldn’t have a gender, just does whatever he wants

he really loves music that can be considered emo. bands like sleeping with sirens, asking alexandria, my chemical romance, falling in reverse, etc, have gotten him through some really hard times. definitely an emo boy at heart, even if he doesn’t give off the ‘vibe’

huge leo energy. you will feel his presence as soon as he walks into a room. loves and hates himself and can be a big cry baby so again, typical leo energy

regarding the rumor on his app, it’s 100% true. he really came in between a ten year marriage, without any solid reason behind it. the worst part of all is that he isn’t even romantically or sexually attracted to females at all, but he enjoyed the attention and company of the wife of the man he was hooking up with, so he figured that if he slept with the man, he might as well sleep with her too. like go back to therapy man, you have issues

he has freckles all over his face but is actually pretty insecure about this. anytime he’s about to do a photoshoot, he asks the make up artist to cover up his freckles. he doesn’t like them, at all

his next mental breakdown is long overdue, but lets see how long he’s ‘okay’ for. sociopath energy, he will break down crying and then look in the mirror and pose with tears running down his cheeks... like bye lmao

wanted connections ;

i bet i can’t remember you… no, i actually really can’t remember you: this is a messy connection, but give me a guy he drunkenly gave a blowjob to at a party and genuinely cannot recall doing it. your muse probably remembers it but wesley? watch him go damn that’s crazy… who are you again?

you can’t stand me you say? then sit on my face: ahh, the i hate you so much but we always end up sleeping together connection. someone who really can’t stand him yet they end up having sex anyways. watch his narcissistic ass go ‘you love me’ ( no you’re annoying af )

why are we friends? look at the shoes you’re wearing: very very unlikely friends, friends who have no idea how they even ended up becoming friends, but are friends anyways, watch him tell this unfortunate soul all his gay adventures

you’re the most irritating person i’ve ever met: someone who genuinely can’t stand him whatsoever. at all. not even a little bit. it’s very easy to hate him because he’s the worst so i don’t even blame this person

i hate that i don’t hate you: an unrequited crush. an unfortunate soul who likes him but he’s just the worst. he’s also the stupidest person ever, so he would be completely oblivious to this crush as well

let’s talk shit about everyone in the room: besties who trash talk everyone, no one is free from the mouth of these two. watch someone walk in with sweats and get roasted for absolutely no reason at all

or, we can brainstorm!

birthchart ;

#nepofm.intro #death tw #overdose tw #mental illness tw #hospitalization tw #drug use tw #mentions of self mutilation/self harm tw #lmk if i missed a tw tbh

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