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kaciidubs · 7 months

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Open Heart

❣ Summary: When you don't know what to say or do, when life starts living you, you can always rely on Chris to bring you back. ❣ ❣ Word Count: 3.2k ❣ Warnings: Mental breakdown, existential crisis, implied panic attack, angst, fluff, comfort, crying, Supportive BF! Chris, Reader is a mess mentally and emotionally, discussions of family, careers, life, and the future, self doubt, self deprecation, mentioned disassociation ❣ ❣ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ❣ ❣ Additional Tags: Chan is referred to as Chris, Channie, Baby, Christopher, and Christopher Bahng [wowie], Reader is referred to as Princess, Baby, Love, Sweet Girl, this is the one that's personal so I'm sorry if you can relate but also you're not alone ❣ Stray Kids Masterlist ❣ General Masterlist

“Yeah, dad, I know... Mhm... No, I haven’t heard back from them yet, but it’s only been a week since I applied so... Yeah, I know…”

You paced the living room of your apartment, holding your phone to your ear as you did your best to tame the headache brewing in your head.

“I know you do, it’s just - there’s so many things I can do with my degree, I’m just trying to figure out what I want to do... I know... Yeah... Okay... Talk to you later... Love you too, bye.”

Ending the call, you tossed your phone onto the couch with a heavy sigh - the weight of the world piling on top of stress already weighing on your shoulders.

Everything sucked - almost as if the world was out to get you for simply existing; years of doing what was right, doing what you were supposed to, only for you to still feel like you weren’t doing enough.

People pleasing.

A wave of guilt made your stomach turn, tears stinging behind your eyes as you stood in the silence, yet it still felt so loud.

You knew your dad meant well, your parents meant well, your family meant well, but every question, every poorly veiled nudge of ‘What’s your next big move going to be? You’ve been stagnant for so long.’ ate at your psyche at every turn. You felt like you did everything; you graduated high school in the high percentage of your class, you went to college, you graduated as a first generation student after five excruciatingly long years - yet through all that they still wanted more from you.

A pleasure to have known. You have so much potential.

If you had a dime for the amount of times you’ve heard those words, you would’ve been a millionaire by now.

A shaky breath rattled in your chest as you sighed, your hands rising to cup your rapidly heating face. “Fuck... F-Fuck.”

Your vision blurred, salty tears stinging your eyes before burning fiery trails down your cheeks with no signs of stopping.

When was it going to be enough? When were you going to be enough?

Your breath hitched, choking on a sob that your body refused to let go - not now, not right now. You were still young, you had so much potential - so why did it feel like you were being rushed? Why did it feel like everyone saw some invisible clock above you, counting down the days until you’d become useless?

Wasted potential - those words always used to scare you, the famous buzzwords of any educator wanting to instill proper work ethic in their students; the future of the workforce.

Wasted potential - that’s what you were beginning to feel at your 9-5; a quaint little job you kept throughout your final semester, something that got the bills paid and kept a little more in your savings.

Wasted potential - that’s what you felt when your days began blending together, when you realized disassociation was your coping mechanism until your mouse hovered over ‘clock out’.

You wanted to do so much, so much, but there was never enough time in the day - they were never ideas that would earn you a proper living wage, a career path your family wouldn’t agree with.

Your body shook as a sob finally tore through your silent cries, your head throbbing as air tried to force its way into your lungs - crying never used to hurt like this.

Your world spun, it felt like time froze while speeding up, but all you could do was cry - stand in your living room and cry like a reprimanded child because you weren’t doing what you were supposed to.

“Princess?”

Your eyes snapped open behind your fingers, quickly registering a bigger, warmer pair wrapping around your wrists.

“Baby, can you hear me?”

Guilt.

Chris was home early, and instead of relaxing like he deserved, he now had to tend to you - crying over the same thing you cried over four months ago.

He felt you tense, he could see the spiral of overthinking, and his grip tightened, “Hey, hey, it’s just me - it’s just me, princess.”

You sniffled, biting back another sob as you shook your head, “’M s-sorry-”

“Shh, don’t apologize - you don’t have to apologize, not to me, not for this.”

Understanding - he was always so good at that, making sure you knew you weren’t the problem of anything; he always joked he got better at it from you.

Another wave of tears surged through you, nearly making you double over at the rush of fresh emotions popping off in your brain, your jaw tensing as you tried to stifle the illegible babbling falling from your lips.

“I- It’s- I can’t- And- It’s just so-”

Chris pulled you into his chest, one arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other cradled the back of your neck, his thumb rubbing circles just behind your ear. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay - I’m here, you’re okay.”

He blinked away his own tears, the sounds of your cries breaking his heart when he entered the apartment, and now the feeling of your body shaking against his like a fall leaf utterly tearing him apart inside.

You weren’t sure how long you both stood there, him whispering words of comfort in your ear while you stained his black hoodie with your tears, but you slowly came out of your breakdown with uneven breaths - your hands holding onto his hoodie as if he was your lifeline.

He was your lifeline.

“Can we go to the bedroom, princess? Can we manage that?” He cooed softly, a soft smile settling on his lips as he felt you nod. “Okay, we’ll go slow, yeah?”

True to his word, he slowly led you into the bedroom with shuffling steps, noting how you clung to him like a baby koala, as if you separated from him at any point you’d float away into space.

Sitting on the bed first, he scooted toward the middle of the mattress and you quickly followed suit; crawling toward him before laying your head on his chest, tangling your legs with his while he pulled you into his side.

It was quiet, save for the occasional hiccuped breath and sniffle, the sound of his heartbeat slowing the thudding in your own head, the rise and fall of his chest reminding you how to breathe again.

“Love?”

You hummed softly, your free hand nonchalantly playing with the drawstring of his hoodie.

“Wanna talk about what happened?”

Dropping your hand to lay flat on his chest, you took a deep breath to fight back another round of tears threatening to come out. “I... My dad called to check in, see how we were doing and all... He wanted to know if I found a different job yet, one that uses my degree, and I told him I hadn’t.” Swallowing thickly, you squeezed your eyes shut as you continued, “He’s worried that I’m not using my full potential, that I’m not getting paid what I should - and I don’t blame him, really, I went to college for a reason and everything, but it just feels like I'm being rushed into making another decision I’m not ready for."

“Another decision like picking your major?” Chris chimed in - he’d remembered you telling him about your realization of wanting to switch majors in your junior year, but ultimately choosing not to since you were close to graduating at the time.

You nodded, “I know he means well, I love my dad, I love my family, but it just feels like they don’t understand that I'm just...tired. I’m so, so tired that the idea of getting a new job - when I’ve only been at this one for just over a year - makes me feel like I can’t breathe. Fuck, the fact that I’ve been at this job for a year makes my skin crawl because this isn't what I want.”

Picking mindlessly at a few cotton pills collected on the fabric of his hoodie, a heavy sigh escaped you, “I feel like all I’ve been doing my whole life is performing for other people, catering to other people, to the point that I don’t even know who I am. I’ve always been told all these great things about myself, but-” A hot tear rolled across the bridge of your nose, “I don’t believe them, at all. Everyone sees all this potential in me and it drives me crazy because I don’t see potential in myself.”

Your name rolled off of his tongue softly, with so much care and gentleness that it made your heart hurt more because he’d been part of the crowd singing your praises and you practically confessed that you didn’t believe him.

“Princess, my sweet, sweet girl…”

“C-Chris, I’m-”

“Please,” he cut you off with a gentle squeeze, “you already know what I’m gonna say if the next words out of that pretty mouth of yours are ‘I’m sorry’.”

Sighing softly, you accepted that fate as his right hand slid down your arm to take your hand in his, another gentle squeeze to remind you that he’s right here.

“I just... I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Well,” Chris hummed softly, taking in the way your smaller fingers threaded between his own, “what is it you want to do?”

It was almost as if you stopped breathing, guilt and shame swirling around in your head at his question - the golden question everyone had, but never got the full answer to.

“...open heart?”

This time it was Chris’s turn to falter, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of your tear stained face. “Open heart, princess, always.”

Open heart, something you’d both established years ago in your relationship as a way of asking for full attention - reestablishing that you both were in a safe space with zero judgment, remaining heart to heart with one another.

“I-” You paused, fighting against the will of your mind wanting to keep yourself protected, from being seen. “I... I don't want to do anything…”

Before he even had the chance to breathe, you jumped into the defensive, “A-And I know that’s stupid- I’m in such a position so early on in my life and there’s so much I can do, but, baby, I’m at a point right now that I can’t see myself working a 9-5 for the next month, let alone another 40-or so years of my life!” Panic quickly began to set in as your thoughts ran a mile a minute, your brain begging you to stop but your heart pleading for you to get rid of this weight. “I can’t be a girl boss, I don’t want to be independent, I-I just wanna be taken care of and loved and supported - I wanna take care of all the things at home and be the one helping you reset after those stressful days. I wanna learn about myself and my hobbies and discover what kind of person I really am underneath all of these learned traits. And I’m sorry, I know, it’s pathetic, it’s shameful, it’s selfish to want to put all of this onto you-”

The sound of your name falling firm from his lips stopped you in your tracks, your blood running cold as you laid as still as you could be against him.

“Open heart means we can’t speak for each other, remember that rule?” His tone was softer, light and teasing, quelling the tinge of fear spoiling every word you spoke as you nodded. “Okay, good - now, can I say something, or would you like to continue?”

“Please say something, Channie.”

“Alright, first and foremost, don’t ever, ever call anything you want ‘stupid’ - your desires are what make you you, and that includes wanting that 24-inch green matcha squishmallow.”

He felt your body shake - short laugh, a huff of air, a sign that he was breaking through.

“Second, I don’t think you wanting to be provided for is pathetic or shameful or selfish - it takes a strong person to admit that, and at the end of the day I think that’s what everyone wants in their own special form; somewhere they feel safe, cared for, loved. And, you’re not putting it all on me,” he felt you tense, but his hand held firm to yours, “because I want to be that for you. I want to provide for you, take care of you, handle all the things that are too big and scary for you to figure out on your own. I want to give you the freedom to explore and be yourself, pursue what you want and don’t want to do - and if that makes you ‘selfish’ then, princess, I’m the most selfish person of them all.”

“You-” your voice cracked, throat raw and sore, “You don’t mean that, baby, please-”

“C’mere.” He huffed, pulling you up with him as he sat up before tapping your thigh, signaling for you to sit on his lap - and once you were situated, he cupped your face in his hands, “I would never lie to you, you hear me? Since the day we met I knew I wanted to do everything in my power to care for you, even when we were just friends and you would join the kids in teasing me about how old I was even though you weren’t too far off yourself.”

Your pouted lips morphed into a sad smile and he had to stop himself from cooing over how cute you looked, even with puffy eyes and an even puffier face.

“Plus, I’ve been taking care of seven other people for the better half of five years, what makes you think I don’t want to do the same for the love of my life?”

Teary eyes searched his for any sign of dishonesty, but all you found was overflowing truth and love, a fresh breath of acceptance cooling your lungs like drinking ice water after eating a mint.

“Open heart?” You murmured softly, taking his hands in your own before pulling them off of your, embarrassingly sore, face.

He nodded, ducking his head to press a fleeting kiss to your knuckles.

“I was always a little jealous of you, you know that?”

“Me?!”

The shocked squeak in his voice made a giggle, a genuine giggle, bubble up inside of you and you nodded in earnest.

“Yeah, you. I always felt like I was so far behind everyone around me when it came to having their passions in order, having their lives in order, and when I met you all I could think about was how sure of yourself you were - how you were able to follow through and actually do what you love for a living not only because people around you supported you, but because you believed in yourself.” Dropping your gaze to your entwined hands, you traced your thumbs along his knuckles, “You always knew what you wanted and you worked toward it - I always wished I could be like that, I still do.”

“Baby, you know you can’t-”

“-compare my life to yours, yeah, yeah, I know.”

He didn’t miss the lilt of playfulness highlighting your words, a smile finding its way to his face as he shot you a lighthearted glare, “No mocking! But, really, you shouldn’t - we come from completely different backgrounds, and if anything I’m more jealous of you than you are of me; there’s so many things you’ve done that I haven’t had the chance to experience.”

You let out an incredulous scoff, tilting your head inquisitively, “Like what? Work a draining part time job in the food industry?”

“Yes!” Though he was laughing, you could still hear the serious notes in his voice, “You got to work retail, you went on family vacations whenever you wanted, you fucking graduated college before I did!”

“Okay, first of all, all of my horror stories should deter you from ever wanting to become a retail employee in your near future!” Dropping his hand, you poked him in the chest with a faux glare, “Second, I guess you’ve got me there - between how often I’ve seen my family compared to you, I do win that spot… But that last one you definitely have over me, Mr. Double Major!”

“Oh shut up - you’re a graduate, I’m still in classes; you didn’t have to go from having practice at 8 but an exam due at 8:30, while still needing two demo tracks ready for the first listen at 10!”

The two of you dissolved into a mess of giggles and smiles, whatever tension remained melting away with each melodic sound that escaped you.

“Princess?”

You hummed, a soft smile settling on your lips, “Yeah, Channie?”

“Open heart,” Chris started warmly, deep brown eyes sparkling with a love only you could know, “I want you to know that I meant every word I said - I do want to take care of you, physically, mentally, financially, whatever way you’ll let me. And - not to sound cocky or anything, but I definitely make enough to support the both of us with no issue. Aside from that, I want to build a life with you - so if that life includes you being the hottest stay at home wife then it’s the best life I could’ve ever asked for because you’re in it.”

A wave of heat rushed over you as butterflies erupted in your stomach, “Stay at home wife, hm?”

Of course, you paid attention to everything else he said, but you didn’t think you’d be able to say anything on it without bursting into tears again.

“Would you prefer stay at home mom? I mean, you’ve already got seven kids calling you it anyways - and I can’t lie, it does have a nice ring to it.” He grinned, releasing your other hand to wind his arms around your waist, scooting your body closer to his.

Rolling your eyes at his less than subtle tease, you snaked your arms around his shoulders, nails playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, “Let’s just start with stay at home girlfriend and see where we go from there, yeah?”

“So you’ll quit tomorrow?”

“Christopher!” You stood no chance in holding back the burst of laughter that escaped you, narrowly avoiding knocking your head against his as you shook with unabashed giggles, “Tomorrow? You sound like you’ve been waiting for this confession to come!”

“Baby, I was one more angry rant of your supervisor ‘springing last minute work onto you’ away from quitting for you.”

Reeling yourself back in, you leaned forward to capture his lips in a soft kiss, your world finally feeling like the pieces were slowly falling into place - or, at the very least, revealing themselves to you. “I love you, Christopher Bahng, wholly and truthfully, there’s no words in the entire galaxy to express how much you mean to me.”

He held you tight, pressing his forehead against yours with a soft sigh, “I love you more, more than you ever know, more than all the stars in this universe and the next. Whatever you decide, whatever you want, I’ll give it to you - just say the word.”

“Does that include ordering takeout for dinner tonight so we can keep cuddling?”

“Find a menu while I change?”

“Order it while I wash my face?”

“Deal.”

Everything sucked, sure, and there was still much left to figure out - but with Chris by your side, you realized that things could get better with an open mind and an open heart.

#stray kids angst #skz angst #bang chan x reader #bangchan x reader #bang chan angst #bangchan angst #bang chan fluff #bangchan fluff #tw mental health #mental health tw

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star-anise · 2 months

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reading supercut: disability, body image, and trauma

A glimpse into the clothes thrashing around in the washing machine of my mind, with apologies that it is still a wet lump and not an actual synthesis of ideas.

From Easy Beauty: A Memoir by Chloé Cooper Jones:

[This event] embedded a damaging idea in me, one I’d recognize deeply when I read Scarry years later: beauty was a matter of particulars aligning correctly. My body put me in a bracketed, undercredited sense of beauty. But if I could get the particulars lined up just right, I could be re-seen, discovered like the palm tree is discovered. To be deserving of the whole range of human desires, I had to be extraordinary in all other aspects. In this new light, I started to see my work, my intellect, my skills, my moments of humor or goodness, not as valuable in themselves, but as ways of easing the impact of my ugliness. If only I could pile up enough good qualities, they could obscure my unacceptable body. [...] accepting the argument that beauty was malleable came, for me, with a cost. The Platonian view rejected me cleanly, but Hume and Scarry left a door ajar and I’ve spent a lifetime trying to contort my form to see if I could pass through it.

From Til We Have Faces: A Myth Retold by CS Lewis:

I now determined that I would go always veiled. I have kept this rule, within doors and without, ever since. It is a sort of treaty made with my ugliness. There had been a time in childhood when I didn't yet know I was ugly. Then there was a time (for in this book I must hide none of my shames or follies) when I believed, as girls do — and as Batta was always telling me — that I could make it more tolerable by this or that done to my clothes or my hair. Now, I chose to be veiled.

From Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy of Borderline Personality Disorder by Marsha Linehan:

Inhibited grieving is understandable among borderline patients. People can only stay with a very painful process or experience if they are confident that it will end some day, some time—that they can "work through it," so to speak. It is not uncommon to hear borderline patients say they feel that if they ever do cry, they will never stop Indeed, that is their common experience—the experience of not being able to control or modulate their own emotional experiences. [...] In the face of such helplessness and lack of control, inhibition and avoidance of cues associated with grieving are not only understandable, bur perhaps wise at times. Inhibition, however, has its costs. [...] Volkan (1983) describes an interesting phenomenon, "established pathological mourning", which is similar to the pattern I am describing. In established pathological mourning, the individual wishes to complete mourning, but at the same time persistently attempts to undo the reality of the loss.

From How to Respond to Criticism by Danny Lavery:

Apologize, but don’t really mean it, and plant a seed of secret resentment so deep in your own heart that years later you can’t even remember that you’re the one who nurtured it and made it grow, it seems that much like a native part of you.

From Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed:

[After learning that state child protective services had made a budgetary decision to only intervene with children under 12, to one of the teenagers that regularly shared stories of abuse at home] I told her it was not okay, that it was unacceptable, that it was illegal and that I would call and report this latest, horrible thing. But I did not tell her it would stop. I did not promise that anyone would intervene. I told her it would likely go on and she’d have to survive it. That she’d have to find a way within herself to not only escape the shit, but to transcend it [...] I told her that escaping the shit would be hard, but that if she wanted to not make her mother’s life her destiny, she had to be the one to make it happen. She had to do more than hold on. She had to reach. She had to want it more than she’d ever wanted anything. She had to grab like a drowning girl for every good thing that came her way and she had to swim like fuck away from every bad thing. She had to count the years and let them roll by, to grow up and then run as far as she could in the direction of her best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by her own desire to heal.

From Essays in Aesthetics by Jean-Paul Sartre:

Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you.

From "I Know What You Think of Me" by Tim Kreider:

if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.

#mental health tw #trauma tw #child abuse tw #child neglect tw #staranise original #kinda #there's also a lot I've been reading about avoidant personality disorder that DEFINITELY needs a lot more baking #before it's ready to be unleashed onto the public

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thebiscuiteternal · 2 years

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I dunno what exactly set me off thinking about it, but I am suddenly thinking about how a little over four years before her death in 2011, my mamaw went through two important things.

1) She was diagnosed with clinical depression and dyscalculia.

2) After spending her entire life with a fairly pronounced limp that she had always been told couldn't be fixed, she came across a doctor who took one look at her x-rays and was actually willing to perform surgery to realign her lower spine and fix the bone spurs she'd developed in her sacroiliac joints.

She'd been on medication a few months before the surgery and went through three months of physical therapy recovery after, so she had been under eight months or so of total treatment when one day she just suddenly broke down in tears in front of me and my mother. And when my mother, understandably alarmed, asked what was wrong, my mamaw said

"I could have been feeling like this decades ago."

Her whole life, her parents and sisters had badmouthed her as just being slow and moody, and she'd internalized that so much that she'd never considered it might be an actual problem that could be helped. Her whole life, she'd been told she was going to have to just put up with being in pain every time she moved, and it was something that could be fixed with a surgery that ended up being less invasive than 90% of the other procedures she'd been through.

And she was sitting there in tears because for the first time in over seventy years, she wasn't hurting.

She only got two and a half years to enjoy it before colon cancer reared its ugly head and put her in and out of the hospital for the last year of her life. During that last year, she (who understood better than my parents did that something was going on in my brain that religion couldn't fix) asked me every time I visited her if I'd gone to see a "head-shrinker" yet.

"Don't be like me, honey. Don't be like me and wait too long."

I almost did. It took my second complete breakdown before I finally made an appointment at the public mental health clinic.

She passed two months to the day after my first consultation.

I'm not really sure where I was going with this. There's no big epiphany or pithy advice for y'all. It just felt too big and heavy in my head not to write it down.

#mental health tw #mental disorder tw #rambling #family dysfunction

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cherriblossumsblog · 10 months

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"It wasn't supposed to be like this," I whisper to the stars. "Everyone said that it would get better if I stayed. It wasn't supposed to keep hurting like this." The stars said nothing. I was, as always, alone.

- Things I Might Say in My Last Letter to You

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truthful-apologiesxoxo · 1 month

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Questions I usually get asked about my ASPD usually are, but are not limited to:

”Did you torture animals as a child?” — Nope. That’s a stereotype. It’s similar to the stereotype of people with depression “doing it for attention.” ASPD is a spectrum, meaning that most of us don’t kill animals just for kicks and giggles. However, if someone have really bad ASPD, they may torture animals. It’s similar to the autism spectrum. Some people with autism function relatively normally, while others are non verbal.

“Do you manipulate people?” — Yeah. It’s part of the disorder, after all, and is something the media hides. The media likes to hide the manipulator’s perspective, which is completely reasonable sometimes, but it demonizes those with cluster B disorder. Whenever I manipulate people, it’s often subconscious. I never wake up in the morning and go “wow! What a fine day to go and manipulate some people!” It’s usually more like, “Hm, if I do ___ then ____ will do what I want.”

“So, you have no guilt or remorse?” — Not true. I do feel guilt, just on a very shallow level. If I do something wrong, I’ll feel guilty about it for a few hours at most then get over it.

“Do you cry?” — Yeah. I cry, but not like others do. I cry for short periods of time, 10-15 minutes at most.

“Do you think you’re better than other people?” — Sort of, in a way. It doesn’t apply to everyone, but I’ll sometimes see someone who isn’t very intelligent or very gullible and subconsciously think “Oh wow, that’s someone who is worse than me.” In short, I don’t think everyone is worse than me. Just some people.

If you have any questions, I’d love to answer them.

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tadc-ragatha · 6 months

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Congratulations on 50+ followers and may you gain many more!! 🎉

You truly do deserve it with your detailed writing style and I absolutely adore the writing you did for my request! If you don’t mind me requesting once again and if you feel motivated to, may you please write for Kinger and a character of your choice with 🌠🎠

May you have a well day/night and don’t forget to take care of yourself! :)

-⚜️Anon

Starry-Eyed Carnival Date

TW: Abstraction/"death"/going insane, memory loss, guilt/self-blame, angst

Type: Fic; romantic-related, platonic. Emoji details: 🌠 (Shooting Star) Stargazing, 🎠 (Carousel Horse) Amusement park activity. Game link [x].

A/N: "Kinger reminisces on his date with Queener." No reader. Kinger x Queener. As of posting, only pilot has come out.

Thank you!! I'm very flattered and glad to know my writing style is being received well! You're absolutely allowed to request again, don't worry about it! I love knowing people loved my work so much they came back for more. You get a special Queener appearance because I liked this idea so much (she's not in the game, so please don't request for her otherwise guys)! I took some time to make this because I wanted to make it well.

Also, petition to name the Kinger x Queener ship Chess-Rule-Shipping? Or something adjacent to that? I think it's cute, anyway.

Each week would end with a special activity. Usually, this meant a longer, more in-depth one outside of the tent. This week, Caine had chosen to send the crew on a night activity at the carnival.

The purpose of the activity was to go on a scavenger hunt and collect as many puzzle pieces as possible and complete the final puzzle before the others. There were twenty-five in total, and three different puzzles for the three different groups. As such, each group was to consist of a pair. Each pairs' puzzle pieces were at different locations in an attempt by Caine to stop others from sabotaging the experience.

Walking through a path lined by food stalls, Kinger and Gangle looked down at their clue. It was a scrap piece of paper with the words typed on with a typewriter. Held in Gangle's free hand--the other one kept busy with her broken comedy mask--was the clue. Kinger kept the six puzzle pieces they had collected in his. So far, the pieces presented sections of very colourful oblong shapes.

Kinger read over the clue again, "'circular eye of the carnival. Red.'"

"It must be the Ferris Wheel, right?" Gangle turned to look at him. Kinger nodded, walking off ahead of her through the crowd of NPCs.

Looming above them was the Ferris Wheel. Its frame was a plain white, but each carriage was painted a different colour of the rainbow. At least fifteen carriages were suspended.

"We have to wait for a red one," Gangle said. As if on cue, a red carriage stopped before them. Kinger stepped aside and put his hand out to his left.

"After you." He gestured to the door.

Stepping inside the carriage, the two looked around. Under the seats, over the seats, and between the bars; they found nothing. Until Gangle grabbed onto the seat itself and tried to pull it up. It worked, revealing the next clue of the game and puzzle piece.

Kinger congratulated, "Oh! Good work, Gangle. Now, we better get going." Turning to exit the carriage, he found the door slammed in his face. Gangle gasped as he paused for a moment. "Oh."

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"Well, I guess we just wait for the ride to be over," he replied. Sitting down, he looked out the window as the ride jolted to a start, swaying the two back and forth.

Outside, they could see the lights of the carnival below. Yellow and warm, they filled the atmosphere of the digital world with a strange yet familiar feeling. Different food stalls of different colours were busy with customers, the scents of their products wafting through the air. Up above them, the fake stars shone and twinkled.

Kinger sighed.

Gangle looked over to him, asking in a timid voice, "what's wrong?"

For a short moment Kinger didn't reply. Instead, he continued to stare out the bars of the red carriage, out into the sky. Finally, he spoke up.

"I like the colour red," he said.

"What?" Gangle responded.

"I said, I like the colour red."

"What--what about red?"

Another moment of silence. She looked between him and his view of the stars.

"My wife was red," he said. "I like my wife."

"Oh...Um..."

He continued, "she liked the carnival, too. I remember I took her here on our first anniversary."

"How--how long had you been together?"

"Oh, many years." He cocked his head back with an unseen eye-smile that quickly faded. "I don't remember much about what we did now." Leaning against the bars, he looked up to get a better view. "It was a night just like this. Lots of stars."

An awkward silence passed. Or, Gangle thought it was awkward. To her, she could not tell what Kinger was thinking. All he did was continue to stare, not a single discernible emotion in sight. Yet there was still a sadness to him. She fiddled with her ribbons.

Kinger sighed again, "Queener loved the stars. She had the stars in her eyes that night."

The Ferris wheel was nearing a third of the way through its rotation. Deep down, she wished it would end sooner. The silence was deafening. So much so, she mustered up all her courage to ask a question.

"What was Queener like?"

"Queener was great." He didn't look back at her. "She was all work, no play. But she was nice." Another pause. "I miss her."

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

"May--maybe we should focus on something else." She looked down. The carriage was at its peak.

"I think that's why she left," he said. Gangle looked over at him quizzically. He didn't need to look at her to know her expression. "She couldn't remember anything. It's hard not knowing your name, but then she forgot what she looked like, and her family, and our pets..."

"You had pets?"

He smiled with his eyes again, replying, "oh, lots of them! I don't know what they were, though." The smile disappeared. She could definitely see tears in the bottom of his eyes.

"Oh."

"But...Queener was always too hard on herself. She always thought she was too strong to ask for help," he gave a sad chuckle. Twitching his eyes around, he tried to stop himself from giving in as the tears slowly dropped down onto the floor. "I think she didn't want to talk to me because she didn't want to hurt me."

"I think--"

"I didn't talk to her, either. I didn't want to stress her out. I...I thought maybe she'd be okay if she just had time. I thought--"

"Kinger--"

"I...I miss my wife, Gangle!" he sobbed. The tears were full-flowing as he cried into his hands. With her ribbon, Gangle tried to put a reassuring hand on him.

"Kinger, I...I--"

"It's my fault!" he wailed. "If I--if...If I had just said something, then she would've still been here!"

Gangle didn't say anything.

"I loved her and it's my fault she's gone!"

She shook her head, saying, "no, it's not."

"It was!"

"No, it wasn't. I don't...I think...Nobody really--nobody really gets out of here." She shook her head. Kinger looked over at her. His wailing had stopped for a moment, replaced with red eyes and sniffles.

"What?" he asked.

She said, "I don't think it was your fault. We all go eventually." The carriage halted again. Looking down, she could see it was near the end. She continued, "we don't--if she was...Someone would have left anyway." Tears were streaming down her own face.

Kinger didn't say anything. He simply looked down at the floor where the pool of his tears was. As the carriage reached closer to the ground, the light became brighter. Soon, they were both flooded with the yellow warmth of the lamps.

Kinger dried his eyes with his hands. Standing up, the Ferris Wheel came to a halt as he picked up the puzzle pieces. Meanwhile, Gangle took her broken mask and the new clue. Watching him intently, she could see him staring down at the ground, seemingly unresponsive to his environment as he walked out the carriage door.

#amy's writing #⚜️ anon #50 follower event #the amazing digital circus spoilers #tadc spoilers #death tw #mental health tw #memory loss tw #angst tw #guilt tw #self blame tw #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc kinger #tadc queener #kinger x queener #tadc headcanon #tadc gangle #tadc abstraction

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sluttyshima · 2 years

Text

Cut

Warnings: depression, graphic description of self-harm, self-hatred, suicidal ideation

Characters: Shouta Aizawa x reader

Words: ~1.6k

AN: Repost from my old account. This is a completely self-indulgent fic. It’s meant to be comforting, but the description of self-harm (and the aftermath of said harm) is based on real life experience and is written graphically. It could very well be triggering to some, so please do not read if you think it may upset you. Stay safe my loves <3

It was a single moment of weakness.

That’s what you try to convince yourself, at least. You can convince yourself that it was only an impulsive relapse if you blind yourself to the weeks - no, the months - that you’ve spent in a depressed haze. You’ve been ignoring all of the signs: irritability, lack of interest in things that used to bring you joy, bursting into tears suddenly for no reason, inability to sleep properly… the list goes on and on.

But you refuse to face the truth. ‘I can handle this myself,’ you tell yourself, over and over again. ‘Sure, I’m a little sad lately. But I’m doing just fine.’

Until you aren’t.

Ignoring the scars on your arms has become more difficult now that the weather is becoming warmer and you can no longer hide behind long sleeves. You find your gaze drawn to them frequently. Even though the thin lines should disgust you, you find yourself tracing them fondly with a single finger.

‘What’s stopping me?’ you begin to wonder. After all, the scars are already there. The fact that they haven’t faded away over the past several years leads you to believe that they are a permanent addition to your skin. You have nothing to show for your years of self control. The thin white lines are a constant reminder of your many, many failures. How many times did you let your emotions get the better of you? How many times did you raise a blade to your own arm?

Tonight, something within you snaps.

It comes without warning. One moment, you are sitting at your desk staring at the computer screen in front of you. And then you feel the dreadful, oh-so-familiar tightening sensation in your chest. A wave of emotions - too tangled to identify any single one - crashes over you.

One hand clutches at your chest as you bolt to your feet. You draw ragged breaths, beginning to pace. Desperate to quiet the storm in your mind, you move erratically, without purpose. Tugging at your hair, scratching and pinching at your skin. Toeing the line of self harm, but not quite crossing it… yet.

The arguments that you are making weaken by the second. It’s been so long, you’ve all but forgotten why you decided to quit in the first place. Pain was your drug. It was the only thing capable of numbing the inner turmoil.

Why shouldn’t you do the one thing that would bring you some sense of relief?

When you spot the simple square pencil sharpener sitting on your desk, you can feel what’s left of your resolve shattering. Your hands are shaking as you remove the screw that attaches the blade to the plastic. Out of practice, it takes you a couple of minutes before the metal is released, falling into your open palm.

The first cut stings more than you remember, and bleeds less. It’s a shallow wound made by a hesitant hand. You wait for the feeling of bliss that should emerge from the pain, the blessed relief that you were expecting.

But it doesn’t come. In fact, you feel even worse than before. The guilt of your impulsive action is overwhelming. This latest failure only proves what a weak, broken creature you are.

Angrily, you slash at your arm again.

And again.

Gritting your teeth against the pain, you are determined to cut deeper. That’s the problem, right? You just aren’t cutting deep enough. It’s not enough pain. But no, that isn’t it. The problem is you.

You’re pathetic.

Disgusting.

Hopeless.

You switch the blade to your other hand as you run out of room on your first arm. This time, you aren’t trying to find relief. You are punishing yourself now. ‘I deserve this,’ you think. ‘I already fucked everything up, all the progress I’ve made. I might as well keep going now.’

When you finally let the metal slip from your fingers, your arms are slick with blood and your face is soaked from the tears you’ve shed. As the adrenaline wears off, you feel your body beginning to shake. Leaning against the wall, you slide down to a sitting position. Head in your hands, you close your eyes as the pain becomes almost unbearable.

The soft chiming of your cell phone causes you to stiffen as you recognize the ringtone. You are filled with dread as you realize that you have no choice but to tell him what you’ve just done. He’ll notice the new cuts immediately, without a doubt. It will be much easier for both of you if he is already expecting them.

“I’m so sorry…” you immediately began babbling as you answered the phone. You’re terrified of his reaction. Will he hate you for this? Will he leave you? You need to see him. Now. “I’m such a fuck-up… it hurts so bad… please come.”

There is a single moment of silence before he replies, “I’m on my way.”

Time passes so slowly as you wait for him. When your front door finally opens, you stiffen. His eyes are bloodshot, hair a mess with some of it plastered to his forehead. Did he run here? He must have.

Shouta is trying desperately to appear calm, but you know him too well. You can see that he is in pain as his eyes rake up and down your form before settling on your arms. The long sleeves hide the damage that you’ve inflicted upon yourself, but he stares at them as if he has x-ray vision.

“Let me see.” His voice is strained. “How bad is it?”

You swallow heavily, barely holding back tears. “It’s really bad,” you admit. “I… I completely lost control.” In a barely audible voice, you add, “I’m scared to show you.”

“Please,” his voice breaks on the word, and you’re pretty sure that your heart breaks with it. Shouta has always been your rock, remaining strong even when you become unravelled. Seeing him like this, so close to breaking down… it hurts so much more than you could have anticipated. And the guilt, the guilt is overwhelming.

Slowly, you begin to roll up your sleeves. You wince when the fabric pulls at your wounds, the clotting blood having fused with the clothing. A few of the cuts are reopened by your actions, and begin oozing fluid.

A broken gasp leaves Shouta’s lips once your arms are finally bared in front of him. His jaw clenches and he closes his eyes for a long moment, trying to force back the tears that are threatening to spill. Moving faster than you would have thought possible, he pulls you into his arms, squeezing you tightly as if he’s afraid that you’ll disappear.

“I’m sorry,” you choke on the words. Clinging to his shoulders, you let out a sob as you feel his body trembling. “Oh gods, Sho, I’m sorry!”

He doesn’t speak. He can’t speak. So instead, he lifts you into his arms - careful not to press against your injuries - and carries you to the bathroom.

Sitting you down, the man rummages through your medicine cabinet until he finds what he needs. Wordlessly, he tends to your wounds. Although his touch is as gentle as possible, it still hurts when he cleans them. Your soft hisses of pain send him over the edge and his tears finally begin to fall. He ignores them however, choosing instead to focus on you and doing everything that he can to minimize your discomfort.

With the amount of cuts that litter your arms, it takes quite a while for Shouta to clean and bandage all of them. By the time he finishes, you have gone numb both physically and emotionally. It is as if all of the feeling has been sucked out of you, leaving you an empty husk.

Noticing the blank look in your eyes, the man kneels in front of you and places his hands on your knees. “Talk to me, kitten.” His voice is hoarse from crying, but gentle. When you don’t respond right away, he moves his hands up to cup your face. “Hey, are you there? Come on sweetheart, come back to me.”

The warmth of his touch pierces through the haze surrounding you. Blinking a few times, you manage to focus your eyes on his. And then you launch yourself at him.

Shouta catches you easily, hands going to your thighs and guiding them to wrap around his waist as he stands. Your arms lock around his neck, clutching at his hair and his shirt. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs reassuringly. “Just hold onto me.”

He deposits you gently onto the soft sheets of your bed before climbing in beside you. Strong arms wrap around you and pull you against his body in a spooning position. Brushing the hair away from the back of your neck, he presses feather-soft kisses over the skin there.

“We’ll call your therapist in the morning,” the man says. “For now, you should get some rest.”

As much as you want to simply fall asleep, you hesitate. There is a worry still lingering in the back of your mind, and you need to get it off your chest. “Sho? You… you aren’t going to leave me, right?”

The arms around you tighten as he lets out a soft growl at the suggestion. “Never,” he promises. “I’ll always be here for you, kitten. I love you more than anything else in this goddamned world.”

His words echo in your mind over and over again as you finally fall asleep.

#shouta aizawa #aizawa x reader #aizawa comfort #mha #bnha #mental health tw #blood tw #self harm tw #suicidal ideation tw

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