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#suicidal ideation is what i do and like constantly wish i would die in my sleep or have like intrusive thoughts sometimes but ive done that
ssstrawberryflowers · 3 months
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uuhh life update i guess? tw for parental issues, self harm and suicidal ideation
had a talk with the section director on how i hated working on my project and how worse my situation had become and would become if i kept going. usual therapist pushed me to keep going cause “at least I’ll be busy with something” and given the next step in our project is the production stage (aka 3d which i fucking hate) i’d just be miserable most of the time. the only classes i genuinely liked and still like were life drawing, outdoors sketching and videogame history, and none of these have any sort of impact on our projects. section leader is fine with me dropping out, she told me she’ll try to explain to my therapist tomorrow, and my parents if needed. this shit has lasted for a fucking year, i’ve literally started self harming again because of how utterly miserable i felt.
the therapist that saw me at school told me I needed to at least take a break, my usual therapist made me go back to make my days busy, and my parents believe my usual therapist because “she’s seen you for years of course she knows best”. jesus fucking christ.
it’s an amalgamation of so much shit. art youtubers yelling “art school is a scam!!!!” while only talking about shit typical for the us. my parents both telling me “you can do it! you’re strong! you’ve been through worse!” at the same time as “you chose this school. you’ll be the one to assume the consequences if you drop out”. meds losing effectiveness before switching to something that doesn’t even work as a placebo. slowly creeping and growing self hatred, thinking everyone must hate me because I’m an annoying and pretentious attention whore. frustrations about my art. it just kept piling up. if i were to keep going i would either end up miserable at a clinic where i can’t do anything that would make me truly happy or pushing daisies.
my mom keeps asking “what will you do after you drop out?”. i don’t fucking know. find a part time job. take up comms for real. practice the type of art i really care about and that makes me feel fulfilled. start fighting sports again. i could tell her all of this, and she’d just look at me with an air of disapproval because i didn’t get a diploma for a job that doesn’t even need one to get hired at a good studio.
“i’ve been a student too, you know, i know how it is” shut the fuck up. you didn’t wish to destroy the skin of your arm because of how miserable you felt. you didn’t feel like everyone hated you because you didn’t know how to go forward. you didn’t start thinking “i want to die” constantly in a non-joking way.
who cares if i chose this school if even school staff sees and agrees i should stop? diplomas don’t mean shit in the art world.
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fuchsimeon · 2 years
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yessss bestie he 👏 is 👏 the 👏 lighthouse 👏
He is!
I am obsessed with the different ways of looking at lighthouses in this show.
Long ramble about the imagery of lighthouses in the show following:
CW for mentions of suicidal ideation.
We first get lighthouses at Stede's and Mary's wedding. It's a very odd wedding in my eyes, with them standing on the rocks near the sea. I mean it works because that is what Stede yearns for but they are both from rich familes, I figured they would get married in a church or town hall or something? But they are told to be lighthouses to each other and keep lead each other. And while "lead/help/guide each other" is a good metaphor to wish on a married couple the idea is BONKERS. I don't live close to the sea but even a landrat like I know lighthouses are few and far apart. And they don't guide each other, they guide ships. They are warnings to not come too close because the waters are dangerous. They are meant to make you go away (usually). It's what Ed says. You stay away from them or you're smashed on the rocks. So even on a metaphoric level we are already told that this marriage is doomed to fail. They will be far apart from one another, guiding others and definitely not one another. How would a lighthouse even guide another lighthouse??? They are stationary.
Which is what Stede does not want and what Ed wants. Stede wants to be free and on the ocean, Ed yearns for normalcy (especially at the end) and the excuse to just sit and be. Take a load of. Fold some clothes. His entire life was high strung and he was constantly on edge. People were terrified of Blackbeard but I am sure he ran into one or two who wanted to kill him. And Ed is bored. So bored. So bored he considers dying because at least that would be something new. (I had suicidal ideation moments like that. Like. You don't wanna end your life but if it did end, it would be kinda... eh. Not bothered.)
And when Ed and Stede talk about lighthouses, that is one of the first time Stede is faced with abandoning his family. "We were supposed to be lighthouses for each other". And he seems remorseful (because he is a kind person and knows that doing right by your family would be to stay with them and support them. He doesn't know that Mary and the kids were just as trapped as he was.)
Then, in their "well shit we're going to die" stupor they both perk up and for the first (but not the last) time in the show they speak at the same time.
"We have to be a lighthouse!"
And it is part of the fuckery Blackbeard taught the crew about earlier. You pretend to be something your enemies fear so they run. And any sailor is wary of a lighthouse, even if it makes no fucking sense for one to be in front of them. A lighthouse is a warning. It tells you to fuck off if you want to live. So the armada turns tail and runs away from it. Because despite the doubts, there COULD be a lighthouse and it could be dangerous.
Later on the lighthouse kind of falls out of focus as both of them move around, change one another, guide one another and work together. They have their problems and issues (looking at you, Jack) but ultimately they grow close, they open up to one another etc. I don't have to tell you, we get our montage about them falling in love while it is explained what it means to BE in love IN THE SHOW. You could put this clip on youtube and people would think it's a fucking fan edit lmao.
But when Stede returns to Mary everything goes wrong and nobody is happy. Because if the two of them are lighthouses, this entire thing goes against what they are supposed to be. They guide and warn others. They aren't supposed to be in each others' waters. This is all wrong. And while Ed believes he crashed on the rocks getting too close to the lighthouse that is Stede and not allowing himself to process the trauma but instead throwing himself into the personality that was born from trauma: Blackbeard / The Kraken / The man who killed his father, Stede.... realizes where his heart lies and where he has to go. He is a lighthouse. He is going to find his crew and guide them to safety (but in the fun inverse where they are marooned and stationary and he is in a boat and moving towards them). It shows how much he changed and grew. He is a proper pirate and captain now. He will guide his crew and find his way back to Ed. Or maybe guide Ed home, we will see. And Blackbeard has not actually forgotten and buried Ed and his love for Stede alongside with him. He is sitting in that cabin, in the beautiful dressing gown Stede wore when he was upset about Ed leaving with Jack and he is crying. He is still emotional. He looks at this painting Mary made for Stede, something she did to reach out and also share her passion for painting with him, something he couldn't really understand and appreciate, something that tells us about Stede's and Mary's relationship which turns friendly and respected and distant, like two lighthouses in the ocean.
And it also tells us about Edward and Blackbeard and their relationship with Stede. They got too close and they crashed on the rocks. And it broke the shell of Blackbeard apart and allowed Ed to just be Ed. Before he tried to rebuild that shell to protect himself.
Man this show can fit so much lighthouse imagery in it *slaps roof*. I'm sure I didn't get everything lmao. But I also don't remember The Lighthouse well or else I would have drawn parallels probably.
Anyway thanks for indulging.
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jacobpepperjudy · 2 years
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It seems like everyday I wake up fighting mad. I’m stricken with horrible depression and I don’t know how to start my day because my thoughts are always negative. And because It’s a constant battle everyday to stay alive. That’s especially hard when your fighting suicidal thoughts and ideation. Well why? Because its me who is thinking I want to die and me living this miserable existence and its me who has the power to commit that act. But I suffer and struggle constantly for the people who love me. I don’t understand why people are so against suicide besides not getting to heaven(which I doubt god would damn you to hell for wanting to end your pain and if that was the only option to do so I don’t think he would judge you poorly on that)but what’s the problem with someone wanting to end all their pain and suffering. Some say it’s selfish and the coward way out but I could turn right around and say the people wanting me to live are being selfish they want me to live and suffer so they don’t get hurt by losing me. What they don’t realize is it’s not easy dealing with uncontrollable emotions. I don’t see how it could be the cowards way out when it isn’t easy deciding and acting to take your own life I know I’ve seriously attempted suicide many times resulting in critical care hospitalization . Why I think this you may ask yourself. But part of my reasoning behind my thoughts is because of the way I treat others and the way I react to different situations not because I’m hurting or depression but my concerns are Sometimes I am not safe or trustworthy around people. I react badly with rage, jealousy, hate, and I constantly think people are talking about me and sometimes I feel like they are plotting to kill me. And these thoughts are obsessive and I can’t stop them. So my natural reaction because I go into manic episodes is violence, rage and hate Towards others. I don’t like mistreating others but with my disorder sometimes I do hurt people. I’ve had to accept that. Luckily I haven’t hurt anyone very badly yet but I constantly fear that I may take someone else’s life because my thoughts and emotions in the heat of the moment and in my adventure away from reality because my thoughts are manic and obsessive and I can’t control them,I could see me fatally hurting someone if I’m not careful and If I feel seriously threatened. I might react badly. It’s not easy losing touch of reality and what’s truly happening around you. Sometimes I will see an object like a bird and I’ll look away and wen I look back the object isn’t there anymore. Sometimes I’ll go to grab on to something like a stair railing or a cup and wen I close my hands there isn’t anything there. Sometimes I’ll see objects flying towards me causing me to duck and flinch I sometimes get visits from people who have passed and I was close with.I also hear voices telling me to harm myself and others. I don’t see ghost i see the person and they appear like they did wen they were still alive. That’s a very difficult thing to experience especially when you are trying to mourn and get over losing that person. The visits and talks make it very hard to accept that that person is gone. And it makes it hard to let them go completely because they visit me. Some people judge and say I’m worthless because I am scared of getting a job or of being in crowded places or even being around more than 2-3 people at a time. But they don’t realize the entire reasoning. It’s not because I don’t want to work because trust me I would enjoy being able to pay my bills but it’s because I’m a possible danger to the people around me and I don’t want to hallucinate and do something causing injury to someone else. I don’t want to risk hurting others because I think they are talking about me or plotting to kill me. Because my reaction is always violence. Trust me I wish I was normal and could provide a life for my family. And I’m starting to feel the effects of my disorder pertaining to the turn out of my life. I sometimes wonder if I’m holding myself back from a better life by secluding myself.
Aa
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luxwritesfanfic · 3 years
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Right Where You Left Me
Reader gets déjà vu in a way she never expected. Or, the one where Sherlock is the gift that never stops giving. AU!Bucky because he always has your back. Enjoy!
Author’s Note: There is a lot of angst and multiple different aspects that could be very triggering for some within this work. Please be mindful of the trigger warning below and if you see something that you feel should be listed, message me and I will edit accordingly!
Trigger Warning: Severe depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt (overdose), forced vomiting, talk of death in general, angst with a happy ending
Sherlock Holmes/Reader
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You couldn’t really tell how long you’d been lying in bed for. Time was such a foreign concept to you now. It was either before the fall, when you were happy and he was with you, or after the fall, where you were all alone. You weren’t alone physically because your friends would never allow for that. Since the fall, you’d been staying in Sherlock’s flat, and Mrs. Hudson would always bring you a plate of whatever she was cooking and put it in the fridge. And like clockwork, she’d come every Sunday and clean the fridge out from where you didn’t touch any of the plates. She never seemed to mind, though, and she never stopped bringing you food.  
Bucky would come by every day and check on you and help you do things around the house. And by help you, he did everything for you. Mrs. Hudson would let him stay in John’s old room whenever he needed, and he’d make sure you showered and that your laundry was done. He would tell you he does this because he loves you and that even though you weren’t born his sister, you would die that way.
John had moved on and moved out and you were happy for him. Mary was lovely, and you wished you could move on with your life, but you couldn’t. You knew he was taking it just as hard as you and that you both just had different ways of coping with the pain.  
When you had to quit your job, Mycroft was immediately there and offered to take care of you financially. “Please, allow me to do this for you. It’s what my brother would have wanted. He couldn’t stand me when he was ali—here, so the least I can do is make him happy where he is now,” he said quietly. Pigs must’ve been flying in the window behind you because when you reached to hug Mycroft, he met you halfway. You cried nonstop for days after that.
You had tried to be better after the scare, not for you, but for your family. You don’t remember much from it, but you do know that no one brings it up around you and you haven’t been left alone for longer than a few hours since.
You woke up with your face propped up against something cool, but you could barely open your eyes to see where you were. Your stomach was in the most pain it had ever been in and everything around you sounded so far away. You remember being yanked back and fingers were shoved down your throat and someone, Bucky, was standing over you and holding you up saying through tears, “I know it hurts and I’m sorry, but you have to throw it up, Y/N. You have to. I can’t lose you, too.”  
Everything hurt and in between gags you could hear Mrs. Hudson crying and begging whoever was on the phone to get there faster. You had never heard anyone scream like that and you were sorry you were the one who caused it.
Even though you’d promised Sherlock he would never lose you, Fate stepped in and you lost him. When you thought about the turn your life had taken, you just told everyone you were keeping your end of the deal.  
Bucky knocked on your door and stuck his head in. “Mornin’, Y/N. I’m gonna start some laundry and make us some coffee and then I’ll be back, okay?” You could tell he was worried by the tone of his voice, but he did a good job of hiding it. You didn’t say anything back to it and he didn’t expect you to.  
Bucky came in a little later with some towels in his hand and a coffee in the other. “I know you’re not feeling real good today, so I was thinking I could wash your hair for you? You can just bend over the tub and I’ll do all the work. I’ve even been watching some videos on how to braid and then you won’t have to worry it matting up either.” He set the coffee down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed next to you.  
By this point you were already crying into the pillow because how could the people in your life love you this much when you had nothing to offer them anymore?
“I love you so much,” you cried, and Bucky’s heart broke at the sound, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry and I love you.”
He brushed the hair away from your face. His hands were warm, and it made you feel human again. “You don’t have to be sorry. I love you and I will take care of you for however long you need me to. God knows you would-- and have, done the same for me. So, let me wash your hair for you and I can tell you all about how Lestrade constantly shits on Anderson now as an eternal tribute.”  
You smiled and although it wasn’t full of life, he was just as happy to see it. You ended up just getting a shower and Bucky rushed next door to get you a sandwich in hopes that you’d eat for him, too.  
As you were brushing your hair out, you heard multiple voices. You heard Bucky, and he sounded… shocked? And then there was John and then just as you were about to reach for the door you heard it. You would know that baritone voice anywhere. Barging out of the bathroom and almost tripping over your own two feet, you came to a full stop.
“Sherlock?”  
There he stood in the middle of the room with John a few feet behind him, and Bucky with his back to you, seemingly always ready to protect you. It looked like him and it sounded like him, and hell, it even smelled like him. You couldn’t believe it.
“Y/N.” He went to make a step towards you but seemed to have think better of it. It was better if he assessed your reaction to seeing him first. It had been so long since he had last seen you and while he silently fought the raw want he had to hold you, he knew you were seeing red.
“I don’t even—I can’t-- can’t even comprehend this. Where do I start? Where the fuck have you been? You were dead, Sherlock! I watched you…” You squeezed your eyes shut, steeling yourself the best you could. You weren’t going to cry. You had too much to say. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw John and Bucky slip through the front door. You were sure that was their best bet.
Sherlock said nothing as you went off because there was really nothing for him to say. He understood why you were so mad with him, even if he wasn’t generally self-aware when it came to his own feelings, he wasn’t that daft. He had come prepared for this and he was going to make it right.
“No, you know what? Don’t say anything. I don’t even want to hear it. I have been fucking rotting in this flat while everyone else was able to move on with their lives. I was here, because I couldn’t live without you. My world stopped. I do nothing, Sherlock, nothing but sit and lay in your bed and cry into your old shirts!” You were yelling now, hands running through your hair as you tried to make sense of it all. Somewhere in the back of your mind you made a mental note to thank Bucky for making you get up and shower this morning.
“I quit my job, Sherlock. Mycroft has been paying to keep me alive and Mrs. Hudson and Bucky take turns to make sure I’m still breathing every other hour because they’re scared that if I’m left alone for too long, I won’t be. And poor John, I see him and start fucking bawling because then all I see is you. I stopped caring about everything, and everyone else, because the only person I cared about looked me in the eyes and walked off a fucking building!”
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but you quickly cut him off.  
“Seriously, don’t speak. You don’t get to just waltz in with John after all this time—you know what? There’s the million-dollar question. Was I the only one who didn’t know you were alive? Because so help me God, Sherlock, I’m this close to losing it.”
He didn’t know whether or not he should actually speak, but he took the cue after he started to physically feel the heat from the deathly glare you were giving him. You quite literally looked deranged but that didn’t stop him from taking a step towards you. He always seemed to chase danger, and you were no exception.
“No… you weren’t the only one. John only just found out a few weeks ago, and only a few select people knew the whole time.” Sherlock was careful with his words. He knew he was walking on thin ice.
You didn’t say anything to that, and Sherlock found that even scarier than when you were yelling.
“Hah, select people, huh? I like that one. So, where were you staying? Were you in London this whole time? Shit, you could’ve been downstairs for all I know. I guess I wouldn’t be a select person to know that, though, would I?”
Sherlock grimaced. Things were going worse than he imagined, and he already figured it would be pretty bad. That was an understatement. “I had to jump around often for everyone’s safety, but I stayed in London for the most part. I stayed with Molly when I could.”
You laughed in his face at that, and you clamped your hand over your mouth, turning your back on him lest you start laughing again. He watched you with furrowed brows and you knew he wanted to speak but you couldn’t do it right now.  You took a few steps towards the kitchen window and looked out at the bustling London streets beneath you. For months your world stopped, and it seemed so real when in reality nothing stopped at all.  
“Great, great. That’s so great. Splendid, really.” You murmured to yourself and perched your free hand on your hip. Drumming your fingers against your lips, you began again.  
“Bucky had to glue the windows down because he thought I was going to jump, and you were staying with Molly.” The tone of your voice was venomous and if looks could kill, Sherlock Holmes would be dead for real this time.
Sherlock winced. “Y/N, please, let me—” You cut him off, speaking louder this time. Your face was void of emotion, but your eyes betrayed you as the tears started to fall freely and your voice cracked under the weight of everything that was being said.
“Bucky had to glue the windows down because I thought I was going to jump, and you were staying with Molly! Damn you, Sherlock Holmes! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” You grasped at the kitchen counter to steady yourself as you gasped for air between the sobs that you couldn’t contain anymore. Your heart ached so badly that you actually clutched your chest, afraid that it was going to break through your ribcage and abandon ship. You could barely register Sherlock coming up behind you through your tears and as he willed you to face him, you noticed that his eyes were brimmed red and glossy. Even sad, Sherlock looked as beautiful as a doll.
“I always come when you call, why didn’t you come for me?” You cried, fisting your hands in his shirt so tightly that you thought heard buttons pop. Your head was swimming and you had never felt more betrayed in your life. How could Sherlock turn to anyone but you? Had you not made it clear that you would do anything for him?  
“I called for you every single night, Sherlock! Begged for you, mourned you, I—” The tears wouldn’t stop flowing and your voice was starting to crack from its sudden and harsh overuse.
It was then that Sherlock wedged himself so close to you that you didn’t even have the space to move your head and look up at him. A pair of strong arms wrapped around your back and you were being squeezed so hard to him that you thought you’d either die from a heart attack or suffocation. And even now at the hands of Sherlock, neither seemed that bad. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He whispered against your forehead again and again as if he was repeating a chant he had been practicing for some time.
“I love you so much and you didn’t even call! Why didn’t you call?” Your words were lost to the both of you now, spoken into his shirt and distorted by your sobs. Sherlock held you as you cried and tried to contain your shaking body against his as you let out months of sadness and pain and despair. You were so overwhelmed that you couldn’t think straight.  
“I know, I know you do, and that’s why I couldn’t call. I couldn’t call for you.” He held onto you as he spoke like you would disappear. Sherlock had decided before he even stepped foot into the flat that he would not lose you again. In his time away from you, he was subjected to feelings he could only describe as both love and heartbreak in equal measure. Being apart from you had left him feeling a void that nothing could fill, but it was his love for you that he relied on to keep you safe and away from him.  
Sherlock pulled back from you and while it was only by a few inches, you suddenly felt worlds away. You go to pull him back to you when he gathers your hands in his and leaves a trail of ghostly kisses along the spread of your knuckles.  
“I have never begged for mercy in my life…” He murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. He was determined; that much you could tell. Your eyes widened as he lowered himself to one knee, and then two. “Until now. I have hurt you in ways that are beyond comprehensible. Please, grant me the mercy I do not deserve to explain myself. I am willing to bare myself before you if you’ll have me.”
You were in shock at the sight of Sherlock on his knees before you. You had heard him apologize maybe twice in your time of knowing him and here he was, begging for you to hear him out. All you could do is nod.
You expected him to stand up again, but he sat in place and looked up at you with so much love in his eyes that felt all the anger you were harboring dissipate under his gaze. He took a deep breath and prepared himself. If you were ever going to forgive him, he knew that he would have to be honest. And he knew that if he was going to be honest, he would have to admit the feelings he had for you and hope that he could express them in a way that you could understand.
“There were constantly people watching you, and John, and pretty much everyone else who held any value in my life,” he explained, rubbing his thumbs over your fingers as he spoke absentmindedly, “they knew you would be suffering, they counted on that. And if you weren’t, they’d know something was going on. Your suffering had to be real, or else it wouldn’t have been believable. I didn’t want to keep you in the dark. But I had no choice. When I faked my death, I had some help. I stayed with Molly here and there because she already knew, and my relationship with her is is…different for ours.” He paused.  
You were hanging on every word he said. You could tell he was being sincere, and even though you were upset, you understood. If leaving Sherlock meant protecting him, you would do it too.  
He cleared his throat and started again. “Molly was a safer option. They would have expected less of a reaction from her. And if things were to go wrong…” Trailing off, Sherlock squeezed your hands. You knew what he was trying to say, and you didn’t dare breathe. “You were not someone I could lose. It couldn’t have been you. So yes, I stayed with Molly, but I worked constantly to make it so that I could come home to you.”
You couldn’t take it anymore. “Sherlock,” you whimpered, pulling him to his feet by his collar and back to you where he belonged. He followed suit quickly like he was reading your mind.  
For what seemed like the first time today, you were truly taking him in. He was just as beautiful as he was the day he left you. You reached up to brush away a stray curl from his eyes and smiled at the way he seemed to try and follow your touch.  
There were so many things that you couldn’t be sure of, but this is something you’d always know to be true. You loved Sherlock, terribly, terribly, so. If loving him was the only purpose you ever found in this lifetime, you would be sure not to fail him.
You were lost in other when the sound of footsteps climbing up the stairs drew your attention. Sherlock followed your gaze as you watched John enter the flat from the living room.
“Is everyone okay up here? There was a lot of yelling and then it got pretty quiet…” As he rounded the corner to the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks at the sight of you braced against the counter with a small amount of space between you and Sherlock that he must’ve recently graced you with because you could barely move before. His hands rested on your hips and your hands had found solace on his shoulders. John looked like a deer caught in headlights before he covered his eyes with his hands and made to walk back out, determined not to ruin the moment that all of London was waiting on.
“Fuck, I’m sorry! Don’t mind me, pretend I was never here!” He called out as he dashed back down the stairs so quickly you thought he had fallen and you were sure you heard him say to someone, “I told you so!”
You couldn’t help but laugh at the whole situation and when you looked back at Sherlock, you realized he was already looking at you. Even after everything today, you still caught yourself feeling nervous under his heavy gaze.  
“So, it’s okay when you stare but not when I do?” You teased, hoping that he couldn’t see the blush you could surely feel. Sherlock squinted his eyes at your comment as if he didn’t understand what you meant but gave you a devilish smile all the same.  
“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t. “But you are confirming that you do stare at me, right?”  
You were torn between smacking the smirk off his face or kissing it, whatever compelled you the most and right now it was a tie. Rolling your eyes, you brought your hands down to his arms and gave them a squeeze. Not even realizing you were thinking out loud, you whispered something about having déjà vu. This caught Sherlock’s attention, and he moved tiniest bit closer to you. “Déjà vu? How so?”
Cursing yourself under your breath, you laughed and dipped your head down between the two of you, laughing at how ridiculous all of this was. “Jeez, it’s been years now. I had the most realistic dream that’s stuck with me all this time.”
Sherlock tsked at you and moved to bring your head back up so that he could properly see your face. He cupped your cheeks and in the most familiar way and just like in the dream, you were breathless.  
“Go on,” he urged, voice like velvet, “tell me what happened in your dream.”
You all but melted under his gaze. Sherlock, in any form, would always have this effect on you it seemed. His thumb brushed along your lower lip as his own parted. Physically he was with you, but mentally he was far away committing this memory to only a place he could see.
“Use your words. I’m paying raft attention, aren’t I?” Once again you thanked Mrs. Hudson and her choice in countertops because if it was any less sturdy you were sure you would collapse and bring him down with you. On second thought—
Any coherent thought was lost to you when Sherlock nosed your cheek, and you couldn’t help the gasp that left your lips or the words after.
“I told you I loved you, Sherlock. That’s what happened in the dream.” Your words were spoken so quickly in the effort to chase after his lips but he held you still, waiting and wanting in front of him.  
You whined like a child. None of anything that happened today was fair to you, but one kiss and you would forgive all of London for keeping your detective’s secret.
“Well, I guess the only proper response to that is for me to tell you that I’ve loved you for ages, my dear girl.” He smiled against your skin and you thought that this was it. You had officially lost your last marble, and this was the delirium finally setting in. You welcomed the insanity happily.
“Say it again, please. I need to hear you say it again.” You begged, everything hitting you at all at once.
“I love you,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. “I love you, and it’s only ever been you. It couldn’t be anyone else but you. You…didn’t you know that?” His eyebrows rose up and you stopped him in his tracks. That was Sherlock for “are you dumb?”
It was then that you decided you were done with talking before he had the chance to say anything smart. You pulled him down to you so quickly that you missed the shock that flashed in his eyes when your lips finally met. After years of yearning and pining for the man in front of you, you finally had him right where you wanted him. There were so many things you wanted to say to him, but no words would express how you truly felt about him and lucky for you, Sherlock was more of a hands-on learner.  
When you finally broke apart, you got to admire the man of your every hour in all his glory. The mussed hair and kiss swollen lips really added to his already suave look and you couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. “You’re handsome. So handsome, seriously, it should really be a crime. I can finally tell you that without any shame.”
He returned your smile tenfold, and you thought if you could make his eyes crinkle like that just one more time in your life that it would be a life well lived. He acted as if he was mulling your statement over, rolling his bottom lip between teeth. “You could’ve mentioned it before. It might’ve helped me make my deductions much sooner.”
You slapped him on the shoulder but then worked on smoothing his shirt out while he watched you with a gentle fondness that he reserved just for you. You still had so many questions that you wanted answered but you knew those could wait. Something had been generous enough to answer your most asked prayer and you weren’t about to be ungrateful for even a second.  
Placing one last (for now) kiss on his cheek, you led him to the door to the flat and swung it open. “Hey, has Mrs. Hudson seen you—”
As if on perfect cue, Mrs. Hudson shrieks so loudly that any bad memory you have of her yelling is now a good one.
“Sherlock!”
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hamliet · 3 years
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Penny and Death in Fiction
Musings more so than meta, brought to you by frequently receiving asks accusing me of hypocrisy for having different opinions on characters dying in different stories, and as a way of me working out why I feel very, very differently from most of the RWBY fandom about Penny’s death. Obviously this is not to say people can’t have their own feelings or disagree (clearly the majority do disagree) but these are just my thoughts based on how I read death in fiction and the themes/set up or RWBY in particular.
"Anyone can die" and "redemptive death" and "sacrificial death" are overused tropes for sure. But that doesn't mean they never work or never fit. They just are often used as cheap ways to hook an audience (instead of relying on the substance of the story) and/or avoid difficult questions in a story that would demand exploration (like what happens to the mass murderer after redemption?). The oversaturation, and frankly, misuse, of these death tropes almost seems to have led to a sort-of knee-jerk reaction in fandom in the other direction, where death can’t happen at all or it’s bad writing, and I just... I don’t agree.
A story doesn’t need to avoid the topic of death to be hopeful. In fact, to many of us, it’s comforting to see grief on screen and to be encouraged to grieve.
SnK’s main theme is “the world is cruel, but the world is also beautiful.” We see that death is one of the cruelest parts of the world from the very first chapter, with Carla’s death. And yet, we’re shown that risking lives for a greater cause--the Survey Corps in the opening pages--is a part of that beauty. So, while SnK is sometimes very critical of self-sacrifice (Armin, Reiner, and Historia are all suicidal and looking for a hero’s death as a way out), it isn’t always. There’s nuance. Erwin’s and Porco’s and Zeke’s deaths, for example, are framed as moments of heroism because of the desperate circumstances. The circumstances are cruel, but within a cruel world, they were capable of beautiful choices because choice is in some ways all we’re guaranteed; we can’t choose our circumstances. The reason Eren was never going to survive SnK after this turn was because he acted against the main theme, against the concept of choice, removing it for many people, and against the concept of being born into the world being enough to give life value.
BSD is my favorite and probably the most flagrant about redemption and not killing its characters (any main ones so far). But it makes sense when you look at what the theme is--it’s specifically about looking for a reason to live. However, BSD  doesn’t avoid death either: all of its characters’ backstories are steeped in death (most are orphans, Oda, Atsushi’s headmaster, etc), and Dazai’s suicidal ideation forces the characters to confront the helplessness of grief and pain without actually killing characters. Our main characters probably won’t die--they’ll find a reason to live--but they still have to deal with death around them, and learn to grieve when appropriate. Death, the high cost of living.
Tokyo Ghoul was probably the most blatantly critical of self-sacrifice, exploring the ways self-sacrifice hurts those around you and was often just a desperate attempt to find a place in the world and assert you matter via a glorious sacrifice. Thus, its main message was “it may not be stylish, but... live.” But even so, characters died all the time in TG and TGre. Grief and learning to carry on in a brutal world where some types of people (ghouls) were forced to kill were major presences in the story. In fact, it seemed to suggest living was a valuable enough premise itself that to keep living even in the face of impending death was beautiful.
BNHA’s main theme is “heroes save.” BNHA has established someone dying as distinctly not saving them (see: the Ending fight, where our MCs literally say that they won’t let anyone die); hence, it doesn’t make sense for the heroes to “save” the villains only to have them die. If you’re gonna reward your MCs for upholding the main theme (you should), they should have their decision matter.
Tonally, RWBY is most similar to BNHA in that they are both fundamentally hopeful, optimistic stories. However, RWBY and BNHA frame death differently because of their particular themes and storylines.BNHA’s premise is based in superhero genre, where death is usually meaningless; RWBY’s is in fairy tales and alchemy--both of which have death as a central tenet. Yes, fairy tales, while we think of them as being very kid-friendly, almost always include an aspect of death and/or loss. RWBY frames death as part of life, BNHA frames death as something that villains utilize to hurt and thus needs to be stopped. For RWBY accepting death is literally the main conflict (Salem's motivation is her inability to do this!) while BNHA saving people from being hurt is the main conflict.
I’ve seen so many takes that RWBY is critical of self-sacrifice, and it is just... not. It doesn’t glorify it, but it doesn’t deconstruct it either. Pyrrha’s death is not a sacrifice; she’s not trying to gain time. She’s just trying to do the right thing for herself, to be the hero she knew she was. Her death is somewhat pyrrhic, yes, because everything still collapses, but Pyrrha’s life--of which her death is a part, not the end--is far from futile. The scene with Pyrrha’s mother at the statue of her shows that Pyrrha’s heroic legacy, her determination to do all she could to stop Cinder even when she knew it was hopeless to stop her--that helps Pyrrha to live beyond her death. I mean, RWBYJNROE are facing the possibility of never being able to defeat Salem, but they’re still fighting, just like Pyrrha.
As for actual sacrifices in the story, Hazel’s death saves the kids. Vine’s saves his friends. Penny’s saves her people for now, but it doesn't immediately solve the conflicts either. Thus, it doesn’t glorify her death or hold death up as a worthy goal, but it does respect her choice and does not frame it as a bad or futile thing (if it was a bad thing, she wouldn’t have saved everyone even if temporarily).
Penny wanted to be a human being; that was her greatest wish, even with the guarantee of eventual death and no guarantee of tomorrow. She always was human, of course, but she wanted to be human in all senses, including the physical as well as the spiritual (which she always was).
Is her resulting death a negative framing of that choice? No, I don’t think so. In RWBY, death is not punishment. Grief is not a punishment. Death is a part of life, and learning to live with death (grief) is essential to a peaceful, healthy world. We see what happens when people cannot accept death and grieve (Hazel and Salem). 
Penny’s whole thing was that her choices weren’t respected. She was constantly objectified. Yet choice is a fundamental part of being human, and the repercussions of our choices are a part of that. She wanted to choose. Like with SnK, sometimes all we have is choice in RWBY. It’s one of the gifts of the gods, after all. All they can do is choose to keep fighting, keep trying in a broken world.
Yes, I do think it’s a bit of a valid criticism to have had Penny suicidal a few episodes ago, but she was not suicidal in the moment of her death. She wasn’t hoping to die. She had gotten everything she wanted; she could not be controlled anymore, not in the way she had been. She was giving it her all against Cinder to save her friends and her people; if Cinder hadn’t shown up, she would have just gone to Vacuo. Her final choice was to decide what to do with her power, sometime Cinder could not take from her. And like Pyrrha, she will continue to live on in those she loved--in Winter via the powers, and in spirit with her friends and their memories.
Penny’s death is not a negative thing, but bringing her back against her wishes would be.
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swoglet · 3 years
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like....I wish there was a safe place to talk about my suicidal ideation. Like where people won’t automatically assume I’m in a crisis and need to go to the hospital. I am, but I won’t do anything about it lol. 
Like, I can’t run from something my brain is constantly whirring about. I want to die. That’s just a fact. I’m much too cowardly to ever do the deed myself. And it is 100% cowardice, not ~strength~. I’m so tired of every minute of every day slogging on like this. I’m so exhausted from always FEELING like this. I just want it all to stop. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being so broken that the bare minimum is almost too much for me to handle. Like, what the fuck? I used to at least be able to do SOME things. Now it just feels like all I can do is get up, eat, and sleep. Money is draining at an alarming rate and I have no income to compensate. 
I lived away from home for 5 years in orlando. I don’t think I could even still DO that now. I’m going to be 29 in 2 months. I have NOTHING to show for it. Nothing. People who make me believe I have meaning to them toss me aside and I just fucking take it. I take it and I don’t seek people out. Because why the fuck would I? You get used to cracking slowly rather than shattering completely 
I can’t still be so emotionally stunted that I repel people like water on oil. I’m not dumb. I’m fairly smart. That part of me is so disgusted with the rest of me and it’s uselessness. 
I’ve given up, but I can’t seal the deal, so I’m just stuck in this awful purgatory state for....who knows how much longer. I don’t know how to even begin changing it. I don’t think I even still can.
Covid made everything 500% worse. I had just started going out and meeting people by myself winter of 2019. Now I’m a complete shut-in- worse than ever before. I don’t even like to go to the grocery store
But it feels like it’s been too late for me for too long. In every sense. My understanding of the world as a kid said that I wouldn’t live past my 18th birthday due to being diabetic and it was pointless to care, and here we are almost 11 years later without any planning or growth. Like, I’ll be getting my two year degree after doing 4 years at UCF unsuccessfully. Every step has been difficulty after difficulty and it’s just so frustrating. And the worst part is, no one can help me. I have to drag my broken body and mind through the mud stone by fucking stone to get anywhere, and I’m tired of dragging.
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honeyandbloodpoetry · 3 years
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Abuse and Gender Expression - Gender Thoughts Part Three
Huuuuuge trigger warnings for peer abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse, religious abuse, a murder attempt and mentions of self harm, suicidal ideation and an eating disorder. 18+ talk of sexual activity also included. Discretion advised!
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I feel like the first time I realized I needed to perform high femininity to be accepted was in sixth grade. I was slotted into a rotating elective class, and the first one was a careers class. That careers class was utter hell for me. Every single day, I was tormented by an entire classroom of about twenty of my peers. I was bullied, no, abused for being fat and ugly and weird. I was called a whore, and told the only way I could ever be loved was someone raping me. Things were thrown at me, I was shoved down and tripped. I was bullied for my special interest in Transformers. I was told I was so fat and ugly I should be killed and be made into meat and cheese and fed to starving people because that was my only worth. Every single day I was told I should kill myself in varying ways. And all of that is just a quick summary. It was intense and brutal abuse for an entire semester, and I distinctly remember a day where there was a literal pool of tears on my desk. I couldn’t understand. I reached out to the teacher for help, and genuinely can’t remember exactly what he said. All I know is that he simply watched, and sometimes even joined in with “jokes” of his own. This was also the year abuse from my mother amped up, and home was a warzone--we were constantly arguing, and she became a professional at gaslighting and poking and prodding me until I exploded so I could be blamed for fighting back. My father would vacantly stand by and remind me not to fight back. This was also the year I began to self harm as a way of release. 
I remember thinking that if I looked more like the girls in my class, I wouldn’t be bullied so much. I was told I was ugly and unlovable, so I thought that if I performed more femininely, maybe I could be like those who tormented me and therefore not be a target. I thought there was something inherently wrong with the way I presented myself. I convinced my mother to take me to the store, and I bought wedge heels and gaudy jewelry I did not like to wear with my uniform--replacing my autobot necklace and sweatband. In another class I was teased for not shaving and for having ugly feet, so I learned to paint my nails, file my heels, and shave every bit of hair on my body--the echo of my father saying that since I grew pubic hair, I was now a woman and held accountable for all of my sins an echo on the cusp of my mind. I did everything in my power to be more pretty and girly. I used to be loud and rambunctious, and began to go silent and demure.
I remember walking up to the class in the new get-up that was certainly not me. I felt that I would be accepted but as I walked up...I fell flat on my ass. I couldn’t walk in the heels. They all pointed and laughed at me, and the abuse continued in even higher intensity. It was until the next semester that I fought back by throwing a desk at two of my abusers who followed me to the next rotating elective, screaming and snarling at them to leave me alone. Those two in particular stopped, but abuse from others continued for many years in many instances. I developed an eating disorder, continued self harming, and began to try and form femininity and “attractiveness” to the best of my ability. I added things like bows and kitty ears and flower crowns to my wardrobe--sure they were cute, and I did like them in a way, but it felt like putting on a costume or some sort of womanly obligation. It didn’t feel like me. Years later, I was told by someone I trusted that I was “too fat to wear pants”, which I internalized and began to only wear dresses--same thing with feeling like I was wearing a costume. I tried to be beautiful. I wanted to be butch, be myself, but I felt that if I was a cute and girly girl, demure and sweet, I wouldn’t be a target. I would be loved. 
And so I locked myself away. 
My relationship with my mother was a rocky one. She is definitely a sick and broken person, but I doubt she will ever get help. She swings between extremes, and I was always her doll and punching bag. She had a habit of pushing and pushing, finding all the littles holes in me that triggered autistic meltdowns and despair. She criticized everything about me, from my weight and height to my blaming me for how tangled my hair was. She entered me in sports and spelling bees with gentle but insisting prodding about how good I would be when I would rather be reading or playing, and when I got frustrated she would say it was my choice...when in reality I just wanted her approval. When I got older, and especially after my father killed himself, I began to fight back and question her authority though--sometimes violently. She didn’t like that, and was violent right back, and oftentimes first. I struggled my whole life with blaming myself for my outbursts and reactions, but through therapy I have learned I was a child being gaslit and abused, shown that violence was the only answer… And through therapy, I have learned to do better and grow. The worst instance of abuse was me having an autistic meltdown where I said that we should both just die and her response was to pull out a gun and point it at me--I collapsed down into our trash covered room (I was forced to share a bed with her) and pleaded with her to stop. She threatened to kill me and help me out since I was so suicidal, then turned the gun on herself and threatened to kill herself, in which I had to talk her down. When the gun was down, I fled in a flurry of tears and barely contained screams. It was truly the most horrible moment of my life, and I still struggle with the ptsd of that moment to this day. I was only fourteen.
All that background to say, my mother was extremely possessive of my body. She seemed to love to touch my breasts and butt, jerk me around, slap my butt, watch me get dressed. When I begged her to stop, she would tell me that she made that body and could do whatever she wanted to it. I found messages on her phone of her talking to guys about having sex with me and stealing my panties. She wouldn’t let me do my own hair because I couldn’t do it right. She wouldn’t let me bathe alone until I was over ten years old. I didn’t ever have my own room until I was 18 and shared it with my partner. She never let me play with my hair and kept a close eye on what I wore. This combined with my very religious Christian father, who said things like “if you know more song lyrics than bible verses when you die, you’ll go to hell” and the aforementioned accountability, along with things like letting me know he loved God more than me and always seeming to walk in while I was changing… I always felt owned by something. I never felt like my body or my identity belonged to me alone. And so it was extremely difficult to explore myself.
Sexual exploration became an outlet. I was asexual and didn’t possess sexual attraction or a desire for coital sex (still don’t), but I enjoyed kink play with my partner and playing with myself. I enjoyed porn, mostly stories. I always felt drawn to mlm porn, but never understood why. I saw myself in the big, fat men of the stories. I wished it could be me, wished I was a big hairy man like that. Wished I could be loved like that. Reading those types of erotica always got me off and made me feel relaxed and fulfilled, no matter what kink it regarded. Of course my mom would slutshame me without even knowing what I got up to, but sexual activity and pornography helped me find solace and ownership of my body. When I was aroused and taking care of myself, being taken care of, or taking care of someone else, I felt like I was finally in control of my body and my happiness. I had been sexually abused in different ways by different people throughout my life, and finding a certain safety and security in the kind of sexual activity I explored made me feel like...me. I found myself in those big men, but still didn’t make the connection that I was not cis. 
It wasn’t until many years that I began to question my gender. First nonbinary, then agender, then genderfluid, then bigender, then nonbinary again, now finally transmasc. I am autistic and struggle with a resistance to change. I have struggled with shifting my name because it feels like a betrayal to become something new. So I have become Charis instead of Charissa...but I think I may be Myles instead. Since I have struggled with abuse and feeling owned my whole life, it is scary to take my self creation into my own hands. People I am close to have expressed concern and dislike for my transition--especially my mother. I came out to her two days ago over the phone when she guessed I was transgender--or “wanted a sex change” as she put it. She outed me to her anti-lgbt boyfriend without my consent, and now they want to have a discussion. She cried and told me it was too much and she couldn’t talk yet. I am still unsure of what to do about it. I know my mother is broken, and has come far from the cruelty she was once capable of--but she still swings. I see those shattered pieces and their sharp edges and know they have the ability to cut. It is terrifying. 
Coming out, especially after so many years of abuse, has been absolutely terrifying and difficult. I am still navigating how to do it, especially with a name change. The clinic I am going to for hrt screwed up with their scheduling and had to reschedule me for later this month, a frustrating thing. I am looking forward to starting hrt, but also scared how people will treat me once those changes begin happening. Even with these fears and struggling with my interpersonal relationships...this is the greatest choice I have ever made. It is my truth and my freedom, and I will fight against that fear to become my most authentic self. I have an incredible partner by my side, and with their support and my own self love, I can do anything. 
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whump-tr0pes · 4 years
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Honor Bound 4 - 1
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Honor Bound 4 - 1 (On the Run) @badthingshappenbingo​​
Requested by anon.
Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!
~
This is a series. We resume from where Honor Bound 3 ended here.
This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, and Honor Bound 3. 
AO3
Cw: dissoci@tion, briefest mention of possible suicidal ideations, blood, ketamine mention, thoughts of death, narcotics mention, past noncon mention
~
Isaac felt like he might keel over and die right in the middle of the road. His hands were tightened into fists on the wheel as he drove slowly into Crayton, just one car on his tail this time. He glanced at it in the rearview every few seconds. His throat worked around a nervous swallow as he returned his eyes to the road.
Vera sat rigid beside him. Isaac didn’t think she’d taken a breath in at least thirty seconds. Every now and then she glanced back at Tori. Tori sat slumped against the door of the car, eyes blank and unfocused, staring out into the dark. It was almost midnight. All of them had barely slept since yesterday.
They’d all caught snatches of sleep every now and then, nodding off onto the shoulders of the people next to them, jerking awake moments later with a jolt of terror. We still aren’t safe yet. We still have to get to Gray.
Ellis sat next to Tori. One hand sat gently on Tori’s hand on the seat, and the other reached back towards Finn. Finn clutched at Ellis with one hand and with the other touched Sam. On their hair, on their back, on their leg. Constantly moving. Constantly desperate to help. Constantly able to do nothing.
Isaac was almost grateful he couldn’t see Sam in the dark. He knew exactly what they would look like; they hadn’t changed in the entire drive north, starting yesterday afternoon, stretching through the night, through the entire next day, and now halfway through this night. Everyone had driven except Sam and Tori. Everyone was barely able to stay conscious. Isaac wished he could sleep and never wake up.
Even though he couldn’t see Sam, he could hear them. Hear their whimpers, their ragged breaths, their cries every time he drove over a bump. He knew the seat must be soaked in their sweat and stained with blood. Finn had stopped the bleeding in Sam’s arm at Lucy and Topher’s house, and it hadn’t started bleeding again. Their whip marks, on the other hand, had broken open and bled into the fabric of the seat as they writhed against the pain in their arm. The pain had started just a few minutes after they left the house.
“Ketamine doesn’t last very long,” Finn had offered as an explanation. As if that was all Isaac needed. As if could rest easy in that knowledge, with Sam nearly delirious with pain, the pills Finn was feeding them seeming to do almost nothing. “They’d be screaming if they didn’t have them,” Finn said. “Believe me, they’re helping.” Isaac’s chest ached with every little sound Sam made. His hands tightened further on the steering wheel.
He started slightly as Vera brushed the back of his hand with her fingers. “We’ll be okay,” she murmured. “We’ll get through. No matter what, we’ll get through.”
Isaac swallowed hard. “What if they—”
“They won’t.” Vera’s mouth hardened into a line.
“But what—”
“If they do…” Vera drew in a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. “…we’ll handle it. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
If we have to shoot our way out of this, we’ll start a war with the north. We’ll never be safe, north or south. We’ll always have to run. We’ll always be days or moments away from being killed. How will I keep my family safe, then? How will I protect them all when the entire world wants us tortured or dead? Isaac’s eyes filled with tears. How many times will I have to try to die for them before I actually keep them safe from something?
He already knew the answer. As many as it takes.
Vera pushed his shoulder and he started again. He shot a glance at her. Her skin was almost black in the darkness, but he could see her eyes burning into him in the light coming from the headlights. “Stop it,” she said gently. “I can see you’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling,” Isaac said, and consciously relaxed his hands. “I’m… um…” He shrugged. “…worried.”
Vera kept looking at him even after he looked back at the road. “Okay,” she said softly. She turned back to face the front. “Okay.”
By now, they’d passed most of the houses and were entering Crayton proper. The streets were wider, albeit still torn up, haphazardly paved. Done with the best the town could do. The gatekeepers of the north, defending all the people beyond it from the meager attempts the syndicates waged to tear them apart. No one cared about the north.
They would, if they knew where we were.
Isaac pulled into the square and slowed the car to a stop. He carefully opened his door, his hands raised. A floodlight attached to the car following them blazed on and blinded Isaac. He blinked and turned his head away from the light.
He couldn’t see past the light, but he could hear two car doors slamming, and the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. His hands shook. He tried to hold them steady. He heard a short intake of breath as two figures stepped into the floodlight.
“Are… are you… Isaac Moore?”
Isaac bit his lip. Oh, god. Please let that not be a bad thing. “Y-yeah,” he rasped.
“And you… did you really…?”
“Please,” he breathed. He motioned to the car with his head. “Please. We’ve got… we’ve got a few who are hurt. We just escaped from C-Colleen Stormbeck, and… please. We need to find Gray Uriah. They’re our family and we just need to… just need to find them.”
“Who else is with you?” the other voice asked nervously.
“My family,” Isaac said weakly, turning and gesturing to the car. The others were all slowly climbing out. All but Gavin.
Gavin’s not with us. Have to sell that. Have to make them believe it, too. He couldn’t let them know that Gavin crouched on the floor in the back seat, huddled under a blanket, probably praying just as hard as Isaac was that they wouldn’t search the car too closely.
Tori hobbled away from the car and Vera rushed to her side. Ellis got out of the car and immediately went to help Finn pull Sam out. Sam’s head lolled on their neck, sweat shining on their skin. Isaac’s stomach dropped. We need to get them help. More blood, maybe. And rest.
Isaac let his hands fall to his sides, slowly, slowly. One figure appeared in the beam of the floodlight, a gun held tight in his hands but low to the ground. Peering at the family. Nervous, but not suspicious.
Not yet.
Not helpful.
The other stepped into the light and stopped by Isaac’s side. “Did you really kill Colleen Stormbeck?” she murmured.
“Yes,” Isaac said weakly. “But we have to get to Gray Uriah… please… please…”
Isaac turned and the man was peering through the windows of their car, shining a flashlight in each one and moving on. He opened the trunk and nodded when he saw the meager supply of food the family had left over from their twenty-hour sprint to the north. He finally turned and went back to his partner’s side. They both holstered their guns.
“You were here before,” the man said. “A few weeks ago. You were going to go…”
“And we killed her,” Isaac said, desperation growing. Sam stumbled and fell against Finn’s side. They cried out weakly and staggered, nearly falling to their knees.
Isaac’s hands curled into fists. Tears threatened in his eyes. “Please,” he whispered.
The silhouettes of the man and woman looked at each other, then looked back at Isaac. The woman spoke. “…and what happened to Gavin Stormbeck?”
Isaac wet his lips and shivered in the cool night. “He’s, um, dead.”
The woman sucked in a breath through her lips. “Him, too? The entire Stormbeck family is dead?”
“He didn’t die a Stormbeck,” Isaac whimpered. “He died one of us.”
“He was never one of you,” the man snapped. “They don’t change.”
“He did,” Isaac said, a little firmer. Arguing with them is pointless. He isn’t dead. But Sam is hurt. Sam is bleeding. He shook his head. “Please,” he begged again. “Please. Gray Uriah. We just want to find them so we can recoup. Please.”
The two looked at each other again and held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The woman nodded. The man looked to Isaac and gestured with his hand to the car. “Go,” he said softly. “I know your names. I’ll get you checked in with the city hall.”
Isaac’s breath rushed out of him. “Thank you.”
The man shrugged. “If you killed Colleen Stormbeck…” He spread his hands. “…it’s the least we can do.”
Isaac wet his lips. “And… and Gray Uriah?”
The man gestured past the car, pointing north. “Keep going. They moved to a farmhouse with the young one… what was her name?”
“Edrissa Clarke,” Isaac and Vera said at the same time.
“Right,” the woman murmured. “Head north out of Crayton. They’re a few hours out still. This road will take you to Burmingham, take a right on first street there and follow that out for about twelve miles. There will be a fork. Take the right one. On the left will be a lake, and the farmhouse is just past the lake on the left.”
Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, visualizing the directions. “Take this out of Crayton, go to Burmingham, right on first, twelve miles, fork, right, pass the lake, farmhouse on the left.”
“Right.” The woman shrugged awkwardly. “So… I guess…”
Isaac was already turning to go. “Thank you,” he said in a rush. He went immediately to Sam’s side and half-carried them to the back seat. They flinched and wailed pitifully as his arm pressed against the whip marks on their back. “I’m sorry,” Isaac murmured as his eyes filled with tears.
“I-Isaac,” they whimpered. Their left hand closed on his shirt. “Isaac, it… it hurts…”
Isaac looked desperately at Finn as he helped Sam into the car. “Finn…?”
Finn shuddered and shook their head. “Can’t give more Vicodin. It has Tylenol in it, Isaac. If I overdose them, I fuck their liver. Tylenol overdoses are very hard to manage, even in the hospital. I c-can’t… help them…” Finn dissolved into a sob.
Isaac grabbed Finn and dragged them into a crushing hug. “Not your fault,” he whispered. “Not your fault. Let’s just get them to Gray. We’ll see if Gray can get them something else. Do you think they’ll need more blood?”
Finn ran a hand through their hair. “Fluids, at least,” they said, biting their lip. “Maybe blood. I don’t know. I haven’t checked a pressure in a while.”
“Let me know,” Isaac said as he stepped away. He rushed to the driver’s seat and jumped when he saw Vera already sitting there.
“I’ll drive,” she said as she stuck her thumb at the passenger seat. “It’s only a few more hours. I’ll drive.”
“Are you sure?” Isaac said weakly, already moving.
“Sure,” Vera said as Isaac appeared on the other side of the car. “No problem. Let’s just go.”
Isaac nodded slowly and pulled the door closed. Vera glanced in the rearview to make sure everyone was in, and slowly got the car rolling. Isaac thought he could see Vera’s jaw clench and he was sure she was looking at Tori.
He reached out and squeezed Vera’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ll get her back.”
Vera sniffed. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. Finally, she said, “You don’t know that. She’s never been gone this long before. She’s never…” Vera swallowed hard, and Isaac could hear the sob she was fighting down. “She’s… god, Isaac, look at her. She’s…”
“She’s not broken,” he said gently. “Not completely. You found your way back from this. You found a way.”
Vera cast a glance back at Tori, then back to the road. “We’re all broken,” she said bitterly.
Isaac opened his mouth to protest. He closed it slowly.
She’s right, Isaac thought heavily. We are all broken. Tori’s hurt beyond repair, Ellis nearly lost their mind, Finn is eaten alive with guilt, Vera’s voice was taken away again, Gavin thinks he deserves to die for hurting us when he’s the only one who could have gotten us out, and Sam…
Isaac’s mind cried out when he thought of Sam. Over and over, unbidden, images flashed across his mind of Sam’s bruises, the lines on their back left from the whip, the marks around their neck from where they’d been dragged and pinned and strangled with the collar. Their whimpering sobs cut through him like a knife. I told Sam I hate them. I let them hurt Sam. I begged them to hurt them. They’re broken, shattered beyond repair, and it’s because of me. Scalding rage moved through his chest. This is all because of me.
He couldn’t think at all about the ways he’d been broken. He couldn’t think of his own scars, his own wounds, his own pain. He pushed it down. It was irrelevant. Unimportant. His pain meant nothing, because he was supposed to suffer for his family. That’s what he was for.
No. He pulled himself back from the edge of that cliff. I hated myself before I ever loved them. His pain meant something, because what if he wasn’t meant to hurt? What if he was meant for something else, instead?
He couldn’t think of how broken he was, because he was most broken in his mind. He was so broken, he’d gotten feelings for his one-time captor. For the man who beat him, scarred him, very nearly killed him. Very nearly killed Sam. He now felt something for the man who had changed. Who had renounced his name and his birthright, who gave up on everything he’d ever known to come be a captive and an informant on his own family. Who had found a way to be good, despite everything he’d done, everything he’d been through. He felt something now for the man that sacrificed his soul to keep his family safe. He felt something for the man that had hurt him. Violated him, on his mother’s orders. He felt something for the man he’d asked to make him feel good, to make him feel like he was being made love to, instead of being chained down and raped.
I could never love Gavin Stormbeck, Isaac thought. But I could be in love with Gavin Uriah. I could be with him, if only he wanted me, too.
Isaac swallowed hard. When they finally left Crayton, Isaac turned.
“You can come out now,” he said softly. Gavin emerged slowly from behind the seat, eyes wide and terrified. They found Isaac’s and didn’t let go until Isaac turned around to face the front.
Continued here
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Hi Gina, I'm the anon that asked about the suicide trigger warnings. Thank you so much it was really helpful! I really appreciate you for going into detail and everything, and I'm also glad that you brought up how we need to use those tws on reblogs too because I've noticed a lot of people forget those.
I did have one slightly more specific question that I alluded to in the previous message but hadn't asked in case you didn't want to get into it. But now now I know you're willing, I thought you'd be a good person to ask.
So a tag I've used in the past is "Tw Suicidal Ideation" because I didn't think the post quite fit as "Tw Suicide" but now I'm wondering if that was the right thing to do or not. I want to make sure I'm helping to keep this site a safe place for everyone by tagging accordingly, and I just wasn't sure what I should tag in this situation.
Thanks again for being so kind and really typing out a thoughtful answer. 🙂
Hey darling, sorry for the late reply, been writing and I don’t like to interrupt that time or I forget everything like a gold fish <3 I’m so sorry.
I’m glad you liked my answer, I do wish people would try to pay attention to trigger warnings more, because whilst in movies and books and in real life we are constantly attacked with all the information regardless of making us feel uncomfortable or not, here we can create a space that protects us from certin uncomfortably. 
Using the below is a good idea,
#Tw Suicidal Ideation 
#Tw: Suicidal Ideation
#Suicidal Ideation
however, it does contain the thought of suicide. When we are talking about suicide as a trigger warning, that simple word itself can trigger people. So I’d say it’s better to use the below as well.
#suicide
#tw suicide
#tw: suicide
#trigger warning
#tw
A simple mention of the idea of taking a bottle of pills to fall asleep as an example could trigger people even though it doesn’t state that it’s suicide, it only points to that direction. The thought of someone thinking of suicide as an escape or even the planning that leads up to it can also be triggering. 
Now, of course, it might not be obvious, but when someone says they wish to die that is also a passive version of suicide ideation so it is also triggering to some. In that case it really depends on the tone of the person or the way it was written, because people do say it out of frustration sometimes. 
I would say anything that contains passive or active suicidal ideation should be tagged as the above tags because they do contain the thought and/or the word and can be interpreted in many possible ways. 
In conclusion, if you think something could be linked to suicide even in the slightest possible way, just tag it.
I hope this helps. :)
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boldly-ho · 4 years
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Another Life - Chapter 10
Fandom: What We  Do in the Shadows 
Pairing: Vladislav x Reader
Series Rating: M
Word Count: 1838
Chapter Summary: You clear the air with all four flatmates.
A/N: As always, cross posted to AO3.
Warning: Brief mentions of suicidal ideation.
You entered the lounge in your pajamas, your face already washed, and your hair messy. You collapsed onto the couch and started scrolling through your phone, making excellent progress on spending the evening in a near vegetative state.
“You’re not going out tonight?” Dawn asked.
You didn’t look up from your phone. “No. It’s been weeks. That guy’s not coming back; I scared him off for good. So I figured I might as well stay home until my depressive state killed me, quite possibly by my own hand,” you deadpanned.
“Y/N. That’s not funny.”
“Sorry.”
Changing the subject from your macabre exaggeration, Dawn suggested, “Let’s go out tonight.”
You threw her a look.
“No, really. Like actually out. Not just you sitting alone and sad at bar waiting for someone you may or may not have known to show up. Let’s go out, you and me, for a girl’s night. We’ll go out for drinks and dancing. Not Boogie Wonderland. You need a break from that place. Some other club.”
“Rain check?” You didn’t feel like going out. You didn’t feel like having fun. You felt like lying on the couch until you wasted away.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m really worried about you.”
You brushed off her comment, but you were getting sort of worried about yourself, as well. You’d stopped going to see your psychologist. Earlier in the day you found yourself wishing you would go to sleep and just not wake up. You were constantly miserable, surviving but not living.
“Well if you really don’t want to go out, why don’t we stay in and have a movie night? I’ll rent something online and then order a pizza, my treat, okay?”
You didn’t really feel like doing anything, but you recognized that Dawn was trying her best, and you appreciated it. And watching a movie and binging on pizza in your pjs seemed much more manageable that getting dressed up to go out and party.
You nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
~
The kitchen table was much too small for all five of you. Your elbows bumped either Vladislav on your left or Petyr on your right every time you shifted. Petyr sort of gave you the heebie jeebies, so you found yourself leaning slightly away from him, putting you uncomfortably close to Vladislav. You suggested relocating to the dining room, but were told that it was currently covered in blood and had a corpse laying on the table. You weren’t sure what was more unsettling, the fact that that was the state of the dining room, or that that news was delivered to you so nonchalantly. Nevertheless, the dining room was to an option, so you were all squeezed around the tiny kitchen table.
Viago cleared his throat before beginning. “We are here to clear the air about our being vampires and discuss our living situation with Y/N. It might be helpful if we reintroduced ourselves, properly, this time. I’ll go first.” He turned to address you directly. I am Viago Von Dorna Schmarten Scheden Heimburg.”
You stared blankly.
“Oh, and I’m 379 years old,” he added as an afterthought.
You tried to do the mental math in your head, but quickly gave up and decided to figure it out later.
“Deacon Brucke. I’m 183 years old.”
“Vladislav the Poker.  862 years old.”
He might not have been kidding about the Middle Ages last night, after all. You turned to Petyr, anticipating his introduction.
“Petyr,” he rasped, his voice as cold and creepy as the rest of him.
You waited for his age, but he stared blankly at you with his pale eyes, not volunteering any further information.
“We don’t know how old Petyr is,” Viago explained. “He lost track. Over 8,000, though.”
Your jaw dropped. “For real?”
Your turned back to Petyr and he nodded once. Shit. Okay, then.
Viago continued, “Y/N, do have any questions about vampires in general or specifically about any of us?”
You figured a general ‘Tell me about vampires.’ was too open-ended, and you tried to think of a more specific question. You had a lot of questions, though, and you didn’t know where to start. You also had some vague ideas and assumptions about vampires, but you didn’t know which, if any, were true. “How about I just tell you what I’ve heard about vampires, and you guys can correct me where I’m wrong and fill in the gaps. Does that work?”
The four looked to one another before nodding.
“So, you-“ You realized you didn’t quite feel comfortable referring to them as vampires, so you restarted, more generally. “So, vampires need to consume human blood. They sleep in coffins, during the day. Sunlight, garlic, silver, and crosses are all bad for them.” You looked around to see that all four were still nodding along, so you continued, rattling things off a bit faster. “Not showing up in mirrors, turning into bats, flying, having to be invited in, wooden stakes, hypnosis, and whatever Deacon did with that guy’s backpack.”
“Teleportation,” Deacon clarified.
You nodded, but tried not to give it too much thought. Watching him crawl out of that backpack was easily the most horrifying thing you’d ever encountered, and you felt the ball of fear and anxiety in your stomach return just remembering it.
“Vampires also have quicker and superior healing ability than humans.”
“And it’s not just bats,” Deacon added. “Cats and dogs, too. But with practice it can be any animal. Vladislav is known for his transformation abilities.”
Vladislav smiled proudly. “That’s not practice, though, that’s skill.”
“Ja, some vampires have certain abilities that other vampires don’t. I once met a vampire who could become invisible,” Viago explained.
“It isn’t just crucifixes, either.” Vladislav glanced quickly to your chest where he knew your necklace hung. “It’s any religious icons or words.”
“Really? Words? Like even if I just say ‘god’-“
You were cut off by wincing and hissing from around the table.
“Don’t do that!” Deacon scolded you.
“Shit. Sorry.” As frightening as vampires inherently were, it made you feel better that they had their weaknesses. “So is it just vampires? That are real, I mean? Or is every mythological creature real? Do I need to be on the lookout for, like, ghosts?”
“Ghosts aren’t real,” Deacon scoffed.
“Of course ghosts are real,” Viago argued.
“Oh really? Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“Not technically. But the house I grew up in was haunted! There was a spirit who lived in the walls.”
“There was not. It was probably a rat.”
“You think I would confuse a rat for a ghost?”
“So, there’s no reason for me to change my thoughts on ghosts?” you interrupted.
“Ghosts are real,” Vladislav answered. You took it with a grain of salt, though. “Werewolves are real, too.” The rest of the group nodded. “I wouldn’t go out on full moons, if I were you. There is a pack that roams in Te Aro.”
That thought chilled you. You were sure you’d gone out in Te Aro on a full moon before. Then again, you’d gone out many times before unaware that there were vampires, including your current flatmates, out and about.
“Zombies and witches, too.”
“We’re not sure what all exists,” Viago told you. “Lots of myths are true, and lots aren’t. Some Maori myths are based on real creatures.”
“Oh! Petyr, remember the taniwha that attacked our ship when we came to New Zealand?”
Petyr nodded solemnly.
Vampires, werewolves, assorted creatures. Your entire worldview was being forcibly changed over these past 24 hours, but you just nodded. What else could you do?
“I’m safe, right?” you asked suddenly. “From you guys? I mean, there’s literally a dead body in the other room.” You were afraid it sounded more accusatory than you meant it, but you felt it was a fair question, all in all.
“We can control ourselves,” Deacon said, somewhat indignantly.
“You’re our flatmate and our friend. You don’t have to worry.”
“Thanks.” You thought it was odd to thank someone for not killing you, but you didn’t know what else to say. “Is there anything you guys need from me? As a human flatmate? Other than not slamming the doors and being quiet during daylight hours?”
“Don’t tell anyone we’re vampires,” Vladislav said sternly. “Not anyone. Not ever. Vampire hunters are also real and when word gets out that you are a vampire, you tend not to be around soon after.” He, as well as the other three, looked deadly serious.
You nodded quickly to reassure them. “I won’t tell anyone.” You looked around the table. Everyone was still seated, though it felt like the natural conclusion to the flat meeting. “About the dining room…?”
“Jackie will be here to clean it up later tonight,” Deacon said.
“Is she a vampire, too?”
“No. She is my familiar.”
“Familiar?” To you, the word conjured images of black kittens following cartoon witches on broomsticks. You weren’t sure how the term applied to the woman you’d once met.
“Slave,” Vladislav clarified.
You looked at him in shock, and he returned your gaze, shameless and undisturbed. It wasn’t the first time something that had appalled you had entirely unaffected him. You wondered if that was a result of his being a vampire, his living for over 800 years, his being from the Middle Ages, or if it was just how he was as a person.  
Undoubtedly sensing your discomfort, Viago clarified, “A familiar serves a vampire for a while in exchange for being turned into a vampire after service.”
You calmed a bit. That sounded better than ‘slave.’ “So you’re going to turn her into a vampire?”
“No,” Deacon snorted.
“What? Why not?”
“Familiars don’t get turned into vampires.”
“Well, sometimes, probably, they do,” Viago argued. “I’ve never actually heard of it happening, though.”
“You’ve lost me,” you told them honestly.
Vladislav sighed. “Familiars exchange their service for the promise of becoming a vampire. Then they serve their masters until they die of old age or are killed.”
You exclaimed in disgust. “That’s horrible.”
Vladislav shrugged, his sleeve brushing your bare arm. These guys all ate actual, live people to survive. You supposed their moral compasses would have to be a bit more skewed than yours was.
However, despite your clear distaste for it all, you felt relieved to know they were vampires. It was one thing to kill because you could, or because you wanted to, as you thought had been the case before last night. It was another to kill because you had to. Yes, innocent people still died, and yes, your flatmates seemed to enjoy it. Deacon’s manic laughter as he chased that man out of your room was sure to haunt you for a while to come. But no matter how awful it was for the victims, or or how little guilt they felt about it, they had to do it to survive. And that fact alone made you feel better, if only a bit.
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littleoldrachel · 4 years
Text
i am burned out (i smell of smoke) - part three
you are all TOO NICE TO ME i can’t cope with how kind you are!!!
here is part three!
(i'm having a pretty hard time with my own bad brain at the moment so pls don't hate me for the typos, etc. i will fix them when my brain is less yoghurty, pls forgive me)
good news: the next chapter will only be a bit more angst and then it's all comfort from there on out i PROMISE he's gonna be okay <3
i am burned out (i smell of smoke) [on ao3]
summary: in which virgil falls apart, learns how to put himself back together, and realises he doesn’t have to do it alone.
word count: 6.7k ish ( part 1/5 | part 2/5 | part 3/5)
warnings: mental health issues -  look so there is some pretty intense mental health stuff in here so please. go careful. also trigger warnings for some super brief suicidal ideation. you are loved and i am here if you need a reminder of that <3
timeline: i suppose this is set in early TAG verse?  jeff is missing and nobody is Coping Well.
happy belated birthday, nutty!! <3
iii.
The days that follow are an enigma. 
Later, in therapy, he'll struggle to remember a single detail. There is simply a gap that promises pain should he poke it too hard, and he will shy away from reliving a single minute of it.
At the time though…
It’s a waterfall of suffering; he is cascading down, down, down, and every time he grabs a hold, his hand slips on smooth rock and agonising memories. Relentless misery beats down on him until he stops even trying to raise his head, because it is always stronger than him. Hitting the bottom, he is submerged, unable to distinguish the surface from the floor because of the murky grey all around him, and he can’t breathe down here, he’s alone down here, he’s going to die down here. 
So. The days that follow feel a lot like drowning - and Virgil would know. 
He can’t breathe and his limbs are too heavy and everything is muted, grey, useless, but himself most of all. He cannot feel much of anything at all beneath this crushing despair, but he knows that he is utterly sick of himself, beyond exhausted of feeling so terrible, desperate for a way out but unable to communicate this to his family.
He spends a lot of time thinking about his parents. Not a day goes by where he doesn’t remember them, but it’s usually memories of their lives, rather than grisly and traumatic thoughts of their deaths. But now, he can’t seem to stop himself from fixating on the way his mother turned the snow around her berry-red as she first stopped shaking, then speaking, then breathing. Nor how his father’s final moments must have been elation-turned-fear, how the heat of the flames must have engulfed him all at once, if there was any relief that he would once more be with Lucy -
He never allows himself to think these thoughts. They're too upsetting, too raw, too painful.
But now, he is powerless to stop them. 
On the fifth day of this new low - though it is fast becoming Virgil’s norm and that terrifies him - the klaxon sounds and Virgil can barely drag himself to the lounge. He does so anyway, arriving in time to see Gordon disappearing down his chute. Scott casts a glance in his direction as he makes his own way to his ship, concern blossoming at the sight of Virgil’s blank eyes. 
“Go to bed, Virg, you look rough.”
(Virgil doesn’t argue, which only tightens the knot of worry in Scott’s stomach, but he shoves it aside in favour of the rescue).
Virgil returns to bed, avoiding all reflective surfaces he can. He knows how terrible he looks and he cannot stand the sight of himself, but he also can’t seem to bring himself to get in the fucking shower. 
He’s disgusted with himself - it’s no wonder Scott didn’t want him on the rescue.
*
Or any rescues, apparently.
“You’re sick, Virg,” Scott begins, when he arrives home late that night to find his younger brother hasn’t moved from his bed. 
Virgil protests (hardly, weakly), though he can’t find the conviction for the words. It’s like he’s going through the motions of a well-rehearsed play. “I’m not sick. I’m fine to fly.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
Virgil sighs, rolling away from his brother and that horrible mounting worry. 
“You see, the fact you didn’t call me out on that language tells me just how horrible you must be feeling. I mean it, Virg. Grounded until you’re recovered. And I want you to have a medical first thing!”
It doesn’t feel like there’s any recovering from this sickness. 
*
Not having the distraction of rescues is punishment enough, but worse is the knowledge that Gordon keeps falling asleep over breakfast because Virgil can’t pull his fucking weight. He feels completely fucking useless - is being completely fucking useless - and yet, he still can’t bring himself to get out of bed. His brothers parrot concerned, loving questions he can’t answer and show him a kindness he certainly doesn’t deserve, and Virgil -
Virgil is a paradox: on the one hand, he is too empty to feel a single damned thing, no matter how much he wants to cry, no matter how hard he tries to put a label on these experiences, there is nothing there and therefore he is nothing. But on the other hand, Virgil is overflowing with raw, live misery so heavy he can’t take a full breath and so awful he stops caring about the fact. 
He’s not okay. 
He doesn’t know what’s wrong and he doesn’t know why, but he’s so far from okay, it’s laughable.
Only, he hasn’t laughed in weeks, and Gordon has stopped trying to make him. 
That realisation burrows into his heart, a sharp nasty sting of guilt and loneliness. He misses his brothers and he knows it’s his fault that they’re withdrawing - isolating yourself from them will do that - but it hurts all the same. 
It hurts because when Scott had started to count on neat whiskey to get him through the day, Virgil had dug his heels in and refused to let it be so. It hurts because when John had been relying on study drugs and no sleep to get through his PhD, it was Virgil who refused to let him hide away in shame. It hurts because Virgil has been there for more of Gordon’s panic attacks than he wants to remember, and yet he remembers them all the same. It hurts because Alan is too young to have lost so much, but Virgil refuses to let him shoulder that alone. 
Virgil loves his brothers with every single drop of Tracy blood in his veins, and he isn't afraid to show it by any means necessary. 
But he's so, so tired. 
Not of loving them - never that - but there's something so lonely and sad about this feeling and he’s exhausted by it and terrified of it and it all just hurts.
*
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” says John hesitantly, and Scott looks sharply at his younger brother across their father’s desk. “Don’t try and tell me this is fine, John,” 
"I know it's not fine," snaps John, “but I’m telling you that physically, he’s fine. A few bruises, but nothing some rest won’t fix.”
Scott begins to pace, frustration thrumming through his body. “He’s not eating properly,” He runs his hand through prematurely greying hairs in a motion learned from his father. “He’s just not Virgil.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t seen him paint or play piano in weeks, hell he isn’t even trying to get me to talk about my feelings. He’s alone all the time, constantly tired...”
“I know.”
“I just - are you sure? Nothing cracked at all? No signs of-”
“I had Brains run three separate scans, Scott. I’ve checked the results myself.”
“Could it be a concussion of some kind? He took a pretty big beating in Gen-”
“Scott. For God’s sake, listen. Physically, he’s fine.”
Scott stares at him, wishing not for the first time that the cogs of his brain moved at the same velocity as John’s. “Physically… so you’re saying this isn’t a physical thing?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Scott swallows - this is okay, unexpected, but he can recalibrate and work out what it is that Virgil needs, this is fine. “So it’s a mental thing.”
John smiles in spite of the gravity of the situation. “I don’t think that’s the correct term, but yes, I believe so.”
“What specifically?”
“I’m not a doctor, Scott. Virg’s the one with medical training.”
“Yes, but he’s not telling us anything.” Scott stares at John, fear clawing at his throat, at the thought of his brother - his best friend - hurting so much and yet seemingly unable to voice it. “What do I -” his voice cracks and he clears his throat hurriedly. “What do I do?”
“This isn’t all on you, Scott,” John says, his turn to be sharp now. “He’s my brother too.”
Scott takes a deep breath; the weight of his one thousand responsibilities have never felt so heavy on his shoulders, and yet, they may as well be feathers for how unimportant they are compared to this bombshell. But. John’s eyes reflect his own concern, but there’s a determination in the set of his jaw Scott has come to rely upon - his younger brother has never met a problem he couldn’t solve.
“Fine. What do we do?”
“I… I’m working on it.”
“John. This isn’t all on you.”
“Yeah yeah, Kettle.” John rubs his eyes. “EOS and I are researching. There’s a lot out there and because he won’t tell us how he feels, I don’t - I don’t know if we should get him a therapist like Gordon had or meds like me or… I don’t know what. And our lives aren’t exactly normal, so it’s hard to say what will actually help.” 
EOS pipes up, her lights dancing somewhere between turquoise and green (Virgil would know what to call that): “The recurring theme across research is ‘being there’ for the patient. A strange concept since humans are so limited by their physical forms.”
John smiles again, but it’s strained. “I’ll explain later, EOS. But it’s like how Virgil always checks in with me after a bad day.”
The words bring a lump to Scott’s throat that he can’t explain. 
“I see. So, you need to ‘check in’ with him now?” EOS asks.
“Something like that.” John catches Scott’s eye again. “Normalcy is also good. Being active.”
“So I shouldn’t ground him?” Scott says, though the thought of Virgil piloting his ship in a poor mental state terrifies him. He’s not afraid of his brother’s skill - that has never been in question - but how is he supposed to protect him from something none of them can even see?
“I don’t know.” John says it like it’s physically painful - perhaps it is, John is always loathe to admit lack of knowledge on a topic. “Maybe not? Though I don’t want him flying a ship if he’s feeling like, well -”
Scott slumps back into his father’s chair - his chair now. “Exactly. I don’t know what to do, John.”
“Me neither.” Uttered quietly. Helplessly.
Scott hates this.
Silence stretches between them - uncomfortable, worried tension that neither of them know how to handle. 
Eventually, John sighs, “I should go, Scott. Duty calls and all that.”
“John…” His brother pauses in reaching to cut the commline. “You - he’d tell us if he was feeling really bad, right? This is Virgil we’re talking about. He loves all that feelings stuff.”
“Yeah. Yes.” 
But John’s voice is laced with an uncertainty that curdles the worry in Scott’s stomach. 
*
Virgil's not sure exactly how long it's been but it must be weeks and he's losing his fucking mind. 
Every day is the same and it’s all one neverending nightmare. 
With the morning birdsong, he locks himself in his rooms and sleeps - or at least tries to, because it doesn't count as sleep when he wakes even more tired. He rejects his brothers' concern and ignores the trays of food Grandma has taken to leaving outside his door.
Where he's able to, Virgil still attempts to check in with them all after difficult rescues, still tries to fulfill his role as resident caregiver, but it's becoming increasingly hard to field their nagging questions. 
He almost caves, when Alan slopes into his room and practically begs him to tell them what's wrong. His brother's wide blue eyes are a weapon all of their own, and it takes all of Virgil's resolve to shrug his worries off. He steeps in self-loathing for hours at the hurt in Alan's eyes. 
Virgil doesn't understand why it's so hard to say the words out loud. For someone who has always championed self care and mental well-being, this inability to communicate his own suffering is as unexpected as it is unmanageable. He doesn't know where it's come from, nor how he's going to fix it; all he knows is that he cannot bear Scott's judgement, John's worry, Gordon's probing, Alan's disappointment -
It's too much.
It's all too much.
And he despises himself for that.
*
He endures John’s insistence he has a physical - and a second and third when the results are inevitably fine. He allows Scott’s anxious hovering as he answers Brains’ questions without complaint - another wrinkle to add to his brother’s worry lines, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight it.
For some reason, the medical proof that he is, in fact, fine, is damning. At least if there were some physical cause for his current state, he thinks it would be easier to bear (easier rather than fine, because he’s Virgil goddamn Tracy with a mile-wide stubborn streak) but instead he’s just falling apart with a single good reason.
(He hates himself for it). 
*
Scott watches his brother brush past his piano like he doesn’t even notice it’s there, flinch from the sunlight like it burns him, grow skinnier and more hunched beneath those tatty plaid shirts, and his heart aches. 
If their positions were reversed, Virgil would know what to do. Virgil knows Scott better than he knows himself, would have probably been able to resolve this before it even started. 
But Scott isn’t Virgil - he cannot untangle emotions and comfort weary souls like his brother can. 
He doesn’t know what to do with this shell of a man.
Scott spends what little time he has researching, learning, planning, but nothing he tries seems to help at all. Each time he broaches the topic of having someone to talk to with Virgil, his brother simply shuts down. He whines and begs Virgil to play him something but Virgil just sits before the piano, working on muscle memory alone. He stares at the medical reports until they blur and fade into restless sleep.
But he loves his brother just as fiercely as Virgil does him, and so it’s in sheer desperation that he tells John Virgil is back on duty. His brother blinks, schools surprise into an unreadable calm, and Scott feels the need to justify himself. 
“I just - maybe giving him a sense of purpose will help. Some structure back, you know?”
“Sure, Scott,” John says, though his tone is anything but. 
*
Scott’s announcement that he’s back on duty is a surprise to Virgil. His brother goes from you're not flying Two again until you're fit to, and you're not fit to until you goddamn talk to me to we need Two, now, Virg practically overnight. Alan and Gordon exchange similar looks of confusion, and Virgil is doubly aware of what a burden he has been to them all.
In Scott’s defense, they do need Two - and all of the ‘Birds to be honest. 
Virgil pushes through the foggy exhaustion that has become his waking state, and drops into his chute like he’s never been gone. By the time he’s adjusting his uniform, the fog has cleared a little, and when he’s settled in the pilot’s chair - his chair - he feels better than he has in weeks. Gordon flops down beside him, feet somehow already propped on the dash, and Virgil shoves them off automatically. 
He feels alive. 
Rescues help. For all the pressure and pain they bring, rescues give him a purpose. Even though rescues drove him to - no. Virgil doesn’t want to think about that now. All he knows is that without rescues - well. Actually, Virgil doesn't want to think about that option either. 
It’s been a while since he’s flown his ‘Bird, but she’s the same reliable dream she always is (a little worse for wear in her left thruster perhaps, from Gordon’s overeager antics, but nothing some tinkering won’t fix later. The fact that he is even interested in tinkering speaks volumes). The thrum of Two’s engines is practically medicinal and he revels in being able to breathe freely, think clearly - it’s been so, so long. 
The journey to the rescue zone is quiet, updates from John and occasional witticisms from Gordon are background noise to the beloved sound of Two responding to his lightest touch. Alan and Scott - speed junkies till they die - are far enough ahead of them that Virgil and Gordon exchange their usual eye rolling at Alan’s antics (“and the youngest Tracy takes the lead, a swift manoeuvre from Mr Alan Tracy proving once and for all that he is the true champ- hey, that’s not fair-“) and for a minute, it’s like none of the last few weeks had happened. 
Gordon bounces out of his seat as they begin their descent, practically vibrating with adrenaline as he dashes to his own ‘Bird. Virgil drops Pod 4 with a grin at Gordon’s whoop, catches a glimpse of sunshine yellow cutting through murky water, before sweeping round into landing beside Alan’s rocket.
In spite of the carnage around the Thunderbirds, Virgil feels the adrenaline stirring in his own chest, because finally, something he knows how to do, how to help, how to fix. 
It's an earthquake, the second one in this area in as many months. The hastily-reconstructed housing never stood a chance against tremors that tickled six on the Richter scale. In places the ground has cracked in two, dark zigzagging lines snaking across the desolate landscape. Piles of rubble, pools of dirty water, clouds of dust, and among them, people staggering hopelessly through the remnants of their houses. 
Families who have already lost everything are once again homeless. Virgil’s heart aches at the injustice of it all. 
International Rescue's task is simple, in theory. Virgil and Alan are to get the survivors out from the rubble nearest the epicentre, whilst Gordon takes Four up to the dam and assesses the damage done to the wall’s defences. Scott will be assisting with rescues from the sinkhole on the edge of the town - the result of overtaxing the land and the force of nature. And John, of course, as their ever-seeing eye in the sky. Simple. 
As simple as it can be when you’re surrounded by desperate people and their frantic hopes that you’ll save their loved ones. A quick word with Alan and Virgil dons his exo-suit, grimacing a little at the familiar weight of the Jaws of Life on his limbs. He’s reluctant to use the Mole given that it is likely bodies will be distributed at different depths in the wreckage - and Jesus, what a bleak thought that is. 
Alan begins tackling the top layers of rubble, using a combination of grappling hooks and jet blasters to clear the smaller chunks of rock, wood and dust from the area. Watching Alan work so efficiently and professionally sends a jolt of pride through Virgil’s chest; in many ways, Alan is and always will be their baby brother, but at times like this, it’s impossible to deny the man he is becoming. 
Whilst Gordon is Virgil’s usual partner on rescues, Alan is equally capable and hard-working, and between them and John’s careful scans, they begin locating some of the missing. Something loosens in Virgil’s chest at the sight of the first dust-streaked hand reaching towards them through the rocks - bruised, filthy, but unmistakably alive. As much as he tries to avoid superstition on rescues, beginning with a corpse is never a good omen. 
(Of course, this isn’t to say they don’t find bodies. A mother wrapped around her child, body misshapen from the weight of the rocks. An unrecognisable man, head bashed to a pulp - Virgil sends Alan to get some water at that point, nausea making them both shaky).
As is always the way, human kindness prevails, and soon the local people are involved in the rescue efforts. Virgil knows from experience that it’s best not to fight it, but he asks in a broken attempt at their language (that John then delivers flawlessly) that they stay away from the more dangerous sites.
As if it’s not all one big danger site.
Still. He’s busy and sweating and focused, and there is no time for self-loathing or guilt in his head at the moment. His arms are aching a couple of hours in, but he keeps going - has to keep going - because there are more people who need him and he needs this. It feels like it takes an age to clear just the stretch of what was once a row of houses, but once they have, Alan and Virgil barely stop for a rest before moving to the next place they are needed.
Virgil forces Alan to eat an energy bar, watching closely despite Alan’s glares to ensure it all goes down, but can’t bring himself to have more than a few bites of his own. 
Eventually, God knows how many hours later but late enough that there is but a slither of sun left on the horizon, John’s murmurs of heartbeats in the rubble grow further and further apart, and the number of bodies only continues to rise. Things deteriorate further with the aftershocks that rip through the land and Virgil clings to the person he’s in the middle of rescuing, willing them not to slip from his shaking grip. 
(He manages, just, though they have gone ragdoll limp by the time the earth resettles).
(But he keeps going).
Gordon has come to join them, tired but satisfied that reinforcements are in place, and Virgil smiles like it’s normal for him, claps him on the shoulder. “Good job, Gords.”
The grin he gets in return is a little bemused but bright and Virgil feels alive. 
*
The sky is velvety black now, tiny pinpricks of silver piercing it, and up there, one of those lights is his brother. Even with Two’s floodlighting, Virgil has to squint now to see what he’s shifting, his arms are leaden, and his head aches with dehydration. The end is in sight though; as brutal as it is to admit it from this point on, they will mainly be pulling bodies, and despite Scott’s insistence that International Rescue will continue their efforts, the local authority is equally stubborn that their crews can take it from here. 
(Virgil hears a mutinous, “fat lot of good that did last time,” muttered into Scott’s comm and can’t help but agree). 
He sighs, pauses for a second to stretch his muscles, and taps his own comms. 
"John, status update?"
"Two more life signs in the vicinity. To your left. Signal's faint… are they beneath that building?"
'Building' is a generous word for the structure that John has identified. Its stone walls are cracked from ground to roof, angry black tears through stone that has started to crumble. In places, the rock has already given way, revealing open sky and starlight through the gaps. It’s been reinforced with wooden shafts, which are crippled under the strain. The building is practically swaying in the breeze: a Jenga stack one block from collapse.
“Building integrity?” Virgil asks, though Virgil the Engineer is already running calculations on structural integrity and coming up with big flashing red NOs. Not even with the proper equipment - there isn’t enough of a structure to even hold onto, let alone hold up.
No way in hell is Alan going in there. Nor Gordon.
But someone has to.
“No way,” John says sharply, just as Virgil knew he would, but he’s already moving, squeezing through the space where a window once was. “Virgil - Virgil, no - at least wait for backup-”
Virgil swipes the connection away - he’ll pay for it later, but for now, he needs to focus and John’s audible yet uncharacteristic panic isn’t conducive to this.
It’s even darker inside, and Virgil makes a mental note to thank Brains for installing the headtorch in the suit. Eerie shadows bounce off the walls but at least he can see where the stairs have semi-collapsed against an internal wall - where the two victims must be buried.
“Hello?” Virgil tries, picking his way through the damage as best as he can in the gloom. “Can anyone hear me?”
There’s a pause, and then - unmistakably - a sob. A stream of words in a foreign tongue, far too quick for Virgil to understand, but he knows the universal language of fear and he moves. 
He grunts as he begins shifting rocks. “I’m Virgil, I’m with International Rescue. I’m going to get you out.” He repeats it in a clunky version of their language, and gets a further panicked babble. 
John appears again as he spots the leg of one of the victims - torn trousers and tiny feet, a child - and he does not look impressed. “Firstly, Virgil, what the fuck? Second, Scott is on his way and he will kill you for not waiting for backup-”
“We might not have time for that, John,” Virgil pants, shoving slab of the wall away. It has uncovered the whole lower body of the child and it’s a sharp twist in Virgil’s chest to see the duck patterns so dirty and ruined. 
John pinches the bridge of his nose and breaths out noisily. “This is incredibly dangerous, Virgil.”
“So let me do my job and get out of here,” Virgil snaps back, and John recoils. Virgil regrets the words the second they leave his mouth - he’s tired and dehydrated and stressed and he didn’t mean it, of course he didn’t - but John’s already gone blank with carefully-concealed hurt. 
Virgil hates when he does this. 
“John, I-”
“Don’t, Virgil. Do your damn job.” 
As John closes the connection, Virgil swallows down his guilt and focuses on the task at hand. There will be time to make it up to his brother later. 
They’re both children, it turns out, wrapped up in each other’s arms, tear stains tracking their cheeks, and scared shitless, but alive. The boy has a head wound that’s bleeding sluggishly and the girl is cradling her arm protectively, but it’s okay, Virgil got them out, they’re going to be okay.
“I’m Virgil,” he tells them, kneeling before them and tapping his chest. “What are your names?”
“Faroqh,” the girl says, pointing at the boy and then at herself. “Leila.” She adds something on the end - a plea, he thinks, though it’s too quick to catch anything.
“I’m going to get you out,” Virgil says, keeping his voice calm and soothing. He holds out his hands and the boy reaches for it, scrubbing at his eyes. 
John pops up again and the girl leaps back in shock. “Virgil - get out, aftershocks incoming, get out-”
The ground is already moving beneath them, juddering, groaning, and Virgil seizes the boy, scooping him against his chest, tries to reach for the girl through the clouds of dust rising -
Quiet.
For a split second, he thinks they’ve escaped it. 
And then it all goes wrong.
The ceiling caves first, then the walls, collapsing inwards like dominoes. There’s no time to think, Virgil just reacts, throwing himself blindly in the direction of the girl, cushioning both children as best he can against himself as the rocks rain down. 
In his mind, he’s vaguely aware that this is more of a Scott-move than a Virgil-move. Scott is the one who’ll fling himself into danger without a second thought, if it means someone else gets theirs. 
And yet, here he is. 
Even with the suit, it hurts. Jagged lumps crash into his back, pelt his already aching arms, bash his head further into the rocks. 
It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care, just let them live, take him instead -
(Wait, what-?)
He doesn’t remember losing consciousness, but the next thing he can recall is a ringing in his ears and the realisation that the ground around them is still. 
“Virgil, get out of there!” John’s voice cuts across his comms, and Virgil opens his eyes.
“Faroqh?” he murmurs. “Leila?”
He feels one of them say something in his chest, senses slowly coming back online. Unfortunately, the fact that every single part of his body is in agony also makes itself known, and Virgil groans, shifting against the weight on his back.
“Virgil? Jesus, Virgil, talk to me. Scott - do you have eyes on him?”
“Almost,” Scott’s voice is tight with poorly-concealed anger and concern. “Virgil, do you copy?”
“Y- yeah,” Virgil manages, then coughs harshly.
“Status?”
“I think - I think they’re both fine. One is definitely c-conscious.”
There’s a pause and then Scott says, even more tightly. “And you?”
“Nothing broken I don’t think.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Scott says grimly.
Virgil closes his eyes again, because he’s so tired and he doesn’t have the energy for Scott’s hypocritical bullshit right now, but he must have lost more time because the next thing he knows, the weight on his back has lifted and strong arms are dragging him upwards.
His older brother is there, eyes a battleground between worry, fury and yet more worry. Virgil loosens his grip on the children, looking up at Scott. “Scott, I had to, they’re just kids-”
Faroqh stifles a cry and Scott’s eyes snap to him. “Give them to me.”
“I just - can you - Leila wasn’t speaking - is she-?”
Scott presses his fingers to her throat and there’s an agonising pause. “She has a pulse.”
“Thank God,” Virgil murmurs, slumping back and releasing his grip on the children.
“Thank God?” Scott repeats incredulously. “Virg - I don’t - I -”
“Don’t do this now, Scott,” John’s voice is quiet but authoritative. “Wait for me, please.”
Scott closes his eyes briefly. “Deal,” he mutters, and then picks up Leila’s body, stretching his other hand out to Faroqh. “I’m going to take these two out to Gordon and Alan. And then I’m coming back for you. Don’t you dare move.”
Faroqh accepts Scott’s hand but looks anxiously at Virgil, who does his best to smile encouragingly. 
And then Scott is gone and Virgil is alone in the mess he’s created. 
The weight of realisation comes crashing down around him, even harder than the building fell, and it’s a punch to his already fragile ribs. He does his best to focus on breathing rather than the swell of shame and self-loathing that’s ballooning in his chest because he really fucked this up. Virgil can feel his control beginning to slip and digs his fingers into the bruises on his legs. The pain grounds him momentarily, but only leaves him emptier when he stops. And so he only stops when Scott’s silhouette fills the entrance once more.
As Scott approaches, furious concern has him practically vibrating with emotion. Virgil takes a deep breath, choking down his own self-loathing for now, accepts the hand up and staggers into his brother’s side as the pain hits him in full. He may not have broken anything but his entire body feels like it’s been used as a punchbag and it hurts. 
Scott’s grip tightens around his waist and the worry intensifies. “Can you make it out?”
“Yeah,” Virgil says. (Probably is more honest). 
Leaning heavily into Scott, they make their painfully slow way to the door, out to where a pair of anxiously-hovering brothers are waiting for them. 
Alan barely restrains himself from lunging at Virgil, eyes overly bright. “Virg - are - are you okay?”
“Fine, Allie,” Virgil says, pointedly ignoring Scott’s irritable snort of disbelief. 
Gordon’s expression is caught between relief, worry and anger, but the former wins over and he hurries to Virgil’s other side. “What were you thinking, Virg? Going in without backup?”
“Not now, Gords, I promised John we’d wait for him. Let’s just get this moron home first.”
Virgil’s mind is struggling to compute the words whilst also concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. “Wait - John’s coming.”
“Yup.” Scott’s mouth is so thin it’s a grim slash. 
Well, shit. 
*
“You’re not flying home. No fucking way.”
“She’s my ship.”
“I. Don’t. Care. You just got injured and you’re not fit to fly.”
“Scott, it’s just bruising-”
“And a probable concussion,” chimes in Gordon, standing his ground when Virgil shoots a glare at him.
“You’re not flying and that’s an order.”
It’s not often that Scott pulls rank on him - it’s a cold day in hell when he has to - and it’s the shock of it that causes Virgil to spit “yes, Commander” with such venom. He loathes himself for the hurt he knows will be in Scott’s eyes but stalks to the passenger seat without meeting his gaze. Scott watches him for another few seconds and the stare burns right down to Virgil’s soul, scorching across his anger and burrowing right into his guilt. 
But he still can’t meet his brother’s eyes. 
Scott turns, leaves and Virgil sags in his seat. He doesn’t say a word whilst Gordon starts Two’s engines, not even when he revs a little harder than is necessary. He can’t bring himself to answer a single one of Gordon’s attempts at humour and eventually, Gordon lapses into silence too. 
Virgil’s head is in turmoil and his chest is heavy - heavier than it’s ever been. There’s a mounting dread about the screaming match he’s about to have with his brothers (because he knows it’s coming). Guilt and shame over what he put his brothers through with his antics (because that haunted look is back in Scott’s eyes and Virgil hates that he put it there) battling a self-righteous assurance that he did the right thing in rescuing those kids. Embarrassment that he fucked up the one thing he thought he could do. Gnawing anxiety over nothing he can place specifically but it’s there and it’s overwhelming. Misery that he failed, yet again, sending him straight back to the pit he’d been stuck in before all of this happened.
Above everything though, spreading insidious arms and draping its poisonous cloak over all, is an exhaustion so intense and so absolute that Virgil does not want to exist. 
(God, he’s so tired). 
*
In the infirmary, Scott helps Virgil out of the exo suit at last, sucking in sharp breaths at the sight of his brother’s skin mottled purples and blues. 
(“Jesus fucking Christ, Virg”).
Scott is as gentle as possible whilst checking for cracked bones and yet Virgil still has to grit his teeth not to wince at his touch. Eventually, Scott seems satisfied with his findings - as satisfied as it’s possible to be when his younger brother looks like a messy oil painting of angry bruising - and allows Virgil back into a sitting position to run through some mental exercises. 
It’s as Virgil is answering Scott’s questions without complaint that John bursts through the doors, heading straight for Virgil like a missile. 
John grabs him by the shoulders and shakes, uncharacteristic panic blazing in his eyes. "What the hell, Virgil? It's never you! You're supposed to be the one I can trust not to pull stupid shit!”
“Johnny, you - you shouldn’t be up yet,” Virgil says weakly, “gravity-”
“No, you don’t get to tell me to take care of myself right now-”
“Less of the shaking please, John,” Scott cuts in. He’s taken a step back, arms folded. 
John nods, releasing Virgil apologetically, but the verbal assault continues. “What were you thinking? No, scratch that, you obviously weren’t thinking at all.” In contrast to Scott’s, John’s anger is quiet. Virgil would rather be shouted over by Scott than reprimanded by John any day; John knew exactly how to let you know that you had disappointed him. 
Virgil takes a deep breath in spite of this. “I was thinking that there were two people who needed to be saved.”
“Are you being serious? That’s your excuse for going in alone, without telling anyone where you were going or waiting for backup? That aftershock could have killed you, Virg.” John’s voice trembles and he swallows viciously. “For a moment, I was so afraid it had.”
There’s a pause, in which the guilt might swallow Virgil whole, chew him up, spit out his bloody remains before his brothers. There’s nothing he can say but Scott and John look so expectant that he feels compelled to justify himself.
“I didn’t know there would be an aftershock.” 
“That’s not the point, Virgil, and you know it!” Scott explodes. “You didn’t tell us what you were doing, you had nobody watching your back-”
“They were children. They were children and they needed me.”
“We need you.”
“Stop acting like you wouldn’t have done the same, Scott!” Virgil doesn’t know when they started shouting but now he can’t stop. “Don’t act like you haven’t pulled this shit on me a hundred times! Stop being such a goddamn hypocrite-”
“It’s not the same, Virgil. It’s just not.”
“Oh sure, because you’re Scott Tracy, you get to do whatever you like, fuck the consequences-”
“Because I have you watching my back,” Scott yells.
It all goes very quiet and Virgil’s mind is blank.
“What?” he whispers.
Scott looks physically pained, forcing his answer out like pulling glass from a wound. “I’m not saying it’s fair or right, Virg. But I know that whatever stupid thing I do, I have you stopping me from going too far. Pulling me out when it goes wrong. And I know it puts too much pressure on you, and I am sorry for that - I am. But what you did today - you didn’t let us help you. You didn’t let me help you.”
(This is about more than just today and Virgil can feel it in every exhausted cell of his body but fuck, he doesn’t have the energy to hash that out now. He just wants to go to bed and sleep and sleep (and never wake up?)).
John speaks up now, holding Virgil’s gaze with the same anger, only it’s not really anger, Virgil realises. It’s love, marred by fear and stress. “Going into that situation without backup was suicide, Virg.”
A pause. 
“I’m not - you don’t think that I’m -” Virgil splutters, though he doesn’t know if the denial is more for his benefit or theirs. They’re wrong, he’s sure of it, they have to be wrong.
“We - we know there’s something going on with you,” John says, glancing at Scott. “And - and after today, we’re even more worried.”
“We care about you, Virg.” Scott’s eyes are wide, pleading. “Why won’t you let us help you?”
(Because I despise every single thing about myself, but most of all how much I’m burdening you all. Because you deserve better than my weakness. Because it’s not worth it). 
(He says none of that, obviously. Even if he wanted to, his throat has gone dry and his brain seems to be stuck on John’s words like a scratched record).
He needs to get out.
The realisation sucks all the air from his lungs. 
Anxiety rising so fast he thinks he might be sick, Virgil stands. “I - I can’t -” (breathe)-
Shove past Scott and John who are looking at him with such lost expressions Virgil can’t bear it. Inhale around the tightening band of guilt and panic-
Almost at the door and they haven’t tried to stop him - he’s not sure why this hurts more than their protests would have. Exhale and feel lungs constrict even further-
He makes it to the door, and now, exit strategy in his grasp, he can breathe. He stops, one hand on the doorframe and half-turns. Scott’s eyes take on a hopeful gleam and Virgil feels terrible for being the one to stamp that out. “They were children. Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, stumbling on autopilot back to his room, sinks down into his duvet and succumbs at last to the panic attack. 
When it’s done - for now, at least - he lies in his own sweat and taut muscles, drained in every sense of the word. 
What the fuck is he doing?
Virgil doesn’t understand why he’s pushing away all the people who love him, nor why the thought of exposing this ugly, aching part of himself to them is utterly unbearable. Existing like this - so miserably and shamefully - is unbearable and he can’t face it anymore. He wants to cry. His chest aches with it and yet he can’t even muster the energy to do that.
Instead he lies there for hours, mind racing with reminders of his uselessness, body aching from his failings, soul longing for an endless sleep. 
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ojibwa · 4 years
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(suicide mention tw) i constantly feel like i'm faking, i'm obsessed with sickness and i really have no idea what to do. everything feels empty and i feel like an outside observer of my own emotions. i wish i had the guts to die but i'm such a coward. but it still doesn't feel bad enough. i need to get worse but i'm so weak. i'm so fucking frustrated (am i though?) and confused, ican never really tell if what i'm thinking/feeling/doing is genuine. why am i like this? i need to know what happened
ah i understand dear. listen, as someone who dealt w thoughts like these for a while, u are not faking. u are suffering, ur in pain, and that pain is valid enough as it is, and deserves respect and treatment. you do not need to be worse, ur already dealing with so much. i also get the fear of commiting suicide but still experiencing ideation. ive never made an attempt despite being suicidal on and off for about four years now. please, do not make an attempt. when youre feeling better youre going to be so grateful you lived, that youre still here. even now, for me, when im in a rlly rough mental state, im grateful i didnt end my life when i was younger. i would have missed out on so much. you deserve to be alive, you are not a coward. stay safe dear :(( it wont be like this forever
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lokilickedme · 4 years
Text
Because things have been odd lately...
I know some people aren’t understanding my behavior in the last week or so.  I know I’ve been “off”.  I know I’ve been less interactive.  I know some people have taken silence and lack of response on my part as something personal against them.
It’s not.
I’m going to tell you something.  If you clicked and continued reading, then you care enough for this to matter, or you’re curious, or bored and looking for someone else’s drama to entertain you.  It’s fine, I’m the same way.
But this is important, to me at least.
For the first time in my entire life I said five words that I never thought I would hear myself say, out loud, in my kitchen, in front of another human being.  Granted, it was in the middle of some of the worst pain I’ve ever had, at the peak of one of the most stressful weeks I’ve had in ages.  But I still said it, and I can’t stop thinking about it now.
Just five words.  Five words I’ve never even said inside my head, much less out loud.
I wish I was dead.
A lot of you don’t know me apart from what I share with you online.  Fandom stuff.  Writing.  Funny stories about my kids and pictures of whatever.  But those of you that have gotten to know me a little bit beyond those things know that this, those five words up there, that isn’t me.  Those words are not something you would ever hear me say, or even hint at.  I’m not depressive.  I don’t have suicidal thoughts or ideations, I never have.  And I still don’t.  But nothing stopped those words coming out of my mouth, no safe barrier flew up to prevent my tongue forming them, and now I can’t unhear them.
I don’t think I meant it.  I know I didn’t.  I think the wording of it is important - I didn’t say I want to die.  I said I wish I was.  I’m sure it had everything to do with the pain and the final frazzled unraveling of my nerves, because I’d felt for three days at that point like I was about to go full blown into a nervous breakdown.  But when they hit my ears carried by my own voice, there was no stab of nervous panic at hearing them.  Just sort of...
I don’t even know.  I’m not going to go too far down that road, because I don’t think it ends anyplace I want to be.
This is where it starts, I think, at least the recent part of it.  I’m not going to go back further to the obvious roots of an entire life of twisted bullshit because I’m actually dealing with that a lot better than this.  And a lot of this likely won’t make sense to a lot of you - I’m sorry.  Read on if you wish...if not, no hard feelings.
Most of you know a little bit about my oldest son, the one we call Big.  You probably know him best as my witty smart longsuffering angel who copes on a daily basis with his trialsome frootloop of a younger brother.  Some of you also know he has some struggles and that he’s come so far and done so much.  You all know how proud I am of him.  He’s my first, the one I nearly had to let go of before I ever knew him, the one I almost had to let go of myself for.  He’s the one I’ve tried to carry to the far side of hell so he can step safely through the door onto cooler ground while my own feet are on fire.
I’m afraid I’m losing him.  He has made profound, astounding leaps of development this year.  But something has happened, and I don’t know what or why.
He’s suddenly regressing in some ways.  He’s losing his ability to maintain eye contact, something that’s common for children with his wiring differences but that he’s never had a problem with until now.  He repeats himself constantly now.  Sometimes it’s nonsense, though I know it makes sense to him somehow.  I can give him the same answer to a question or the same reply to a comment ten times in an hour.  Sometimes more.
He wanders off on flights of fancy, telling himself stories that he sometimes shares with me, about people he knows and places he goes.  People and places he’s created for himself.  He’s always known they exist in a separate world, but lately he’s been introducing them to us as if the worlds no longer have walls around them.  And he actively fears some of them.
He drew a face and handed it to me yesterday.
That’s him, he said.  And then he told me he loved me, and that he would do his best to protect me from him.  I don’t know who him is.
This year he started to master physical contact, which is a big thing for him.  He’s always been loving but never physically affectionate.  Never hugged or kissed people, not even me.  His hands have always been kept away from everyone, his physical self kept carefully apart from a world full of bodies he distanced himself from without a second thought.
Several months ago he decided he wanted to learn how to hug, so we worked on it.  He got good at it.  He was understanding the rules of it, determining appropriateness of timing and recipient, various reasons for extending or offering physical touch.  The science of it, which was the only way he could understand it.  And he got to where he enjoyed it and it didn’t causes him distress or discomfort.  He even lost the awkwardness.  It was no longer like hugging an automaton...it felt like hugging a child.
And now suddenly he just holds on.  Won’t let go.  It’s like he’s afraid to move away, to sever the connection.  It’s no longer just a curious desire to feel contact with another human being, to overcome a facet of “otherness” that he’d noticed in himself.  Now it’s like a fear of the space between us.  He doesn’t want to let go.
As I write this he’s sitting on the floor in front of me, not interacting, just being close.  He isn’t looking at me.  I don’t know where he is...he’s somewhere else, but he’s making an effort, a desperate one it feels like, to stay near me.  But it feels like every day he goes further and further down a road I can’t see, and from time to time he’ll look back over his shoulder and remember that this is where he needs to be...but he keeps walking.
I’m scared for him.  When I speak to him now, his eyes nervously dart to other places.  Faces have begun to disquiet him.  He flinches at noises that he’d gotten used to.  He tries to maintain eye contact, he realizes what he’s doing and pulls his eyes back to my face, but they dart off again quickly to some empty space beside me.
He goes into his other places more often.
He’s losing his ability to connect.
I don’t want him to disappear into some other world where I can’t follow him.  But I don’t know how to pull him back to the safety of this one.
I don’t even know if this is the safe one.
I’m not the best person to help him right now.  I’ve been cranky.  I’ve been having chronic migraines for weeks.  I haven’t been easy to get along with.  I’m trying, but sometimes it feels like all my physical, mental, emotional energy goes to everyone else and leaves nothing for me.  My argument with myself is that I’m the mother, it’s supposed to be like this.  But I feel like I’m dying sometimes.
More so lately.
I lost a baby recently.  Very recently.  I didn’t tell anyone because I knew from the start something wasn’t right and there would never be any good news to announce.  My hCG levels stopped rising and never went any further.  I’ve been sick from that - physically a little, emotionally a lot - and haven’t wanted to deal with anyone or anything.  Just working with Big, trying to hold onto him somehow.  Trying to keep Little under control, which is...an undertaking of such astronomical proportions that I don’t even know where to start.  He has issues of his own and I haven’t been a very effective parent for him lately.  He’s frustrated, I’m frustrated.  We’re all frustrated with each other.
I’ve been dealing with some fairly huge internalized trauma from other things as well, in recent days.  Things from the past that I never realized were tearing me up until I took steps to distance myself from them.  I won’t go into it here, right now.  You’ve seen random posts from me about it, and you’ve seen me go off on people for not understanding.  You’ll probably see more of it.  I’m just beginning to realize how bad things were.  I don’t know yet how to deal productively with any of it.
I’ll figure it out.
I don’t need someone to solve my problems.  I vent to soothe my nerves and no other reason.  It’s how I deal with whatever shit is eating me.  Please don’t feel the need to help me or try to fix anything, or even feel obligated to offer sympathy - god please don’t, because that’s not what it’s for.  If you see a rant from me it simply means I’ve hit a point where I will explode if I don’t put words to my feelings.  This is the only safe place I can do it.
Also please know that if you do say something kind to me in those moments and I don’t say anything back to you, it’s nothing you should take personally.  I love you.  I just can’t tell you that I do.
If I go quiet for days, don’t take that shit personal.  It’s nothing to do with you.
If you say something that triggers me and I get rude with you, don’t take that shit personal either.  I’m weak these days.  My whole life has been about controlling myself and my every response to everything, tiptoeing around every other human being on the planet with the enforced belief that literally everyone’s feelings are more important than my own.  That I’m not valid as an individual, that only my usefulness to other people is important.  And I’m finally done with all that.
But I don’t know how to do it right.  I’m a fucking child as far as allowing myself to react to things.  I’m having a really rough time right now and I’m getting myself through it however I can figure out.  Ignore me if you must.  Just don’t take it personal, because none of it is about you.
I’ve found some things that help me cope and make me feel better.  I’ve been keeping them separate from my main blog because I know most of you are here for one type of fandom content, and my other interests aren’t it.  But I’ve just realized...this is my blog, and I’ve spent my whole life hiding things I loved because other people didn’t like them or didn’t approve.
Not here, not anymore.  Not so much in my personal life anymore, either.  If I like it I will say so and I will share it because it makes me happy.  I’ll do art and writing for other fandoms in addition to the one you originally followed me for.  You know you’re free to share in it with me or not, I don’t have to explain that.  I’ve had my share of people claiming they would read anything I write no matter what it is, only to have them vanish the second I start writing something outside their preferred fandom.  It’s happened more often than I care to mention, but there it is.  And that’s their right and choice, I respect that.  But it’s not going to stop me from writing what I want to write.  Not anymore.
I write because I need to.  For me.  I share it with the rest of you.  People have come at me recently in the comments section at AO3 expressing their dislike over various things, and I’ve responded politely with as much accommodation as I can muster.  I think I’ve allowed a lot of reader entitlement concerning my work over the past five years, changing things to suit people even if it didn’t suit the story, simply because they barked at me about something they didn’t agree with.
I won’t be doing that anymore.  Because if you’ve read this far, you’ve likely realized at least one thing - 
Pretty much everything I write is based in some way on my own reality.
It hasn’t always been pretty.  And things get really rough sometimes or veer way off down a twisted road before they get resolved, just like life tends to do.  I don’t write a lot of easy fluff these days.  It’s your right to read it or not, but I do ask that you respect my right to write what I choose, because it’s my coping mechanism, and sometimes I have a lot to cope with.  And I do that by turning real life bullshit into something entertaining, because the best thing you can do with monsters is put a goofy hat on them so they can’t scare you anymore.
At any rate, this is a not so quick synopsis of why I haven’t been particularly fun in recent days.  I try, but it gets on top of me.  I’ve felt ignored, shunned, overlooked.  I realize that is sometimes my default assumption, that I’ve worn out my welcome and no one cares anymore.  I also realize that sometimes it’s just that other people have their own shit to deal with and they probably haven’t even noticed I was gone.  But I came back after a few days of silence to some hurtful shit that I know was done with intent, and I’m trying really hard to overlook that.
One of my few redeeming qualities though, I think, is that I bounce back fairly quick...so give me a few days, a couple of weeks, whatever, to get my bent up self back into shape.  I’m handling more than I can handle at the moment in my life outside of here, and I can’t hand it over to anyone else for even a minute.  I’m doing my best.  I’m not okay right now.
I will be, but I’m not going to rush it.
Nothing good survives being rushed.
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