#tw: sucidal ideation | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

murfpersonalblog · 1 year

Text

Thornfield Hall, Manderlay, and Louis de Pyromaniac du Lac

I wanna talk about Louis' depression, Anne Rice's grief, and the element of fire in a few iconic Gothic romances/horror stories. (Trigger warning for suicide.)

Bar none, my favorite thing about Louis is his obsession with fire, and how it's linked to his abuse, mental instability, and trauma.

It's so neat how AMC's Louis chainsmokes when he's stressed, and has a hilarious attachment to the incinerator.

His fire obsession's a whole meme at this point, & everyone's excited for Louis going ham with fire in Season 2. I can't wait to see how AMC handles his most iconic book/film moment(s).

But I was rereading Jane Eyre, and thought alot about Bertha Mason (Mr Rochester's archetypal crazy wife in the attic), and Mrs. Danvers from Rebecca (which was inspired by Jane Eyre). And they got me thinking about fire and suicide in the Vampire Chronicles, so walk with me a bit.

Louis is called the most "human" of the vampires, because of how weak he was, compared to other vampires his age (and even younger). His rat/animal blood diet was tantamount to an eating disorder that heavily stilted his growth as an immortal, and for the majority of his life he lacked many of the Gifts vampirism afforded his peers (Mind Gift, Spell Gift, Killing Gift, etc).

However, shockingly enough, AMC decided to give Louis one of their most potent powers: The Fire Gift (pyrokinesis).

In the books it was explained that vampire blood is flakey & highly flammable, and only the oldest and/or strongest of vampires could withstand fire without serious injury or death--let alone use the Fire Gift to any significant degree--hence: BAMF Akasha using it as her signature attack in QotD. 👑

This seriously begs the question about where this show sits in the canon timeline, because book readers know that Louis only gains the Fire Gift, Cloud Gift, Mind Gift, etc etc after the events of Merrick, when Louis tries to commit suicide, and to heal Louis' burns, Lestat gives him a huge infusion of his powerful blood (having fed at length from Akasha in QoTD, and also God/Jesus in Memnoch.)

Lestat's super!blood healed Louis' burns and saved his life, but it also drastically & permanently changed Louis' body, making him more vampiric than he'd ever been, seriously augmenting his powers. This was something Louis had adamantly been trying to avoid--every time the Children of the Millennia/Coven of the Articulate met up, they all offered Louis infusions of their ancient blood, trying to help him power up, and every time Louis refused them all.

Louis retaining his humanity was so important to him, not only because of the Catholic Guilt he felt being a blood-drinking killer, but also because being physically weak allowed him one ultimate ace up his sleeve: if he ever got the courage to end his life, he could always rely on going into the sunlight, and burning to death.

So, while AMC's dust particle effect is very cool, I'd rather see vampires on FIRE--even though the ashes to ashes visuals are rather apropos.

Regardless, I was also thinking about all the other people & places Louis set on fire; and how it all ties in with the Gothic literature Anne Rice was CLEARLY inspired by--namely: Jane Eyre & Rebecca.

Cuz we know Anne Rice wrote Louis and his grief over losing Claudia as a self insert, as a way for her to try handling her own grief over losing her daughter. But she started hating writing as Louis, and being stuck in that depressive mindset, so AR switched to writing from Lestat's POV instead, as a more fun and carefree character for a few books--until Lestat had a crisis of faith in Memnoch and goes into a coma. We then get Armand's book, where in TVL Armand tries to commit suicide by walking into the sun after Lestat gets Veronica's Veil from Memnoch (i.e.: proof that God exists, from the Devil). Immediately after this is Merrick, where Louis enters another depressive episode, as he waits vigil for YEARS beside Lestat, who lies on the floor of a cathedral in a coma. As Louis mourns, he finds Claudia's diaries, which reveal just how much she hated & resented him, and he starts being haunted by Claudia's ghost. By the end of Merrick, Claudia's ghost has convinced Louis that he's worthless, and he agrees.

Suicidal ideation is HEAVY in both Jane Eyre and Rebecca. Mrs. de Winter is almost talked into jumping from the window by the housemaid Mrs Danvers, who hates that the widowed Maxim de Winter remarried (forgetting his first wife Rebecca), and gave Manderlay to the new wife--a girl half his age with no clue how to be a "proper" lady of the estate.

In Jane Eyre, Bertha Mason is literally insane, and was locked up in Thornfield's attic, until she escaped and set the place on fire, then jumped off the roof to her death. In the 2006 BBC version, Bertha sees an owl (a nocturnal bird) fly off the roof, so she follows it; like a free bird taking flight.

Who else does this in IWTV? PAUL with his birds. (Not to mention the PTSD from Louis' drop in Ep5, which would've definitely killed a normal person.)

For years, I thought Claudia's ghost was just an apparition: either one of the demons Lestat unleashed while fleeing Hell in Memnoch, or more likely as a manifestation of Louis' guilty conscience, as his mental state got increasingly worse as he read her journals; on top of him being scared Lestat was dying. But then Blackwood Farm introduced Goblin, and all the later books had prominent vampire ghosts that proved that vampires (and aliens, lol) have immortal souls that can linger. So the ghost was legit, and so was Claudia's deep-rooted hatred for Louis.

I've already said how I think IWTV is a story about (failed) marriages and parenthood dynamics, the power imbalances that ensue, and the resentments that fester. But so are Jane Eyre & Rebecca. At the heart of ALL of them are mental illness & houses on fire. Bertha Mason was violently insane, but she was sane enough to realize that Mr Rochester was tryna marry another woman right under her nose, when it was HER dowry money that bankrolled Thornfield, as his first wife. So in the 2006 version Bertha lights Jane's wedding dress on fire, taking the whole mansion down with her. (In the book she just tears up the dress & veil, then starts the fire.)

In Rebecca, it was Maxim's first wife Rebecca who was cheating, but the (nameless) second wife lived under her shadow & the ghost of her memory--embodied by Mrs. Danvers, who hated her guts, and fed into her deep insecurities over being married to a widower who hadn't gotten over his first wife Rebecca (*cough* little did they know though~! XD). After failing to talk the girl into killing herself, Mrs Danvers had a psychotic break, and set Manderlay on fire, dying in the blaze (joining her beloved Rebecca).

Taking the Gothic horror & suspense out--or, hell, INCREASING it--one could easily spin this so that JANE was the one who started the fire when she learned about Bertha in the attic and ran away from Thornfield (in some adaptations the fire happens the same night she leaves). One could also say that MRS DE WINTER burned down Manderlay after cracking under the pressure of becoming a married lady. Both of these second wives were driven crazy by ghosts of the past, and burned down the mansions that had become their tombs.

Cuz I mean...Louis is Lestat's second wife/husband, after Nicky killed himself in a fire. 👀 And Louis and Claudia literally watched as they burned Lestat's sidechick/third wife Antoinette alive, so.... 🔥

TL;DR: I think Anne Rice must've been struggling with a lot of suicidal thoughts around the time she wrote The Vampire Armand (book 6) and Merrick (book 7), to have both its characters do the same thing, one right after the other. Vampires and their vulnerability to fire/sunlight were just metaphors for very real personal issues. After writing IWTV, she walked away from Louis, burying her depression by writing more books as the sunny Lestat, who suntans for fun and is immune to fire by the end of QoTD. But in the back of her mind, AR might've felt guilty forgetting about her grief (Louis forgetting about Claudia--willfully forgetting about Bertha, Rebecca, etc....). So the ghost of this guilt came back with a vengeance in Merrick, as Claudia unleashed all her vitriol on Louis, and he hated himself to the point that he was convinced to light himself on fire--the sole reliable escape from misery he had left.

#louis de pointe du lac #loustat #interview with the vampire #tw: suidice #tw: sucidal thoughts #tw: sucidal ideation #jane eyre #alfred hitchcock's rebecca #must see tv #Pyromaniac du Lac #iwtv tvc metas

52 notes · View notes

dark-elf-writes · 1 year

Text

Tw: Suicidal ideation.

—

“I thought we talked about rooftops, kid.”

Izuku didn’t look away from the sky, watching the crescent moon where it hung in its blanket of stars. “I like the wind… and the stars. It helps me remember why we’re doing this.”

Mr. Karasuma grunted as he sat next to them dropping his jacket over their chest like a blanket. “We’ll get you a fan and ask Sugaya to paint your ceiling.”

They didn’t smile.

The moon did.

“It’s funny,” Izuku lifted a hand like they could cup the scars in their palms. “After all this time of not wanting to live, with the end getting closer… I don’t think I want to die either.”

Their hand fell to the side. Mr. Karasuma caught it before they could split their knuckles on the roof. “Kid…”

“Do you think it’ll hurt?” Izuku asked instead. “If the world explodes. Do you think… will he be alone or will it take him out too?”

The man sighed. “I don’t think anything could live through an explosion like the one that took out the moon, but we’re going to figure this out.”

Izuku didn’t smile.

The moon did.

Korosensei’s smile hanging there in the sky for the whole world to see. A promise of what was to come if they failed. If they didn’t murder him.

“I’m going to miss him either way,” It was hardly more than a whisper, a secret they all knew but were terrified to say out loud.

Gone. Korosensei would be gone after this.

Killed at their hands. All of their hands.

The hand holding theirs squeezed and Izuku heard Mr. Karasuma shift back into his free hand to look up at the stars as well. “Yeah, kid. I will too.”

The two of them watched the stars. Neither of them smiled.

The moon did. Forever stuck in its corpse grin. A sinister promise of the two realities laid before them and the family they had built with a building full of outcasts and little hands white knuckled around instruments of death.

Murder or death.

Assassination or suicide.

Korosensei or the world.

“Fuck this sucks.” The child groan finally turning away from the sky to throw an arm over their face.

The man snorted, not bothering to scold them for the language. If any situation deserved it, it was the one laid before them. “Yeah kid. It sure fucking does.”

#the elf talks #mha #bnha #assclass #assassination hero au #assassination hero drabble #trying to trick my brain into letting me finish the next chapter by exorcising a future scene from my thoughts #tw: sucidal ideation #when you think about it the whole Assclass premise is real fucked up #Irina was right these kids need so much therapy

34 notes · View notes

vampi-fixx · 2 years

Text

gnaw

bleach | izuru kira x reader

prompt: ghoul + restraints (monsterfucker kinktober 2022)

summary: post-accident, izuru struggles to keep both his hunger under wraps, and his relationship intact. but as he finds the frayed edges of his control slipping, so does your presence in his life.

word count: 6.3k omg

cw: 18+, afab reader, ghoul!au, monsters that eat humans, reader is not eaten (other people are though), mentions of starvation, suicidal ideation, blood, vomiting, forced feeding, muzzles, handcuffs, last 2k is where all the smut is tbqh—the rest is angst

—

Hunger, Izuru thinks, is a sensation worse than death.

He’s tasted death on his tongue–a sharp, metallic tang. Pain that swallowed him whole, that spit him back out into this world, starving. Hungering.

(He’s tasted death in another way, as well.)

But hunger is all-encompassing. All he can think about lately.

He eyes the katsu curry dish you’ve made before him. The rich brown of the curry, the crispness of the pork, the warmth of the rice–these are all things that should appeal to him. You at the very least, seem to be enjoying yourself, chattering away, spooning the curry and rice mixture into your mouth. Izuru lets a ghost of a smile grace his face. He doesn’t breathe, but the overwhelming stench of food still churns his gut. His plate remains untouched.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat something, Izuru?” you ask again suddenly, and he’s snapped out of his daze.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” His smile tightens. The gnawing, expanding feeling in his stomach seems to worsen. He places a hand over his mouth, hoping to feign the illness he’d told you has been afflicting him since his hospital stay months back.

Loss of appetite. Nausea at the smell of food.

Well, one type of food.

There is another thought that occurs to him, one that he can’t voice. One that seems to increasingly haunt his day-to-day life, threatens to break the quaint domesticity the two of you have.

He could bite you. That would certainly fill his appetite.

He digs his fingernails into his palms, feeling crescents dig into his palm.

God, he could never tell you.

How could you look at him the same?

—

“Moved in with ‘em?” Gin drawls, his ever-present smirk on his face. Izuru hates the amusement his mentor drives from this particular situation, hates the truth of him. (The man he looked up to the most, who turned out to be nothing but a monster, who’s cursed him to this same fate.)

But why wouldn’t Gin find this funny?

Izuru is playing with fire.

“Yer’ somethin,’ aren’t’cha? Didn’t know you liked ta’ play with yer food before ya ate it~”

“They’re not food,” he says tersely, eyes trained on the way the flesh gives in beneath Gin’s hands. Gin used to mock him, say that he should be hunting for his own food, that their kind was known to get territorial. But that was before he found out the most amusing news:

That Izuru Kira post-accident is still trying to make things work with his human partner. That even more than that, he’s now living with them. The very thought seemed to be enough for him to dangle this lifeline in front of Izuru.

Izuru doesn’t even flinch as blood splatters across his face.

—

Izuru has always been into tragedies.

Ever since he was a kid. Ever since he’s been aware enough of his wretched existence. And if his life before the accident was act one, this was certainly the second half leading up to a tragic finale.

His hand grips the bathroom sink, leaning over it. His saliva feels stuck to the roof of his mouth, his tongue unbearably dry.

He can smell you, just beyond the shower curtain. Water slicking down your body, rivulets dipping beneath your flesh, the warm, wet musk of sweat. Izuru is so hungry, he’s starting to think his appetite pulling the strings here, and he’s a mindless puppet agreeing to its whims.

How long has it been? Two weeks, maybe three since he last saw Ichimaru? With the lockdowns in the city, it had been hard, so hard to get any source of sustenance.

Gin has his ways of course. Ways that Izuru wishes he could turn a blind eye to. He’s not completely a monster. No matter how much Gin insists they are.

Didn’t know you liked ta’ play with yer food before ya ate it, his words replay in Izuru’s mind.

When you come out of the shower, nuzzling up to him, it takes everything in him to appear relaxed. But then his gaze dips to the curve of your collarbone, the smooth softness of your skin. He’s horrified to find he has to swallow down the saliva accumulating in his mouth.

You’re not food.

You’re not food–

“You should get dressed,” he says suddenly, swallowing down the gnawing hunger inside him, threatening to take shape. He can’t. He can’t–

“Please,” he adds, shaking you off of him. You give him a hurt look, and Izuru squeezes his eyes shut. He can deal with you upset; anything is better than you knowing the truth.

And when he falls into bed with you, it takes everything in him to not lean over and bare his teeth. He lies stiffly on his side, praying to the powers above that you don’t press him.

You two haven’t been intimate in awhile, not since before the accident. He can’t trust himself, his hunger, to not act. Just the thought of your bare flesh, the faint taste of your body wash, has him near delirious.

You’re not food. You’re not food at all.

He loves you. He loves you so much he’s willing to bear the pangs of hunger just to be this close to you.

Oh, he’s such a fool.

—

Cohabitation tests the very limits of his control. If it’s not the shower, it’s you curled up next to him in bed, your shirt riding up, displaying a delicious sliver of your skin.

If it’s not that, it’s you kissing him, the taste of your lips on his nearly high enough to get him drunk. He has to control himself, the part of him that wants so desperately to turn his lips on your neck, into his teeth, into a bite, into gnawing—

He’s distant.

He doesn’t mean to be, but it’s tearing up at him. He downs endless amounts of coffee a day, only leaves the house to get that. At some point, even you’ve noticed his consumption, expressed concern over his increasingly gaunt visage.

You’ve noticed by now, surely you’ve noticed something is off.

Izuru eats it all. Your curry, your udon, your fried rice, anything to keep you happy. And then, when you’re busy washing dishes, he does his best to vomit it all up, the taste of bile in his throat somehow making his hunger even more pronounced.

—

Gin’s words reverberate in his head.

“How’s yer cute lil’ human gonna react when they find out what ya’ gotta eat to stay alive? When you take a lil nibble out of ‘em?”

“It’s a mistake, ya’ know? Humans don’t like us; they’re terrified of us, even.” He grins, a spot of blood on his chin shining in the sun.

“Is’not gonna end well.”

—

No. Izuru isn’t the main character of a tragedy. He’s not some forlorn Romeo, sworn to kill you by his own hand. He can overcome this, this gnawing hunger to be by you, one step at a time.

He bites down on his hand until he feels the skin tear. The way it doesn’t even null the hunger in the slightest sends him spiraling.

—

“W-We’re doing this now?”

Izuru hadn’t considered that you would take action. That you are just as much of a character in this play as he is. That you want something.

Him. His body. The proof that you two, your relationship, is fine. Surely you’ve noticed his distance.

Foolishly, he lets you.

He’s been so hungry. He hasn’t fed in weeks.

He would hate himself if he did something to you.

(At the same time, part of him craves this. The intimacy or your flesh–he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to think about how much of a monster he’s become–)

He overestimates his control.

Your neck bared before him. He can’t resist. His teeth dig into the flesh of your neck. He moans as your blood rushes hot and warm into his mouth.

You scream.

—

He fucked up.

Hefuckedup, hefuckedup, hefuckedup.

Izuru stares mournfully at the scene. Momo treats your wound as you sit, dazed. Your scream snapped him out of his frenzy. In a daze, he called her–thankfully, he had enough sense to. He’s not even sure how she understood his frantic voice over the phone.

There was blood, so much blood. Your blood. Everywhere. On the floor. In his mouth.

You’re shaking, gone pale. You passed out once already. From the pain? Shock? Izuru can only imagine.

He’s backed into the corner of a wall, biting down on his palm. He’s sure he must make a ghastly sight; his eyes must be pitch black, with red sclera. His mouth painted red with your blood. The look of a monster.

You’re trying your best not to stare at him. The one time you do glance over, you flinch.

Monster.

He is a monster.

He hurt you.

He tried to eat you.

He wanted to eat you, and he would have.

Momo is calmly trying to explain what’s happened to him, the accident, what he’s become. Their lifestyle. Their diet. And from the way you momentarily give her a look of fear, Izuru knows that you know she’s the same kind of monster he is.

Izuru knows he should be by your side, he should be there for you. But he’s the one who hurt you in the first place. And that very knowledge makes him want to run. Run far away, run from himself.

So he does.

—

When Gin finds him, bloodied and blank-stared, of course he knows what happens. It’s written all over Izuru’s face.

“Maybe it’ll be a good lesson for ya.’ Bet you were tryna create one of those tragic endings ya’ like readin’ about so much.”

Izuru says nothing, even as his mentor drags him back to his apartment. Shoves him onto the floor. Throws a slab of something in front of him.

His mouth stays shut.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue.

—

“Izuru? Can we… talk? You left without saying anything…”

“Izuru, I’m sorry. Momo kind of explained to me… I don’t blame you. I’m sorry for not realizing you’ve been struggling this badly with your… appetite.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster.”

“I do think I deserve some kind of closure, though.”

“Izuru, I’m getting worried. It’s been almost two weeks. The bite’s almost healed. Are you even…”

“Izuru, where are you?”

Voicemail box full. Message cannot be saved.

—

Izuru wants to waste away.

He doesn’t deserve to exist.

Not in this form, not if all he can do is bring harm to others.

He tries to starve. Wants to see how long his kind can survive without human flesh before wasting away. He’s scornful. He hates this life, hates his new diet.

But fate is cruel. His mentor is cruel. Gin forces bits of flesh into his mouth that keep him alive. No matter how much Izuru tries to retch it back up, to reject it… his body craves it. The satiation that floods through him after every bite disgusts him.

He’s truly a monster.

Gin is definitely amused by his predicament.

He’s so weak, he slips in and out of consciousness. Gin feeds him just enough to stay alive, but not enough to stay awake. There are images, memories that play in his mind. His subconscious cruelly reminding him of what he’d lost.

The first time you met.

(“Um, excuse me? Is this the Intro to Poetry class with Dr. Tosen?”

The two of you became class partners, sharing poetry with one another. Izuru fell in love with you from the words on the page you breathed life into. He could only hope that you felt the same, that his artistic sensitivity spoke to you.

He confessed to you with a haiku, comparing his love to a new spring day.

You were smart enough to realize that he was talking about you.)

The accident.

(Walking down the street in the dead of the night, Izuru had stayed late in the library to work on his dissertation. He’d made a breakthrough that he was excited to share with you once he got home. He didn’t see the car swerving towards him. The car clearly didn’t make out his figure in the dim streetlight.

The crash was instantaneous. The pain everywhere. Izuru’s head hit the pavement, his vision blacked out.

“Well, well, yer’ in pretty bad shape. I’d even say yer a dead man.”

The familiar voice of his advisor. He tried to open his eyes. Everything was a blur. Before he lost consciousness, the last thing he saw were Gin’s eyes. Open, for the first time. Black with red sclera.

Gin leaned down.

Pain tore into Izuru’s shoulder, ripped him anew.)

The day after.

When he awoke, all he felt was the burning pang of hunger.

It hasn’t stopped since.

—

“Izuru?”

A familiar voice. Smell.

A gentle nudge to his shoulder.

“Are you awake?”

Definitely familiar.

His hunger must truly be getting to him, if now he’s hallucinating about you.

“Izuru? Can you hear me?”

After all, why would you be in front of him? How would you know where he even is?

Nonetheless, a part of him wants to linger in this fantasy. One where you care enough to look for him. Where nothing bad happened. Where the two of you could still be together.

“Is he okay?”

A small furrow forms between his brows. Is someone else here? Who else would be in this fantasy–

A sharp blow to the back of his head, right above his neck. Izuru lurches forward, coughing.

“Yah, he’s fine. Just a lil’ slow is all. Lack of food, y’know? Too busy mopin’ ‘bout his own life.”

Ichimaru? Why would you and Ichimaru be in the same hallucination?

Then Izuru’s eyes snap open. Why would you and Ichimaru be in the same room? Only if you were dinner–

He swivels his head upwards, calling out your name in a panic. Only to meet your surprised face, inches from his, from where you’re kneeling in front of him.

“Ah–” The two of you stare at each other for a beat.

Izuru calls out your name, and that breaks the moment. He’s taken aback when you wrap your arms around him. Blinking several times, he realizes that no, this isn’t a dream. The thrum of your heart next to his ear, the soft give of your body. It’s all real.

He murmurs your name. His eyes slip shut as he returns your hug, slumping against you.

The illusion of normalcy. He may as well enjoy it while it lasts.

It takes a moment for him to realize you’re talking to him.

“...I was so worried you had died or–or something worse. Do you have any idea how stressful the past few weeks have been?” you ask, pushing back from him to give him a stern look.

Izuru’s mouth feels dry now for another reason.

“I… I’m sorry,” he says weakly.

“You better be sorry, Izuru. It’s one thing to find out that you’re a… you know, but then to go weeks without hearing from you? What the hell?”

“I…” His brow furrows. This is not at all the response he expected. “I didn’t… I thought it would be better if I had…”

“What? Disappeared?” You scrutinize him, before sighing. Reaching towards him to ruffle his hair. “Look, it’s not okay to just disappear when problems occur, Izu. Haven’t we talked about this before? It makes me worry…”

“I’m sorry,” Izuru says again, because at this point that’s all he thinks he can say. He’s sorry he’s a monster. He’s sorry he’s like this. He’s sorry that he’s showing such a pitiful display in front of you. He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I didn’t know if you still wanted to… be around me. After… well…”

His gaze darts to your shoulder, which you’ve mostly covered up. A sliver of gauze peeks through, and his visage darkens. You catch his eye, shifting your shirt to better cover the wound.

“Well,” Gin says suddenly, clapping his hands. It startles you both; neither of you seem to have remembered your audience. “‘M glad yer here to get this moper outta here. Much as it was fun ta’ watch, he’s really been dampenin’ the mood all ‘round.”

Izuru jolts. “What? N-No, I can’t go back. I can’t!”

“Ya’ gotta learn how to live with humans, ya’ know? It helps ta’ stay full.” Gin gives him a sharp look.

Izuru stares at him, aghast. “What if something happens? If I… if I lose control again…” He glances towards you helplessly. “I don’t think I could live with myself,” he says lowly.

“If you get hungry,” you offer, hesitantly. “Momo left a few things you can eat. In the fridge. B-Back at my place.”

His stomach churns. He can’t imagine how awful it is for you to know what he subsists on. His diet. You must be disgusted with him. Surely.

“Well, ya’ two lovebirds, I’mma have to kick you out,” Gin interrupts. “Rangiku’s comin’ over in a few. I ain’t got all day. Kira, do yer best not to eat yer cute lil’ human this time~”

Before Izuru knows it, Ichimaru is slamming the door in both of your faces.

He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, hard enough that he can taste blood. His own. When he speaks, his voice is shaky.

“If… if you want, I can find another friend to stay with. Momo, maybe. I understand if you don’t feel safe around me–”

You cough meaningfully. He stops, shifting awkwardly in place.

You sigh. “Izuru… what part of ‘I’m not afraid of you’ do you not get?”

“Truthfully? All of it,�� he says blandly. “I think you’re insane.” You jab him in the ribs, and he inhales sharply. “Ow. Okay, sorry. But really... why aren’t you afraid of me?” He rubs his side, a frown etched into his features. “I would be.”

“Well, I’m not.”

His look is disbelieving, and you elaborate. “I… I mean like, I kind of get it. If I was starving and had only like… almonds to eat, I would also probably chow down on the closest burger when presented before me.”

He looks horrified. You have to bite down on your lip to hold your laugh. “Sorry! That’s kind of how Momo described it to me.”

“You’re not a… burger. Or food.” He frowns. “I need to talk to Momo about her analogies…” he mutters dismally.

You laugh this time, and Izuru, despite the stress of the situation, relaxes slightly at the familiar sound. God, he’s missed it.

“I may have taken liberties with her explanation,” you admit. Your mirth trails off as you clear your throat. “So, are you finally going to believe me when I say I want to be around you still?”

Izuru surveys you cautiously. Not to determine his answer, but to gauge your reaction.

“No.”

“That’s… very characteristic of you. I guess you won’t believe me until we’re back home and I haven’t locked you out.”

He musters up a hint of a smile to give you.

As the two of you walk home, your hand nudges his. Once. Then twice. By the third time, Izuru grasps it.

He doesn’t understand it, but you still want him.

And for now, that’s all he needs to know.

—

Once the two of you are outside the door to your apartment, he tugs on your wrist.

“Look I… I can’t promise I won’t…” Izuru frowns, trying to find the words. The past few weeks have taken their toll on him mentally. “That it won’t happen again. I’m not… who you think I am. Not anymore.”

You tilt your head to the side. The action is so endearing that despite himself, Izuru reaches out, cupping your cheek with his thin fingers. He leans down, eyes dark, close enough until your noses brush against each other.

He wants to kiss you.

He wants so badly to taste you.

But a glance at your bandaged shoulder reminds him of what he needs to do first, and he pulls back, steeling himself.

“I couldn’t live with myself if I did something bad to you again. I don’t…” He inhales sharply. “I don’t deserve the second chance you’re giving me. But if something were to happen, please. Stop me. Do whatever it takes.”

“Don’t show me mercy, no matter what.”

You glance askew, seeming to ponder the weight of his words. While Izuru feels relief, it’s tinged with anxiety. Maybe he’s finally finally gotten through to you. Maybe you’re regretting the decision to seek him out.

But he’s giving you an out. A chance to turn him down.

You don’t have to doom yourself to a fate with him. He’ll understand if you’d rather break things off here and now. Despite how much something in his gut seems to churn at the very thought.

You can go back to your normal life, and pretend he never happened. And he can go back to trying to adjust to his new life, all while ignoring the pang in his chest whenever the thought of you crosses his mind....

“Ah!” you exclaim suddenly. Izuru looks at you curiously. “That must be why he gave me this... One second.” You rummage through your bag. “Your advisor--Ichimaru, is it?--handed this to me before we left.” You pull out the object. Izuru stares.

And stares.

It’s a muzzle.

A leather muzzle, with an intricate layout of straps and buckles. Certainly too big to fit a dog’s mouth. Perhaps meant to fit a human.

Izuru pales at the implication. “Ichimaru… gave this to you?”

“Yeah! He said he, uh...” Your voice lowers as you glance around conspiratorially. “He said he found it in a sex shop. He thought you might need it...”

Izuru suddenly feels ill. He’s certain he turns a shade of green. You catch sight of his expression and quickly clarify.

“Don’t worry! It should be unused.”

“That… that’s not the problem!” he whispers back furiously, glancing around before quickly unlocking your door. He ushers the two of you inside, hoping to the powers above that no has caught sight of or heard your indecency.

If one of your neighbors saw you brandishing a muzzle before him… and admitting it’s from a sex shop… he doesn’t think he would ever be able to live it down.

That damn Ichimaru.

—

He dons it.

Because he doesn’t trust himself, because he still can’t determine if he’s staring at you with hunger in the literal sense or hunger in the sense of wanting you close to him…. Izuru dons the muzzle.

It’s dehumanizing, but surprisingly not nearly as uncomfortable as he assumed it would be. The leather is thick, sturdily made. He can talk through it, but it’s muffled. He certainly can’t open his mouth at all to bite.

In some ways, it’s an ideal solution, he begrudgingly admits.

Before he puts it on, he does sneak some of the food Momo had left in the fridge for him, in an inconspicuous brown bag labeled with his name. He’s decided if he’s going to be around you, Ichimaru is right. He needs to make sure he’s not starving. You keep your gaze trained on the wall behind you as he eats. Izuru suggests you leave the room, not wanting you to see the ghastly sight of him, but you stay. He tries to eat quickly, discreetly.

He leaves the room only to brush his teeth, to rid himself of the taste of blood on his mouth. For your sake. In case... he flushes at the thought.

In case you feel like kissing him, at all.

The stress of the day seems to have gotten to you both, though, and you decide to retire early for the night. Izuru follows you to the bedroom, feeling weary from his own several weeks of psychological torment.

Which leads to his current predicament.

Izuru lies stiff next to you in bed. He’s turned to one side, his back to you.

You’re so warm, so soft. He can practically feel the thrum of your blood with his heightened senses.

Izuru turns towards you. You’re sleeping peacefully, your hand outstretched towards him. Your hair is in disarray, and as he watches, a bit of drool escapes your mouth.

He cracks a smile, brushing some of the hair from your face.

Izuru’s hand trails down to the shoulder he bit, and lightly skims the bandage covering your wound. Then, before he can stop himself, his hand strays even lower, until it’s hovering right above your heart. He’s never found the steady beat of your heart more comforting than he does now. It’s a sign that you’re alive. That his hunger hadn’t consumed him completely.

His eyes flutter shut as he presses his palm against your chest.

He realizes too late just what part of you he’s touching when his finger brushes against a nipple, hardened and poking through your shirt. He freezes, his hand stilling.

How long has it been since he’s felt your body against his–bared, nothing but skin against skin?

Images flash through his mind, and despite himself, Izuru’s body feels hot. His gaze trails back up to your injured shoulder, and the thought–awful as it is–occurs to him.

What if he gave you a matching bite on the other side?

Izuru shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He shifts uncomfortably. Heat pools down to below his gut, where it simmers.

Of all the times to get an erection, certainly the worst was while trying not to devour your loved one.

Izuru signs through the muzzle, adjusting himself once more. He wills himself to think of the most painful things he can–his accident, Gin’s shopping escapades, that time Momo dropped a bowling ball on his foot.

Maybe it’s his proximity to you. Maybe it’s the inherent deviancy of needing restraints to not ravish you–in which way, he wasn’t sure.

But Izuru revisits the thought of biting you, one that disturbed him only a few moments ago. Yet now… it seems different. Rather than his literal desire for your flesh Izuru realizes the appeal of the idea of biting you can be sexual.

Marking you. Letting everyone know that you’re his. Leaving physical proof of his love on your flesh.

His.

His lover.

Offering themselves up to him.

Letting him back into their life, even knowing of his monstrous nature.

Allowing him to feast on them, both literally and carnally.

Izuru inhales sharply. He flexes his thighs, pressing his hips against the band of his boxers. He’s so turned on, it’s starting to hurt. He briefly considers taking care of himself in the bathroom, in privacy. Where he can’t disturb you.

You’re so tired. He’s already inconvenienced you this far. He can’t bother you with something as trivial as this.

Izuru tries his best to escape the bed quietly, but it creaks under his weight. You’ve never been a light sleeper, but suddenly you’re awake, your voice cutting through the fog of his desire.

“Izuru? You okay?”

“Mmf.” He tries to say yes, but it’s muffled through the muzzle. It’s too late. You’re already turning on the lights. You give him a once-over, and Izuru’s whole body flushes once your eyes are drawn to his groin. He glances down, and his worst fears are realized. A wet patch stains the front of his boxers. Mortification washes through him.

“Oh. Um…”

He shakes his head furiously, grabbing a pillow to hide his shame. This isn’t what it looks like! He isn’t some pervert that gets off to being bound! But his own body betrays him.

“I didn’t know these kinds of things turned you on, Izuru,” you finally say.

He wants to die of embarrassment. Is it too late to go back to Gin’s place?

Scratch that. Ichimaru was the one who bought this damn muzzle in the first place.

“It’s… it’s okay. It’s been awhile since we’ve done anything. Plus with what’s happened lately… it makes sense that you’re… you know. Pent-up?”

Nope, nope it doesn’t. Izuru doesn’t want to discuss his bodily functions right now. Not when he’s still stiff, not when he was about to take care of it himself, without burdening you.

He jerks his head towards the bathroom door, resolutely refusing to glance at you.

But you reach out, before pausing. Your hand brushes his wrist holding the pillow to himself. You tilt your head. “Can I help?”

Izuru stares at you, uncomprehending.

“Like… I mean. I wouldn’t mind helping you out there,” you say, your gaze darting to the pillow before back up at him. Seeking permission.

Izuru weighs his options.

Is it more pitiful to bother you with his bodily needs? Or to be jerking off in the bathroom alone after declining his lover’s offer to help?

He can’t decide. But eventually he nods.

After you stare at him expectantly for several seconds, he realizes that he needs to uncover himself. Right.

He drops the pillow uncertainly, and to your credit, you don’t look down. His hands fumble with the sides his boxers, before tugging them down. He doesn’t know why—you two have definitely seen each other naked before, a few times, in fact—but something about this feels like new territory.

He finally yanks them down completely. His cock springs up, a trail of precome sticking to his underwear. He grimaces, but your eyes seem drawn to the sight. Izuru shuffles towards the bed, nearly tripping over his boxers. He stumbles, face turning red beneath the mask as he kicks them off the rest of the way. Unsure of how to position himself, he settles for half-kneeling on the bed with one leg, standing with the other.

Your hand on his cock is sudden, and nearly has him toppling over. It’s been so long, and your hand is so soft, your grip so sure. Izuru hisses through the muzzle, bucking his hips into your touch. You stroke him, tugging his foreskin over the weeping head of his cock, and Izuru’s eyes near roll into the back of his head.

As you pump him, he realizes belatedly that the soft, keening sounds are coming from him, which he soon silences.

“Aw~ I liked hearing you,” you tease. He flushes.

Your mouth lapping at the tip of his cock nearly has him cumming right then and there. As it is, his balls clench, and he doubles over, grasping your hand.

“Hm?” you ask. He shakes his head rapidly. “Oh, close?”

He nods.

“Want me to stop?”

“Mnn,” he says. Yes. He doesn’t want to finish so soon when it’s your first time together in awhile. He tugs at the strap of your shirt, and you get the hint. After you discard the shirt, he gestures at your panties.

“Wanna be inside?”

He nods tersely, his eyes trained keenly on the sight of your pussy being revealed to him. Your folds glisten as you remove your panties, strings of your arousal sticking to the fabric. Even through the leather muzzle, he can smell you, needy and wet for him. It makes his cock throb.

Izuru wastes little time in mounting you, his hands digging into the bedsheets as he positions himself over you. He thrusts, and your combined juices make him glide right past your entrance. He huffs in annoyance, and your hand comes down to grasp his length. Carefully you guide him into you, the both of you inhaling sharply once he thrusts all the way, until his hips meet yours.

This time Izuru’s eyes do roll to the back of his head. Fuck. Has he felt anything more divine? He’d write odes to how good you feel around him.

Izuru thrusts slowly, dragging his cock along your entrance before sinking back in. He’s breathing harshly through his mask. Your walls clench tight around him, drawing him in, refusing to let go.

He’d be a fool if he did.

His cock rubs against a certain spot inside you, and you clench around him particularly tight. He grunts, pleasure building in his balls. Fuck, he’s close.

His hands grip your sheets tightly, balling them into fists.

Not mindful of his newfound strength from feeding so recently.

Riiiip.

Fabric tears beneath you.

The both of you still at the sound. Izuru releases his fists, and torn shreds of your bedsheets flutter onto the bed.

Your jaw drops.

He looks mortified. He slips out of you.

You turn around to survey the damage. While your bedsheet is mostly intact, there are two giant, jagged tears ripped across it.

“Did you…”

Izuru hangs his head. He is truly a beast now.

“Hey, i-it’s okay! Um, he said this also might happen... Can you pass me my bag?” Izuru reaches down to grab it, handing it to you. You rummage through it. “It’s a good thing your advisor also gave me these,” you say, before pulling out a pair of--a pair of--

Izuru stares blankly at the item in your hand.

First the muzzle. Now handcuffs.

Steel handcuffs.

Surely, Ichimaru knew these wouldn’t be used for innocent reasons only. The fact that he knows about his sex life--knows enough that he figured Izuru would lose control and would need these things--makes him want to perish.

His cock flags a bit, truthfully.

You notice Izuru’s despair, and shrug, attempting to brighten the mood.

“I mean, if it comes in handy...”

Dully, he reaches his hands out to you, allows you to cuff him. He’ll try his best to will the thought of Ichimaru out of the bedroom. Even if the thought of his advisor knowing the intimate details of his sex life threatens to ruin the mood.

Izuru shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts. Once he’s bound, you have him lie on his back. Ah. It is harder for him to be on top now, he supposes.

“Everything good?”

He nods stiffly, still not quite over his mortification. You seem to realize that you’ll have to get him back into the mood, and you settle between his legs, spreading his thighs apart.

“Relax, Izu. Keep your focus on me, okay?”

Your mouth descends on him again. He attempts to do as you instruct, but finds it difficult. With how skilled you are--lapping at the tip of his cock, hands pumping him at the base, stroking him to full hardness again--he finds pressure building once again at the base of his cock. He adjusts his hips, accidentally thrusting deeper into your throat. His toes curl into the now-ruined bedsheets as you choke.

He’s frantically offering muffled apologies through the muzzle, but you wave them off, wiping spit from your chin. You straddle his hips, sliding your slick against his cock. He struggles against the handcuffs, wanting desperately to guide himself back into you.

Izuru leans his head back once he finally feels your wet, hot pussy engulf his stiff cock, the muscles in his neck straining.

He shudders, jerking his hips up into you. Your hands find purchase on his thighs as you push yourself up, before dropping yourself onto his cock. Grinding your hips against his, you lean down. He lifts his cuffed hands up, and you slip under them, burying your face into his neck. Izuru can’t kiss you, but he nudges his muzzle against your head, dropping his hands to hold you to him.

He rolls his hips against yours, inching in deeper. Your mewls and soft moans are ambrosia he would gladly get drunk on.

“Oh god, Izu… you feel so good.”

Is he making you feel good? He bets he could make you feel better. He digs his heels into the bed, flexing his hips, his cock aiming for that spot inside you that has you moaning loud, clenching tight around him. “Fuck!” you exclaim.

You hump him, working yourself towards your own orgasm. Izuru’s eyes flutter shut, his brow tensing. He’s breathing hard again. His hands flex against the cuffs, wanting desperately to remove them; his teeth dig into the muzzle, wishing it was off.There are so many things he wants to do to you that he can’t.

Grasp your hips, make you ride him harder. Cup your face, kiss you deeply, whisper praises of how beautiful you look above him. Wrap you in his arms, and thrust into you, deeply enough that your bodies meld together.

But there’s time for that. Practice. Patience. He yearns for the day he can be with you, like this, without these kinds of barriers.

For now though, he’ll try to make the most of them.

You’re gasping and moaning his name, and you press your lips to his forehead, the one part of his face that you can access. The muzzle digs uncomfortably into your neck, but Izuru keeps you to him, his hips moving more fervently now. They’re bucking up into you, aiming with deadly precision at the spot that has you spiraling.

When you cum, it’s with a stuttering cry of his name.

“Izuru! Fuck. I love you.”

“Mmph!” Your pussy clenches hard around him, and Izuru loses it. His vision goes white from the intensity of his orgasm. He thrusts into you as deeply as he can. Spilling himself into you in spurts, until you’re overflowing with him, until it’s dribbling out and back onto him in milky trails.

Tiredly, he clutches you to him. He’s more exhausted now than he’s been in the past two weeks. The cuffs dig into his wrists, and he has to adjust them.

You shift until your face is level with his. Izuru flinches as the movement causes his softening cock to slip out from inside you.

Your fingers card through his sweaty locks, brushing the hair from his face.

“I do love you,” you tell him earnestly. “Human or not.”

Izuru tries to draw you closer to him. You notice the awkward movements from his cuffed hands, and unlock them. Now freed, he holds you to him closely, his chin resting on your head.

You don’t need to hear him to tell what he’s thinking.

I feel the same.

#izuru kira x reader #bleach x reader #izuru kira imagine #izuru smut #tati writes #oopsies #btw these are definitely like tokyo ghoul ghouls #bleach thots #bleach smut #NOT SFW #tw: ghouls #tw: sucidal ideation #tw: blood #tw: starvation #tw: vomit #wow I have so many trigger warnings sahofludhsof oopses

93 notes · View notes

dewdropsintheevening · 1 month

Text

Dying

tw: (suicide)

I'm dying, and everyone can see yet Yet I am punished for it My performance is poor, my standards have not been met What the hell is wrong with you?

I feel trapped, and on display Like a bug under the light My mom takes a shoe And squishes me against the window We get home Don't leave the car There's more squishing to be done You're worthless, you know that? You're so talented, do something with it I can't if I'm dying Then stop dying you waste of space I'm trying, I cannot We get back inside Tears are running down my face My parents refuse to look at me My dogs turn their snouts from me Locked in my room I sit and I ponder Sitting on the edge of my bed Is my only option left to die? They say they would miss you, but would they really? What do you have left to live for? You're dying, and nobody cares Nobody will help If you're dying, might as well get it over with. Grab the pills and the plastic bag Schwoop Gulp Your girlfriend calls You're back in reality The pills are still in your hand You pick up the phone. "End of year is coming, we need to buckle down" "But I'm dying" "Then stop." Click There's nobody else Just do it, they won't care None of them would Gulp Silence.

#poems on tumblr #poemsbyme #vent poem #vent post #poetry #tw: depression #tw: mental illness #tw: sucidal ideation #tw: suicide #tw: death

2 notes · View notes

awhitehead17 · 2 years

Text

Whumptober 2022: Day 18 - Let’s break the ice

Prompt: “Just get it over with.”

Summary: A person can only handle so much at a time until it all becomes too much to deal with. For Tim, he’s reached the end of his line and has decided that he’s done with everything.

A/N: Warnings for suicidal thoughts and references to self-harm. Don't read if it makes you uncomfortable.

Tim knows he’s at his breaking point. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going but he definitely knows that he's had enough. It’s not just that he's had enough of this situation but in fact that he’s had enough of everything. He’s tired. He’s done.

The last few months have been the hardest months of Tim’s life. From the amount of people he’s lost, to losing his team, to getting into devastating arguments with his “family” and to being almost killed several times. He’s had enough.

He doesn’t know how to keep going, or even if he wants to anymore. What's the point? He doesn’t have anything to live for. Dick’s made sure of that, as well as the brat. The stuck up brat that he’s currently fighting with, probably the fifth fight that week and it’s only Wednesday…

Raising his staff up Tim blocks a strike from above, their weapons collide nosily and the impact sends vibrations through Tim’s arms. Opposite him, Damian lets out a growl and bounds away for a quick breather. Tim himself takes a deep breath before repositioning himself defencelessly.

The kid’s upset and angry with him, again, and Tim has no idea what he's done this time to deserve a full force attack from him. This is what he’s tired and bored of. The kid constantly attacks him, sometimes for no reasons, just out of the blue Damian would try and kill him or at least fatally wound him. Other times Tim would in fact goad him, wanting a fight to blow off steam or something that’ll help to clear his mind. It’s not exactly healthy but it occasionally does the trick.

This particular fight however is one that Damian’s just pounced on him for no good reason. Thankfully Tim’s taken initiative to always carry around his bo-staff just in case this exact thing happens.

Damian lunges and Tim steps to the side, using his staff he bats the sword away before spinning around and aiming a kick at Damian’s leg. The impact of his strike causes Damian to lose balance and before the kid could right himself, Tim is there delivering a blow to the centre of his back which has him dropping to the floor. Tim wisely steps back a few paces and allows Damian to scramble up to his feet.

The kid turns to him, seething with resentment, and Tim looks back with a bored expression. Damian is currently fighting with raw emotion, it’s clouding his judgement and making it rather easy to beat him. Tim appreciates his abilities, as a ten year old Damian is an exceptional fighter, but he still lacks that restraint and experience someone older has. If Tim truly wants to he could end Damian, maybe not easily but if Tim really went for it he would be the standing victor between them.

However Tim is tired. He's done. He can’t be bothered to keep playing the same song over and over again. What’s the point? What is Damian getting out of this?

When the kid lunges again, this time Tim lets him get a hit in. He pretends to be too slow to dodge and not prepared enough to counterattack. The blow lands on Tim’s side and he relishes in the instant ache that develops. Tim allows the second blow to land, this time a slash to his side with Damian’s sword which gives him a sharp stinging sensation that he appreciates. Gradually Tim allows Damian to get more and more hits against him, Tim’s pretending that he’s tiring out, that his movements are growing sloppy as they continue to fight. He still occasionally makes sure to land a blow to show he’s still fighting but they are far and few in between.

As Tim was so wrapped up in his thoughts and not really invested in the fight, he genuinely completely missed the kid sneaking behind up and landing a blow against the centre of his back. Getting caught off guard Tim stumbles forward and Damian doesn’t hesitate to take his legs out from underneath him, Tim lands hard on the floor and gets winded from the impact. Not wasting a moment Damian climbs on top of him and goes to town on his face.

One punch after another, Damian lands blows against his cheeks, nose, lips and temples. By the end of the battering Tim could feel blood dripping down his face from where his skin has spilt open, he’s bruised, swollen and his entire body is going numb from the attack.

This is when Damian finally realises that Tim is no longer fighting back. Something clicks in the ten-year-old’s mind that Tim isn’t defending himself here, that he isn’t fighting to knock the kid off of him. He's simply letting Damian deliver the blows without protest.

Tim comes back to the present when he no longer feels Damian punching him. Looking up at the kid through blurred vision he finds Damian still above him with his fist raised as if he’s about to punch him again but for some reason he’s not moving, Damian is staring down at him with a confused frown and this is the first time Tim seen him show some hesitancy.

Damian’s expression soon turns into a scowl. “Why aren’t you fighting back Drake?”

Feeling blood pool in his mouth, Tim turns to the side to spit it out before answering the kid. “Does it matter?” When he speaks his voice is hoarse and croaky. His beaten voice simply reflecting on his physical state. “You’re getting what you want.”

“I want you to fight me!”

Tim doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything.

His silence angers Damian and Damian delivers the blow he had previously withheld, Tim’s head snaps to the side and by the time he’s straightened up Damian is there with his sword pressed against his throat.

In a moment of darkness, Tim leans into the blade. Allowing the sharp edge to press against his skin further. “Do it.”

Damian blinks at him. Clearly Tim’s submission isn’t something he expected. If his face wasn’t so swollen Tim would have raised an eyebrow, why is Damian so reluctant to kill him now. Is it because Tim is no longer fighting him? Is it because he’s asking for it?

“Don’t be a coward! Fight me!” As the kid screams his demands Tim doesn’t even flinch. Any fucks he’s given are long gone.

He’s not a coward, but he’s given up. After losing everything Tim finds he doesn’t have the willpower to go on anymore. His dad, Bart, Stephanie, Bruce, Kon… Tim's even lost Dick because of this brat, how is he supposed to carry on when he’s so alone.

He doesn’t want to.

Pressing further into Damian’s sword, this time actually feeling the blade cut his throat, he makes eye contact with the kid. “Just get it over with. Kill me!”

For a second Tim thought he was going to do it. For a second Tim felt peace wash over him. However his feelings are flipped around when instead of slicing his throat Damian removes the blade from his throat. He goes even further and gets up off Tim and stares down at him in shock and confusion. His moves make Tim angry, Damian’s been trying to kill him for months and now Tim is letting him do it he refuses to.

“You’re an unworthy opponent Drake. There is no honour in ending your life when you refuse to fight for it.”

With that comment, Damian walks away from him. Leaving Tim blinking at his retreating form as he disappears out of his sight.

Once the kid’s gone, Tim doesn’t know what to do with himself. He lies there bloody and beaten on the floor, unable to move as he finally feels the pain radiating right through his core. Eventually he feels his consciousness slipping and the last thing he thinks about as his eyes close is wondering if he would be lucky enough to not wake up again.

#Whumptober 2022 #Just get it over with #day eighteen #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #this is pretty dark #tw: sucidal ideation #tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: self-harm #Tim is not in a good place #hurt #angst #lots of angst #fighting #weapons #giving up #dc comics #Robin #fanfiction

27 notes · View notes

midweastindigo · 1 year

Text

part three of what i've dubbed evan enchanted bc i have no actual brain it's just bees in there

part one

part two

it appears that that particular order has lasting effects.

buck is nine days into a suit he filed against the lafd and the city of los angeles and he's trying to jump from his balcony, but every time he so much as touches the ledge, his chest tightens as if disobeying a direct order. a feeling so familiar to him that it's become like a sixth sense; a second skin. eddie's words echo through his head. not the demand to live, no. the other thing.

'you're exhausting.'

in all his rage, not once did he slip up. not once did eddie angrily make buck do something like so many others have before him.

it makes the pain of losing him hurt more. because that's what happened. he lost eddie. in his selfish actions, out of fear of losing everyone, he lost the most important person. people, really, because losing eddie means losing christopher.

'you're exhausting.'

eddie can't lie. and if there's one truth buck's infinitely more familiar with than eddie, it's that he's exhausting. he knows, okay? he gets it.

but why does he have to make himself smaller in order to fit? why can't everyone else just make a little bit more room for once? maybe that's why they think him selfish. it's always about buck.

so, he's sitting on his balcony. not jumping. because apparently, an order from months ago is preventing him from dying, and he's pissed off about it. he can't even die for himself. someone commanded him not to.

and they call him selfish.

he doesn't jump. can't jump. can't swallow more that two pain killers for his leg when it's time. can't pick up any sharp utensils without shaking. he decides to drop the lawsuit; it's the only thing it seems he can take control of right now. has to beg maddie to accompany him because the lawyer will certainly say something that will keep buck from pulling out.

'you're not dropping this.'

'i'm not...dropping this...?' buck looks to his sister, panicked. she takes a deep breath for him to follow. nods slightly. buck mimics her actions, clears his throat and stands.

'i am dropping the lawsuit. i never wanted the city's money. i want nothing to do with any of this anymore. all i wanted was my job and now i've lost everything.' he walks away before the lawyer can speak again. maddie hurriedly follows him out.

'buck, hey. i don't think you've lost everything. i'm sorry i took chim's side. there shouldn't be sides, but you're my brother, and i should have -'

'it's okay. i was just being selfish.'

'no, you weren't. if bobby really did keep you from going back and then lied about it, you had every right to be angry. i think suing the city was a little far, but,' she laughs. buck finds himself chuckling along with her.

'oh, one hundred percent too far!'

they're climbing into buck's jeep when he asks it.

'do you think they'll ever forgive me?'

'i do. it's what family - real family - does, evan. we forgive each other. you've found a real family with them. we both have, in a way. they'll move on because they love you. the real question is, are you going to be able to forgive yourself?'

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #maddie buckley #buddie fic #911 fic #firefam #buckley siblings #evan enchanted #jfc its happening ig #911 fox #911 abc #911blr #tw: sui ideation #tw: sucidal thoughts #tw: sucidal ideation #these popped up pls lmk if you want this tagged as anything else #idk how to tag with the new fucked up shit they did #what is nonsense how are you supposed to tag

15 notes · View notes

faaani · 1 year

Text

"as I was sitting by the cliff this evening, contemplating ending my life, watching the gushing water-stream below, alongside which it appeared every dream of mine was also flowing out of my eyes, leaving a deadly drought behind, I realized something. I realized how dying deliberately or committing suicide, in other words, is an absolute paradox on its own. 'Cause sweetheart , I might be a coward to not jump off this edge I'm now standing on but at the same time, I'm also brave enough to continue living a life that kills me daily. And so what if I take this single step and end this deal, will I still be a coward to not be able to bear a fairly challenging life? Or will I be considered brave to take this shot..." she was venting to her friend in her head nonstop who was listening attentively whilst the world beyond her mere figure and the gigantic cliff was busy hustling and bustling, trying and living.

#tw triggers #tw: sucidal ideation #fictive #mention of sucide #dark fantasy

9 notes · View notes

russilton · 2 years

Note

DUDE!!!! congratulations on your appointment to get HRT!!!! I also very whole heartedly hear you in your waiting but I’m happy for you that you made it to the other side 💖💖💖💖💖💖

Cheers! I’m relieved the wait is over, I’m always a little surprised I’m still here when I look back. I’m thankful my friends kept me going.

4 years wait for a near entirely reversible treatment… fun fact, I also have pco’s, a painful condition now considered to be somewhat treatable with Testosterone treatment… guess who wasn’t allowed treatment because it was considered “skipping the queue” :))))). Don’t even get me started on the medically necessary chest reduction I also can’t have …

Anyway, thanks! I’m excited to start moving on with my life honestly. And for the rockin jaw definition

#asks #Fabian-Vettel #personal #tw: discussions of trans bodies #tw: sucidal ideation #mark rambles

18 notes · View notes

ditaliaa · 1 year

Text

Penitence

Marc Spector

I wrote this a while back and just realized I never posted it here, so for all my Moon Knight followers (I think there’s only a few of you) who want to be emotionally devastated, here you go!! 😅 (also, I’m aware some things don’t track with the show, it’s ok, let’s pretend it does) Can be found on my AO3.

Summary: Marc meets Abdallah El- Faouly at a dig site while working for his old C.O., Raul Bushman. Things don’t go according to plan.

Tags: canonical character death, canon-typical violence, suicidal thoughts, survivor guilt, angst, backstory, no beta we die like Arthur Harrow

Word Count: 3.3k

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The first thing he noticed was the red scarf.

Sun-drenched and stiff with sweat. The cloth was carefully embroidered with little, dark scarabs. Dozens of them crawled across the stranger’s neck, emblazoned in a scarlet halo. Their legs were outstretched as if in protection of the wearer. Like a talisman. Like an omen.

It was unnerving, to say the least.

Marc’s attention flickered upwards to the man’s outstretched hand. He wore a kind smile on his face, yet his oil black eyes were relentless in their gaze as he stood above him. Marc reached his own hand up in greeting. The man’s calloused palms belied years of hard work, hours upon hours spent in the dessert.

“Dr. Abdallah El-Faouly.”

“Spector.” He returned, gruffly.

The man sat down next to him, seemingly undeterred by his succinct reply. As he got closer, Marc could see the small crease in his brow and the curiosity that lingered there.

“You’ve never been to a dig site, have you?” His accent was thick and laced with mirth.

Marc remained silent, just staring at the man next to him. He had been at the camp for almost a day and hadn’t spoken to anyone. It was a simple job, and he didn’t plan on making friends. Didn’t plan on changing that anytime soon either.

“I just mean, you’re different.” He said not unkindly and Marc shifted somewhat to face him, casting his eyes sideways.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s in your posture, the way you walk.” The doctor mused, “You walk like a soldier.”

Marc stilled. He wasn’t entirely sure how to take that. In some ways it could be a compliment, in others, not so much. There wasn’t much to go off of by the man’s tone either, so he stayed silent and let the words sink into the air, like the sweat through his clothes.

“My daughter could navigate these sites by the time she was six.” The man continued, laughing. Marc cast him a sidelong glance and found, surprisingly, he didn’t mind the conversation, as one-sided as it was.

“I call her my little scarab.” He spoke with a fond smile, his hand coming to rest on the scarlet scarf wrapped round his neck.

For a moment, the image of a young girl creeping across the desert camp like the bugs he had seen flickered through Marc’s mind, before it disappeared. He blinked, taking a sip of water from his canteen and awkwardly clearing his throat.

A silence settled between the two, only punctuated by the loud man who had caught their attention. His black hair was slicked back with sweat, the gray streaks standing proud against the dark head. The man’s features came into view as he walked towards the two and Marc could feel his muscles tense.

“Dr. El-Faouly, I see you’ve met my friend.” Raul flashed a charming grin, the white teeth standing out brilliantly against the tanned, sweat-stained face. Marc gave a slight nod.

Friend might have been too strong of a word for what the two men were, but it was the only one that made sense, so Marc let it slide. Bushman was his commanding officer, or at least had been. The man was arrogant and, in the years they had been apart, had grown selfish too, but he was also the only one desperate enough to hire him. In his current state, Marc didn’t have much options, but he’d choose the Devil he knew over the one he didn’t.

Now, as he stared into the warm pools of Raul Bushman’s eyes, he saw a flicker of something flash across his face. It left a cold feeling curling in the pit of his gut, one that he promptly ignored.

“He’s not much for conversation.” Raul laughed and waved the archaeologist forward. “Come, doctor, I have something to show you.”

Bushman began leading the way toward his tent and Abdallah stood, watching the man walk away. He turned back toward Marc, casting those black eyes upon him. He observed his quiet stance before speaking.

“I’ve seen men like you.” He paused. “Soldiers.” He amended. The words were quiet as he spoke them and Marc’s gaze traveled to meet his stare.

“Just make sure you know when to follow orders,” the chasm of his eyes was deep, “and when to break them.”

Abdallah El-Faouly walked away, following the man who had previously called him over. Marc watched as his scarf fluttered in the wind, a crimson stain against his neck and he couldn’t help but feel the slightest twinge of guilt in his chest as the doctor disappeared into Bushman’s tent.

With a roll of his shoulders, it was gone.

***

“Here.”

Marc looked toward the man who held a canteen toward him. Abdallah pushed his hand forward again, the water sloshing gently in the container before he took it with a quiet thank you.

His tongue glued to the roof of his mouth in a sticky heat and the water served to push the dryness back. Granules of sand scratched his teeth and lips as he gulped down the liquid, ignoring the feel of the particles that stuck to the lid. He returned the container to the archaeologist, who slung the canteen back around his shoulders.

“So, what is this place?” Marc’s eyes traveled across the expanse of the building they had set their camp near.

“It’s the temple of Khonshu.” Abdallah spoke with a reverence in his tone.

“And Khonshu is?”

“An ancient Egyptian deity of the moon. He is the protector of travelers of the night.”

Marc only nodded, not sure how to respond to the man’s slightly worshipful tone. He noticed the slight shine in his eyes and the way the corners crinkled in glee at the sight of the tomb.

His eyes dragged back towards their destination as the sun began to sink lower in the sky. Raul, Abdallah, and himself all stood near the entrance, the group of men behind them. Marc looked to his former commanding officer and felt his stomach twist at the hungry gleam in his eyes, so different from that of the man next to him. He watched as his hands flexed around the gun, fingers twitching restlessly against the trigger.

“Dr. El-Faouly, if you would be so kind?” Raul smiled with a crooked twist of his lips.

The archaeologist turned black eyes to the man across from him, distrust swirling in his face, but he moved forward first, as though an offering. Stepping over the threshold of the recently opened tomb, Marc felt a peculiar heaviness settle in his chest.

Both men followed the doctor as he walked forward, casting their eyes about the place. A large statue of a man with a bird’s head stood; in his hands clasped a crescent scepter. The staff hung like a scythe. The imposing figure cast a shadow across the steps leading to it. Marc craned his neck upwards, standing in awe of the stone god. Suddenly, the man next to him walked forward, to the side of the doorway.

“What’s that?” Marc asked as he watched Abdallah kneel in the sand of the tomb.

His finger dragged across the undisturbed ground, creating a trail. Two letters, it looked to be initials, stood in the sand and he sat back, casting a small glance toward the man above him.

“It’s for my daughter.” He smiled, “She would have loved to be here.”

Marc’s eyes flickered to the initials and that strange twist entered his heart again at the sight of the good doctor, knelt as if in veneration to the name of his daughter rather than the God that towered above him. His act of exaltation was broken as Raul stormed past him in annoyance, shoving the man aside as he moved forward. The sand shifted under the weight of Abdallah’s feet as he struggled to right himself, slightly disturbing the offering he had left to his daughter.

Marc cast a glare to the back of his commanding officer as he disappeared behind a pillar. He held his hand out and Abdallah took it, standing up. He shifted uncomfortably at the look in the archaeologist’s eyes and gave a slight nod, moving forward to follow his partner, and carefully stepping around the markings in the sand.

***

A few hours later, Marc stood in the shared tent of his former commanding officer. The temperature had plummeted into the night, causing the heat of the day to fade into a cool breeze.

“I don’t know much about this stuff.” Marc admitted, scrubbing his hand along the back of his neck.

Sweat and grime clung to the underside of his nails, the granules of dirt and sand stuck beneath them. His gaze swept across the treasures and offerings his partner had raided from the cave, stuffed irreverently into a duffel bag by his cot.

“That’s the beauty of it, Spector, you don’t have to.” Raul grinned, “You just need someone who knows what’s expensive.”

He watched with careful eyes as Bushman walked further into the tent, his arm disappeared inside his bag and Marc tensed before he revealed a bottle of whiskey. He felt his body relax somewhat as the man turned around, beckoning him to sit and have a drink with him. He did, sitting on the cot across from him and taking the lid off his canteen, he held it out for a Raul to pour the amber liquid in.

“You were always a good soldier.” He began, the words sudden and strange and he bristled.

Marc tipped his head back, not responding and downing the drink in one gulp. Seething slightly at the heated trail it left behind, he looked back to his old commanding officer.

“And you were never good at small talk.” Marc responded with a wry twist of his lips. “What do you want?” The words were harsh and cold and Bushman met his eyes.

All warm pretense was gone as Raul cast a soulless gaze towards him.

“You always did what I told you to do, without hesitation.” Marc frowned when he didn’t answer.

“It’s why I chose you for this job.”

“What do you want?” He repeated.

“An execution.”

Marc swallowed. “On who?”

“Everyone.” Raul stood, the warm light of the lantern casting harsh shadows across his face. “Everyone at this dig site.”

“Why?” Marc breathed and Bushman stilled.

“You didn’t used to ask questions.”

He remained silent, waiting for an answer and the man sighed, “This business, it’s risky. I can’t have anyone who knows me following me.”

He turned, a gun in his hands, a silencer around the barrel.

“You too. If anyone sees you, they’ll come for you.” Raul cocked a smile, “It’s for the best, for both of us, you see?”

The gun sat like an offering between the two men and Marc moved to take it, wrapping his hand around the handle.

“No witnesses. Can I trust you, Spector?” Suddenly, Marc was reminded of hot nights and fear filled days, following his commanding officer into whatever hell they found themselves in.

And yet, the flicker of a red scarf stood out across his memories.

This wasn’t the plan, his mind fought, but instead, Marc rolled his shoulders back and Raul tilted his chin, appraising the familiar soldier before him.

He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

***

Raul had told him the best time to attack the group and Marc had sat and accepted his orders. Now, as he waited in the dark of the night, the glow of the moon cast enough light for him to creep across the camp. One gun slung across his shoulder and the one Raul had given him clutched in his palm.

He entered Abdallah’s tent first.

The man sat at a small desk with his back to him, still in his clothes from that day. The small space was illuminated by the faint flicker of his lantern. Marc came slowly up behind him, trapping a hand across his mouth and whispering an order into his ear.

“Listen to me,” He spoke, an undercurrent of desperation in his words. “I need you to gather your men as quickly and quietly as possible. We need to leave.”

Abdallah nodded and he released his hold on the poor man. They slipped out of the tent and Marc stood watch as the doctor gathered the men from their tents. All five other men emerged from their tents, eyes wild with fear as Marc urged them forward. Whispered orders and the faint shuffle of sand was the only thing to pierce the silence of the night as they moved.

The next few moments happened in a blur.

Suddenly, a shot rang out, and Marc watched as one of the men fell to the desert floor. His gaze flew sharply to the man who stood across the camp, and two more bullets whizzed past, embedding themselves with lethal accuracy in a loud crack.

He didn’t have time to register what was going on as the fourth bullet stung his leg, lodging itself into his thigh. He fell to his knees clutching the wound as he struggled to stand.

Marc raised his gun, shakily pointing towards where Raul Bushman had stood. His own gun fired back, though not with the accuracy he had wished, only grazing the man’s arm. There was the crash of a lantern as Abdallah emerged from a tent, eyes flickering across the camp in fear.

“Run!” Marc cried to the rest of the men as he stumbled backward, gun trained on his partner.

He saw the flicker of a red scarf. A yell cried out as he watched Abdallah El-Faouly fall to the sand. Blood, hot and slick sprayed his arm and he stood for a moment in shock.

It was a second too long as Raul Bushman advanced upon him, taking the hilt of his gun and crushing it to the side of Marc’s skull. The gun slipped from his fingers as he fell. His temple throbbed, blood trickling through his hair as his neck twisted cruelly in the sand. His eyes traveled to the doctor on the ground. Raul grabbed him by the collar and he struggled to stand.

“It’s such a shame,” he sneered, “you were a good soldier.”

Marc’s gaze struggled to focus and he felt the barrel of his commanding officer’s gun rest heavy against his stomach. Without ceremony, the cool slice of the bullet pierced him and he slumped forward in agony. Raul threw him to the ground and stood above him, dark eyes gazing in sick fascination.

“You have no one to blame but yourself, Spector.”

***

Marc couldn’t remember the first thought that pierced his mind when he came to, but if he had to guess, it would probably be the searing pain that threatened to overtake him once more.

An agonized moan escaped his lips in a grunt. Clutching the side of his stomach, he attempted to move, spurred on by the faint memory of danger that lingered in every sluggish pump of adrenaline throughout his body. With a frenzied grasp, he grabbed the closest gun to him.

He was cold.

Night had settled upon the desert and as he scrambled to his knees, the slice of pain that greeted him reminded him of the bullet lodged in his thigh. He grunted attempting to stem the cry that threatened to spill past his lips as his eyes took in his surroundings. The harsh light of the moon illuminated every detail, casting a cruel radiance to the devastation he had wrought. Bodies littered the camp, and one of the tents had collapsed, succumbing to the flames.

Marc looked down.

The stiff, sun-drenched scarf lay deathly still. Faded and dull against the lifeless corpse of it’s wearer.

Bile bubbled in the back of his throat. The sharp burn of it mixed with a metallic tang in his mouth. It coated his teeth, sticking to his tongue.

That same feeling of guilt wrapped around his throat in a vice like grip. He could almost feel the pinpricks of shame pierce his skin, like little scarabs. The small hooks of every wrongdoing in his life like a thousand legs crawling across him, digging into his flesh as if to remind him of it. As if his body had become a testament to all his sins. As if to say, look.

And he had.

Marc’s gaze swept across the camp, and the stench of death and smoke hung heavy in the air. It filled his lungs and stopped up his throat. Once again he was reminded of his culpability. He stumbled, eyes falling once more to the good doctor. He was still. Entirely too still for someone who had just been alive, and though Marc had seen death in his life, the ache of it was just as strong as ever. Oil black eyes remained unseeing.

Vomit threatened to rise in his throat and he ran, feet sinking into the sand with every step. The jolts of fiery pain awakening his senses. His knees buckled beneath the agony the adrenaline had masked, and as he ran, Marc’s movements turned slow.

The moon illuminated the path towards the temple and Marc found himself drawn towards it. The gun he had slung over his shoulder finally fell to the desert floor as he stumbled and fell down the small dune. He landed, unceremoniously into the tomb, hands mere inches away from Abdallah’s final offering to his scarab.

The memory of the doctor cut sharply through Marc’s memory once more and he crawled forward, as if to get as far away from the reminder of his failure. His back came to rest upon the stone steps, blood smearing the ground below as if in sacrifice, illuminated in the cold, lunar light.

Half delirious with pain and guilt, the cool barrel of his gun came to rest beneath his head. The weapon cradled his jaw in a dispassionate embrace. A heaviness grew in the pit of his stomach as agony overtook him, clouding his judgment. It was his fault. He closed his eyes, attempting to ignore the trembling of his finger as he breathed and pressed against the trigger.

What a waste.

Confusion entered his thoughts as a voice hissed. It’s words growled, scratching the inside of his mind in a taloned caress. He opened his eyes, his gaze landing on the statue above him as a hum of confusion thrummed through him.

I feel the pain inside of you. The voice murmured dangerously, curiosity vibrating though.

“What are you?” The words slipped past his lips in a desperate whisper.

I am the God, Khonshu, in search of a warrior.

The words burbled past his lips in breathy hysteria. “A warrior. Well, good luck with that.”

To be my hands, my eyes, my vengeance. The voice growled with the seductive promise of danger in his tone. To be my final word against the evildoers, to bind your very being to me and eradicate only the worst, those who deserve it.

A wave of pain clouded his mind as the voice droned, threatening to take him once more.

Do you want death or do you want life?

“I don’t know.” He whispered, the sound shattered and filled with grief.

Your mind, I feel it. Fractured. Broken. Most fascinating.

He looked upwards at the strange words.

You are a worthy candidate to serve me during this time. In exchange for your life, do you swear to protect the travelers of the night and bring my vengeance to those who would do them harm?

It was a strange feeling of returning. Like a scarab to the desert, or a ghost to it’s haunt. As if this was what he was always meant to be. What he had always been. A soldier. A killer.

Abdallah had seen it.

Marc looked from his blood stained hands upwards, his gaze glancing across the ruined initials of El-Faouly’s daughter in the sand and as the voice asked once more he knew his answer.

“Yes.”

#tw: sucidal ideation #moon knight #marc spector #khonshu #ao3 fic #moon knight fanfic #my writing #dita’s writing

11 notes · View notes