ariswrites

[ariswrites]

the flowers themselves (AO3)

steve/billy/eddie

15k+, 1/6

Steve wonders why he can’t be alone with a boy his age without his head going there. He wants to sleep. He wants to mount an excavation inside of himself, dig it all out. Be normal again.

Like he wasn’t a queer even before hell emptied out on top of him.

tags inside. please take care!

[ariswrites]

hey. i just finished reading Necrosis over on ao3 and i wanted to let you know how good it is. just saying “good” feels a little lame, but i’ve also been going thru something rough for the past few years and Necrosis just managed to bring a sort of content feeling? idk. i just wanted to let you know that i connected with your writing really deeply. i hope you’re doing ok rn

it means a lot to me that you read this and got something out of it, whatever that is, and that you came out of your way to let me know that. it’s a deeply personal  fic and there’s just,, a lot in it, so im glad to know some connection came out of it because it’s such an important fic to me - but i am sorry if you could relate to a lot of the feelings there. thank you for your kind words, and the best of wishes to you, i hope you can make it through whatever is happening in your life, sincerely

(on a different note, i went through and realised i took out a whole scene. i have no idea if i did this on purpose as i have memory issues, but i edited chapter 4 to have the scene of scott coming over as an optional read)

[ariswrites]

Little Birds 4.5k words

victor-centric fic (on the development of his eating disorder, prequel for curdled milk in the self defense mechanisms series) but implied victor/yuuri

Victor never picked himself up. Victor rotted so far into the ground he had no choice but to reincarnate himself with each season, a program for every person he laid to rest, bouquets thrown at his feet a mockery of a funeral no one truly attended. He trekked a bloody circle, cradled his spilling blood in his cupped hands, overflowing until Victor hadn’t the choice but to step back, assess the gorey path he has trodden, the bloodbaths held by others in his wake.

(Or, how victor grows up, and the ingredients between)

[ariswrites]

a crystals softened edge 2k words (5.1 spoilers)

m!WoL/g’raha

G'raha longs for his old friend.

(He knows, in his heart, that he would have waited forever. That he would have never stopped trying. That the world he knew could crumble to dust and ash, that beings could fade from existence, that customs and times could change and grow and become foreign in their idiosyncrasies - and that he would still hold on. Still believe.

The warrior of light shall come. It shall all be made right.

That G’raha, finally, can rest.)

[ariswrites]

splintered kneecaps  6/8 32k words

estinien/aymeric  

Post-Dragonsong War, Estinien has much to contemplate. A familiar, heart-deep mourning has lurked within him for such a time he knows there is no deed enough to quench it. There is no action decisive enough, vicious enough, desperate enough to sate its unbearable pervasiveness. He oft contemplates that he will perish alongside this despair. This rage. Alone, he feels he is nothing more than it. That, stripped from his armor, his title, there is a scared child, punching and crying and begging to be left to rot. To rest. To fall back into the the grass of the Hushed Bough and disintegrate into the remains of Ferndale -- the last relic of a forgotten village collapsing, at last, into barren, sterile, dirt.

[ariswrites]

necrosis finished after 5 years (teen wolf wing AU)

WIP;

grapes from thorns, figs from thistles (good omens - ik its not hype anymore but its half done/ crowley pines fic)

curdled milk prequel (yoi, victor in 90s russia devs ED. very og.)

WoL/g’raha tia (ffxiv, shB spoilers dnt google)

[ariswrites]

swollen shut (ao3)

ryou/akira. ryou character study

It is something he cannot learn, not in its entirety. He plays a sick mimic. A hollow reenactment. He shares his lunch. He smiles. When it’s not Akira, it is never the same. He gives his bread to birds, and he goes home hungry. He drinks what makes his colleagues smile and laugh and flush and he only feels deeper, stronger, that where others hold blood, he is host to rot.

Beneath his skin there are graveyards. Corpse dirt.

[ariswrites]

tiny angst one shot added to halves

[ariswrites]

bitterness beneath the tongue (ao3)

bokuto/kuroo, shapeshifting witch AU

"And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long."

This is not a bad day, he thinks, making his way up the stairs, this is a normal day, a day squeezed between two days of the same, and Kuroo knows not how long he has been drowning, a little at a time. He has nothing to measure what he feels inside against, no rulers or weights or references, only which that he feels, and he knows that, pound by pound and meter by meter, he is sinking.

(or, Kuroo is a little more than in love with Bokuto, and a little less than coping with his past)

warnings: mentions of self harm, past drug use and smoking

[ariswrites]

milk teeth

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2ATTUbi

by Aris

Bakugou thinks he can see, now, facing his younger self in these photos, what those children had witnessed in him. Why they’d backed down corridors and switched seats to escape him. Framed between chubby cheeks and blond locks lies smile that is too large, too sharp. One side pulls up too high, his teeth bare like fangs, force his eyes to narrow into an angry glare.

If he didn’t know better, he’d call it a mugshot.

Words: 2450, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of you covered sickness with flowers, and flowers die

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Midoriya Izuku

Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou

Additional Tags: Character Study, Self-Harm, Depression, Trans Bakugou Katsuki, (but not mentioned he’s just trans know this and love him), Angst, Hurt No Comfort

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2ATTUbi

[ariswrites]

for milk teeth --  (posted on AO3)

the two partly finished fics i mixed together to make it.

NOT completed fics or works. 

tw for self harm / angst / depression

fic 1;

There’s something to be said about survival. When he pictures the word, it conjures images of boats in storms and men huddled together at the base of mountains. There are storms. Natural disasters. There are wars and conflicts and desperation in its most unadulterated form - a need for action, consistent and persistent, red and blue banners of national news programs pasted over.

Survival, by definition, is the resistance of death in the face of the adverse. It is something to be celebrated. To be happy about, when it’s all been and done with.

It very much does not align with what his therapist refers to when she discusses coping methods and medications. It is not a matter of survival that Bakugou takes his antidepressants, or that, in lieu of self-harm he goes for a run or blasts a hole through a training dummy. Nothing extraordinary lies in it. No particular luck, or trick, or heroic notion.

If this is survival as others term it, it is a bleak one. Alarm clocks and pill boxes and the reiteration of basic, humiliating statements that his brain cannot get right. And as ashamed of having to be told to say it to himself he is - he can’t blame his brain, exactly. A chemical imbalance or a learned response. He is given examples, lists them to himself when he looks in the mirror and stares at his shoes;

Everyone doesn’t hate me

Everyone isn’t looking at me all the time

It’s unrealistic to expect myself to always be the best

My past actions do not define me as a bad person

They leave a bitter residue on his tongue. It’s not some incoherent, unbalanced part of his mind telling him everyone hates him. It’s not a stretch of the imagination to picture it, classmates keeping the peace through teeth-grinding tolerance. It’s not a difficult thing to do – hate him, he knows that intimately. He’s angry, sharp, demeaning, arrogant, spiteful. There are more negative words to describe him than positive. That’s a fact.

He knows this more than he feels it. It’s something his therapist couldn’t understand. She specializes in hero counselling - she is, no doubt, used to people formed of gold leaf and smiles coming to her. Inherently good people, people who care about others, risk their lives for other. Survivors. Heros. She wouldn’t know what to do with the rot Bakugou feels gnaw at him from the inside. The dirty, dark words he lathers to his being in the privacy of his thoughts, truisms he has long accepted only at the quietest of hours. Agreements he has reached with himself, alone, empty. Void contracts.

(She can’t know what to do with them - she couldn’t, wouldn’t - or, or Bakugou has stowed this away within himself for naught.

She couldn’t help. She couldn’t. She couldn’t she couldn’t she could-)

It isn’t a mental illness telling him these things. They don’t go away with the medication, or the diagnosis, or the talking. And they don’t hurt him necessarily – his classmates hate him. A statement he can verify. If he were in a life or death situation, they would save him out of their innate sense of hero duty. If they have to work together, they would, because Bakugou is strong and more is better, especially in the face of villains. Bakugou is readily dispensable for the riskier operations - angrier, destructive. A ticking time bomb they can only hope will go off within enemy ranks.

But they wouldn’t help him with a personal issue. They wouldn’t pull his nails from his palms, uncurl his hands from fists. They wouldn’t sit with him over food, talk about their day, offer him niceties that roam outside their natural inclination towards politeness. Because they don’t like Bakugou, and he knows that, and that’s fine.

He feels nothing about it.

(About most things, actually.)

Except – some do. People only ever want things. Take things. Bakugou is strong. This is what he knows. Being nice to him might pay off, one day. Something in Kirishima’s smile is a shade too genuine to tuck away so neatly, but there is little else to name it otherwise. Stupidity, perhaps. Maybe a prize for fooling Bakugou, making him believe someone might forgive what he is. What he’s done.

There are three parts to any good joke: the set-up, the reinforcement and the pay off. He wonders which part he is. How good the pay off will be for putting up with him - he can see them laughing, whispering already. He’s a bully, someone harsh and violent; there are few kinks in his armour, fewer things in which to find humour in. He feels, always, that there is far to fall at the tiniest provocation. He gets so angry at the slightest hint, can’t help but betray his weaknesses. He’s not sure how he would deal with something so seemingly small yet so affirming of a belief he carries close to his chest;

People use him. He is better alone. It doesn’t matter if people hate him. He is strong enough to be alone.

This is where he can catch himself. There is an easy logic to these thoughts, a snowball which builds from a strong base but crumbles the larger it gets.  He is unlikable, but his class is objectively nice. There’s no reason but his own dysfunctional thinking to believe they would try and pull something on him, mess with his trust. They’re straight-forward, morally-guided people.  It’s an irrational belief to look for betrayal in every action, though recognizing it makes Bakugou no less willing to prepare for it.

No one can catch him off guard if he is always waiting. Anticipating. Invest in nothing and lose nothing.

He has learned that people will let you down. Growing up with Midoriya was a practice in how not to trust. He was always so bright, so free with giving out affections, as if there were not a toll on each flowery word, admitted weakness. It seemed to Bakugou that Midoriya did not understand the give and take in the world - that he would repeat, again and again, actions that left him trampled and torn. It was frustrating, infuriating, to have Midoriya, someone who had claimed to be his friend, so easily beat. So obviously weak, a mockery of the hero they both worshiped, aspired to become.

He could push Midoriya, spit at him, tell him to kill himself and the idiot would still trust him. That kind of trust is the kind Bakugou fears the most - unconditional, blind. The concept of it alone is terrifying. He checks his doors before he sleeps, faces windows he can’t close off and tenses at every turned corner. There isn’t the luxury for such forgiving trust in his life, not given to him, and never given by him.

It’s easier to be angry about it than sorry. Anger is impersonal, cold - answer creates a separation, prevents conversation, understanding. If Bakugou is angry, no one holds him to the same expectations between peers. He doesn’t have to be repenting, he doesn’t have to humiliate himself, leave himself open. No matter how much he thinks he should. It’s too late. Too spoilt.

(Right?)

Survival, his therapist says, is what he does everyday, now. Survival is not punishing himself for who he’s been, every bad thing he’s ever done and every good thing he never did. Survival is taking his stupid fucking medication, and going to each inconvenient, badly timetabled therapy session and surviving is living with the thoughts in his head. Accepting. Not pushing for more.

She says, survival is okay, but there is more to life than it.

She says, one day, he will do more than survive. That living is in the inbetweens, that living is being vulnerable, trusting. Being sorry. Stopping the cycle of aggression.

////end

fic 2:

He’s not a villain.

He gets it. He really fucking does; he grew up with the same shit as everybody else. Decorated his room to the teeth with godawful All Might merch, crowded around TVs in stores and living rooms again and again to the electrified presenter ranting about an atrocity. They don’t televise every crime. He doesn’t learn this til much later.

It is always a villain mutated beyond ugly, or face hidden, or sporting a hungry, empty expression that cannot be misinterpreted for anything but bloodlust, greed, desperation. That’s the verbs they use in the reports. They ooze poison to the nearest camera, civilian, deranged and confident and bordering on lunacy. Frothing, laughing, ranting - snug between the borders of his mother's TV. Actions beyond a child's comprehension, something children don’t just get until they are shown, taught, learn by their own hands. That kind of hate - where does that come from? What breeds it?

(Like most children his age, Bakugou had believed it inherent. Villains were bad because they just are. A rot intrinsic in their very being.)

All Might would fly on screen faster than the smaller TV crews could arrive, and he’d beat and restrain with a force no-one would later describe as brutal, nor crushing, nor unnecessary. A goldilocks zone. And he’d smile, and the villain would be taken off screen bleeding and bruised and croaking out words incoherent behind the glory embedded words All Might spun to the camera like fine silk. Phrases for the papers, for the blogs. Bakugou wouldn’t watch the villains, then.

Because then, Villains were evil. Villains were born that way, filthy in ways people spit to consider, a cleanliness people nurture carefully to themselves as though infectious. Then - there were two sides. Inevitable casualties, lessons well learned, rescued towns, villains getting what they deserved - and then were deaths, injured individuals with families, thoughtless murders and inhumane assaults.

Bakugou had been young enough to see the difference.

And he’d wear his All Might shirt proudly, smile to the mirror, stomp around in front of his mother and father's picture taking in blue and red. He’d tell his classmates about the latest fights as if they hadn’t seen, would hit and punch and grin, foot digging into backs and tears on cement. Heroes are unforgiving. Heroes smile as their enemies bleed. Heroes wouldn’t cry at defeat - heroes wouldn’t be defeated, heroes would persist.

Midoriya tells him that he thought being a Hero was about being kind. All Might is not kind when bone bends before his hands, when blood vessels break to him and stain his hands. That is not kindness as Bakugou knows it. That is ruthless, driven purpose. Someone fighting because they know they’ll win. Because they know they’re better, stronger.

The kids didn’t like to play with him. His mother was always angry.

When he looks back at old pictures he can see - one side pulls up too high, his teeth bare like fangs, narrow his eyes into angry glares. If he didn’t know better, he’d call it a mugshot.

Monster, they’d call him then.

Now -

Villain.

+++++

There’s a pair of scissors on his desk.

His hands are sweating, adrenaline shaking his fingertips to a fine rhythm. He could have run a mile, more, ran and ran and ran til his skin shined a shade of desperate peach, sweat pooling and falling and never hitting the ground. It’s something he does - early morning runs, late night runs. People don’t ask about the showers going off at 5am, doors shutting in their dreams, dishes stacked up to dry before they come down.

No one would question why his shirt is stained in sweat. He wishes it were exercise. His chest is heaving- weighted , hard, condensed matter crushing along organs to a terrifyingly heavy heart beat. It seems to echo at his ribs, shakes him down to his legs, femurs trembling and abruptly cold. The world is shaking and his hand blurs into obscurity at the edges of his vision where it digs into the side of his head, winds in hair and pulls erratically at the strands there.

This pain is not settling. This pain is not definitive.

He needs something more than aching muscle, more than pricks of pain along his scalp and the dull, squeezing bite of scissors clasped in his free hand. Three fingers between the blades. Somewhere, he read that there is an unconscious barrier in the brain that stops you exerting your full strength onto yourself - he presses down on the plastic handles so hard they creak, and the detached ache grows but refuses to blossom into more.  It’s unsatisfying; he may as well be pressing his digits to the edge of a wall, kicking his foot against a broken curb. It’s not sharp, steadying, consuming.

There is no barrier, only things that are weak. Weaker than him. He drops the scissors. There is nothing within himself he can’t command, nothing he can not bend to his will - he is not helpless, not powerless. Never again.

Bakugou steadies his palm against his thigh.

His hands stop trembling as skin heats beneath his hands.

He is in control.

(The pain, the real deal, comes later.  Second degree burns take weeks to heal, ache every moment in between.

It is not clever, what he’s doing. He’s not a fucking idiot. He knows, logically, that he puts himself at a disadvantage each times he presses an explosion to his skin, cups his hand around to keep it contained. A neat, clean wound would be a lie. The edges are ragged and raw and catch at his clothes. It’s flesh, barely contained veins, catching on fabric strands and throbbing under every glimpse of contact. Blisters pop up over half of them, the size of cigarette burns which threaten to burst but mainly throb in spikes that last so long they may as well be constant. When they burst on accident, it’s excruciating - he bails practice, the only time he’s ever let it interfere that far, and peeled away the skin stuck to his clothes by plasma and pus.

The first time, he did it on his wrists, and his gloves hurt so much he cried. Bitter. Ugly.

He knows better, now. Legs are easier undetected and he’s improving at fighting without thigh impact. Aizawa always lists it as a weakness - too dependant on his upper half. It’ll come back to bite him one day, but pushing himself to that pain again and again is almost too much. It’s enough to make him considering stopping, finding something else - but if there was anything else, if there was a moment of logical thought before that, then he would have stopped long ago.

Self harm is stupid. Self harm is pointless. Self harm is the only thing between Bakugou and… everything. Or not. He doesn’t care to find out what lays on the other side of his panic attacks, but he’s sure in the knowledge it’s worse than what he feels now. There is something dreadful and heavy in his chest that tells him so. The same conviction that leaves him watching the windows of his room in the dead of night, the one that drives him to hold explosions in his grasp like the hand of another, the motivation behind his relentless, eternal waiting.

There is something coming. There is always something coming.)

+++

He’s first called a villain by a kid in another class - the only ones left with words to say to him - he pushes past their shoulders. They stumble. Bakugou is thinking about playing Search Party in the forest with the neighbourhood kids when he gets back home. One of them swings round, but his friend pull him back. Bakugou snorts to himself, hooks one hand in his backstrap. He hears, as they walk away;

“... the son of a villain. Leave him alone.”

“He’s the villain. There can’t be anyone worse than that.”

“Shut up, he’s going to-”

He doesn’t play with the neighbor kids. He sits in detention, skin scraped from his palms from the force of the explosions. His forearms ache, his throat hurts from screaming, and he thinks of the villain caught last night in downtown xxx.

Yelling, cursing, screaming.

Down on his knees, mouth gag, the glint of All Mights teeth.

He’s the villain.

+++

Younger

Beats bullies bigger than him, older, ones who leer and kick but only get so far once he starts popping explosions behind his caged fingers. They’re just troubled people, angry, hurt, arrogant - but not evil. They get scared when he threatens them, barely hold onto pride; they don’t throw themselves behind their behaviour, stake themselves on action like Bakugou does.

///end

[ariswrites]

thank you thank you thank you so much for writing curdled milk. it’s honestly the best representation of what it’s like to have an ED. god, it’s just so good. i’ve cried over almost every chapter. i️ can’t even really put into words how i️ feel about it. i️m not gonna tell you to rush to finish it or anything, i️ know how stressful writing on sensitive subjects in. i️ just wanted you to know that your story is really important to me. beyond just liking yuri on ice. sorry if this is annoying,,

not annoying at all, i think my fav thing is these kinda asks/comments tbhim glad you found it an accurate rep… i feel like ive said this a lot, but i started writing eds in my characters bc i was so frustrated with the way they were written and how it never related to me/made me unsure if what i was feeling was real. i always wanted to strike a chord with someone so it’s just kinda good and sad to hear that

i consider it finished at it is. i appreciate you taking the time to stop by, i hope you stay healthy and look after yourself ^^

[ariswrites]

aye yo! i will be busy the next few months writing my fic, a bokuroo shapeshifter au which will be around 15-20k words /o/ i hope yall will enjoy it!

[ariswrites]

im on the last scene of curdled milk writing wise. should be up within 2 days. delay explanations in a stupidly long authors note to come

[ariswrites]

Will you finish Curdled Milk? Wondering since it's been a while since you said you would.

yes, the chapter is coming along. really sorry, some weird things happening with therapy and my medication and im not very motivated to function rn. trying my best to get it out asap! 

thank you for taking such an interest as to check!

[ariswrites]

Did you write kuroo as a mortician in laugh til i cry? I was confused by the descriptions. but it's really great either way looking forward to more friend

! Not exactly. His magic type has an affinity towards the life cycle in general which involves death quite heavily. The implication is within his culture those with that kind of inclination aid the passing of the dead, specifically by reconnecting their corporeal magical energy with the greater surrounding energy and allowing the energy back into the life cycle

So you’ll see in future chapters when he interacts with the dead, they often release more into to a half shift in the ritual as that is the natural, hereditary form (unless they’re very young).

idk i came up with a lot for this but expressed it pretty poorly in the story so far. there is more explanation in future installments!! thank you asking me a question and im glad you enjoyed the story!<3

[ariswrites]

When do you think you can update curdled milk? I'd love to see the conclusion as it's one of the best representations of an eating disorder I've ever seen! Sorry if this is bothering you!

hey sorry for delaying this,, my exams are over on the 6th and i intend to start devoting time to finishing it then. i hope i can post it by the 20th at the most (as im also moving back home around the same time). thank you for reading it <3