#((OOC) TW hallucinations)

[headchamberlain]

(TW mention of maggots, hallucinations and repetitive text :3)

"It's happening yet again. Ahaha... I know they aren't there but I cannot help but stare at it. At THEM. Ahahahah. They're EVERYWHERE. Under my bandages- under my clothes- under my SKIN. I can see them move and crawl under it. I can see them start to try and feast on me. Am I dead? Have I not served master enough? I want master. I want master. I want master. I want master. I want it to stop. I want it to stop. I want it to stop. I want it to stop. I want it to stop. I want it to stop."

[slityourthroatandeattiligetsick]

a taste of revenge for @aredeemantagonist

Taberu's backstory! tw for abuse (specifically of the child variety,) insanity, self harm, and self cannibalism

Cold.

Dark.

Alone.

Hungry.

Those four words described Taberu's life, now. It had all gone downhill when it had developed an ability. It could remember the sky, barely. The sun, the grass. The memories were comforting in the cold dark of the basement, its skinny wrist chained to the floor.

It was... sixteen, now? It did its best to keep track of the years, having scratched a calendar into the floor. It had been ten when its parents had decided it wasn't human anymore. It remembered the day well.

Light.

Laughter.

Grass under the little child's feet as it ran after its friend in the sacred ritual of tag. It couldn't remember their name. It tripped and fell forward, reaching for their ankle. Some instinct in the back of its head reared its ugly head and a mouth appeared on the palm of its hand, digging into their friends ankle.

Screams.

Anger.

Confusion.

Taberu stood up, staring at its bloodied hand. Its friend lay in the grass, staring at it in fear, clutching their ankle. Terrified, it ran to its parents, begging for an explanation as to what had happened to it.

And an explanation they gave.

Taberu was a freak, an inhuman dog with a demonic ability.

That was the first day it spent in the basement.

Cold.

Fear.

Hunger.

The ten-year-old cowered in terror with tear-filled eyes in the corner of the basement, gnawing instinctively on anything it could find. Its parents came to check on it days later. Having found the furniture they'd stored in the basement torn to shreds with bites taken out of them, Taberu's parents decided to buy a chain. A chain for a child.

Sometimes Taberu thought it heard or saw them coming back to let it out, but it was never real.

Nothing was real except the cold dark of the floor and the ever-burning hunger.

They never fed it, seemingly hoping they could starve its ability off of it. Fearful and alone in the dark with its breaking psyche and the hunger, it had taken to taking bites out of itself to survive. Blood was its only drink, its own flesh its only food.

And there, alone in the dark, tears streaking its malnourished face, Taberu found that it loved the taste.

It became a frantic habit, tearing chunks out and regenerating them by opening and closing mouths on the wounds. A game, of sorts, the only entertainment for a breaking mind.

Sometimes it laughed at the pain.

Cold.

Dark.

Alone.

Hungry.

Tunk!

Taberu, sixteen years old, skinny, scared, angry, and ever so hungry, snapped back to reality at the sound. It had taken to absentmindedly gnawing on its wrist chain with an ability-summoned mouth, and apparently, it had finally eaten through.

It stared in awe at its chafed wrist, and for the first time in six years, came all the way to its feet. It took a shaky step, leaning on the wall for support. It managed to climb the stairs, on all fours. Like an animal, it thought.

The house was dark. It was nighttime. It stumbled out of the house and into the night, snapping its sharp teeth at nothing. It clambered its way into an alleyway and collapsed, smiling to itself.

It was free.

And it was hungry.

[battle-subway-ghost]

Unraveling.

// Please read the tags beforehand, <3

Paris leaned against the tree trunk, making a desperate attempt at catching his breath. He had been running for- He didn't know, probably hours? He checked the time with his phone, but it still read 3:27 A.M. Same as it had been for probably hours- He didn't know. he couldn't tell… He checked the battery icon at the top- it was nearly dead. The signal may have read "SOS," but he had already tried multiple times to call for help. Nothing.

He wasn't about to try again- Something about the definition of insanity… and instead he put his phone back into his pocket, properly shutting it off to try to conserve what little battery was left. Paris had the urge to sit down for a little while; the muscles on his legs burned, and he was completely exhausted from running for so long. Stupid choice- he knew it wasn't a good idea to run around in the fog like a headless Torchic while he was already lost, but every time he considered standing still and waiting for this stupid, stupid fog to fade, he thought back to…

That. He shuddered, trying to focus on anything else besides that voice- his own voice, feeling a familiar chill crawl up his spine as he started to grow tense again. He could just imagine approaching footsteps- those hollow eyes, the-

He felt something seeping onto his hand, and cried out in surprise as he immediately moved away from the tree, trying to shake off the…

Black ink. Leaking out from the tree like sap. Paris stared at his hand, feeling his head pound at the sight of the stuff… He did his best to wipe it off of his hand, though he didn't have much besides his own clothes to do so. Still- it was better than nothing, at this point.

…He wasted no time getting on the move again, wandering further into the fog, trying to listen closely for any odd noises or disturbances. He couldn't trust his eyes anymore, as the fog had grown so thick that he could barely see past the length of his arm. Paris tread carefully, avoiding tripping on any loose roots or branches on the forest floor. How big was this forest, anyways? Surely he would've found his way out by now.

Then again, this wasn't the same place he had entered however long ago now. He wasn't sure how, but he just knew. He just had to keep walking now, he wasn't even sure if this would get him out, but he couldn't stay still. Not right now.

Paris stopped in his tracks as he heard a twig snap to his left. He turned immediately, nearly giving himself whiplash with how quickly he moved. He instinctively backed away, already tensing up to run-

And there it was.

A Thievul. the Thievul. That damned thing, staring back at him with those hollow, white eyes.

At last.

Paris charged at him, pursuing him as he turned tail and fled. The Thievul was swift, but he was determined to catch him, maybe if he did, it'd put an end to this torment. He wove through the trees with a precision Paris couldn't quite match, as he seemed to blend in with the fog at times- like he was about to fade into it. Paris pressed on, despite the burning in his lungs and the stiffness in his legs.

He finally got close enough to where he could tackle that thing, grabbing him with his hands-

Only to grasp at nothing but air.

Paris hit the ground, falling face first into the dew-covered grass. It took him a moment to recoup and process what happened, as he scrambled to get up, looking around for the Thievul. He was nowhere to be found, as if he vanished into thin air. The fog was starting to clear up a bit, and from what Paris could tell, he had been lead to a clearing in the woods.

He was fuming. He had gone here for nothing! Nothing at all! Revenge- Or even just closure, simply gone! Like that! No fanfare- no anything.

He yanked at his hair, yelling out of pure rage. Rage at the thievul, at himself for allowing it to escape, frustration over this entire stupid situation and this stupid fog and this stupid forest and EVERYTHING-

He stopped after a few moments passed, and finally opening his eyes, watery from the threat of crying. He looked up, seeing- black… patches? He blinked a few times, trying to clear up the blurriness in his eyes. Surely-

No. His eyes weren't playing tricks on him. The fog had receeded at an unnaturally fast rate, but… There was darkness. the inky-black dark of the ink, starting to spread through tears in the scenery, almost. He could feel the panic building in his chest, attempting to run the other way, only to find that the ground underneath him was starting to fade into the same black ink that was beginning to surround him. Paris screamed, trying to pull himself out, only to find that every time he put his foot down he simply got dragged deeper into the inky abyss. He could feel the substance clinging to his skin, unnaturally warm, almost pulsating… like breathing-

Something painful tugged against him, finally prompting him to glance down. his arms- the muscles were starting to twitch and twist unnaturally, his skin shifting around to compensate for the changes underneath. It was agonizing, muscles beginning to stretch and tear, before attempting to mend themselves again.

He howled in agony, nearly collapsing into the ink entirely, barely able to steady himself. it burned. His right arm in particular was getting the worst of it, the sensation similar to what he imagined it'd feel like having your arm ripped off.

…And much to his horror, it was actually hanging loose when he checked. the skin peeled away like wet cardstock paper, revealing red thread coiling around the remnants of the arm, as well torn ligaments and muscles trying to keep everything together- to no avail. It broke apart entirely, and fell into the ink below, slowly sinking down. There was no blood, instead, frayed and torn red thread hung down from what was left.

Paris collapsed- finally, into the ink. It was a miracle he had even been able to stay standing for so long, given that it seemed like he could fall apart like bad paper mache at any second now. He sputtered and coughed as he accidentally breathed in the ink, trying to pull his head back up. He couldn't breathe- it clung to him like tar, pulling him down further- further into the abyss.

Everything was falling apart. the trees falling apart like flayed seams- unraveling before his eyes, leaving nothing behind besides the pitch black abyss.

His head finally sank underneath. The last thing he saw was the bright red string- cutting through the dark abyss as it drifted upwards.

He shut his eyes, and the searing pain melted away.

Silence, at last.

[thatfailedpokemontrainer]

[Off-screen post TW's in tags]

Therapy

Sprite was doing quite well, in it’s humble opinion.  

30 minutes into therapy and he hadn’t been forced into a single moment of introspection. It was easy once you cracked the code.

Lie, deflect, go on an unrelated tangent, be honest about something that’s been going alright, repeat. His voice was smooth, it’s posture relaxed, lying was fun, if he was the one to do it.

And yet. She still leaned forward, letting out a deep sigh, clutching her hands together.

“If I know one thing about you Sprite, it’s that you can always make good on a deal.”

Stop.

She paused, considering her next words,

“Heres my proposal. You tell me what actually happened to your eye, and you can take out the rattatas.”

Stop talking.

Sprite rolled it’s eyes, oh of course. The black eye, the bruises. Stupid.

It muttered ‘trade offer’ under it’s breath before pulling out the pokeballs. As much as it didn’t want to admit it, the rats being away was itching at him.

What if something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.

He looks up at her, stone faced, before clicking the pokeballs one by one.

“I fell.” “You’ve got to do better than that.”

Shut up.

“Tshk…”

Sprite narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms, watching the rattatas wander the couch for a couple of seconds before looking back.

Grab the rattata. Break it's bones.

“There were just some fucking, assholes, kicking the shit out of a vennonat, treating it like a soccerball. I told ‘em to stop. They had some words for me ‘n that. ‘t just- escalated. ‘m fine.”

“…”

Stop looking at me like that. “I said ’m fine. t’s fine.” “Why do you think this happened?”

Stop talking. Something is wrong.

“I don’t -Because they were being pricks? Actual fucking assholes, ‘ts not- this ‘sn’t on me.”

Seemingly without noticing it he began to scratch at his arm. She sighed once again, looking down as she spoke,

“And it wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact you’ve stopped taking your medication?”

Sprite froze, clenching his jaw

Something is wrong.

“You can’t just- accuse me of shit because I got ‘nto a fight with some guys WHO ATTACKED ME-“ “Cut the shit Sprite. What. Happened.”

STOP IT

He contemplated giving a snarky response about being professional but his throat was suddenly dry.

He felt childish, pathetic, staying silent. It was a bug type under a microscope.

Something was wrong.

“I just. Okay. I. I was bored. I wanted something to control. I- The- fight wasn’t because of that though, ‘m not. I’ll start taking them again tomorrow.”

The woman looked at him, and down at the rattatas crawling around on the couch, and back up at him. After the lure of silence gained nothing more, she continued.

“There are better ways to let yourself feel in control. We can talk about those later, however refusing medication-“

He scratched the itch on his arm, begging to resent her gaze.

“What. Refusing medication will do what?”

His voice no longer sounded like his own. As soon as he spoke, everything else quietened down, as if to listen to him.

“It will make things so much worse for you, and right now-“

“Right now, things couldn’t get any worse. What- What’s going to happen if I stop taking my meds- will my friends go missing?”

“Sprite.”

“-Will I be all alone- Will I start rotting? Will I die? That would be a mercy.”

“What- What the fuck is so much worse than this. What is worse than living like this. Tell me. TELL ME.  ”

Sprite laughed, bitterly. His head hurt. He stared at his feet, blood now dripping down his arm.

Something was very wrong.

“Tell me about the mirrors.”

“SHUT UP”

He hadn’t meant to yell. He really hadn’t. At the sound, the rats attempted to hide between the couch cushions.

She took a while before speaking again.

“…I didn’t say anything.”

He could suddenly feel the bile building in his chest.

Something was wrong with him.

Something was very wrong.

[bravevolunteer]

okay, i didn't think i was going to have to do this but recent developments have unfortunately also made it my problem, so

i don't fully incorporate any of the books into my portrayals— my understanding of all the books, INCLUDING t.ftpp, is that they are meant to introduce ideas and stories that influence the content of the games without directly translating their exact events into them. this has always been how they functioned and there isn't sufficient reason to prove otherwise, so that's how i'll treat them

while i am OPEN to discussing different possibilities for the events of f.naf 4, i don't default to the nights we see being michael's nightmares. of course, michael CAN have guilt-induced nightmares, and only under plotted circumstances will i be entertaining the idea that they're illusions / induced hallucinations / etc. i don't write it off necessarily, it's just not by default as that's always more flexible for myself and others!

f.naf 1 takes place after s.ister location in my timeline, full stop. that's it

aaand under the cut is just me ranting about my main issues with this— tw for mentions of child experimentation and hallucinations

so................. the IDEA of william conducting experiments on the fear levels of multiple children is not that out there for me? it actually really aligns with how i interpret the purpose of the funtimes— we've KNOWN they were built to capture kids and collect remnant, which... since we really don't know much about it, this experimentation could easily connect to his pursuit of remnant, immortality, etc. my PROBLEM with claiming this has "solved f.naf 4" or whatever is that it doesn't make sense with the timeline. WHY exactly would william BE conducting experiments on children before the death of his youngest? before the missing childrens incident? before he found out about remnant?

it seems like people who insist the books are one-to-one canon are debunking this question by saying "well of course william is an awful person he built robots to kill kids" and YES. he has ALWAYS been a terrible person from the start. he could've always ended up killing whether cc died or not. but i don't think it's sanitizing or excusing his actions to ask HOW he got from point A to point B— spur of the moment murder and carefully planned child kidnapping/experimentation is a HUGE leap, just like the discovery of remnant and immortality is more likely to be a gradual descent. if a situation like this were to happen it would make more sense around the time that the funtimes were made than it would in 1983. THAT is my main issue with claiming this is what was going on during fnaf 4.

i'll save any other thoughts for when the book actually comes out ( and i can see it for myself without relying on vague tweets claiming things without evidence ), but that's only just the biggest question of Multiple tbh.

again, i'm not fully against the general idea of this and i'm willing to plot about it in certain circumstances ( which is how i believe the books should be interpreted anyway! ), but that's the only way i'll be talking about any of it for now.

[ladyseidr]

desperate need to explore my michael's nightmares tbh. both in like a He's Totally the Protag Of The Nights In FN.AF4 And I Should Get To Write Him With The Nightmares way and just in a please let somebody recognize that he has nightmares and care way—

[lingeringscars]

Ben 🤝 akilah 🤝 mari

Surviving s2 death allegations

Hallucinating for months because of starvation

[rosetheex-editor]

[Video transcript begin.]

[The transcript begins with the camera in a shirt pocket facing a child, the child is playing a game on a computer seemingly winning. The rest of the room shares colors with the rest of the mall, gray and white.]

?: Are you ever going to let me use my computer?

[Voice identified: Rose Henderson.]

[The child tilts the thumb to the middle, indicating a ‘Maybe.” Rose sighs and sits down on the floor, made obvious by the camera shaking.]

?: When did you even get that? I feel like I woke up one day and it was just… in here. Unless you always had it.

[Voice identified: Edgar.]

R: Ness gave me her old computer, I brought it in here with me.

E: Oh, I guess I just… didn’t see it.

R: Probably, ugh Sparrow I need to use my computer eventually y'know.

?: Sí.

[Voice identified: Sparrow.]

R: Edgar help. The child is being impossible…

[The following line of text is translated from French to English.]

Sp: [Muttering.] You're the one being impossible here.

E: Sorry, you’re on your own here, Rosie.

[Rose's breathing hitches, she tosses the phone into Sparrow's wagon. When the camera readjusts the camera is propped up by something seemingly one of Sparrow's legs.]

R: [Whispered.] Don't fucking call me that.

E: [Genuine confusion.] Did I… say something wrong?

[Rose hops up in anger, looking as if someone kicked her cat.]

R: DON'T FUCKING CALL ME ROSIE I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK YOU HEARD THAT BUT NEVER USE IT AGAIN!

[Edgar slightly flinches away from Rose, eyes wide.]

E: Shit– I… sorry, I didn’t–

R: WHAT MAKES YOU THINK, AFTER I AVOID THAT NICKNAME FOR SO FUCKING LONG I'D WANT TO BE CALLED IT NOW?

E: Rose, I didn’t know! I’m sorry!

R: WHAT SORRY LIKE WHEN YOU LIED ABOUT ADAM CHOKING YOU? SORRY LIKE WHEN YOU LIED ABOUT BEING OK?

[Edgar stands up, his fists and jaw clenched.]

E: You know why I did that. Don’t.

R: NO I DON'T KNOW WHY! I DON'T KNOW WHY BECAUSE YOU NEVER SAY ANYTHING!

E: I’VE BEEN FUCKING TRYING, ROSE. IT’S HARD!

?: Yep I'm out, not listening to people get into a screaming match three days in a fucking row.

[Voice identified: Mari.]

R: YOU STILL LIED! YOU LIED AGAIN AND AGAIN AND A-FUCKING-GAIN.

E: I DID IT BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WOULD KEEP YOU SAFE. IT DIDN’T. BUT I THOUGHT IT WOULD. I DO THE THINGS I DO FOR YOU, ROSE!

R: LIKE ALMOST GETTING YOURSELF KILLED DAY IN DAY FUCKING OUT? BECAUSE YOU GET INTO POINTLESS FIGHTS! THAT'S TO KEEP ME SAFE? YOU DOING SUICIDAL SHIT IS FOR ME?

Sp: You both need to cal-

R: SHUT THE FUCK UP SPARROW!

E: Leave the kid out of this, Rose. And don’t fucking bring that up.

[Rose reaches for a pocket knife and almost jams it into Edgar's leg before stopping, Edgar backs away quickly, an expression of terror on his face, tears begin rolling down Rose’s face.]

Sp: Do not take my knife.

R: Fuck… Fuck…

[Rose drops the knife on the ground, it clatters against the tile floor.]

E: I–

R: I didn't mean to… I’m sorry I… I…

[Edgar glances between Rose and the knife, breathing heavily.]

R: [Whispered.] Ruby… I- I'm sorry… I didn't mean to do it again…

E: Rose, you–

[Rose falls down on the ground, tears streaming from her face. She looks at her hands.]

R: Why is there so much blood… Why why why…

[Edgar takes a few steps forward, not saying anything.]

R: WHY ARE MY HANDS COVERED IN BLOOD!

E: They’re– they’re not. I– what are you…?

Sp: OH.

E: What? What is it?

Sp: Rose's timer for her meds never went off this morning, she is having a hallucination.

E: Shit– what do we do?

Sp: Give her the medicine for one. It's in her bag.

[Edgar nods, and moves to grab it, but he stumbles and falls to the floor.]

R: I stabbed her again… I hurt her again, I fucked up!

[He mouths the word ‘her’ before his eyes widen, and he attempts to stand up to grab the medication.]

R: I'm the reason she's dea-

[Rose coughs, what she coughs up is left out of frame.]

[Edgar fumbles around in Rose’s bag, before pulling out a container and quickly handing it over to Sparrow.]

Sp: Rose you forgot to take your meds.

[Rose doesn't respond, instead just sitting there shaking.]

Sp: Hm.

[Sparrow rolls over to Rose in the wagon, Her face beet red as she continues crying. Sparrow pops two small pills in her mouth and gives her a bottle of water.]

Sp: Hello?

[Rose swallows the pills and after 2 minutes finally calms down, looking around the area.]

R: I… Fucking hell…

E: Rose…?

R: Uh… Fuck reality check… Sparrow are you real?

Sp: Sí.

R: Dad, I'm not like… Seeing a vision of you or something?

E: No. I’m– I’m here.

R: … I almost stabbed you…

[Edgar nods shakily, looking away from Rose.]

R: I… I'm sorry… I'm so fucking sorry…

[The man says nothing, his shoulders hunched, the energy in the room seems very tense.]

Sp: I mean… You shot him in the leg that one time, so uh… This is better?

[Edgar shakes his head at Sparrow.]

Sp: Sorry…

[Rose stands up and grabs the wagon handle.]

R: I'm gonna take Sparrow on a supply run, when we get back… Can you and I talk?

E: Y– yeah. We can.

R: Cool… Sorry again, be back soon.

?: I'll stay with Edgar.

[Still awaiting name.]

R: Cool, later.

[Rose walks off and the transcript automatically ends.]

[End transcript.]

[king-crane]

SPIRALS.

Blood pooled at the edges. Seams were cut, frayed.

Professor Jonathan Ichabod Crane had hit a new low. He'd lost his battle -- his demons had won, and even they had been powerless against The Bat.

Chiroptophobia. Childhood trauma. Treatment ongoing.

The words of the orderlies were drowned out by the ringing in Crane's ears. Hallucinations. Delusions. Infrequent, usually, but Crane was beginning to panic, in so much as a constantly terrified man could panic any more than he usually did. It wouldn't leave him. The image, the god damned birds.

Ornithophobia. Childhood trauma. Treatment in final stages.

He tried to pick out Poe amongst the many birds spiraling birds -- but there were no corvus corax. They were scavengers, vultures, birds of prey. A shudder, and a throbbing in his head as he remembered the fierce sting of The Huntress's crossbow. He didn't know why she hadn't aimed for his throat. He hated it. The feeling of being hunted.

Scopophobia... extremely common. Unlikely.

Diokophobia. Result of lifestyle. Treatment ongoing.

Solitude. He was alone. He knew it, when he had screamed so hard that his throat started to bleed that they would have no choice but to leave him alone this time, but the sedatives didn't work. They never did.

Trypanophobia. Extremely common... but not present. Would have welcomed the sting of a needle if it meant relief.

Choked sobs left the Professor's mouth as he finally surveyed his surroundings. The blood was gone, somehow, replaced with bandages. When had he been taken to the hospice? When had they dressed his wounds? Time... time was moving too fast. Too quick. Deep breaths. Deep breaths, please God.

Chronophobia. Stupid. Fugate would be chiding you right now, insisting you keep your timepiece on you.

The diagnoses and recognitions weren't working. He couldn't even look at himself objectively anymore. Phobia. Cause. Treatment. Phobia. Cause. Treatment.

Phobia...

FORMIDOPHOBIA.

Crane screamed once more, and then devolved into a coughing fit. He knelt in the dirt as the gentle grains of wheat moved with the wind, patting his frame as if trying to reassure him. He knew what awaited him if he looked up, so he shut his eyes tight, praying for reprieve.

WHAT'S WRONG, JONNY? DON'T YOU RECOGNIZE ME?

The horrid... thing... spoke with her voice. Edda was his least favorite family member -- it only made sense that she would continue to haunt him. But her voice was joined by a chorus of others, victims and friends alike.

Please, please I can't...

LITTLE TOO LATE TO PLAY INNOCENT, TWIGGY.

His father. Professor Stanis. Don Salvatore. Horrible men. But their voices were filled with despair.

A horrifying compulsion forced Crane to... well, crane his neck upwards, and face the monstrosity that his psyche had created.

The thing was more terrible than he remembered, more awful than he could describe. It's orange eyes focused on him like the floodlights attached to Arkham's exterior. It's patchwork skin peeled away to show the thousands of carcasses stuffed inside. It's lopsided smile fixated on him, and thousands of bats began to swarm from that disgusting crevice.

I WILL GIVE YOU UNTIL THE COUNT OF THREE.

T-to what?! To do what?!

THREE...

He got to his feet. His small, childish feet. He was as tiny and weak as back then and he stumbled as he turned.

TWO...

He knew he shouldn't have, but he looked back. Hoping to see something there besides that awful monstrosity. He blinked -- and it was still there.

ONE!

The head snapped off, and thousands of bats poured from the massive pumpkin head.

Crane took off running, but it wasn't long until he was falling. As the bats swarmed, he spiraled.

Phobia.

Cause.

Treatment.

Formidophobia. Hatred. None.

Another night in Arkham Asylum for Professor Jonathan Ichabod Crane.

[the-great-donatello]

//good luck

//I am sweating and it's either because I'm gripping my switch like it owes me money or because my hands aren't used to being at a normal temperature

[jax-wins-these]

(The wound on xe’s wrist hasn’t gotten better. Turning a dark red with black veins sprouting from it. Weird hardened flesh chunks are embedded around the outside of the bite mark. He feels roots from them grow through their skin)

(If it looks inside they wouldn’t find an end. Just a black void reaching through his arm)

(Every time he moved the hand the wound is on xe feels the space between the radius and ulna where the bite was nestled between break a little more. Like it’s hitting against itself, splintering but not breaking)

(Every waking second he feels the arm groan. The heat under his skin still bubbles. He’d know, this is not stopping soon)

(Answer this whenever honestly doesn’t have to be today (: )

<And he'd know he was stupid for thinking these would stop. He just wondered when his body would finally get used to the agony it magically would go through. Or when scars would be made. They had to be real, right? They felt real. Parts have been real- he can't be losing it like this. They're real. They have to be, because nothing his head could make surely could be this bad.>

[slityourthroatandeattiligetsick]

Today on Taberu's issues

A drawing of a relatively frequent nightmare it has featuring @thetasteofbeautyandlove

Tw cannibalism, blood, detached limbs, implied hallucinations, and heavy gore

[mcmorare]

sometimes. sometimes i just Think about katrina having a hallucination episode alone in her apartment and refusing to reach out to anyone not only because she doesn't trust them and feels guilty burdening the few people she does trust but also because she cannot trust that the responses she sees and hears are reality and not her brain playing tricks on her so she just curls up and stares into her empty room and desperately tries to calm herself down and not focus on the sounds of some of the most horrible things in her life

[thatfailedpokemontrainer]

🎤 - An audio transcript from a recording

[An Audio recording is attached, and sprites voice can be heard throughout it, it is whispering, mumbling more than usual, some words are hard to make out.]

"...oh... hello - again... 'n Mar too..."

[A quiet sound can be heard, of undetermined origon]

"just... gonna keep looking at me...? 'm not even asleep... seems a little unfair..."

[around 2 minutes of silence pass, scratching of pencils against paper can be heard, it seems sprite is drawing, however it soon stops abrubtly. Sprites voice increases in volume a bit]

"You- you got me Dusk- you've scared me now- 'ts not funny anymore... you're both being mean!"

[A loud squeak can be heard, along with gnawing of teeth]

"Thorn- get off my ph-"

[END OF RECORDING]

[hxzelwallflower]

‘💙’

Her first instinct is to hold him, whether it be sitting down or picking him off the floor . Talking him through the process, assuring him she's there. That he's safe. Even if the episode was brought on by a mental breakdown his safety is her number on priority, and will constantly reassure that, in a means to stabilize Garvey. Just enough to get him talking.

[hellfireconcert]

// Ignore just need to get this out somewhere

I want to be torn apart excruciatingly so I can feel something. I hate myself there’s nothing good about myself. I keep trying to pretend I’m coping, pretend I don’t constantly think about killing myself, that I don’t have graphic visual daydreams of cutting my body open and removing organs and slicing skin off so I can weigh less so I can get my surgeries and be neutral if not happy about myself. I’ve had these graphic thoughts ever since I was 9, they’ve never stopped, I’ve just gotten better at pretending I don’t constantly have these thoughts and visions. I feel like I can’t breathe. But hey I’m in a calorie deficit for once, but all I want to do is eat until I throw up. I’m not well, but I’m obese so I’m not listened to or taken seriously.