#consecutive ideations

[alsteneldoeight]

so the

[thelightwillbreakthrough]

this season premiere had EVERYTHING. several consecutive minutes of running. a random italian dude. the power of friendship. [that one vine voice] A Child! high level manipulation. lies. even more infantilization than you thought was possible. suicidal ideation. milchick serving. the worst feeling of dread you’ll ever get from watching people simply sit at their desks and work

[uzurimisery]

the space between two bodies. / satosugu x reader / part 1

Warnings: MDNI, happy ending, angst, cheating (not really this is explained in part 2), unhealthy relationships/coping mechanisms, suicidal ideation, depression, smut, no sorcery au, unedited

A/N: I started thinking about Gojo with anxiety and nihilist Geto and then what that looks like in a poly relationship with someone as flawed as they are

part two

“We’re sorry but we’ve decided to go with another candidate now. We will retain your information on file should a more suitable role open up.” 

The email stared back at you, the words on your phone screen blurring as droplets of rain hit it as you read it over for the hundredth time. Today was just another shitty fucked up day in the endless string of shitty fucked up days that had become your life. The third consecutive month of unemployment in a row. At least previously you could get temp jobs but now each day that passed just ate away at you with how useless you felt. 

Pocketing your phone, you pull out a 100 yen coin and put it in the vending machine.

You didn’t even like your old job but Jesus it was like no one was actually hiring. And when you did get an interview, you’d get ghosted afterward. On the rare occasion they didn’t ghost you, you’d receive a rejection letter like this one. It was preferable, you supposed, that your existence and effort were at least acknowledged, no matter how much it stung. Still hurt like a bitch to be told you weren’t good enough. 

Anything would be better than this, fuck you’d take being overworked and underpaid if it felt like you were doing something. This endless cycle of gnawing uncertainty and applications, interviews, followed by rejections. Worse than that you were out of deodorant and trying to find some in Japan was a Herculean effort. 

Yeah, it’s been a shit go and you’re fucking exhausted.

Maybe you’d go be an English teacher like everyone else who moves to Japan. You wouldn’t need a co-teacher so the pay would be better if you were just starting out. Not that you wanted to teach again dear god that was less than ideal. Thank god you had settled status. The thought of having to deal with visa issues at the same time made you feel sick. 

Maybe you could work at a host club. You turned, staring at your reflection in the glass. Your boobs weren’t half bad as you pushed them up from the underside like a push-up bra would. Or sell feet pictures. The market was probably oversaturated at this point but maybe there would be some interest.

Wait Jesus had your hair looked like that all day? Fuck. No wonder that girl kept staring at you on the train she thought you were a lunatic.

Sighing you press the button for 4H. It wasn’t like you’d always been this way, sort of drifting in a sea of uncertainty abroad your boat of doubt with no wind to guide your sails. There was a period of time, maybe a five-year stretch after you had graduated from university where your life was on track. An entry-level job in your degree field, a long-term boyfriend turned fiance, wedding planning, and a great group of friends. Shit, you had it all. 

The fiance was the first to go. 

As it turns out, finding your fiance in bed with the girl he swore you didn’t have to worry about, his tongue halfway down her throat like he’s trying to do an endoscopy, is a terrible way to find out you’re being cheated on. When he noticed you standing in the doorway he had the gall to sputter some bullshit about how it was your fault it happened. You were too focused on your work, you didn’t give him attention, blah, blah, blah. It was you who broke the relationship up by working so much and being married to your job. And as he paid for the overpriced four-bedroom apartment in an area of Tokyo that you didn’t even like, you lost the apartment in the breakup. 

You couldn’t slum dog millionaire your life away on Shoko and Utahime’s couch forever eating tubs of ice cream and binging TV after that, so everyone told you, or rather forced you, to move in with Suguru and Satoru. Bouncing around from couple to couple. It did give you some stability and just as things go up so must they come down. 

The company you were working for was liquidated after an investigation by the federal government found years of tax fraud. Luckily they got bought out, and you thought maybe if you put in work you could still climb the ladder. But all those late nights in the office, conbini dinners, and unpaid overtime, you were just another name on a severance list.

It felt like waves were crashing over you, each one larger than the rest. Almost like you were tied to a dock during a hurricane, a tsunami, or some fucking natural disaster that threatened to drown you if you didn’t hold onto something but there wasn’t much to hold on to. You could hold onto the minuscule amount of friendships that you had at least. It was far too awkward and messy to keep up with anyone else other than your main four since the rest were so tied to your ex-fiance and his life. Stupid fucking lawyer. 

The four of you were close-ish. Less close since Shoko had gone on rotation at a university on the other side of Tokyo. It meant she and Utahime had moved nearer to it since Utahime was willing to commute. But Suguru and Satoru were still close with you and still dating.  Biting as that felt at times. 

You met Geto first in a shared philosophy lecture. One of those run-of-the-mill ones, but the content that really got the two of you talking was nihilism. It was the seminar groups after class you shared where he really saw you. Stripped away of pretenses and your nerves laid bare. Not just another face in a lecture hall but something more, something human. The deep indents of nails in your palms and the rubbing of your hands together under the table. He had seen right through you, recognized the darker parts of himself in you- it made you feel understood.

The machine made a mechanical noise and the lights flickered. Sighing you kick the machine lightly to see if anything happens, if life could give you this one thing today that you so desperately needed. Just like everything else, nothing goes your way and your stupid drink stays logged on the shelf. So like every reasonable person you kick the machine again. 

“Stupid fucking piece of shit machine,” you murmur a growing string of profanities under your breath as you repeatedly kick the machine

.

All you wanted was one of those ¥100 coffee drinks that were loaded with caffeine to keep going through your slog of a day was that so hard? Maybe it would be best if you just packed it up and called it quits. Move back home with your parents and be berated daily. Why aren’t you married? Why did you and Kosuke break up? When are they going to get some grandchildren? They aren’t getting any younger you know. Face the cutting shame of fucking up another opportunity, another chance. 

What was the point in trying anymore when you couldn’t even get a stupid drink that you don't honestly even want at this point out of a vending machine so you can go home and masturbate to audio porn before you cry yourself to fucking sleep? 

Suguru’s voice cut through the spiral of thoughts, your name on his lips. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you had an interview and you’d be home late?” 

Of course, he’d catch you like this. 

“Hey Sugs,” it came out as a groan as you kicked the machine again, a loud clang following as your drink hit the bottom of the dispenser. Bending down, you grab the can before turning and facing him. “I did.” 

“How’d it go?”

“Like shit.” Maybe you should work on your delivery. This flat effect is really making you should like a bitch. Are you a bitch? 

Geto’s eyes raked over you, infuriatingly calm and measured. He was always so carefully disheveled, the type of person to look effortlessly put together no matter the occasion. Stupid name-brand black sweater over a white button-down half tucked into chinos with a chain on the belt. His hair, shiny and perfect, was neatly tucked into his signature half-up-hald-down look to keep the strand out of his eyes, minus the one for style. Notably, he was wearing his glasses for once, sleek frames perks on a tall nose. Oh, he smelt nice too, his sandalwood and bergamot cologne hitting you as he stepped closer, extending his umbrella to cover the two of you. Fuck he was so handsome it wasn’t fair.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Geto replied softly.

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “ It is what it is.”

But the reality of it clung to you and drug you down, down, down into the depths of your psyche. That small, scared feeling you tried so hard to suppress started bubbling up again, twisting your insides into knots. It made you feel sick, so much like a lost little child in a world that had grown far too big and complex. Here it was, rearing its ugly head, in front of one of the top ten people you never wanted to see in such a shit state.

But that's all Gojo and Geto do at this point. They pick up the broken, crumbling pieces of yourself that slip between your fingers. You feel like a cracked vase leaking water all over the place no matter how desperately they try and patch up the ceramic. Each day the gap between you and them grows more apparent. They were both soaring and you were falling to the ground and rolling around in the mud. 

Geto had just done a four-page spread in Architects Digest, even though he was a pretentious motherfucker who hated the magazine. And Gojo… God, he’d just opened for Prada at Paris Fashion Week. They went viral on every social media platform a while back for how hot and gay they were. You’d been caught in the crossfire of your accounts being tagged and gained a social media boost, but that also meant a bunch of people DMing you telling you to take pictures of them. 

The most fucked up thing about it all was the gnawing feeling that chewing on your bones that you were being dragged around like an accessory to remind them how good they had it. A permanent third wheel they’ve been stuck with since university. Two talented lovers on the brink of permanent importance and their weird little friend who follows them along like a lost puppy. It wasn’t even true and that's why it hurt so much. You knew they believed in you, thought that you could be a successful artist, and supported you in it even, but the jealousy rotted inside you like a festering wound. You weren’t even jealous of their success, only just partial, but it was like you weren’t good enough to be around them. 

Maybe you were better off as wall decor in the life they were building together. Something quiet and serene that didn’t demand anything from them. Better that than the bitter, jealous mess you were every time you saw them succeed.

He starts, the same spiel he goes to when you get like this. “You can always-”

“No.” your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. 

“I don’t know why you act like it’s such a bad off,” Suguru presses, his calm demeanor only pissing you off more.  

“I don’t want to work for you.” 

“Why not.” 

You snap. “Because I don’t want to, Suguru! Is that so hard to understand?”

Fuck, you wanted to storm off, go back to the house, and slam the door behind you as you went. But it didn’t matter if you stormed off, you lived in one of his guest bedrooms. Both of you were just headed to the same place. Sad little rescue that you were.

Suguru assessed, his eyes softened, breaking you down. He picked out every one of your insecurities as he stared at you. Microscopic inspection, each of your cells was being assessed for your state of being. Have you eaten? Was it enough? Had you slept? Are you even capable of taking care of yourself in this state? 

The weight of his gaze made your chest tighten, and before you could control it, try and reel it back in, tears welled up in your eyes. Blinking them back, you swallowed hard, the lump in your throat bobbing as you did. You hated this. Hated the way his care, his pity, felt like a knife twisting in the last remaining shred of pride you clung to. 

Pity was the killy of pride and you should accept that your pride was already decomposing in the septic tank in the backyard. 

Fuck up, fuck up, fuck up. All you ever were, all you’d ever be. Every loose thread of your shirt feels like it's cutting against your skin. The hem of your trousers drowns your feet like you're wearing your parents' clothes. Shabby. Uncouth. Inept. 

Wordlessly, you turned on your heel and fled, rushing out of the side street as the tears spilled past your lash line. You couldn’t do this anymore--no more questions, no more pity. No matter how hard you tried, how hard you struggled, clawed your way through the fucking dirt, you could never be like them. Never be good like theme, never right like them, never fit like them. They had these perfect little lives that they could boast to everyone about. When they spoke, people listened. People cared what they had to say. The world parted for them, it was the Red Sea and they were Moses, making space. There’d always be room for them to shine. 

But you were screaming into a void, your throat raw, bloody, and you were aching from the endless effort to be seen, to be heard. You wanted to be looked at like your own person, your own successes. Hard to be noticed for something that rarely happened. No matter how loud you screamed, how much you begged, your voice was just lost in the noise. 

You knew Suguru would follow. He always did. Even if you didn’t live in the same house, he’d have followed you. His voice was muffled by the pressure in your ears but you could hear him trying to talk to you. He let you get all the way home and inside the gate of the house before he grabbed your wrist and yanked you backward. 

Trying to pull away, your shoulder wrenched painfully as you trashed in his grip. 

“Calm down,” Suguru spoke firmly, pulling you into his chest. His sweater was soft, and your face smushed against the fabric as sobs wrecked your body, trembling like the earth in an earthquake.

It was hard to speak through the tears, so all you could do was try and slip out of his hold as you sobbed. You didn’t want this comfort. You wanted to run from your failure. From how suffocating life felt and that no matter what you'd never be enough. Worse than that, the sweet sickly feeling that trickled down your throat that when he held your life this, it made the world feel just a little bit more bearable. As if somewhere you could survive another day if he kept touching you. It wasn’t yours to feel and he wasn’t yours to hold. 

Suguru lets you wiggle around. You hit his torso a few times, your strength fading as you cry. When your sobs turned to hiccups and gasps for breaths, he gently cupped your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that still spilled from your eyes. 

“Talk to me,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. The songs of a city nearly eclipsing it. 

What could you say? How could you explain this feeling? This horrible guilt, pain, and jealousy ate away at you every single day. The tears came harder now, speeding up as if to help drown you in your misery and take you out of it for good. Hiccuping you drew breath, sharp and quick, hoping to speak but nothing comes out. Words claw at your throat, digging it with sharpened points. It hurts the way they hang onto you.

“Is it all too much again?” His voice is so soft, warm like fleece pajamas fresh out of the dryer as he holds you so delicately.

This wasn’t the first time that one of the three of you had been so consumed by dread, suffocated by the weight of life itself. Suguru knew it all too well himself, from high school to know he held it tightly in his hands. It never went away from him, he just learned to live with it, let it fade into the background, and let a constant hum of despair serve as the baseline for the day-to-day. 

His thumbs brush over the apex of your cheekbones again and the tenderness shatters you, another wave of sobs tearing through you. They pull you under, out into the open ocean, and through their rip current.

“I just..” you start, it scratches your throat, thick with phlegm. “ I can’t do this anymore.” 

His voice remained steady. “Do what?” 

“Any of it. I can’t do it.” 

“You’re capable of it. You can do it.” 

Jarring, rough, whipping across your skin as the rubber band pulls too tight and snaps. You lash out, and it stings where it hits. The anger cuts through your skin like your fingernails leave crescent moons in your palms. 

“No, I fucking can’t!” It's ripped out of you as you stalk away like a wounded animal. “I can’t okay. I can’t do shit. I can’t keep a relationship without being cheated on. I can’t manage to get my own place. I can’t get a fucking job. I can’t sit here and pretend like I’m not fucking wasting away in my own misery watching you and Gojo and Shoko all succeed and be the only one of us still shooting for the stars and coming crashing down to earth every single fucking time. You and Gojo with your perfect little lives look at me like a charity case to be fixed.”

“We have never looked at you like a charity case.” His tone was firm.

“Really? Then what the fuck do you look at me like, huh?” You press the question circling back around. “Is it pity? Did the two of you see some poor stray that you wanted to take in and keep like a pet when we met at university? Is that it?” 

His eyes were hard, unreadable.

“It is that. You pity me.”

“Jesus, no! We don’t pity you- I don’t pity you! Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?”

“Yes, it is! There’s no reason for you to care,” 

“What the hell wouldn’t I care?” Suguru’s voice raised to a shout, frustration cracking his facade. 

“Because I’m just like everyone you hate!” Your chest heaves as you let out a flood of emotions. “ No ambitions, contributing nothing to society, just leeching off others.” 

“You’re not like them.” 

“I am. On paper, I’m exactly like them. The only reason that you’d keep me around is because it makes you feel good to watch me suffer or you pity me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t pity you?” His voice cracked with emotion, but you didn’t stop.

“Then tell me why you care!” It comes out so desperately. You're begging him for understanding, to know why he stays. To know why he lets you in.

For once he looked uncertain. His mask slipped, revealing the cracks in his facade. It’s been so long since you’ve seen underneath it you’d almost forgotten how he looked when he wasn’t pretending to be happy. 

“Or is it that you don’t care?” 

Something flashed in his eyes, flickerings of things you only saw when he looked at Gojo. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. There's a fear in his eyes, like if he acts in this moment something may crack and crumble like the foundation of a house that leaves him crumpled in a pile of wood. He doesn’t, or won’t, give you an answer. 

So you turn on your heel, the conversation over in your mind, and head to the front door. You’ll go up and pack a bag before heading across town and crashing on Shoko and Utahime’s couch before calling your parents and groveling to them. 

But as you reach the door, Suguru reaches you. His arm wraps around your waist and he spins you around and pushes your back against it. He’s got you pinned. 

“It’s because I love you.” It’s the faintest breeze that passes from his lips, like a car driving past on a hot day, sweat making your shirt stick to you. “I care because I love you.”

Everything is frozen in a still frame. Neither one of you moves, neither one of you breathes. A still moment that holds you tight, threatens to squeeze you so tightly your heart bursts. 

“What do you mean by that?” You swallow as you speak, like pebbles in your throat. 

Suguru blinks back tears, looking up and then back at you. “That I love you. Fuck! I’m in love with you.” 

Disbelief makes your voice shake. “No, you’re not not. You’re with Satoru.” 

“And? I can’t love both of you?” 

“No, you can’t,” Hypocrisy tastes acrid on your tongue. You know damn well you could never pick between the two of them, that this blighted jealousy you feel towards them is more the fact they have the other rather than their success. It’s something you don’t admit but it’s there. “Besides, you’re lying to me.”

“No.” His response was firm and immediate. The whole time you’d known them, their worlds had revolved around each other. They’d been the only thing for each other for so long. It was an unspoken truth that they were made for each other in a way that could only be sewn by the fabric of the universe itself. Something so profoundly and divinely created it had been written in the fabric of life at the moment of the Big Bang. 

“I’ve seen you watching.” Suguru’s tone is low, cutting, it vibrates through you as he has you pinned. 

A sick, icy dread wraps around your spine. It starts in your toes and crawls up your body. Your muscles lock in place as it climbs up until it's all the way in your head. Paralyzing fear grips you.

“I don't…” The lie is transparent before it comes to fruition. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s brittle, cracking on your teeth as it passes through them.

“Don’t play innocent.” Suguru’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. The tension between you tightens and winds up to pitch, but there's a current that punctuates it. One that feels heady and warm. One that excites you in the same way it embarrasses you. “I’ve seen you watching. I’ve seen you for years. The first time, maybe it was a mistake. But last week? Three weeks before that?”

Your mouth went dry, choking on the excuse that tried to bubble up. Like finely ground chalk powder coasted every surface of it. “I—”

He cuts you off before you can even try to defend yourself. “I know you get off on it too. Leave your curtains open while you touch yourself. Saying his name, my name.”

Horror twists inside you like a knife, your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach. You’d always been so careful, never acting when you thought they were home. Never want to risk exactly this happening. Your face burned like you drank half a liter of vodka in a go. Maybe you’d wake up and realize this was a nightmare. The humiliation was unbearable. 

“Imagine my surprise,” Suguru continues in a low chuckle, left hand slotting perfectly against your waist, “when I came home early one day and saw that.” 

The tears that had stopped in your flash of anger spill hot and fast down your cheeks. The raw, hot shame and embarrassment muddle you. It makes you want a sinkhole to open up beneath you and swallow you whole. You can’t meet his gaze, your vision blurry. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll move out.” you stammer out, the words falling in a chopping spiccato, desperate to create space between the two of you. You’d never be able to face him again. 

“Who said anything about moving out?” Suguru comes, pulling you closer to him till you're flush against his chest. He bends down, breath tickling your ear. You feel the sharp pressure of his teeth grazing the shell of it, a jolt going through your body. “You don’t get to leave now.” Pulling back, he meets your eyes in a half-lidded gaze. 

Both of you are playing the game again. Looking for something unspoken, some cryptic clue you need to decipher. He was searching for discomfort, disgust, anything to make him draw back and stop. You searched for understanding, dissecting how it got to this point. Every moment, every glance, every touch from him that you had ever overlooked. 

He always held a soft glint in his eyes when he looked at you. Something subtle, normally reserved for Satoru. It warmed the edge of his voice when he spoke and crinkled the corners of his eyes when he smiled. There was that softness for Shoko, but it was different. The one he had for you was a more reserved, pulled-back, and dialled-down version of what gripped him when he looked at Satoru. He had always viewed you this way.

The times you sat sandwiched between him and Gojo, your legs brushing against him, his arm slung around your shoulders to reach Satoru. Pulling you against him on the train, in clubs, at parties, the bump of your hips against his own. Compliments when you wore flattering, his pushing Satoru to dress you up. He liked it best when you were in shorter dresses and skirts with tights. 

Suguru had always wanted you, but you had failed to notice. 

Instinct took over before reason could temper it. You pushed off the door, your hands flying to the loose part of his hair at the nape of his neck. The strands feelt just as silky an shiny as they look between your fingers. Without hesitation, the space between you two diminishes. You aren’t sure who closes the distance first, but your lips lock hungry. Teeth knocking against each other as you both desperately cling to the other. It's rough and aggressive, both of you starved animals feasting on flesh. The taste of copper spreading in your mouth as he bit down on your lip making you whine. His breathing becomes your own, heady mix of desire and dark, primal urge..

His tongue pushes against yours, taking advantage of your now open mouth, wet and warm brushing against the back of your teeth, laying claim to your mouth. Geto was dominating in all aspects of his life so it was unsurprising that he set the pace and led you to where he wanted to be. He moved your legs up, patting your ass to jump, to then wrap around his waist as he pressed you against the door. You grind your hips against his growing erection as he holds you there, and you can feel the heat of him even through his pants.

Suguru pulls away panting. His eyes are half closed, lips blushed a beautiful red and damp with saliva. He moves in again, this time to your neck, where he bites down hard. You squirm as he sucks a dark and angry mark, his mark, on your skin. The bite of his teeth against your skin feels right. It eats away at the jealous monster inside you every second he’s latched onto you.

Fed up with the door, Suguru opens it and carries you through the threshold. He moves the two of you through the genkan, toeing off his shoes while you kick your own off, and into the living room where he drops you on the couch. There’s an air about him, so intense it’s nearly oppressive, as his fingers inch up underneath your sweater, sliding it off of you. It’s a predator circling their prey, the success of a hunt now that he’s got you on your back against the soft fabric of the couch. He’d been waiting for this far longer than you thought and it spurs you on.

Suguru moves in tandem with you, tugging off his sweater and button-up shirt, exposing his happy trail. The dark dusting of hair makes your mouth water. Once his shirt is off, his hands cover your chest through your bra, palming your tits like stress balls. It's unpadded and lacey, and it lets him feel as if your nipples get hard. He pushes the cups down, leaving them to rest under your breasts, and pushes them up slightly, accentuated by your being on your back.

His fingertips close around your nipples as he pinches and pulls at them. You knew how much of a sadist he could be. One night you watched him edge Satoru for an hour straight. Seen how hot he looked with Gojo in his mouth as he writhed around. A sweet moan escaped you as he played with your nipples and rolled his hips against yours. It makes your head feel fuzzy, thoughts focusing purely on him. His weight presses down on you, so heavy and right it makes you ache.

You lunge forward, propping yourself up on your elbows to kiss him again. It’s just as messy and hungry as before, years of built-up desire between the two of you saturating your every pore. It settles in your bones that pulses in time with your heart. 

Suguru doesn’t separate from you, but he slides your trousers and underwear off in one go as you kick your socks off. He tugs his own off hastily, boxer briefs following in turn. His public hair is trimmed, a close crop like you’ve seen it before. Like every other aspect of him, it’s neatly maintained, put into its place, and kept there. 

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he pulls your hips up by his head. Your back is half off the sofa as he places your legs over his shoulders and parts your core with his fingers. He blows cold air onto your clit that makes you squirm before he licks your clit. Moaning, you try to grind yourself against his face but his hands tighten on your hips, holding them firm. You’d get what he wanted to give you. Fight against it and get nothing, or accept it. 

He was slow to start. His tongue lazily explores you, getting familiar with your taste. It pushed against your clit, wide and flat, before swirling his tongue around it. The ball of his tongue piercing rubbed against the most sensitive part of you. Your hips jerk forward and he looks up, a warning in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop. Suguru curls his tongue again, this time moving it side to side, letting his piercing catch on your clit purposefully.  Every action he takes is measured as he picks up speed while latching his lips around it to add delicious suction. Two of his fingers slide inside you, reaching far deeper than your own ever could. He pumps them in and out of you, driving you closer to the edge.

You felt your pussy drooling, liquid gushing out and covering his chin. The muscles in your abdomen tightened with each passing second until you swore they'd cramp. It was all too much as you came, jerking and contracting in on yourself. Black spots dot your vision as your world shakes on this axis. 

Sugru watched as you came, pulling back from your pussy to stare at your face. His eyes never left yours as he rubbed soothing circles into your skin with his thumbs. He could cover nearly all of you with how big his hands were, warm and calloused. Minus a cold spot on his left hand. 

His engagement ring. 

The silver felt like it burned your skin as he smiled at you and planted a kiss on your inner thigh. It glimmers in the low light, bouncing light off like a homing beacon. Bubbling sickness, bile rising in your throat, disgust palming at your skin. What had you just done? You’ve just violated a boundary so gigantic with Suguru. Let your own selfish need for intimacy lead you to this. He was engaged to your best friend. They were getting married next year.

You rushed to grab your clothes, panic surging through you. The world spins around you. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” you buttoned up your trousers, throwing your sweater on. Your hair is a mess and your skin feels clammy and flushed. The need to vomit is overwhelming. “This was a mistake.”

Suguru’s rising from the couch, trying to grab you, stopping you from moving but you dodge his hand. “A mistake?” 

Your left hand meets your mouth as you bite the nail of your thumb. It clicks against your front teeth. 

“Satoru won’t mind-” 

“A mistake Suguru,” You shake your head, bending down and grabbing the rest of your stuff. “Please. Just forget this.” Without waiting for his reply, you run up the stairs and slam the door behind you. 

You really are a bitch.

©️ uzuzrimisery

[postnutclaritys]

So… what’s Jean diagnosis???

At the end of the game Jean mentions having clinical depression. In addition, the Disco Elysium team has spoken on several occasions about his mental health.

I would like to discuss one by one the possible diagnoses and their implications.

Starting: He definitely has a depressive disorder, but within this category there are several.

Depressive disorders: which one applies to Jean?

The common feature of all depressive disorders according to the DSM5 is the presence of a sad, empty or irritable mood, accompanied by somatic and cognitive changes that significantly affect the individual’s functional capacity. What differentiates them is the duration, the temporal presentation or the supposed etiology.

Among these disorders we find the following:

• Disruptive mood dysregulation disorder: Only occurs in children under 12 years old with outbursts and chronic irritability.

• Major depressive disorder: episodes of at least 2 weeks, with intense sadness, problems sleeping, thinking or feeling pleasure. It can be a single episode, but it usually recurs.

• Persistent depressive disorder (dysthymia): what is commonly called “chronic depression,” with milder but longer-lasting symptoms (minimum 2 years).

• Premenstrual dysphoric disorder: occurs in relation to the menstrual cycle, with strong emotional and physical impact.

• Substance/medication-induced depressive disorder or depressive disorder due to another medical condition: caused by medications, drugs or illnesses like hypothyroidism.

Now what we know about Jean: He was diagnosed at 27 years old with depression and currently at 34 he maintains depressive symptomatology. I dare to say he probably has Dysthymia. With this I’m not insinuating that Jean hasn’t had major depressive episodes—of course not—these depressive episodes are totally compatible with the diagnosis of Dysthymia.

Dysthymia is chronic depression, often described as functional depression which is longer (minimum 2 years), of lower intensity and “well-being” moments don’t last more than 2 months. The diagnostic criteria for dysthymia are the following:

Summarizing, dysthymia is characterized by a depressed mood most of the day, present more days than not for at least two years in adults or one year in children and adolescents (in the latter, it may manifest as irritability).

During this period, at least two of the following symptoms must be present:

Appetite changes (decrease or increase).

Insomnia or hypersomnia.

Fatigue or low energy.

Low self-esteem.

Difficulty concentrating or making decisions.

Feelings of hopelessness.

Also:

• Symptoms should not disappear for more than two consecutive months.

• It may coexist with criteria for major depression during the two years.

• There must not have been manic, hypomanic or cyclothymic episodes.

• It is not better explained by psychotic disorders such as schizophrenia or schizoaffective disorder.

• It is not caused by substances or medical conditions.

• It causes clinically significant distress or functional impairment.

Which criteria does Jean meet?

From what we know or can infer: Low self-esteem, insomnia, feelings of hopelessness, fatigue (this would explain his use of speed), for 7 years he has maintained a depressed mood.

He very likely has suicidal ideation; thanks to statements by Argo Tuulik we know the only reason he hasn’t killed himself is because of his job, which he feels is the only good thing he does.

Something I’d like to highlight is that in the diagnostic criteria, criterion F states: The alteration is not better explained by persistent schizoaffective disorder, schizophrenia, delusional disorder, or another specified or unspecified disorder of the schizophrenia spectrum and other psychotic disorder.

This leads us to the statements of Martin Luiga

He mentions that Jean is “likely Schizoid” and has a codependent personality.

If Jean is schizoid, we couldn’t diagnose dysthymia so we’re forced to ask ourselves:

Does Jean really fit the schizoid diagnosis?

Schizoid personality disorder is a pattern of detachment from social relationships and a restricted range of emotional expression. This disorder belongs to Cluster A of personality disorders which describe “weird and eccentric people.” According to the DSM5 these are the diagnostic criteria for Schizoid disorder:

To be diagnosed, at least four of the following criteria must be met:

Does not desire or enjoy close relationships, including being part of a family.

Almost always chooses solitary activities.

Shows little or no interest in having sexual experiences with another person.

Takes pleasure in few, if any, activities.

Lacks close friends or confidants other than first-degree relatives.

Appears indifferent to the praise or criticism of others.

Shows emotional coldness, detachment, or flattened affectivity.

Additionally, these symptoms must not be better explained by schizophrenia, mood disorders with psychotic features, other psychotic disorders, autism spectrum disorder, or a medical condition.

Which ones does Jean present?

• Point 4 and 7: he shows flat affect and little enjoyment, but this can be better explained by depression and the fact that he’s really pissed off at Harry.

• Point 5: we rule it out, since Jean does have a very close friendship with Harry.

• Point 6: indifference to praise or criticism. This doesn’t apply to Jean. If we notice, something he really reproaches Harry for is that he told him he “ruined his style” and told him to fuck off. Jean is very affected by what people think of him and his work (his only good quality in his own eyes).

• Points 1, 2 and 3: we don’t have enough information, but even if he met them, they’re better explained by his depressive state.

Jean is not schizoid, he’s just very depressed and without enough support system or resources to build a healthier life.

And the codependent personality?

Now we move on to the other possible diagnosis: codependent personality.

The correct term would be dependent personality disorder, which is a pattern of submissive and clingy behavior related to an excessive need to be taken care of. It belongs to Cluster C, where the predominant symptoms are anxiety and the need to avoid catastrophes. These are the diagnostic criteria according to the DSM5:

To be diagnosed, at least five of the following criteria must be met:

Difficulty making everyday decisions without advice or reassurance from others.

Needs others to assume responsibilities in most major areas of their life.

Difficulty expressing disagreement due to fear of losing support.

Difficulty initiating projects or doing things on their own (due to lack of confidence, not motivation).

Goes to excessive lengths to obtain support or acceptance, even doing unpleasant things.

Feels uncomfortable or helpless when alone, due to exaggerated fears of being unable to care for themselves.

Urgently seeks another relationship when one ends, to get care and support.

Unrealistic preoccupation with fears of being abandoned and having to take care of themselves.

Which ones does Jean meet?

None!

Jean doesn’t hesitate when firing Harry in the bad ending. He doesn’t pass on his responsibilities to anyone else. He isn’t afraid to say what he thinks.

If he met the criteria, he wouldn’t be so aggressive with Harry, he wouldn’t have fired him in the bad ending, he couldn’t be Harry’s right-hand man or take charge of wing C. Jean is not afraid to take care of himself.

He doesn’t have this disorder, but we can’t deny he has a codependent relationship with Harry, which is maintained by many things: substance use, work, the fact that as a satellite officer his job is literally to support his assigned lieutenant, and very likely the good moments they’ve had together, both personally and professionally.

What does his Dysthymia diagnosis entail?

A hard life, a family with a predisposition to depressive disorders, higher probability of major depressive episodes, comorbidities with other personality disorders (commonly Cluster B and C).

Dysthymia often begins early and insidiously, generally in childhood, adolescence or youth, and has a chronic course. Onset before age 21 is related to greater probability of personality disorders and substance abuse.

We don’t know since what age Jean had symptoms, but it’s safe to say he’d been living with them for a long time before his diagnosis.

This disorder affects the prefrontal cortex, anterior cingulate, amygdala, and hippocampus, which are responsible for emotional regulation, decision-making, planning and judgment, memory, emotional learning, conflict detection and stress regulation.

So we can say that Jean likely has difficulty regulating negative emotions (emotional dysregulation), rumination (repetitive negative thoughts), problems with concentration, memory or problem solving, and a very low stress threshold (this is related to memory problems).

This disorder also manifests with polysomnographic alterations or sleep problems, with high comorbidity with sleep-wake disorders.

On top of that, it creates vicious cycles that perpetuate distress, such as:

I feel bad → I sleep badly → I perform worse → I feel worse → I sleep even worse…

This makes people with dysthymia resistant to change. It’s not enough that they know they’re unwell or what’s not working.

This disorder has high comorbidity with anxiety disorders and substance abuse.

In Jean’s case, substance abuse is already present, and if we talk about anxiety disorders, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had comorbidity with generalized anxiety disorder.

After all this all we have left to ask is… what is Jean diagnosis?

Jean’s diagnosis is dysthymia.

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

Works in Progress Recs!

This week, we have one of our recurring reclists! Check out ten fics that are works in progress beneath the cut, and remember to comment or kudos if you like them!

Kintsugi by Checkov (88000, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Major Character Death

Caleb returns thru consecution, but it’s a mystery as to how and why, and he tries to re-enter Essek life cautiously

Reccer says: Amazing examination of consecution, lifespans, grief, and reconciliation

Starling by Kaiannae (246866, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Suicidal ideation, referenced torture, slavery

Fairy AU, Essek is a fairy that Caleb steals when he escapes Vergessen. Hardships ensue.

Reccer says: The angst and anxiety give excellent flavor to the world building of the au. Lots of introspection around ethics and ptsd.

While Molly Was Sleeping by Anonymous (23000, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Plot of movie While you were Sleeping, reworked for M9

Reccer says: If you like this movie it’s a wonderful overlay and use of the plot for Shadowgast.

Golden thread around your neck… by MarsBar2019 (191000, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Modern executive workplace

Reccer says: Highpowered Exec Essek, Admin Assist Caleb. Excellent storytelling and spicy-ness. Incredibly sad it may never get finished.

every reflection of you by NinjaAtticus (70257, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Present-day Caleb gets swapped with a younger version of himself.

Reccer says: The love between Essek and Caleb shines through in how they treat each other's younger selves. A sweet read with plenty of intrigue!

Gloaming’s End by toneofjoy (125251, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Climbing AU where Bren and Essek are both top athletes. “Enemies” to lovers and forbidden love goodness.

Reccer says: I love the way Essek’s demisexuality is written! It’s complicated and sort of messy with the onlookers of the sports world and it’s fantastic

Through The Frightening Door by Prolix (228371, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn, self-harm

A long, chewy, fascinating Going To Aeor fic

Reccer says: I love a long, complex exploration of Aeor, especially one with developing Shadowgast and Essential trying to figure out his next steps, and this one is EXCELLENT. A tiny bit AU at the beginning, but it really makes no difference after about two chapters.

come in (come in), whatever you are by vespermyotis (29374, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Cannibalism

Shadowgast go back to Aeor and Essek catches a terrible Aeorian bioweapon disease. Is dying and actually going insane.

Reccer says: The prose is so interesting and lovely. The story is dark and twisted and angsty, as I love, but with moments of such genuine tenderness from Caleb that rounds the fic out perfectly. It's an affront to everyone that this fic isn't way more popular

new fires, old ordeals by toneofjoy (38540, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

After fleeing Wildemount, Caleb created a new life for himself in the bustling city of Emon, complete with a new (if chaotic) family. But just as he’s finally feeling settled, the most famous climber of their era arrives and disrupts everything.

Reccer says: This author is the reason I got really into watching climbing events at the Olympics. :) But no, it's been a ton of fun getting to read this one as it comes out, I love their writing style, and I enjoy their characterizations of everyone as they slot into this AU.

And then two recs for this last one:

A Tapestry of Stars by Cinderstorm (128000, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Space Opera AU where Caleb is in an arranged marriage with Essek at behest of their respective countries. It's largely them trying to learn about each other and navigate their growing feelings. Therest of the Nein are not heavily in the fic, but Caleb still has contact with them.

Reccer 1 says: Such good world building in the science fiction setting Reccer 2 says: It's a well-thought out AU, I like the extrapolations from Canon content. The emotions are well-written and complicated and complexly layered.

This is one of our weekly communally-generated shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. 

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, we'll be featuring gifts! Caleb and Essek exchanging gifts, someone giving one of them a gift, them picking out a gift for someone else - any combination works!

Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

[moonlightisdancing]

Trees/j.m.k

Pairing: au!Josh Kiszka x f!Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: MINORS DNI 18+ therapy session discussing trauma, mentions (does no go in detail) ideations, running away, dissociation, kissing, mark leaving, humping, unprotected sex, overstimulation

as always, please lmk if any tags are missed!

——————🧡——————

The first installment of Gretaween 2024 is here! Over the course of 8 days there will be works from other amazing creators added here!

——————🧡——————

Please proceed with caution. This fic might be a lot for anyone struggling with suicidal ideations, those who struggle with dissociative thoughts, and even those who have experienced trauma at any point. There are no themes of SA implied or mentioned in this work, but themes of death, grief and the inability to grasp those concepts are.

——————🧡——————

The cold weather couldn’t keep you from the woods. No amount of crunchy leaves stacked on the old mossy ground or mud puddles too big to walk around. Nothing. Nested deep in the woods resides a little cabin that you’d stumbled upon one day after school. It was a therapy day, you remember because you wore blue. Blue was for therapy days because therapy makes you sad, and blue is a sad color.

Fact, not opinion.

The little cabin in the woods made the blue days feel not so blue when the orange boy appeared.

When you first met, his hair was getting quite long, the loose waves bouncing around just under his ears. His hair wasn’t like that for long, he’d eventually get it cut, a neat mop of curls resting over his forehead. His voice got deeper, muscles got stronger, hair got curlier, but he still remained orange. Not physically, more so in the way he spoke and gestured. While not typically complimentary, he was the orange your blue needed, and you paired quite nicely.

In fact, the two of you paired so well that you never once bothered asking one another why they were in the woods that day. It felt right. Like all of the blue days led you here. The cabin is brown, physically, but feels yellow. Happy, warm, inviting. Outside the cabin is one giant tree, the tree you’d met Josh under. He was quiet at first, his breath being the only thing to give him away. Quiet didn’t last long, though. He’d grow to talk your ear off every chance he got, and you welcomed his words with open arms.

You hadn’t seen Josh in exactly one week. Something about needing to prepare something for you, a surprise if you will, and to meet him under the tree where you met him in seven days. So you waited impatiently for the longest, bluest seven days to pass without your complimentary person. It was surprising how unprescribed blue days could feel particularly blue. Blue was meant for therapy days. Dismal, a buzzing in your ears surrounding the thought of those grey walls, scratchy carpet and the chair that squeaks every time Dr. Tannis shifts his weight. That’s what blue was meant for, so you tried to fill the days with shades of orange and yellow that reminded you of Josh.

When the seven days were up, you found yourself barreling through the house after school, just to be stopped in your tracks by Mom.

“Honey, please don’t forget you said you’d take your sister trick-or-treating tonight.” Mom sighs as she releases her hold on your shoulders.

“But-”

“No ‘buts,’ Y/n.”

“But I have to go see Josh.” Your eyes widen at the name. You know better.

“Y/n…” Mom closes her eyes and tilts her head back. She was red, metaphorically. The heat and anger couldn’t be seen but it could be felt, and it was burning red.

“I’m sorry,” You sulk, your head falling between your shoulders.

“Please go get ready and make sure your sister is, too.” She tries forcing a smile across her lips, but the forced yellow couldn’t deceive red.

For the third consecutive year, you chose to be a vampire. The costumes were getting better, why choose a different thing when you could continue improving? You lean into the mirror, fanning your teeth to try and help the fangs stick. Your attention is directed elsewhere as you overhear Mom on the phone in the kitchen. Your eyes flutter shut as you hone in on her words, laced with blue-grey.

“She’s mentioning Josh again. I thought that had been discussed during her sessions.”

You don’t mean to listen, but if it weren’t meant to be heard, maybe she’d stop using speaker phone.

“It has been touched on, yes, but-”

“She is well past the age of imaginary friends, Dr. Tannis. Her entire life cannot evolve around the existence of someone who just… doesn’t exist.”

Doesn’t exist?

“Y/n, I think we need to backtrack just a little.” Dr. Tannis sighed as he sat down. He seemed to be paying more attention to the squeak, but the noise still left faint blue raspberry on your tongue.

“Well, Doc, I am an open book!” You leaned back in the chair as you popped a grape Jolly Rancher in your mouth.

“That is sort of the issue, Y/n. You’re not open about anything. We need to start working through what happened.” He clicked his pen before bringing his elbow to the desk and hand to his temple.

“I don’t remember. It’s like one day I was just riding my bike in the woods and everything turned black…”

“Is that physical or metaphorical?” Dr. Tannis raised an eyebrow. He might not understand the colors, but at least he tried.

“Physical black. And then the hospital and then I met you.”

“Do you blame yourself?” He looked up from his notepad, leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs.

“What?” Your heart began racing, on the brink of a panic attack. “B-blame myself for what?”

Were you supposed to blame yourself?

“The accident, Y/n. It’s common for a patient to blame themselves, especially if there’s no other explanation.”

“Uh- sometimes? I don’t know.” You squeezed your eyes shut trying to recall what happened. When you opened them, Dr. Tannis was scribbling on the notepad again. You caught some of what he jotted down, nonsense upon nonsense of how he thinks you feel.

“Why don’t we just move on? You’ve mentioned your hatred-”

“Distaste.” You corrected. Josh had changed that, you didn’t hate anything.

“Right, sorry, distaste for blue raspberry several times. Where does that come from? Can you remember when that started, Y/n?”

“I think it’s what the darkness tasted like. Kind of… metallic and cold.”

“Is the darkness where you created Josh? Could he be just a thought?”

God. You couldn’t have created Josh had your life depended on it. You’re not convinced a higher being could have either.

“W-created?! I didn’t create Josh! I met Josh! In real life!”

“Your mother’s mentioned never having met Josh. You’ve never attended school with him and you met after the… incident. Why do you think that is?”

“I already said-” Your words became very red, unlike you. You pressed your lips shut and took a deep breath before restarting. “He’s just not ready to meet new people yet.”

“Y/n, I think she’s worried about, well, if he’s real or not.”

“Mom’s crazy, Dr. Tannis. Of course Josh is real.” You swivel in the chair side to side, snapping Legos together as you sucked on another grape Jolly Rancher.

Finally, something where the taste matched the color.

”Does he exist here…” Dr. Tannis waved his arms around the room, “Or here?” He asked, tapping your temple. The chair squeaked as he leaned forward, causing you to wince. That damn squeak always tastes like sheet metal and a hint of wet dirt.

“Here!” You exclaimed, waving your hands around the room. “And if he didn’t, I’d do whatever it took to be wherever he was.”

“Y/n, as we know you’ve struggled in the past with… Ideations, we call them. I need to make sure that’s not the case.” His eyes grew worried as he tried studying you for answers.

“I wouldn’t do that.” You said pointedly. Your death would mean Josh no longer having someone there for him, alongside you not having him. That simply wouldn’t do. A deep sigh escapes your lips before you attempt to divert the conversation.

“I hug him every time I see him. We’ve… done some things… I know he’s real.”

“Done some-” His eyes widened, cheeks growing flush as the admission slipped your lips.

“Just kiss! We’ve only kissed.”

Dr. Tannis wore a furrowed brow and an expression that was almost eager for answers. Almost like he knew you were lying. You couldn’t, wouldn’t, tell him you and Josh had been having sex. That would have only caused more problems. The last thing you needed was more problems.

“And how did that make you feel, Y/n?” Dr. Tannis leaned forward in his chair, pressing his pen to the notepad.

“Purple and white.” You responded confidently. Purple and white, that’s how his lips felt against yours each time. His lips remind you of rose petals, the silky innocence of a flower and sweetness of nectar.

“Words, Y/n. I need… emotions, not colors.”

You hate that Dr. Tannis can’t understand you almost as much as you hate nobody believing Josh is real. You chose silence. There was no way to describe his honey coated, purple-white, rose petal lips in a way other than that. Dr. Tannis wasn’t necessarily accepting of the silence but knew he needed to utilize the rest of the time appropriately.

“Y/n, I think a-”

“Could you not use my name so much? It makes me all blue-grey.”

“Right, sorry.” Dr. Tannis clears his throat. “If he’s real, I think a conversation with Josh about meeting your mother would be good.”

“He is real.”

He’s real.

It’s not that you wanted to hide Josh. If you had it your way, you’d share his orange smile and warm embrace with anyone you knew. But he couldn’t go far. While neither of you disclosed how you ended up under that tree, Josh had opened up enough about his home for you to understand. Black and red. It was angry there, way worse than your blue.

You push yourself away from the mirror, holding back the tears that threaten your lash line.

“Not real.”

Who does she think she is?

Once Mom had learned about Josh, she began taking mental note of when you left and how long you were gone. You couldn’t sleep anyways, so you started sneaking out at night to see Josh at the cabin.

“Screw trick-or-treat.” You mumble to yourself as you grab your backpack, making way to your window. You scan over your room, a sense of blue-red and a tinge of black, washing over you. Semi-content with its look, you climb out of the window.

The ground is wet, mushy under your feet as you stomp through the tall, unkempt grass of the woods. The rain couldn’t keep you from Josh. Nothing could. Not trick-or-treat, not blue days or the squeaky chair, not the feeling of blue-black that washed over at the sight of certain things. No other color mattered when you knew orange would always be on the other side.

The rain turns to mist as you walk under the trees, the full moon peeking through just enough to wash the green in blue, physically. It’s silent outside of your feet squishing the wet ground and your backpack shuffling behind you, stuffed with handfuls of the candy Mom specifically said was for the trick-or-treaters. Josh likes Reese’s and BlowPops, so you saw no harm in bringing him some. Blue raspberry and cherry are his favorite. They were yours, too, but not until you tasted them on his rose petal lips. Blue raspberry reminds you of a memory you’ve never been quite able to recall, maybe that’s why therapy days were blue.

You shake your head at the thought of blue raspberry. Thinking of blue days and the squeaky chair would only ruin the orange. The cabin’s in sight and dimly lit, seemingly occupied. Unable to see him, you know he’s in there. You can feel his existence just beyond the trees.

You stand under the tree, back awkwardly against the thick, damp trunk so as to not crush the Reese’s and BlowPops. You run your hand over the carved initials in the bark, remembering the day you and Josh had placed it there. The first time you ever kissed him. The rain is slowly picking up again and you find yourself almost getting lost in the whispers of the wind against leaves.

Perhaps the wind works with the trees to tell us things, but we don’t hear. Maybe the wind doesn’t want to be heard, but rather it wants to be listened to.

Waiting begins to grow so boring you try to understand. Understand what the trees are saying. Understand what caused your original distaste for blue, both flavor and color. Every time you try to think, you find yourself unable to understand. You can never recall a time before the grey walls, scratchy carpets and squeaky chair. God how you hate that chair. It’s been years and yet he hasn’t gotten a new one.

Wait by the tree.

Wait by the tree.

Wait by the tree.

He’d specifically instructed you to meet him here, under the tree you met him years ago. Notoriously late, he wouldn’t be this late, making you lose hope. You start to deep breathe in attempts to avoid the orange becoming red. One foot slowly found its way in front of the other as you walked away from the lone standing tree into the sea of physical green. Just slow enough to keep waiting.

Waiting… Waiting…

“Wait!” His voice rang through the night time in a shade of yellow only he could embody, not the same as the cabin.

“Josh?” You turn to see him standing under the tree, leaning against the trunk. His chest is heaving as he fights for air.

“I-I’m sorry, I thought I had more time. They wouldn’t let me go.”

His parents. The definition of darkness personified. Every bad color couldn’t make them up. Black and red swirled and married in a nasty mixture was surely the reason he found solace in the cabin.

Even under the night sky he radiates orange. His rose petal, purple-white lips and beautiful brown doe eyes glisten in the moonlight. Breathtaking. Hauntingly beautiful. All of the good colors melted down like crayons to create him.

Josh doesn’t move, instead he stands and waits for your feet to make their way to him. Like a magnet, you’re drawn to him, wrapping yourself in his warmth almost as fast as it had appeared.

“Mm,” You hum into his chest, your fingers grasping the back of his sweater. “Smell so… so good…”

It wasn’t unusual that he smells good, but he does smell different. Like the summer sun beating down on a field of wildflowers, and hints of honeysuckle covered in morning dew. He smells earthy but in a way that’s good. You pull away from his chest and look up at his face.

“Fangs.” He nods and taps his fingernail against the fake tooth that sticks out from your lips.

“They’re kinda silly, aren’t they?” You bring your fingers to your mouth and pop the two fake fangs off of your teeth, discarding them into the front pocket of your hoodie.

“They were cute.” He frowns, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he guides you a few feet to the cabin. “I missed you, like a lot.”

“You, sir,” You say, pressing your finger into his chest. “You’re the one who asked for seven days.”

“I know, I know. I just needed time to clean this place up. Make it special, ya know?” Josh opens the door to the cabin. It’s clean. For the longest time a thick coating of dust rested on every surface you had yet to touch, the impressions where the two of you would sit being the only clean spot. All of the physical grey is gone. The cabin feels more yellow now than it ever has before.

“Oh! I have something for you, too.” You smile and nod, pulling your backpack off your shoulders. Josh watches with a crooked head, his eyes narrowing. “Hold out your hands.” You instruct as you dig through your bag.

“Is it gonna bite?” He jokes.

“I hope not,” You reply, placing a handful of Reese’s and BlowPops into his large palm.

“Is this your way of telling me you want a kiss?” He teases, twirling a blue raspberry BlowPop between his fingers. You watch as he stuffs the other candy into his pocket before removing the wrapper on the BlowPop and pushing it past his rose petal lips. The only time blue looked and tasted good was when it was on his tongue.

It was no secret you’d thought about him in… that… way a handful of times before ever getting to be with him. Granted more so after the fact, and right now more than ever. The way his fingers felt against your lips earlier and watching his tongue work around the BlowPop did not make it better.

“Josh?” You whisper just loud enough for him to hear as you close the space between your bodies.

“Yes?”

So many things you want, need, to say evade you. So many pandora's boxes that you don’t want to open.

“I just missed you. Seven blue days was too long.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I missed you too, mamas.”

You wrap your arms around his torso once again, melting into his existence. You wish you could physically melt into him so you never had to be apart. Time away from him was always blue-black. You didn’t have to tell him that for him to know, he always knows what you’re thinking.

“I thought you were going trick-or-treating today.” Josh brings a hand up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers massaging your scalp. His voice echoes through his chest, deep and strong.

“S’posed to,” You mumble.

“Well, what happened? Talk to me.”

Mom doesn’t think you’re real.

Dr. Tannis doesn’t think you’re real.

Nobody thinks you're real so I ran away.

“I, uh, I guess I just missed you too much.”

“You know I can tell when you’re fibbing, right?” He pulls away, looking into your face as he tries reading you. He brings a hand to cradle your face, his thumb smoothing across your cheek. “It’s your favorite holiday.”

“I hate when you do that.” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. The softer he gets, the more willing you are to spill your guts, he knew that.

“Well I hate when you do that. Don’t put the walls up, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“What are you, my therapist?”

“I can be. I think talking to someone who understands you would be more beneficial than Mr. Squeaky Chair.” Josh guides you over to lay on the old couch, the only piece of furniture that existed in the cabin yet you always sat on the floor.

“Aren’t we too old for this?” You choke out.

“Too old for what?”

“This. We hide away in an abandoned cabin and make out like horny middle schoolers. And my mom thinks one of us isn’t real.”

“Do you not like that?” He looks nervous as he asks, picking at skin on the sides of his thumbs.

“Well, I like making out with you,”

“But?”

“Everyone thinks you’re not real. And I’d like for them to know you’re real so I could make out with you in my bedroom instead. Have sex on a bed like normal people. I dunno.”

Something in the air shifts. The yellow-orange-sunshine is slowly engulfed by red-blue-black metaphorical darkness.

“We can’t do that.” Josh sighs and kneels down beside the couch, bringing his hand to hold yours. The warmth that always exists in his palms felt almost absent.

“Why not, Josh? Why can’t we be normal?”

“I haven’t been honest.” He swallows harshly. You wince as he moves his hand down to rest on your knee.

“Oh great, you have a girlfriend who goes to my college and-”

“No, not a girlfriend, or boyfriend or anything like that.” He rubs his hand up and down your thigh, trying to soothe the nerves he can sense tensing. Electric couldn’t begin to explain the way his fingers feel dragging across your clothed skin.

“Is it your parents?” You sit up and pat the couch next to you for him to sit.

“Not them, no.” He brings himself to his feet before sitting beside you, removing the BlowPop from his mouth. He places the half eaten lollipop on the window sill behind the couch before bringing his hand to cup your jaw. “Y/n, can you kiss me?”

“Josh…”

“Please? Before I say anything, please just kiss me.”

“Josh,”

Could it be that bad?

You shake the feeling, giving into your temptations as you press your lips to Josh’s. Your tongue explores his until the flavor of blue raspberry is nonexistent. Your fingers grasp at his hair, the feeling of his curls helping ground you. As soon as you pull away, you find yourself returning for more regardless of the flavor being long gone from his tender lips. Josh’s hands begin snaking up the front of your hoodie, his fingertips dancing along your sides. His hands against your bare skin feels like oil paints on a canvas, gliding smoothly and perfectly around every edge and detail at the mercy of the artist. Josh’s lips trail down your neck, nipping and biting at the supple skin on your throat, earning a soft moan.

Your hands can’t help themselves, smoothing down the front of his sweater and onto his lap. His length is growing prominent beneath his jeans. Josh follows your lead, his fingers tracing under the waistband of your leggings before pulling you onto his lap.

It isn’t long before you’re pushing your hips into his, rolling methodically against his length as he continues kissing across the expanse of your skin. Josh places his hands on your hips and pushes you down, your center resting over his thigh as your leg slots between his. His hands guide your hips back and forth as you grind your core against his thigh, pressing you firmly down onto him.

One of his hands slowly drags up your side before resting under your chin, raising your face to look at him. He likes to be watched, to be seen, just as much as he likes watching you. Your eyes meet his, warm and golden like summer honey.

“You’re so pretty,” You huff out, still grinding against him. Josh moves his hand to cradle the back of your neck, drawing your lips closer to his.

“Uh-uh. You’re pretty, my baby,” He trails off, pressing his rosey lips against yours. A warm, sweet taste grows the longer he’s there, your heartbeat in places you didn't know it could be. You bring one hand from his shoulder to the back of his head, your fingers nestling deep in his brown curls as you push him closer.

No word can even begin to explain how he’s got you. Josh’s hands work between your bodies, undoing his pants as you continue rubbing against him, a giggle escaping his lips.

“What’s so funny?” You ask defensively, slowing your motions.

“My knee is soaked,” He smirks as he dips his hand past his boxers, not so subtly stroking himself.

“Oh…”

“Is this okay? We don’t-”

“No, I do!” You shout desperately, lifting from his thigh to push your pants past the wide of your ass down until they sit at your ankles. You hover over his length, pulling his boxers down before sitting him at your entrance.

“I’m quite fond of you.” He whispers and looks up, peeling his eyes away from where your bodies are about to connect. The man who loves to watch himself wasn’t watching.

“I’m fond of you, too, Josh.”

“Like a lot, Y/n, and I’m worried about messing this up.”

“You won’t.” You assure him, sinking down onto his length. You hiss at the feeling of him inside, no matter how many times you find yourselves in this situation, it always feels brand new. You fall forward, melting into Josh’s chest as he brings his arms around you with his face tucked in the crook of your neck. His lips find a home sucking a hot trail of marks up and down the side of your neck, reaching his hands down to rid you of your shoes and bottoms.

Josh gently thrusts his hips up, fucking into you slowly, making you feel every inch of his thick cock in your hungry core. Euphoria courses through your veins in times like this, a sparkly, pink goodness that seemingly takes hold of you. Buried deep inside, he holds you down on his length as he readjusts your bodies, laying you across the couch with him above you. He places his hands on the bottom hem of his shirt and hoodie, lifting them over his head to expose his chest. You reach a hand forward and lay it over his heart, pinching your eyebrows together in confusion when you don’t feel a beat.

“You okay?” Josh asks, bringing his hands to the backs of your thighs and pushing them into your chest, allowing him to sink into you deeper.

“Uh-huh,” You gasp and nod as Josh brings a hand from the back of your thigh to lay between where your bodies meet, brushing his thumb over your aching clit.

“Oh… my god…” You gasp into his mouth. “Josh…”

“S’that feel good?” He mumbles against your lips as he slowly works one finger into your already full pussy, thumb still against your clit.

“Like-like,” You hardly stutter as he brings you closer to the brink of orgasm.

“Gold?” Josh suggests, curling his finger upwards as to draw an answer.

Gold. The smell of a freshly blooming sunflower field. The first s’more of summer. The feeling of the sun drying your wet skin after swimming.

“Like gold.” A mess of gasps and moans, you swallow harshly before mewling his name. “J-Josh,”

“Y/n,” He sings, a smile tugging the corner of his lips as they’re pressed against yours. Gold, yellow, honey, rose petal lips, purple-white. The overstimulation was washing over in more ways you could count.

“Josh, please?” You beg for something that’s already yours, a feeling of white-hot washing over your entire body as you feel yourself begin to spill over the edge.

“Gonna cum for me, pretty mama? It’s all yours.” Josh continues curling his finger up, tapping the spongy spot tucked where only he can find it as his hips and thumb keep a steady pace.

Your ears begin to ring like the broken bell above the church nobody attends. Almost in a possessed-like manner, your body convulses under Josh’s touch. As he removes his finger from your aching cunt, you hardly open your eyes to watch him lick your slick off his digits. Your face must look curious because Josh smirks once more before attaching his lips to yours. He tastes of honey, delicate flowers, an old library. To be engulfed and consumed by his flame is all you’ve ever wanted, all you’ve ever craved.

Josh follows not too far afterwards, his hips stuttering and stilling as his warm release coats your walls, his warm torso laying its weight on yours. He turns his head so his cheek rests on your collar, chastely kissing whatever skin he can get his lips on as his length softens inside. It feels weird but nice, oddly enough.

“Hi,” He whispers gently into your neck.

“Hi,” You copy, letting your head fall so your cheek rests against the nest of curls on his head. Slightly damp, but god does he smell good. Chests pressed together, you lay in silence wondering where the beating of either heart has gone. The two of you lay like that for a while, soaking in one another’s presence before Josh finally pushes himself off of you. Your chest grows almost empty and airy, like a helium balloon, without his weight on top to hold you down.

“Can you tell me now?” You groan, sleepy and winded.

“The issue is that I’m not from here, Y/n.” Josh sighs, pushing his legs through his pant legs.

“And that’s okay. But I want to see, Josh. I wanna see where you’re from.”

“It’s all black-red, you don’t wanna see that.”

“I want to know you. Let me see.” Your shoulders fall alongside your expression as you pull your panties over your legs followed by your leggings. Josh reaches down to grab your hand and for a second everything feels orange again. Josh offers a worried smile before everything turns physically black.

“Josh?” Not only is he gone, but everything in the distance looks to be going, too.

It can’t be.

Is Josh… Not real? Just a thought for your amusement?

As you succumb to darkness, you realize maybe blue isn’t so bad after all. It was much better than black, at least. Your surroundings felt like the blue raspberry, thunderstorm, whirring darkness that occured after the incident. Yet still you find you’re unable to recall anything prior outside of riding your bike in the woods.

Finally, you remember something but still not enough to answer what happened that day. All you remember is a glimpse of orange trying to pull you from the darkness and the taste of blue raspberry. A huge wave of grey-black sorrow washes over you, sobs ripping through your chest. Panic is all you know to do.

“Hey,” Orange wraps itself around you in the form of his arms, and even though you can’t see, you know it’s him because of the shade of his words. “It’s okay, I’m right here.”

“Where?” You shudder.

“In the heart.”

One deep, ragged breath fills your lungs as you open your eyes expecting nothing except pitch black, but you’re back in the cabin. It doesn’t feel yellow anymore.

“What happened?” You squeak out, just like that damned chair.

“Y/n,” Josh says gently as he walks to stand before you. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and rests his chin on your head.

“Josh, tell me what happened, I need to know.” You mumble into his chest as you choke back tears.

“We don’t exist.”

“Yes we do! We exist, Josh. We are real, we feel things. Could we feel things if we weren’t real?” You push yourself away from his hold and ball your fists at your side.

“You can ball your fists, but that doesn’t bring us back to life.” He frowns, plopping onto the floor. He sits criss-crossed, looking up at you with those big brown eyes.

“Back to life?”

“You died that day, Y/n. It’s why you can’t remember anything that happened.”

“Died?” You fall to your knees in front of him, your fists thumping against the ground. Nothing was real, at least it hasn’t been for the last few years.

“I tried to save you but I was too late. I saw you just… laying there, but I tried, Y/n.” Josh rests his hands on your knees. If neither of you are real, then how can you feel him?

For the first time you’re able to recall the darkness. Why it tasted of blue raspberry, where your hatred for the squeaking came from, why nobody believed Josh was real. You try again to remember the day of the accident, but to no avail.

Bike. Black. Blue. Orange.

[sonobeunitsarecool]

Hhhhh

Quick thoughts on… everything…

I think Mahiru died first. Partially because she said she needed to thank Shidou on Kotoko’s birthday timeline, but also because I can totally see Mahiru dying as an incentive for Haruka to decide, oh, don’t want that to happen to Muu/the chaos means no one will be watching. That, and Shidou would not have tried very hard to stay alive (assuming Amane killed him) if Mahiru and Haruka died; the whole reason he lives is because he thinks he’s needed. Should that purpose go away, well, passive suicidal ideation could have made him fairly willing to die.

I’m not sure what Kazui was doing. Violence on the part of the others was something he’d have been in a very good position to stop, and it’s one of the more meta voting reasons to have voted him forgiven in T2. Keep him alive and violence won’t happen, right? Well, wrong.

Muu won’t be happy with Es. She was unforgiven. So was the only person she built a connection with, and he even died after he’d warned Es that that’s exactly what he’s do. The restraints weren’t enough to keep him from hurting himself, that or he found another way…? Either way, to Muu, Es is at fault. Not her. She’s in a terrible situation, and it’s gotten worse after she thought she’d be safe.

Kotoko probably won’t double down on violence as a solution. She seemed affected by Mahiru’s position and likely her subsequent death, plus she’s restrained. I’m not sure if Shidou would have hurt her (I still think that his second verdict may have given him a bit of a saviour complex), but she’s alive. She has to see the consequences of her actions up close, and considering that Milgram started almost immediately after all of the respective crimes occurred, it’d be the first time. Her victim wouldn’t have been something she saw too much in detail after, but this was a drawn out event.

I’m honestly terribly affected by this, mostly Shidou. He’s been a comfort character of sorts ever since I got into Milgram a few weeks before Triage came out. I also think it may be because I didn’t expect him to die. Since Muu’s voting ended before I could vote myself, he was never likely to survive, in my head. Same with Mahiru, an unstable condition means that anything could have happened, and so I wasn’t certain she’d survive. But Shidou? I assumed that, at the very least, he wouldn’t actively try to die because of his desire to help the others, and that Kazui would be able to protect him from Kotoko or Amane, or anyone else. It’s proof that two consecutive forgiven verdicts were not guarantees to stay alive.

In line with the Milgram studies, I think that this was a doomed scenario from the start. Looking at the T2 results, nothing would have saved Mahiru. Haruka had a chance to live. Shidou and Amane, after looking through other posts and thinking about it, may have been “mutually exclusive routes”. But, hang on, those were things that happened because of the T1 results.

If anyone but Kotoko was unforgiven, they’d have been attacked and injured. If Kotoko was unforgiven in T1, she’d have been more hostile. If, if, if.

No matter which way you go, whatever permutations are picked, it’s all a “bad end”. Someone gets hurt. Someone dies. It’s a lot like the cases for each of the people being judged; things just spiral. Anything that looked like a good option at the time has turned out to be the “wrong” choice to make. And maybe that’s supposed to be how it is, after all, Es fits the criteria for being a prisoner of Milgram themselves now. The warden is now a killer due to our actions.

I don’t think there ever was a happy ending for Milgram from the start. I think that’s by design, because much like the initial studies this is named after, choosing to participate means you hurt someone. And then you keep going. And then we all, using Es as the extension of our will, played into the game. And from there on out it would all be bad.

The only way we could have “won” would be if we never played. The way Milgram is set up, the way we are able to interact with the cast, it’s set up on purpose to be a trap, black-and-white.

[zenscrypt]

"keep counting (for patterns to repeat)"

read on ao3 here!

Rated: T (Teen and Up Audiences)

Content Warning: suicidal ideation/thoughts

Summary:

The clicking footsteps he’s heard pause with another of Tallulah’s loud calls, and Etoiles squints, trying to see where she went--

Whack!

Ah. “Good left-click, Richas,” he jokes in lieu of a greeting. The egg punches him again, also in lieu of a greeting, before Etoiles’ hands are grabbed and carefully guided to the signs he’s placed.

[ TONTON can i propose a trade offer >:D ] [ we get llulah, you get EGGZA? ]

-- It's a quiet night on Quesadilla Island when Tallulah comes to visit her tío's cave for some training. Along the way, Etoiles gets more visitors.

Tallulah is not a fighter.

Quesadilla Island is not built for pacifists.

Purgatory especially was not. The feeling of an axe sitting in her paws was unfamiliar, unwieldy, even uncomfortable, makeshift and knobby because she made it herself at Dapper’s insistence. There were so many mobs -- so many summonings -- and she tried so hard to remember what her papa taught her, to mimic what Chay would do to protect her, to follow the words one of her tíos gave as advice. “Tallulah, when you’re sad, just kill mobs!”

Needless to say, Tallulah was really sad in purgatory. She wasn’t a fighter then, despite everything she went through, and still, she doesn’t think of herself as one now. But she wants to try.

“Tallulah? You don’t need to learn to fight, you are already amazing with your flowers?”

Emphasis on try.

It’s a quiet night when she joins Richar and Pomme on their late-night adventures. Not much happened with Tío Bad, thankfully, besides Richar insisting on breaking Bad’s machines consecutively to see if he would notice, and Pomme and Tallulah watching the chaos unfold. Bad shooed them off eventually after a goodbye with the ghosties; it was late enough Tallulah considered going to sleep, until Bad voiced his surprise of Tío Etoiles being awake at this hour. Pomme disappeared in a flash, as expected, and Richar asked Tallulah if she would stay up to hang out.

It wasn’t often Tallulah got to spend time with her tío. He seemed so busy nowadays, either sleeping through the week or completely gone from sight despite being online, which she wouldn’t want to interrupt. She doesn’t know how badly that code infection is impacting him either -- if it was the cause for him sleeping so much, or the reason she and her family never saw him as often, or if it did anything at all.

Turns out, he’s working on rebuilding his cave entrance when she agrees to come with Richar. Well -- Pomme is, Richar is helping her with the design, and Tío Etoiles is gathering whatever few supplies he can easily grind for. It reminded her of decorating the nest with herself, Chay, and Papa Phil.

It’s a little funny. Tío Etoiles really hasn’t changed, has he?

That brings her to this moment, adjusting the speaker block Pomme gave her. “Tallulah says,” the machine-voice in the block says, which grates Tallulah’s ears a bit as it says her own words, “i want to be a better fighter to defend myself tío, flowers can’t do that against withers :p”

Etoiles hums faintly. His inventory covers most of his face as he gathers more wood for the eggs, but she quietly watches the numbers of that warped scar glitch emerald skin into binary data. His eyes, sightless and cloudy-white, squint at each item he selects. There’s a pause between the items that takes… longer than normal. He doesn’t seem focused.

Tallulah can’t tear her eyes away from the code-infected scar. It’s-- is it a scar? It’s a strange shape that took his entire left arm. It’s infected, which is a more pressing worry. It goes into an eye. Is it impacting him that bad, that he looks so exhausted?

It’s pretty late, too; she asked him how he was, and he mentioned being unable to sleep but not having the energy to explore or do dungeons. Which… sounds like his chronic disease also, but…

Well, it reminds Tallulah of herself mostly. She’s stared at the ceiling of her papi’s house for so long she knows exactly how many blocks it takes up. She could recreate it with only her memory if she had the chance. Playing music only reminded her of how empty the house was, on really bad nights. Some nights, she thought the next day would never come.

She caught herself asking if she wanted it to, sometimes.

Maybe asking for fighting lessons wasn’t the right thing to do. It seemed like a good distraction, but she doesn’t want to force him to if he’s feeling the way she felt on bad nights. Guilt wells in her little eggshell -- did she mess up? He hasn’t responded yet--

“Tallulah,” Etoiles calls softly, stirring her out of her spiraling thoughts, “have you seen my dojo?”

Oh.

Oh!

Tallulah jumps to her feet in an instant, shaking her head rapidly. Maybe she didn’t mess up! Maybe her plan will work! Etoiles is pushing himself up to his feet as she bounces in place, chirping with excitement. When he gestures for her to follow him, she’s already scampering down the staircase to his cave.

---

Tallulah is a good fighter, Etoiles learns.

Flower picking is her strong suit, something better suited for her limited breath and less-than-sharp ears, but Phil must be teaching her well because she uses her height to her advantage. Her aim is impeccable too -- she’s quick to find the weaknesses in his armor and swings with enough force that Etoiles can actually feel the stick smacking into skin. Of course, she gets winded after each of her attacks and Etoiles backs away to give her space, quietly observing.

He does his best to deliver the pointers she seemingly asked for, which is shit because another sleepless night doing nothing but thinking means his English is starting to slip. He’s also missing his swings to give her a challenge, unable to focus long enough on stars and stardust to find where she’s at. He nearly trips on her on occasion, easily the most frustrating of this night. How can he not see a little egg in front of him?

During a moment where Tallulah’s breath starts to sound like a whistle, Etoiles calls for a break. “You did well,” he says, reaching over to pat her mushroom head. Inside her shell, her breath rattles, but she manages a wheezy chirp of satisfaction -- and then faceplants into the tatami mats. Etoiles huffs out a laugh.

“Pick yourself up, queen, you play so well! You can fuck up everyone in your path, no problem. You don’t need my help.” Which he means. He was just about as clumsy and shit as any regular mob on this island, and if he had no armor, he would’ve been dead. Her biggest issue is trying to do so many jumping attacks for critical damage, but if her threats are mobs, she’s perfect. Her form wasn’t even sloppy.

In the distance, he hears the sounds of teleportation and lifts his head to the dojo entrance.

While still face-down and breathing hard, Tallulah slaps a sign on the ground. Keeping his ears alert, Etoiles reaches to translate it. [ you were good target practice tho :D ]

More teleportation sounds go off. He grins at the sign. “Good target practice? Tallulah, I was shit and you know it. I was like- like that horse riding mob, Tallulah. A meature. You could’ve killed me no problem. If you had your flowers, I would be dead in one hit.”

Tallulah trills, and her blurry shape shifts back to a proper sitting position. She’s close enough that her eggshell brushes against his knee, bleeding warmth into his padded leggings. The next sign she places is directly in front of him. [ papa phil thinks roses are pretty strong ]

Does he? Etoiles scoffs, bumping his knee against her goodnaturedly. “Of course Felipe Minecraft knows this. To him, roses must do plus ten damages, and- and Pomme’s favorite flowers do twenty! Sunflowers do three, I know this because they’re a shit flower.”

That wins him another delighted trill and a keyboard smash of a sign, which he takes as a victory.

Faintly, he hears footsteps, clicking on his quartz floors. Richas and Pomme’s footsteps are quieter than that, but the fact that he can hear this visitor is reassuring. Whoever it is wouldn’t announce their presence so easily if they wanted to harm Tallulah.

He can barely see Tallulah’s stardust pattern next to him, so he doesn’t bother trying to figure out who this is. They’re approaching him anyway. He’ll find out soon enough.

To his left, there’s a gentle rattling noise -- a maraca, he registers, because Tallulah stops shaking it when he looks over. There’s a new sign she’s written, replacing the one in front of him, [ here tío, i think papa phil would want you to have this ]

In her extended paws sits something with a vibrant, rich red color.

A rose. Oh, of course -- what else could it have been? A stray thorn pricks his finger as he takes it, and his dark blood beads onto the soft, scarlet petals just before his body heals over the wound in the next half-second. He huffs out a quiet laugh, rotating the flower in his hand carefully. “This is for me, Tallulah?”

The purple of her mushroom head dips in an enthusiastic nod. It isn’t blue, and it’s not a cornflower, but Etoiles thinks it matches the collection Pomme’s been giving him in his backpack.

“Thank you, Tallulah,” he says solemnly, switching it to his off-hand to pat her bouncy helmet. “I’ll be the strongest warrior on the island with this.”

Tallulah bumps her head against his hand affectionately with a happy chirp. He can hear her tail wag just slightly, dragging on the mats underneath them, before it gives an audible thump. She trills loudly, sudden, and rocks up to her feet, bounding off and out of the dojo without another word. Etoiles blinks.

The clicking footsteps he’s heard pause with another of Tallulah’s loud calls, and Etoiles squints, trying to see where she went--

Whack!

Ah.

If the noisy, high-pitched chirps now ringing in his ears weren’t enough of an indicator of who’s here, the dark blue sign in front of him and hazy red blob of a cow head is. “Nice left-click, Richas,” Etoiles jokes in lieu of a greeting. The egg punches him again, also in lieu of a greeting, before Etoiles’ hands are grabbed more gently than the fast (and painless) punches and carefully guided to the signs he’s placed.

[ TONTON can i propose a trade offer >:D ] [ we get llulah, you get EGGZA? ]

Ah, that explains it. Phil’s here.

Well-- almost Philza. Tallulah and Ph-- Eggza are too far away for him to see, somewhere between his white floors and the distant, dark blackstone of his staircase entrance. “Richas, that is a shit trade, man,” he bemoans, tearing his eyes away but making sure his voice still carries through his cave, “why would I want that piece of shit egg? He doesn’t even have a shell! He- he doesn’t have flowers like Tallulah, and I’m a builder, Richas. I want flowers, not goats.”

It’s pointless to goad on Eggza, he knows, their usual banter tends to fall flat when it’s one-sided -- this man, this tryhard is so focused on grinding for shitty cookies instead of spending time with friends -- but like the grin on his lips, he can’t help himself. Richas lets out a squeaky laugh, reminding him of Pac’s laughter, and swats for his attention again. [ KKKKKKKK ] [ I don’t see any goats but YOU tonton >:D ]

“What!” Etoiles exclaims in mock-offense. “How could you say that, Richas? You’re standing right here?”

Whack. He’s learned, since telling Richas about his blindness, that the egg now communicates his head movements with more punches instead. Somehow, it works for them. Richas paces in front of him with that chirpy laughter before he finally breaks his sign and replaces it with a new one. [ how did llulahs training go??? ]

“She doesn’t need training, actually,” he says. Chayanne is the warrior between the two siblings -- Etoiles would know, constantly ribbing on the egg’s fighting style much to his dismay -- but when your dad is Felipe Minecraft, it makes sense to him that she would impress him so much. To not only fight, but be able to land precise hits when already struggling for breath is black-belt worthy to Etoiles, no stick fight required. “She already knows how to fight well, and I was just a, uh- a body for her to hit. She didn’t need my help.”

Was purgatory what changed her? Fighting to survive would do that, he thinks -- turn pacifists into keen-eyed warriors, even the ones that prefer flowers to weapons like Tallulah. He frowns and presses his thumb against one of the thorns on the rose. What a shitty life, to be forced to fight.

The eggs weren’t forced to fight each other, at least. They weren’t against Badboy and Toby Roblox at least -- or, really, any of their friends. Their siblings. They just had to survive, not compete, not win.

(Ever since that three-day-long dream he had of another purgatory, another chance to win, another fight to survive and kill both strangers and old comrades -- it felt like a dream to him. He hasn’t been sleeping well recently. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of radioactive water, of that brand on his hand staring back at him, of tearing into flesh with his swords and covered in blood and wanting more -- and then he wakes up on this shit island where nothing happens unless he’s unconscious.

Seriously. He sleeps an hour later than usual, and Phil is saying he missed the biggest fight of his lifetime, Empanada died, Tubbo’s armor is gone, Phil was knocked down-- he missed a fun fight because this shit island hates him and so does insomnia.)

Whack! [ so she kicked your ass?? 0_0 ] Richas’ sign says, jerking Etoiles out of his thoughts.

It’s not hard to kick my ass, he wants to say, just stay up until 4AM and log-in right at the spot to turn in your contracts to override all of my team’s hard work. His skin catches on the thorn. Phil’s geta click on quartz again, and Etoiles grins. “Richas, she destroyed me, man. She is- she’s a black belt in my dojo, I stood no chance. She took out this flower and I was on the floor instantly. Minus 70 damages.”

Following right after Phil’s geta are more tapping claws, which wheeze as the egg gets closer -- whack, Tallulah smacks Richas away, startling a bark of laughter from Etoiles. “Like that! See! She’s so cracked!”

His dojo quickly fills with the typical sounds of eggs bickering with each other, the occasional thump or whack of a playfight happening somewhere behind him. Etoiles tilts his head to find a familiar leathery-black mask staring down at him. “Hello, Eggza,” he hums, smiling wide enough to bare his teeth.

Phil makes a muffled, indistinct noise as Etoiles pushes himself up to his feet, and the dark wings behind him rustle quietly, shifting in place. “Are you here to collect your egg, Eggza?” he asks.

A quiet huff. “No?” He raises an eyebrow. Tallulah’s sing-song chirps sound victorious somewhere to his right with Richas’ indignant hisses following right after it. Pomme must’ve stayed at the cave entrance to focus on decorating. What was it Richas asked? “There are no cookies here, Phil. Have you come to my dojo to fight?”

Another huff, this time accentuated with a faint laugh-like noise. Etoiles exclaims in disbelief, “What? You come to my dojo and not want to fight, Felipe? Why the hell are you here then? To say ‘hello, mate’ and be the man that you are?”

Phil laughs that quiet noise again and then turns on his heel in a careful motion, eyeing the ground for a moment. Then-- Etoiles blinks when he hears the sound of… a sign being placed. Phil placed a sign? Curious, he peers around the silhouette of a wing and finds a dark green sign-- dark green?-- “Phil, my bro,” he exclaims, now genuinely incredulous, “you are not an egg? What are these signs? Did you make them just for you?” Sure, maybe that shade he’s never seen before could exist, alongside Gegg’s vibrant-green, but Phil using it?

Is this how deep it goes? he wonders, backing up to give Phil’s wings space. This state that he’s in, Etoiles has only came across Phil around the bakery at spawn, gathering cookies for his eggs -- but he knows Phil like this, too. At least, part of it.

Purgatory didn’t change just Tallulah, after all.

Phil’s wings healed during that time, and with it, something else inside him too. He was coherent in purgatory, though -- coherent enough to speak, stumbling over his bird-like noises to clarify what he was trying to say. Writing with signs is new. (He sees why Fit and Pac call him Eggza now, even if Phil is far from an egg in Etoiles’ eyes.)

How different is he, then? How much is intact since purgatory? His wings were broken from the flight carrying Tubbo, but they weren’t clipped, the Federation hasn’t intervened (yet), they aren’t small and weak and hidden like before the eggs disappeared.

An old itch begins to flare up. Phil’s changed. How far?

The shadows in front of him shift eventually, revealing what Phil’s written. [ can i not say hi to a friend? :> ]

Just as he stooped down to translate it, Etoiles is smacked by a small, fast-tapping paw. Phil’s also hit, eliciting a startled caw from the man and a chorus of tittering egg-laughs. Etoiles hums. “Yes, Richas?”

Richas guides his hand to the signs instead of smacking him again. [ pleasure doing business with you tonton o7 ] [ llulah n i will get back to work >:D ]

Oh, that’s what he asked. Etoiles didn’t even give him an answer -- and he considers complaining again, just to rib on Eggza some more, but instead he ruffles Richas’ cow head. “Okay, Richas,” he says. “Pomme is your leader, don’t forget that.”

Thump. He places another sign. [ don’t forget that ur the best tonton >:] ] Tallulah nudges Phil and chirps something beside Etoiles; Phil echoes it, the noise richer in response, unfamiliar to his ears. Maybe something referring to flock, if he guessed right.

With that, the two eggs head off, their claws scratching at quartz as they run.

Silence follows where Etoiles doesn’t fill it. Phil’s head is turned away, watching the eggs leave, and for a moment, Etoiles wishes he could see. Are there more feathers where there hasn’t been? What else has changed that he can’t see? How much is still Phil?

The elytrian shifts then, remembering himself and the sign he placed at his feet. Soundlessly, he breaks it manually, without an axe, just plucking it from the ground; Etoiles watches the sign disappear into his inventory.

“You come here to say hello,” he voices, catching Phil’s attention with the lilt in his voice, “except you’re writing with signs. You aren’t an egg, Phil. I know your voice, I know where you live -- I know what you are, Phil. You can speak to me, no? You trust me, right?”

It’s not avian-speak Phil makes -- it’s not the typical squawks and chirps Baghera made, nor the noises he catches the eggs making on occasion -- it’s Endspeak. An ancient language that can be disguised as avian, thanks to similar vocal chord structures, but it’s sharper, centered in the chest rather than the throat. If Phil isn’t capable of speech --

How far can he push?

“It’s okay, Phil,” he says quickly. The rose in his left hand is an afterthought as he searches for a stick. “You don’t need to say anything actually. No worries. How about we stick fight? 1v1? You come to my dojo, you should expect a fight, man.”

Unsurprisingly, Phil turns to place a sign again, and Etoiles lets him. Taps the stick he’s holding against his leg, slowly, counting. It can snap easily in his hands if he wanted it to. A clean snap right through the middle, showering the floor in splintering fragments. Phil steps away.

All the text-to-speech translation says is: [ bruh ].

Etoiles sputters -- partially amused by the simple response, the other-- “Bruh, he says, taking 70 years to type it! He can left-click but he can’t type four letters, what the hell? Felipe, my bro, you should know the rules of my dojo. You can’t ‘bruh’ my rules.”

Then, daring, he takes a step forward and smacks the stick against Phil’s leg, where he knows it is. The answering yelp sounds like a bark forced from his chest -- Etoiles grins, sharp. “Come, Phil! Just one fight. It’s all I ask of you.” Just one. One is fair, one is reasonable, one is all he wants. He has to see who this is.

Another sign is placed. Etoiles hums -- and jabs forward, hitting Phil somewhere in his flank. Phil flinches away with a startled hiss, sparks spitting. He takes a step back -- Etoiles matches him, letting his other hand (there’s a flower there?) brush against the sign to translate it as he passes.

[ not fighting you king, its too late ]

Too late, he says, as if they’re sleeping. Phil stops retreating, so he stops advancing, hitting the stick against his knee. He barely registers the pain. The shadows in front of him are massive, but he’s seen bigger -- seen them spread wider as he stood behind them, shielded from view, the rest of the team, Bolas, next to him. Where is it? “Phil, we are here, aren’t we? It won’t take long. You can win and I’ll stop.”

He waits for a sign to be placed, his grip holding the stick tighter. It hasn’t cracked yet, but he aches for the burn. Tap. tap. tap. Just one fight. Just one.

When he hears nothing, he takes another step forward. Phil remains in place. His geta don’t scuff on the dojo’s floors. If Etoiles focuses, he can see that leather-masked gaze holding his somewhere between growing darkness. Wider, wider, it spreads. There? Is that it?

The stick raises into the air.

Shadows flare.

And when a solid force collides into him and knocks him flat on his back, all Etoiles can feel is blinding victory. This is it. This has to be it. He just has to-- he has to fight back--

His weapon is gone. All he has is a- a stupid flower that doesn’t even have the same attack stat as a stick-- Phil’s weight keeps him firmly on the ground and staying there, talons burrowing into wrists and a heavy pressure on his stomach. He isn’t struggling. He can’t, he reasons, his arms are heavy and he can barely focus -- but he’s baring his teeth to the elytrian above him like he’s winning. “Wow!” he barks, something inside him thrashing when he cannot, “No stick fights, says Felipe, so he pins me down like an American! Like an American football star, okay. I see you, Felipe.”

Whatever noise he was expecting, he wasn’t thinking a- a croon, now so much louder than he expected, rumbling against his pinned body. A rubber beak nudges against his jawline, shutting Etoiles up instantly. It’s strange -- something wars inside his head, instincts vs. logic, with a clear loser. He cranes his neck up, further, to give Phil space.

Well? Phil won. Spoils go to the victor, after all.

Through the mask, Phil’s breath comes out in huffs against his neck, right at the sensitive-- vulnerable, weak, prime spot to notch a weapon-- junction of his neck. Something inside him thrills at the attention.

Distantly, Etoiles wonders how they must look. Is it just them in his dojo, in the darkness of Phil’s feathers, in the night sky gleaming with star-shaped flowers? Are Phil’s wings shadowing over him, shielding him from view, like the void enveloping him whole? Is he prey caught by an elytrian with its wings poised for flight against its back, about to be slaughtered?

Oh, what a way to die. Etoiles sinks into the embrace. Craves it. Part of Etoiles wants to beg -- he needs to see if Phil will do it. If Phil had the capacity to kill him. If Phil could give him a death he’ll finally be satisfied with.

Make me bleed, he prays.

Aloud, he whispers, barely audible even to himself, “Phil? Can I take off your mask?”

Phil pulls away only slightly, his breath fanning over Etoiles’ face. To his surprise, Phil chirps only a second later in the affirmative. When Etoiles reaches a freed hand to the buckles of the mask, Phil leans into his touch, rumbling quietly, contentedly.

Suddenly, Etoiles’ fingers are unsure, breath lodged in his throat, unseeing eyes squinting in concentration and, distantly, anticipation.

The mask is loose and slides into Etoiles’ hand. Carefully, he sets it to the side beside his head. Then, indulgent, desperate, he cranes his neck up and cups Phil’s jaw with the same hand.

Please, he begs. His lips stay shut.

He waits for the fangs. He waits for talons. He waits for the searing burn of pain to tear his throat open and let him bleed out inside his own home, in his dojo, in the arms of his captain.

If “Eggza” is his elytrian instincts repaired, then Etoiles aches to be his first blood.

Phil’s lips are soft, when they press against his.

…oh.

Of course.

A small laugh huffs against Phil’s lips -- because Etoiles should’ve expected this answer.

He hadn’t realized he asked. Or that Phil heard.

Still, he leans into the kiss, fitting his hand securely over Phil’s cheek to press deeper. It was light, Phil asking his own question in response; on any other day, Etoiles would push further, fight even harder for Phil to give him what he really wanted, but the elytrian above him lets out a coo so low it vibrates in his chest as he slots their lips together.

If Etoiles had any more fight left in him, he would insist he didn’t deserve this. Phil’s arm braces above his head somewhere, and talons run through his hair and against his scalp, and it’s so nice. There’s no yanking. No tearing. No fight he had to win. Just… being held and kissed.

So instead, he sighs and gives into the gentle, lapping waves of fluttering, midnight wings.

(Maybe I’m already bleeding, he thinks distantly. Just not the way he initially thought.)

Phil’s the one that parts first with a quiet hum. Etoiles takes in a deep breath, keeping his eyes shut to settle against the mats. His mind feels blissfully quiet for once.

A hand brushes down his face, pets his facial hair, runs across his lips. Etoiles lets it trail over him and feels proud that he only briefly wanted to be kissed again.

Pressure leans against his forehead, stirring his eyes open again. It’s habit to open them, obviously, because he already knows it’s Phil pressing their heads together, his nose slotting against Etoiles’. A trill follows, deep in Phil’s throat, that Etoiles recognizes faintly. He doesn’t know the exact translation, no matter how many times he’s heard Phil make it during purgatory, or to his eggs. He thinks it’s a name. A title, maybe. A declaration.

His chest is tight. Etoiles hums quietly. One day, he’ll figure out what it means.

Eventually, Phil takes mercy on him. With one final trill, he backs away fully, his weight disappearing from Etoiles’ body, and is gone before he even realizes it. The roof of his dojo is plain without the borders of void-coated feathers and golden hair. What a shame.

(What a shame -- that Phil left? Or that Phil didn’t kill him? He isn’t sure.)

As he laments, floating somewhere between the clouds and the night sky, he hears something sharp, quick -- a snap of fingers. Etoiles lifts his head.

Instead of grabbing his gas mask like what Etoiles expected, Phil stands over him with a black-tinted hand offered. Oh. He wants to help Etoiles up? A pleasant warmth sits in his chest like a gentle campfire, and with the snap comes reality.

“Oh, look at you, Felipe,” Etoiles says with a grin, breaking the silent air of his dojo. “Giving me your hand to pull me up like the goat that you are? Thank you, my bro.” He sits up and clasps his hand into Phil’s, letting the elytrian yank him up to his feet with a subtle flap of his wings.

It was a forceful tug alongside an amused chitter, enough that Etoiles has to catch himself before he crashed into Phil; that campfire crackles. It’s not the sun he looks it in spite of the warmth, but somehow, it makes it better. “Okay, Phil? You’re so strong? You have big biceps? You don’t need to flex on me, man, I already know you have a nice cock.”

And, because he can, he reaches for Phil’s face to kiss him again.

His advances are met with a scowl he feels against his lips and a firm swat of one heavy wing upside his head. “Oh, he hits me!” Etoiles shouts with a bark of laughter, ducking out of the way. “Felipe hits me because I gave him a kiss! So you won’t accept my affections either, Phil? Okay, man. Sorry. Your cock is shit, actually.”

Whack! Phil’s wings hit hard, what the hell? The next dodge he does skirts him around the elytrian, sidestepping shadows to stand next to Phil, away from any more wing-hits. Phil chitters louder, almost involuntarily; now it really sounds like his cawing laughter.

Etoiles’ laughing along with him. “Deserved, deserved.”

How could he be so stupid? Why would he ever think Phil would change, just like that, from purgatory? Tallulah still gives flowers, Pomme is still headstrong, Richas… hasn’t changed whatsoever, now that he thinks about it -- and, maybe, Etoiles himself hasn’t changed too. Phil hasn’t.

Phil is still the goat, and the man that won’t listen to his braindead desires of dying a cool death. Why did he ever beg the man to kill him? The thought sounds ridiculous the more he thinks about it.

Would it be legendary? Yes. Is it still something Etoiles wants to happen? Perhaps. Will he ever get it? No.

And he’s fine with that.

Thump. Etoiles blinks. A sign?

Phil turns around to look at him, standing in front with something in his hand and the sign placed by his feet. As Etoiles steps forward to translate it, he catches red in Phil’s dark hands. [ where did this rose come from? ]

Oh. “Tallulah gave it to me,” Etoiles says softly. I forgot it was in my hand, he adds to himself. “I hope it’s not broken?”

The red blur in Phil’s hands looks fine, but it’s hard to tell. Phil examines it with a quiet, contemplative noise for a moment. It’s only a flower, Etoiles catches himself thinking -- but it’s a rose, isn’t it? Roses are strong, Tallulah said. He thought maybe she meant it the same way Pomme means it, but… what about Phil?

A black hand raises to his face, bearing that red, red rose. It hesitates just in front of him, asking, and Etoiles stops himself from taking a step back. Instinctively, he tries to search for Phil’s eyes -- but-- Phil makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. The hand wavers.

It’s Phil, he reminds himself.

When he leans forward, into Phil’s hold, he feels the flower stem slide just above his ear. Talons briefly pinch his skin as Phil carefully adjusts the flower, tucking it underneath his eye-mask, securing it in place. The thorns are gone, as if they’ve been plucked off. All that’s left are the soft petals that brush against the side of Etoiles’ face.

When Etoiles finally gives in and leans down, he feels Phil coo against his lips.

(Flowers aren’t weapons, he knows this. They don't have to be. They shouldn’t be, not just for their shitty attack stats, but also because… it’s nice. A few flowers bloom in his hair on occasion, which Pomme loves for decorations -- and Antoine loves to pluck straight from his scalp -- and while he thinks the blooming is an annoyance, it’s only flowers. The flowers that his daughter loves.

Tallulah said roses are strong, and Phil believes they are, for whatever reason, even when he’s like this. Logically, it makes no sense, but…

Well. Etoiles doesn’t give a shit about the semantics now. Flowers can be powerful if Phil thinks so.)

---

Richarlyson’s feet have never moved faster than the way they do now -- and Tallulah has half the mind to join her in the sprint across Tío Etoiles’ cave. Chayanne is not going to like this when I tell him, she thinks, already imagining the horror in Chayanne’s shell.

[ off she goes ] Pomme writes with a sign that stops Tallulah in her tracks, rumbling in her shell with amusement.

Tallulah faceplants into the floor. [ on her way to ruin a sweet moment :’) ]

Yesyes, Pomme chirps in agreement and a comforting pat on Tallulah’s back, silly egg, silly sibling. With a huff, Tallulah stands back up in time for another wine-red sign to appear, and for Richar to make contact with her papa and tío. He’s accosting them as she expected, surrounding them in a myriad of signs, aggressive chirps, and plenty of punches for the both of them. [ oh well. im sure papa is feeling better now :D ]

Hopefully, he is, Tallulah thinks, but she has a feeling Tío Etoiles is. Beside him, Papa Phil looks content, fondly watching the two bicker with his face free from his silly bird mask. Etoiles takes Richar’s swatting in stride, backing away from him and complimenting his strikes just like when Tallulah was sparring with him.

Unlike that moment, though, Etoiles is grinning, not pensive, and he moves a little more sure on his feet, sidestepping and dodging each Richar blow. He looks… happier.

Tallulah eyes her papa again and rumbles, happy papa, happy, silly. He did that to Tío, she’s sure of it. If a spar wasn’t going to do it, and if Tallulah couldn’t, then she’s glad her papa did. Chayannechen can get defensive over Papa and Pa Missa’s relationship another day. She’s certain this was different, in any case.

Pomme mimics her noises warmly, rustling through her backpack to dig out a diary. Richar suddenly whirls to Phil and starts smacking him with enraged squeaks, causing him to yelp, dodging another attack. Whatever they’re talking about seems like fofoca, but Tío Etoiles doesn’t seem embarrassed, neither does Papa. She can see the rose in her tío’s hair too. Good.

Bomp, Pomme’s placing another sign, floating in the air where she sits. [ whats uncle phil doing here btw??? was he looking for you ? ]

Was he? If she’s being honest, Tallulah isn’t really sure. She left Papa Phil in Rosa’s Sanctuary, where he was half-draped across Missa’s sleeping body, and she wasn’t expecting him to be awake at this time. Even when he’s like this, Endspeaking more than normal, she figured it was too early for him to start gathering cookies. Did he know she was with her tíos and came to find her? Was he here for Etoiles? Was it pure luck, or curiosity, to come here?

She doesn’t know. He was fine, he had reassured her when he first appeared in the cave. Chay and Missa were safe still, but he didn’t elaborate any further than that. She has some guesses as to why her papa is here, like this, and even when he’s extra affectionate and gentle with her in this state, he still doesn’t like sharing his feelings. It wasn’t due to a lack of trust -- it’s just her papa being her papa.

It isn’t a bad thing. He wanted to see somebody here, to check in on them, and Tallulah finds it hard to get upset at her papa when he’s cooing and fawning over her and her siblings. Some nights can be too quiet sometimes.

Eventually, she settles with a simple, [ i think he wanted some company ].

Awake company, that is, at this hour of night. Once she's ready to go, she's sure he'll tag along with her back to the sanctuary for some proper sleep. Whether he woke up due to her absence or from a nightmare, she knows he's tired.

Tallulah thinks she’s earned sleep after this. Tío Etoiles especially deserves it.

[fallenclan]

// cw • this fic contains discussions of grief, passive suicidal ideation (im probably exaggerating it a lot in the tags tbh but if its a sensitive topic b careful), dissociation, and nongraphic death. please take care of yourselves!! :3

me if cranking out fics of just me smashing characters with the angst hammer 18 consecutive times was a crime 🚔💁‍♀️

--

Brambletuft doesn't categorize herself as someone with an anger problem.

There are cats like Wormshade and Flyspots, straight up with their anger. If they are angry, they make it known.

There is Maplestar, his quiet fury. You'll never see him angry, it doesn't show as more than irritation, but the way his claws scratch on the floor beneath him, and his eyes hold the smallest hint of disdain. When you know what to look for, you can read him like Silverbelly does the stars.

Poppyfeather is similar; you'll never know how she feels unless she wants you to.

Yewberry is entirely silent in his anger. He doesn't scream, or shout, he endures. He puts his anger to good work.

Otterslip, so unlike his son, was incredibly angry. Grief driven and desparate and begging for vengeance that was never owed. So angry, paws driven by cold hard rage, he killed Stormsight with no remorse for his actions.

Brambletuft is not angry. She appreciates the world, she splashes in puddles and takes care of preserved poppies and lilacs and feathers. Brambletuft is a simple cat, who enjoys simple things.

But she can't say she's happy all the time. That would be a lie. But it's not anger. Anger has never suited her. Honestly, neither has sadness or anything else. She prefers to just ignore her feelings.

She floats.

--

It happens once, when she's an apprentice and she fails an assessment. Her legs shook themselves still and she floated away from the world.

She very easily decides floating is far superior to feeling, so she does that. She floats during battles, and patrols, and she floats through her ceremony. She only knows her name because her sister repeated it.

-

Henryclaw never hid who her mother was, not from her and Poppyfeather, at least. A sweet kittypet named Bun. A gorgeous calico, who lived in one of the small houses near the valley. She gave Bramblekit and Poppykit away to keep them safe, and that was that.

It never did stop the distant longing she sometimes felt, when Bluefern would curl into Jaggedstripe, or when she saw a new queen patiently sitting in the nursery.

That affection was something she wanted for herself. It makes her feel upset, and sad. It makes her float.

--

When she comes back from patrol, camp is in chaos.

It's a cold day for the season. A cool breeze drifts in and out of her ears, making her shiver.

When she'd left that twilight, cats were retiring to their nests. The ones who weren't sleeping or getting ready to were either on watch, about to leave for patrol, or finishing their prey.

There is a small circle of cats in the clearing, gathered around something.

"What's going on?" She asks, shooting a sideway glance to Pinefrost, who shrugs in response.

Then Silverbelly pushes past her, rosemary in her jaws. The clearing smells vaguely of mint and lavender. She recognizes the smells because once Hopepaw dragged her along to collect herbs. The cats part around her, and she hears a commanding yowl over all the noise.

Hailcrash, standing at the center of the fray. "Stars, give Silverbelly and Hopethistle some space to work. Shoo, all of you. You can come back out when we start the vigil."

The vigil?

Brambletuft stands and watches as the cats part. Some stare at her, pitiful expressions painting their faces.

It feels blue. Not the pretty blue, where the sky is bright and the lakes are still. It's the tormentful blue, of dreary blue clouds and pouring rain.

Poppyfeather, she's dully aware, is sobbing.

Why is she sobbing?

And Silverbelly and Hopethistle and Poppyfeather are the only ones standing there now.

She sees the dulled, gray speckled fur. Blood inbetween strands of fur, limbs stiff.

--

She sits the vigil. But she's not there.

She is hardly aware of Poppyfeather's wails, or her own tears trickling down her face. She can't bring herself to listen to Jaggedstripe's stories, or Applebranch's fond reminiscence.

Henryclaw is gone. Maplestar is exhausted, Hailcrash is grasping at the unwoven seams of the clan that are slowly unraveling, and Silverbelly is still fighting with her grief.

It sounds stupid, but her father is no longer there with her. Why do anything?

--

"Brambletuft," comes a gentle voice.

The moon shines bright. Normally, she would take a moment to appreciate it, but today she tucks her nose into her tail and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Brambletuft, the gathering is tomorrow. Would you like to go?"

That's Hailcrash, with her careful eyes and her twitching ear.

She shakes her head. No.

Archclan was at the gathering. She didn't want to see a single hair on any of their foxhearted pelts.

Henryclaw had a single wound to the back of his neck. Clearly meant to kill. His body was found near the Archclan border, and it reeked of them even with the rosemary clogging her senses.

"That's fine," Hailcrash says. "Rest, alright? Silverbelly will be here to check on everyone later," on Brambletuft, "and Yewberry is staying behind too. Poppyfeather's here as well. Take it easy."

Brambletuft has been taking it easy for a half moon. She's been floating since she saw the body in the clearing, with long dried blood soaking the rocks and a sharp pang of grief in her heart.

--

"Brambletuft, Hopethistle wants to see you."

"Tell her 'm busy," she snaps.

"Like, right now," the voice continues. She vaguely categorizes it as male.

Yewberry.

"Tell her I'm watching Waspkit."

"Wrong. Teddyfluff's watching Waspkit," Yewberry says. "Come on. You know how Hopethistle is. Trying to avoid her is like trying to dig through a stone wall. I'll go with you, if you want."

Stop inconveniencing him, her mind says. Yewberry has more important things to do than babysit you because you're sad.

"That's fine, I can go myself," Brambletuft mumbles, pushing herself to her paws. Her throat feels parched, her eyes unfocused and fixed on the ground.

One paw, two paw. One paw, two paw.

She thinks if she loses that rhythm, nothing will make sense. The world already feels jumbled and confusing.

One step, two step.

Yewberry is trailing behind her anyways, half hovering and half trying to give her space.

And then she's at the medicine den. There's a kit (Owlkit, she thinks) laying in a nest way too big for her.

"Brambletuft," Hopethistle greets. "How are you?"

Brambletuft dully blinks at her, silently urging her to make an inference. Based on her matted fur, dull eyes, and sluggish movement, she was obviously not doing well.

"Okay, that's fine. I just wanted to ask you some questions?"

Hopethistle says it like a question. Like she has a choice, because everyone in the room (even Owlkit with her two-moon brain) knows that Brambletuft has no choice in this. Not really.

"Okay."

"Do you want him to stay, or?" Hopethistle glances at Yewberry, who shifts his paws.

"I can go if you-"

"I don't care," Brambletuft says. It comes off a lot meaner than she wants it to, so she reclarifies. "If you have stuff to do, don't waste time with whatever this is."

Yewberry decidedly stays still.

"Okay," Hopethistle says. She looks at a tiny stack of herbs, like she's mentally recounting something. "So. A few questions."

"Yeah, okay."

"Have you been feeling sad, tired, or hopeless recently?"

Brambletuft glares at her with all the will she can muster. "My dad just died and you're asking if I'm sad."

Hopethistle blinks. "So yes?"

Brambletuft, with as much irritance as she can muster, stiffly nods.

"Okay," she continues. "Any feelings of despair? Like life isn't worth living?"

Her tail twitches. "Why am I doing this?"

"I'm sorry," Hopethistle says. And she does look upset, but not upset enough to stop. "I just need a yes or a no. Or a nod. Anything that gives me a solid answer."

Brambletuft blinks. "Repeat the question?"

"Do you ever have thoughts of despair or feelings that life isn't worth living?"

Brambletuft thinks of the weeks she's spent floating in her nest, practically dead to the world. Everything passed by in a blur of bleary sleep, nightmares, and pain.

She looks at her paws, and slowly nods.

Hopethistle's eyes briefly glisten. "Do you intend to act on those feelings?"

Brambletuft couldn't. Poppyfeather needed her, even if they hadn't spoken for a week. She mutely shakes her head.

"Right," Hopethistle says, her voice catching in her throat. "You have off from patrols for another half moon, until I or Silverbelly can talk to you again. Try not to isolate too much, okay?"

Hopethistle, in her own stupid stubborn way, cares. It's why she makes a good medicine cat. It's how she gets even the most prideful, stubborn cats to accept her help. She has an element of ferocity and sharpness to her that she most definitely inherited from her mother.

Brambletuft goes back to her nest, leaving Yewberry to stare at her with some expression she can't quite place.

--

She wakes up again, for the third time, restless and upset, and instead of trying a different sleeping position, she leaps over sleeping bodies and slips into the tiny hole behind the elder's den.

It's snowing.

Her paws take her across the territory, until she stops at the valley border.

--

She doesn't want to admit it, but since Henryclaw died, there has been something eating her from the inside.

Not some scary bug, or a bad piece of freshkill. It's something herbs can't fix, and it's something she can't walk off.

It's choking. It wraps around her lungs and it squeezes and it doesn't let go. It makes her throat dry, and her eyes burn, and her fur stand on her spine.

--

Brambletuft, entirely alone in the night, with a sloppily caught mouse in her paws, stares at them. Blankly.

She is stiffly aware of the cold biting into her, even through her thick fur.

She stands. Not proud or tall as she used to, but grief-stricken and tucked into herself.

"Brambletuft?"

Brambletuft whips around, hackles raised, claws unsheathed. Yewberry walks out, and promptly sits next to her, pointedly avoiding her (dull) claws and her puffed up fur. She probably looks crazy.

"How did you find me?"

"I wanted to follow you after Hopethistle's interrogation," Yewberry begins, "but it looked like you wanted to be left alone. So I waited, then I went on patrol and came back and you were sleeping. And then I kept waking up, and your tail brushed me when you were leaving, so I just decided to follow you. Sorry if that wasn't-"

"No, that's fine," she interrupts. Her heart pounds.

"You sure? If it wasn't, you can just say that."

"No, really. I don't mind. I don't want you to-"

Her lungs clench. Her mouth snaps shut.

--

Exactly one half moon after her first interrogation, Brambletuft is dragged to Hopethistle and she starts rapid firing questions again.

Brambletuft gives some half-hearted answers. Simple "okay", "no", "yes", the whole thing.

"Does it ever feel like you're living life on autopilot?"

"What?"

"Sorry, bad example. Caught it from a friend. I mean like, does it feel like you're just a cloud, drifting around without really feeling anything?"

"I guess," she answers.

--

Yewberry pauses. "Want me to what?"

"I don't.. ah..." Brambletuft fumbles with her words. Please, brain, work. Talk to the pretty boy! "I don't want you to leave."

"Okay. Is there anything you want me to do?"

--

"What?"

"I think you've been having severe dissociative episodes for most of your life. When did you say the first one was?"

"After my first assessment. I think I was, ah, seven moons?"

"Brambletuft, this has been going on for 25 moons and nobody ever figured it out until right now?"

--

"Just, stay here." Brambletuft pauses. "With me."

I don't want to be alone, passes through her mind. He would understand, talk to him.

The words die in her throat.

--

Dissociation is a mental process where someone feels a disconnect from their thoughts, feelings, memories or sense of identity.

Wildfang's word, then Sunwish's words. Silverbelly repeats them. Hopethistle repeats them again, with the same long winded definition.

Hopethistle listed symptoms like they were second nature. Knowing her, they probably were.

Some of the symptoms of dissociation include forgetting about certain time periods, events and personal information, feel disconnected from your own body or the world around you.

Brambletuft can't remember anything that happened over a year ago. She doesn't remember a single detail from whatever Poppyfeather was telling her about this morning (Wow she is a horrible sister-)

--

"I feel like I'm floating," Brambletuft murmurs. It's so late that the moon dips back over the horizon, the sun greedily soaking up every inch of spare dark skies and turning it to bright orange and pink.

"Oh?"

"Like I'm just floating through life, and I've been stuck in the trees so I don't fly off into the sky, but now I'm on the moors instead of in the forest so I'm just flying away."

"Oh," Yewberry softly says. "I don't want you to fly away. Can I be the rock holding you to the ground?"

Brambletuft laughs, the first time she's done so in at least a moon, and rests her head on his shoulder. He immediately tenses when she does so, but he doesn't try to move her (which he could easily do, if she was being honest).

They stay that way, then fall asleep when the sun shines right onto the creek.

--

"Screaming," Owlpaw says. Brambletuft whips her head around to stare at the apprentice.

Hopethistle called it therapy. Brambletuft called it, with passion, hell. Owlpaw calls it training.

"What?" Owlpaw tilts her head. "It's therapeutic. I always see you. You're so quiet when you're upset. Try being loud about your feelings, and maybe you'll recognize them."

And so, Owlpaw orders her to go to the Cliff, and scream out all her feelings. And yes, she said it in those exact words.

Stars, she's taking orders from a 8 moon old ball of rage. What's next, Salmonkit starts using her for climbing practice?

--

Brambletuft stands on the cliff. Wind whips at her face, she ignores it.

Yewberry is there, with his quiet support. He even offered to scream with her, if it made her feel better.

She humbly declines his offer.

--

Bramblepaw is quiet.

Poppypaw is the loud one. She makes enough noise for both of them. Bramblepaw is silent enough to stay behind her. Poppypaw talks to all the other apprentices, telling them elaborate stories of how Goldenstar saved her from eagles.

(It was so badass, she'd exclaimed. Bramblepaw had to admit. Yes, it was badass.)

--

The choking feeling doesn't go away. It never does.

But, she starts fighting it. She won't let it win. She gets up and she gets on patrol and she tackles a pheasant with Yewberry and brings it back, a Feather kept in her nest as a prize.

She goes to mark the border, and take Salmonpaw on badger rides even if she's a bit too big for them.

She climbs to the top of trees with Yewberry and they talk, and laugh (once they touched noses. Scandalous.)

--

She goes to the cliff, and she screams herself hoarse. And again, and again, until her throat burns and her face hurts from her mouth being open for so long.

Yewberry, with his not very silent support, bowls her over as soon as they're off the cliff and under a sparse tree, and she laughs and lets him even though she could definitely knock him on his ass if she wanted to.

--

"I should've been angry sooner," she murmurs.

"I think you deserve to be angry," Yewberry nods. His head finds a familiar place on her shoulder. "No, no wait. You deserve to be angry."

Brambletuft, in all her adrenaline fueled glory, nods, leaping to her paws once again. "I deserve to be angry."

"You deserve to be angry," Yewberry repeats, his eyes bright and happy.

Happy for her.

"I deserve to be angry!" She laughs (cackles. she definitely cackled). She catches her breath, and turns back to Yewberry. "I deserve to be angry. We deserve to be angry."

"Have I ever told you how much I love you when you do this?"

And, all her adrenaline dissapears, in favor of instead making her fur puff out with embarrassment and having her tuck into herself instead, with Yewberry's laughter in the background.

And the thorns constantly wrapped around her lungs seem to loosen.

--

-🍭 (the horrors (my organs) persist but so do i. )

i jhsut spent an hour and a half writing this HGELP

AUGH MY FUCKING HEART NOOO I LOVE THEM SMM.... crumbled on the floor holding my chest. i love them SO MUCH its unreal this just made me love them even more,, lollipop your writing is so fucking incredible i love it so so much

[bisexualmoses]

Suicidal ideation//

Im having this weird cognitive dissonance thing where I’m trying to move forward with my life and be positive and not be depressed and good things are happening in my life right now and at the same time I’m so depressed and have so many reasons to be depressed . So I’ll be like oh I like my hair today. And then the next consecutive thought will be I should kill myself

[alsteneldoeight]

doodles, plus some conceptualisation

(minor blood warning under the cut!)

[bisluthq]

Yeah a few days but not two weeks lol

that’s why I’m saying I doubt she’d have met the clinical criteria for MDD. For the clinical criteria, you have to exhibit symptoms consecutively for 2 weeks or more and you have to have 5 of the following: depressed mood observable by others, loss of interest/pleasure in activities previously found pleasurable, significant weight gain or weight loss despite no conscious dietary changes, sleep disturbances (sleeping more or less than usual), changes in activity levels that are observable by others (so not you feeling sluggish but like other people noticing you’re not the same as before and not you feeling restless but like actually people noticing either of these things), decreased concentration, fatigue, feelings of worthlessness, overwhelming feelings of guilt, and obviously suicidal ideation.

Now, every single person exhibits some of these things at certain times. That’s called being sad.

Taylor may well have experienced many of these - decreased concentration may have been evidenced by her messing up the lyrics on stage for example, given the contents of the album she obviously was very sad and had some suicidal thoughts, etc. But it doesn’t seem to have been consistent over two weeks lol AND THE OTHER KEY CRITERIA is that the symptoms MUST impede your social/professional/personal functioning (which they clearly did not) and cause significant distress (which I’m sure they did but she went and wrote about them rather than lying in bed for two weeks). Finally, if a person has a legitimate “reason” for being sad - trauma or grief or even a breakup - doctors are generally reluctant to go straight to MDD. They might prescribe meds but they’re also likely to go a predominantly therapy based route for it because like… feeling sad when something bad happens is normal. We all get sad. The above are symptoms of being sad. It’s MDD when your sadness prevents you from like being a functional person.

source: received inpatient treatment for MDD and do have a BA in Psych.

[rancidexpression]

Brain Dump of my Consecutive Thoughts Today 8/03/2023

TW: SH, ED

Today in therapy my therapist told me that

“Being stuck in a crisis is familiar" to me.

I could feel myself turn red as soon as she said it, because I already knew what she was going to say. Most people read me well, and most of the time for worrying reasons. I hate that about myself but at the same time can feel joy simmer in the

small 

Soft

Patch of skin below my belly button.   That's hot…

She said every week for the past few months a new cow has entered the barnyard.  

My anorexia told me in that instant that the cow she was referring me to was myself. The air fell out of me and my ears turned to lava. Logic came in to save the day.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You come in with a new crisis every week”.

That is familiar. I kind of feel like a running joke with the events in my life sometimes. What a tragedy, poor XXXX. I secretly liked that feeling.

I can never just do something to do something. Especially with drugs. First I was drinking to get fucked up. I hate drinking now. But since I started smoking and consuming weed again my tolerance is so high that I keep chasing bigger highs and just always want the next best thing. Or I think that is what should happen. Why do I want to always feel so fucked up?

Last night I told --- that ever since I was a small child I have had this fascination with inflicting pain upon myself. I could name out all my examples.

I picked my skin so much it would scab over and over. I would pick the scab each time, and make it bleed more and more, till it scarred over. I would stick a small clump of toilet paper to the wounds to stop the bleeding. 

I have been biting my nails down to skin, tearing out my nails, going deeper and deeper with the hangnail I could rip off, pulling my entire pinky nail out with a nail clipper probably hundreds of times now. If I had no more nails to bite down, I would bite the skin off around my nails. I was fascinated by infections. If any of my wounds get infected, I would pick and prod at it to make it last longer. It would hurt more that way.

I pulled out my hair in chunks for quite some time. It started around the middle of middle school. I think because I have had so many scabs on my head that I would have picked them off, I went to the next level of pulling hair chunks out to make a wound.

I would rip my teeth out far too early. I pushed and pulled and yanked and forced so many of my baby teeth out. I would also pull out my friend's teeth. It was a lot rewarding if it was my own tooth (I would get the money, and also control of self). Is this pain self-inflicted because early on I enjoyed it or because I wanted to be the one to control my own hurt?

I pulled my eyelashes out quite a bit

If I ever had a blemish I would tear it apart and put every chemical and serum and toner and lotion on it that I could to get rid of it. I would make it 1000 times worse each time I poked into one. I loved it.

Cutting with nail clippers again, the corns off on my pinky toes, and the skin around my toes and fingers to peel off very fast and yelp OUCH!

I couldn't not mention cutting. I still think about it often but not in an ideation type of way. I would never do it again, it is too risky. Too many people would see it, especially this time of year. Or ever. I found a bunch of my razors the other day. It is there as a reminder- I want it to be my little secret.

I could go deeper and say this is a common pattern in much of my life- horrible and toxic relationships. Working myself to sickness. I hate the thought of not being everything for everyone.

My therapist asked why I hold so much shame.

“Where do you feel that in you?”

I could feel disgust, bubbling, and black, lurch inside me. I felt sick. Shame rose up to my throat like bile. My shame lived to be the salivation of my mouth before I vomited my embarrassment. Most of the time I would just swallow it and hoped for the acidity to go away. 

I hate what I am doing to XXXX and XXXXXX right now. I feel like the worst person in the world. I have muddled some things up quite badly. It is so hard to just give the reasoning being that it feels right with XXX. It is finally something good in that area of life and I feel like people should be happy that I am truly happy. Dichotomy of man is saying why should people be happy that I am truly happy while I am also actively hurting people who I deeply care about. I can't stop. There is no rational, truly, and I feel evil for that. I hate that I cannot cry. I hate that I cannot care. 

My Co-Star today says “Today, your emotions feel like a big roller coaster. You second-guess your decisions, repress your own valid needs, and dwell on the worst-case scenario”

Boooooooooooo! 

I am fucking a lot up right now and I dont know what to do. Today my therapist said I run away from things as soon as they get hard or complicated. Or because I get bored. 

I tend to be so worried about how other people perceive me that I second guess every decision I ever make- if I even allow myself to make one. I thrive off of external validation. 

What should I do?

What would be the thing people like me most for saying or doing?

I feel like I am a spectacle. I need to be able to control how people see me in order to do anything ever. I will make myself digestible for you, and eat me over and over. I could become your favorite meal. Consume me!

It seems like the only thing I can control at this point. 

I feel like I could tell XXX anything and I would never be judged. Yesterday they said they loved how shameless I was.

I know it is on a surface level, but it felt nice to hear. I told my therapist this.

“Does XXX know you purge”

Bitch.

My legs squirm into a new position and I can feel my skin get hot when she says this. 

“No”

“But why not, I mean, you like being seen as shameless? Why not let that out?”

“I feel nothing but shame towards myself for most everything I do.”

I am embarrassed by myself. I hate being alone. I feel like an impostor when anyone tells me anything even remotely positive about myself. You know, the normal thoughts of anyone in their 20's in therapy- I can imagine. This feels like something everyone talks about ever, being young and dumb. I hate how careless I am with anything I do.

Lost my card for 3 hours and decided I needed to get a new one that day.

I have ripped two of my house keys in half for being impatient and forcing them to come out of the locks.

I will rip cords out of sockets if they're even slightly stuck

I hurt many people I do not want to hurt. It seems to be common in my relationship trail. I never see things through with people. I get bored. I leave fast and I leave early. Or move onto the next best thing. Does that make me an addict of the chase or a failed hopeless romantic?

[echoes1331]

I do not feel well.

I just finished the first intermission, at right around 15k words, and I should be elated, but I’m not.

Part of it’s because I now have to go back to Vol 2 and fix that steaming pile of shit, and figure out if I can fix it without just rewriting it (or thusly, wholly cannibalizing chunks of it, to make it make sense…) but also, my depression and loneliness are just crushing me. I haven’t self-harmed in twenty years, but the ideations are becoming more and more tangible. Like, it’s not just that I can see myself doing it, but I can *feel* it too. I won’t, of course. It’s been too long since a lapse, and I ain’t going to break that streak, and I ain’t going to do worse than just take a hunk out of my arm, either. Because I am going to continue breaking my record of consecutive days alive. I have survived so much, so many of my own problems, and I am not going to let this silly shit win. I have horrible people to outlive.

That’s right, I survive out of spite and determination.

I should be so fucking happy right now, though. The last chapter of the intermission changed a lot of things that I had been counting on, like what the fuck is happening to Aaron. Wait… maybe it isn’t the end. Maybe there’s a little more to write, another couple of chapters… or not. Maybe his journey through the It’iokh Realm should be featured in Vol 2 instead of wrapped up nicely in the intermission. A CLIFF-HANGER! Yeah, it’s a shitty tactic, but this series is full of season-ending cliff-hangers. I guess I am writing it a bit like a tv show, maybe, but in novel form.

And then there’s the question of how the fuck it’s going to come out, in a single book, two books, or three.

If it’s going to be a single book, it’s going to be right around 200k words, 666 pages. That’s a motherfucker, and if I try to get traditionally published, 100k is kind of the cut-off as I understand it for first time authors. And at present, it’s already sitting at 70k, which is going to fatten up in the editing process, because the first draft for me, is basically an outline. It will need fleshed out, and let’s say that’s another 15k between the two parts (Vol 1 & Intermission), that’s 85k… and the point I’m getting at is! IS! That three books, individual books, a trilogy, will be the way to do it.

Okay, structure thing:

BOOK ONE

Prologue

Vol 1

BOOK TWO

[Intermission]

Vol 2

BOOK THREE

[Intermission]

Vol 3

Right? And maybe an epilogue, we’ll see. However, maybe Vol 2 should end with another intermission, that way it’s all symmetrical and shit, because again, it is thought to be one book, so a Prologue and an Epilogue capping it just fits. And I already know how the Epilogue is going to go [spoilers].

Why do I have to make everything I write so fucking convoluted? Am I stupid? Bloody hell…

Okay, distraction works to stave off the depression, and fucking with the minutiae of this story in my head is a good distraction, so peace out kiddos…

[nightlongnight]

Messages about "what matters is that we are alive, the past is already done" and all that thing don't work for me, because in my case, my life got consecutively worse and worse... painful illnessess that are incurable, stress, addictions, suicidal ideations, much more abuse and harrasment. And now all of that is irreversible. It's fucking irreversible. Even when I have happy days or moments I fucking have to live with an incurable illness. My life wasn't better before... but I would give anything go back, because the future and the present I have now is a living hell everyday... there's nothing left for me... and also, at least back then I had a will to live. At least back then I was happy, innocent, pure, clean... and people decided to take that from me.

Yeah, I'm happy for the ones that are able to build a new healthy future. I can't. There's a lot of people who deal with irreversible effects caused by trauma and abuse. You are not being inteligent by implying "that we don't want to let go". You are being invalidating.

[chorusfm]

Spiritbox – Tsunami Sea

The sophomore album from Spiritbox, Tsunami Sea, is an absolute monster. The new record comes hot off the heels of 2023’s EP The Fear of Fear, and the much-buzzed about debut LP Eternal Blue, and two consecutive Grammy nominations for Best Metal Performance. The new album was co-produced by Spiritbox’s Mike Stringer and Dan Braunstein, and early on you get the vibe that the band is out for world domination, and they just may achieve their goal. From the opening visceral one-two punch of “Fata Morgana” and “Black Rainbow”, Spiritbox reinvent what it means to make a metal album today, and have filled the void with a record that demands to wash over anyone who takes the time to listen to it. Lead vocalist Courtney LaPlante can confidently go from the most punishing of screams to a softer croon with ease as she showcases why she is one of the most talented front women in today’s music scene. Spiritbox have improved vastly upon their sound that combines melodic metal, metalcore, electronica, and EDM into a massive package that will do nothing to dissuade others from joining the bandwagon. Melodic moments found on tracks like “Perfect Soul” cement Spiritbox in the upper echelon of artists willing to take creative risks to further their goals. LaPlante carefully lays out her headspace as she sings, “Sharpen your knife upon the stone / Cover me up before you go / So delicate the orchids grow / Buried under melted snow / So I call out your name and let it die slow / I pray that the rain will wash me up / So obvious I can’t let go / Carried in the ebb and flow,” before going into another crowd-pleasing chorus. It’s a solid reminder that this band is capable of doing all parts of the metal genre in an ultra-unique way. ”Keep Sweet” sets the musical landscape with some great guitar playing by Mike Stringer, before a cool programmed beat starts in the verse that fades away into a punishing chorus accentuated by the heavy-hitting percussion of Zev Rosenberg. Bassist and backing vocalist Josh Gilbert lays out an impressive underlying riff on the song that provides a great canvas for LaPlante to sing over passionately. Lead single, “Soft Spine” is a punishing reminder of what this band is capable of when they’re firing on all creative cylinders. The track was first released last September, and it showcases the improvements in the band’s already dynamic approach to songwriting. The chorus of, “Soft spine / Ascending up to meet my / Eyes wide / I am a witness to your / Regicide / The dissolution of your / Soft spine / You all deserve each other,” is a scathing response to a person not worth your time. LaPlante even adds in the backhanded lyric of “Your god will sort you when you die” to further make her point here. For every relentless song like “Soft Spine”, the LP offers a nice balance like what is found on the gorgeous title track that features some picturesque vocals and lyrics from LaPlante. Look no further than the second verse of, “Hours, I could lay here for hours / The bed of a forest I can petrify / Through broken waves that leave us blind / If I stay here, you’ll wash away like a landslide / You bleed into every color that my mind can conceive / You only love the ideation of me,” that weaves a tangled web of emotions through well-constructed lyrics that will have a lasting impact on the audience. “A Haven With Two Faces” follows the great title track and opens up Side B of the LP by setting the stage for the epic conclusion of the Spiritbox’s most fully realized artistic statement to date. Lyrics from the chorus of “I hope you still have a hideaway for me / Under the mountain, floating on the sea / Swear I saw an island there / Washed away by a temporary stream / I hope it still flows back to me,” match brilliantly with the concept of Tsunami Sea, and it remains a standout moment in the set as a whole. ”No Loss, No Love” gets back to the mostly screamed vocals from LaPlante and the band’s ability to convey the raw emotion from these screams cannot be understated in… https://chorus.fm/reviews/spiritbox-tsunami-sea/