#tw: suicide attempt

[smolvenger]

The Boat in the Water: A Beauty and the Beast Story (An MCU and The Essex Serpent Crossover, Loki x Stella Ransome, Multi-Part), Chapter Three

Summary: Having lost her health and her husband's fidelity and love, Stella has nothing more to lose than her life. Then...she is swept away to another realm, to an enchanted castle. A castle whose master is a god...a god with a striking resemblance to her husband.

Warnings: Angst that turns into hurt/comfort. Discussions of cheating (I portray the Will/Cora affair as bad and Stella having some negative feelings about it, so if you don't agree or have a problem with that interpretation, this your warning right now that this probably isn't the fic for you), some blood and portrayals of illness, references to both canons, some silly, goofy lil moments.

Word Count: >7K. (have drinkies and snacks)

One// Two//Three//Four coming soon!

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @anukulee @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr @jijilaufeyson

She kept crying so much, she did not hear his knock.

‘That’s what I get,’ Loki thought. He took a step away, lowering his hand, curling it into a fist by his side. ‘Mother was always the expert at these- no, I should remember, she’s not my mother at all! Damn her! Damn Will, Damn Stella, and damn me most!’

He took a moment and paced about. His cape flowed behind him like opened wings that would go nowhere. His mind kept racing. He was called Silvertongue, but when it came to consolation, why could he think of nothing to say?

She was still sobbing. It paused for a moment. She was murmuring. He pressed his ear to the door.

“God, I confess, I have just sinned against you in thought, word, and deed. By what I have done and what I have left undone. I am truly sorry and I humbly repent. For the sake of your son, Jesus Christ…”

He remembered that prayer. He overheard when he disguised himself as an ordinary village person, that was the prayer done every Sunday in that church to confess sins. Did she think she should repent for….for feeling sad about her husband’s infidelity? What kind of world made her to be what she is?

Asgard never taught its children to feel remorse over such things. He recalled Lady Sif. If Sif’s husband betrayed her for another, she would get out her sword and decapitate him without a word, without hesitation, and definitely without any regret.

But, Stella wasn’t Sif. And she was suffering. Norns, he had to…had to…think of something! Perhaps a charming little trick! Conjure little fireworks or more flowers for her! Yes, if all else failed, he could try that! Wasn’t that what mortal ladies like? He didn’t have much experience with them.

Before his courage could sink down, he went to the door and knocked louder.

“Can I come in?” he asked, projecting his voice.

“You…you may…” was her quiet reply.

When he opened the door, he saw her kneeling. Clutching the wedding gown from the chest in her arms like a child clutching a blanket Her blonde hair was a little rumpled, a few strands loose from her braid. The paths of tears were obvious down her cheeks, her face was a little red and puffy from crying.

He remained standing at the threshold.

“I…I don’t know how to say this, but…but…but I am sorry…I shouldn’t have said those things aloud. I shouldn’t have judged you. Or him.”

She nodded her head.

“You only like to be proven right-that was why…” she mused.

She was right. For being such a pitiful, pretty little pet unaware of her own torment and with no thoughts other than her husband and family...she was right. Perhaps her head wasn’t as empty as he first thought.

“Little Star, I still shouldn’t have said a word, I…I didn’t consider how much it would hurt-”

“I forgive you, Loki,” she interrupted, looking into his eyes.

I forgive you. Three words he had not often heard in sequence in his life. Much less directed at him.

Gently, he knelt down to meet her.

“This was what you wore when you married him,” he began.

She nodded sniffling.

“It’s…it’s rather pretty,” he admitted.

“Yes. I remember how. My mother gave her last warning about the marriage bed that morning, it was summer and stuck to my skin when I went outside to go to the church, my heart was racing and then he….he told me when I went to the altar that I was beautiful. And that night…the first night we…we performed the act…when it was done… he told me it was the happiest day of his life” she began.

She looked down at the heap of the wedding dress and veil. Then back at him, though it sat in a white heap on her lap. Her fists tightened as she clutched it over her, more like a soft shield than a blanket.

“You speak too ill of him. The first time he met Cora, do you know what he was doing? A farmer had his poor sheep stuck in a pit of mud. Will ran over and helped him. He didn’t stay in his study reading all day, clean and snug- no! He went out and helped pull each animal from the pit, ruining his clothes, and dragging heavy, thrashing sheep from the pit. He and the farmer got them to safety onto the higher field. He was drenched in mud when he came home, but the animals were safe…how could a bad man do that?”

Loki’s eyebrows shot up, and then back down.

“You should have seen how James sits on his lap, how John goes to his office with questions about hell, how he handles Jo and her little rebellions- you should have seen it all! I took Jo to be hypnotized once because I was curious. He fled in, insisted it stopped, and woke her up. The fear in his eyes…I feel so horrible about it now. Why? Because of how much he loved them!”

“Does he love you?” Loki asked.

“Yes, he does!” she repeated.

“But her loves her too…” he stated.

She froze, her face pale again.

“Yes…he does…”

She shook her head.

“He shouldn’t be alone. And the children should have a mother in their lives. You should see how happy he is with her. Loki, I can’t hate her! I like her. She writes me letters, she says how happy she is that she has me as her friend.”

Well, With friends like these, as the old mortal saying goes, Loki thought dryly, but he kept his mouth shut before he made the situation worse. Her eyes went down to the white wedding gown.

“I asked him to dance with her. I asked him to sit with her, see her, visit her, and write to her. So he could have someone…” she said. “It is the duty of a Christian to tear off your shirt for someone else. Of a wife to nurture and support her husband. I’ve done my duty…”

Her face then scrunched and went red and a hand went up over her face.

“And for once, it has made me unhappy!”

She began to cry. Loki did not conjure her flowers as he planned. He slowly reached his hand forward and placed it over hers. It’s what his mother, for Frigga in his heart, was still his mother, did. She barely flinched, but let him. He waited as her sobs heaved out.

“I…I did everything for him. The vicarage was always spotless. There were always visitors. I can’t recall one wrong step, or one failing I had. Men flirted with me after I was wed, and I had to dismiss them. I bore five children from him-”

“Five?” Loki repeated

“They weren’t always easy pregnancies. And the childbirths were painful, long, terrifying. And Two of them…we…” her tears broke down. “...Julianna died in my arms, And he was there for it all. They’re buried next to the church, and I think of them every day. Does he think of them too, I wonder? No…I know where and with whom his thoughts lay now… I made sure all was well in church. That his ministry was supported. I counseled and helped him through it all. I did everything for him…I even let him take a misteress…”

She paused. Her words failed at that moment. Then she spoke again, a small, broken smile on her face. The smile of one who accepted their defeat before the sword before them brought their end.

“I love him, Loki, and I’ve loved him for years. I feel like I loved him since the day I met him- who couldn’t? And I think, I wonder -I never said this aloud but, seeing him with her, and he….he’s no longer mine and….and the baser part of me wonders, whispering…when did I fail him? Then I tell myself it was because I was dying at least then…and that…it was all my fault. I pushed him onto her. Encouraged him. Told him to dance with her…”

She found a small lace pattern on the material of the wedding gown. Her fingers, compared to Loki's, seemed like doll hands. Tiny and delicate. One finger traced the pattern.

“Once I was the most important woman in Will’s life. He told me I was second to God and that the children were third. Cora arrived. And that changed. Now…I am the least important woman in all of England…it used to be that never bothered me…but now…the more I think on it, dwell on it no matter how I try not to…”

She shook her head as her hand curled up into a fist.

“I have no one to blame but myself,” she finished.

Loki bit back the urge to say it wasn’t her fault that she got ill. That her husband wanted to chase another skirt to satiate his lust since now his wife wasn’t an option. He swallowed lightly as if swallowing the thought down. She would reprimand him if he did. Claim it wasn’t obsession. It was love. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was right too. Perhaps the truth was that it was both.

“Do not blame yourself. There is no one to blame but him and her. He shouldn’t have done that in the first place, no one was forcing him to. He should have resisted her and stayed with you until the end. That’s what a decent husband and lover would have done,” Loki advised carefully.

There was that sliver of rage inside him. He could have gone to that town and done all sorts of things to Will and Cora. Horrendous, violent things. Right. Now.

But he dared not move, dared not leave Stella alone with her tears and racing thoughts.

The one thing he did conjure was a handkerchief in his free hand. He offered it to her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

She wiped off her face with the handkerchief and then put it down with the dress.

“It is not my place to let people in love be unhappy, it’s not my place to be jealous, to think badly of them, or if I let these thoughts consume me, Loki… I could do something…something horrible, I could hurt someone I care about…and it frightens me,” she admitted.

She grasped the handkerchief with both hands, squeezing it lightly.

“I…I don’t want to be a bad person,” she confessed.

“You aren’t a bad person,” Loki assured her.

She lifted her face, her blue eyes shining up. A little of her light regained.

“Then what am I?” she asked.

He thought for a moment, and then the answer dawned on him.

“Alive.”

She then settled. How pretty her eyes were, soft as snow. He gave her a weak, but present smile.

“Do not fret about being a bad person. You have more goodness in your little finger than I have in my whole body,” Loki assured her.

She tilted her head a bit.

“It always hurts…to be the second favorite…not chosen, not special, not equal to someone, even someone you care for…” he admitted. The painful thoughts and memories coming back up. Thor’s birthright of a crown. His birthright of a grave. “But…you are still good, after all of that. There’s a strength in being so even gods have failed at it. Even me…”

He saw her lips curl up to a small smile at his phrase.

“Thank you,” was her soft reply.

She paused, her eyes widening.

Then her body heaved and she put the handkerchief to her mouth. A series of coughs wracked her body. And when she lowered the handkerchief, to his horror, there was a pool of blood.

Stella stiffened a little blood on her lips, her breaths shallow.

“Loki…Loki please help!” she pleaded. “Please…the healers! I’m…I’m so scared…I’m going to die, I don’t want to die anymore, please!”

He immediately grabbed her and placed one of her arms around her shoulder and another beneath her legs. She felt her small gasp as he did so. How light she felt, how small. How was it that people described her in town when he overheard? Oh yes, that phrase Mrs. Ambrose used- “Oh, Mrs. Ransome! Doesn’t she look lovely every day? Oh, she is no bigger than a fairy and twice as pretty!” She did feel as light as a fairy in his arms. He got her to the bed and put the covers over her.

He lifted his hand and turned it, and her ballgown was transformed into a nightgown.

“I’m going to fetch them- stay here!”

He created a duplicate of himself to stand by the bed. It offered its hand and Stella accepted, squeezing tightly.

“So you won’t be alone! I will be right back. Here-”

He got a potion conjured in his hand. A little vial with violet-colored liquid. He offered it to her.

“This should help with the coughing, lessen it at least until they get here.”

She accepted it and then pressed it to her lips.

With his gifts of transportation and some swift horses, the healers arrived promptly. They gave her more medicine and their magic. Checked everything about her as they moved their hands over her body and repeated spells. Soon her coughs weren’t as common or present. She was more relaxed.

Loki would usually leave at this point, but he stayed. Stayed right in the room, dismissing his copy. Stayed by and watched anxiously, his brow wrinkling every time they finished an incantation.

Soon enough, they made her a little cup of tea to help calm her and ease the pain in her body. She cuddled up in the blankets, her eyes drooping down sleepily.

One healer, a woman with her brown hair in a bun approached him.

“She is stable. She will be fine, though there will be coughs and bouts of weakness. She just needs more time before we can declare her completely healed,” she reported.

Then they left. Her face looked pale and weary.

“Loki…where is the music? I miss it…from the ballroom…” she asked.

“That was from my magic,” he explained.

“Could you have it play for me, please? Or, do you know a…a song…I need to take my mind off of everything…”

Loki thought for a moment.

“I know a song…it’s rather fast, but there’s the slower bit…”

She stilled. Then he sat by the bed and held her hand and sang:

“I stormsvarte fjell Jeg vandrer alene Over isbreer tar jeg meg frem…”

He paused, a cheeky smile towards Stella. He looked right in her eyes, singing the next line right to her.

“I eplehagen står møyen den vene”

He gave her a wink, kissing her hand. Her eyes widened though from the scattered look, she didn’t understand what that line was actually saying, but her eyes did become a little bigger and her lips parted slightly, though no words came out.

“Og synger, ‘Nar kommer du hjem?’”

She did smile at that.

He made sure to slow the song down as much as he could, despite the temptation to speed it up. He finished the last line, and she nodded her head.

“The beginning was beautiful, thank you…I have one more request, please don’t think me selfish.”

“That depends on the request,” Loki teased, arching an eyebrow.

Her voice was soft and sleepy.

“Could I…have…a patch of ground in the garden? And a few seeds of flowers? They’re far easier than vegetables.”

“Why, yes, yes you may.”

She had a small smile and he felt his stomach turn a little at it.

I think I’m ready to go to sleep now. I’m grateful for you today, you were very kind to me. Goodnight, Loki.” she wished.

“Goodnight, Little Star.”

She kept the smile on her as her eyes drifted shut and she relaxed. They remained closed for a minute. Her small exhale and slowly rising and falling chest assured him that she wasn’t lost forever.

Then he left, closing the door quietly.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The Least Important Woman in the World found her patch of earth with a wooden sign on the ground and little stakes with azure ribbon around it the next day. There was a bag of flower seeds, a water cat, and a few tools. Then she got to work.

Stella stood in the muck, with an apron, a little straw hat over her braided hair, and gloves. She pulled up the dirt and shoveled.

A forbidden image came up in her mind. There, in the dirt, she imagined it was images of her husband and Cora. Happy and together. Like her years with him never mattered.

She indulged herself.

She picked up the shovel and slammed it in hard. She exhaled through her nose fast, simultaneous guilt and catharsis simmering inside her. The image of their dance was like a painting on the ground. She kept slamming it in like a blade. Releasing bits of her anger as steadily as a tea kettle whistling out steam when the water was too hot. No one was hurt, she didn’t want to hurt anyone. Yet her anguish demanded release. But she grunted as she dug out the dirt and slammed the shovel into different parts of the ground over and over again.

Loki watched with a slice of toasted bread with butter and a warm drink from inside the palace. He observed out the window, the clearest one so no color would distort what was happening. Clean and safe from his window like a prince observing his subject. Not that she noticed.

Part of him was struck as she was stabbing into the ground. There’s always something a little chilling when the sweetest person one knows turns angry. It’s sacred, terrifying. Even though he was a god who could bend shadows to his will, Loki felt his breathing become slightly more shallow.

When the ground was ready, she realized she was crying. She took one dirt-stained sleeve and wiped off her eyes. Then she wiped off her forehead as well, for she was sweating from the excursion already.

The holes were all prepared. She placed the bag of seeds in the pocket of her apron. She placed them in each hole delicately. Not minding that her skirts, hands, and a little of her face were dirty.

Loki couldn’t help but smirk, it was the dirtiest and thorniest he had seen this English Rose. He wondered what he would do if he was in her position. If his husband betrayed him for another, especially as he turned deadly sick, he would have loved to burn the entire village to the ashes.

She didn’t burn things down. She only gardened.

She patted the dirt over each little hole. Then she took out a watering can and put it over.

Wiping her hands from the effort, She would go about, checking on the various flowers. Watering them. She even got little scissors and snipped off surplus leaves. Wanting to do more than just amble about and admire plants.

She did see which flowers were blue and saw little blue pebbles in the ground in the garden- tiny rocks. She picked them up and placed them in her pocket. Then hurried back and put them in the box on her desk.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The next day, it was Stella was sitting in the room by the window. She was using the desk to write to her family. It was a pleasant room that caught the sunshine and made it appear golden and she could think of no better place to do so. She sat down, absorbed by detailing everything in letters to her children and husband about what was happening, as well as reading their responses that were delivered when the chests returned.

She was so hypnotized by it, that she didn’t notice Loki outside in the garden.

He looked up at her and placed his hands on his hips. He frowned as she smiled at one letter, a blush over her cheeks. She kissed it.

No doubt it was a letter from her philandering husband, Loki fumed silently. His face turned a bit red. Jealousy made a pit in his chest.

He looked at the free space in the outside courtyard- just right at Stella’s field of vision. A blank area of grass with no plants, not even a weed.

Grinning mischievously, he got an idea.

He conjured a mud puddle. Then he conjured a small flock of sheep to go about baaing. Right where she would see.

Her eyes were down on her letters. She had picked up a pen and was writing.

He tried to wave his hands to the sheep. Guiding them to stand in the mud puddle, though they were all at the edges of the puddle where it was shallow. They baaed quietly and looked around. Only their hooves were in the mud, but they were going about happily and very much not stuck. Though he didn’t like getting his fine leathers dirty, he got into the puddle. He smiled and placed his hands on his hips and looked up.

Her eyes were down.

He scrunched his nose and frowned. He let out a deep sigh as he got up and splashed some mud on his clothes and around his face. Then he waved at the sheep to go into the middle where there was more mud.

“Come on, my wooled friends, come on!” he urged.

One sheep finally managed to get into the deep middle.

Smiling again, he walked over to it. He picked it up easily and carried it over a mere one foot away from the mud to chew on un-muddy grass.

Loki checked the window.

She wasn’t looking. And still writing.

He got up another and lifted it up, high over his head. He made sure to be grunty and sweaty, just as she would have liked.

Her eyes were on her work.

Another wandered over.

“I didn’t want to do this, but it looks like I will have to,” Loki muttered internally.

He used magic to transform his clothes so that he was shirtless with fine pants. He knew he was beautiful and wanted her to see it.

And this time, the sheep were getting the memo and going over to the middle. They were not stuck, but going about the deeper mud contentedly. He picked up one, he lifted it high over his head so she could get a good look at his chest.

He checked

Norns, she was still writing!

He set it down on the grass. He then returned to the mud. He got one sheep and began lifting it up and down repeatedly as a weight, making sure to grunt in a way she would find a little titillating until there was a good sweat to make him glisten and her blush.

After a fifth rep, he held the sheep high over his head and put on his most winning smile. He checked the window.

She still didn’t look.

Right as he was on the verge of giving up, he lowered the sheep and it let out a rather loud, supported, unignorable “baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Stella looked up.

Loki made sure everything was in place- the mud on him, his naked top, and he made sure to smile and pose with the sheep high over his head.

She gasped and left her desk in a hurry.

Was she offended? Perhaps so- perhaps the shirtlessness was a little too scandalous for her tastes. What was he doing being so crass? Doing something that Thor himself would do- did he really stoop that low? With a huff, he magicked back his shirt.

In a few minutes, the door to the garden was opening and out came a yellow head.

He felt as if he was set on fire. He hurried and picked up one sheep. He began to lift it up and down as it baaed.

“One hundred and one,” he began to grunt, loud enough for her to hear. “One hundred and two, one hundred and-”

“Come here, little darlings!” Stella cooed at the sheep, cutting him off.

When he turned his head, he realized she had a basket full of corn and peas and a wet towel in her other hand.

“Oh, poor dears! Please don’t eat in the garden! Here you are- you may have a little lunch!” she lured sweetly

The sheep gathered around her. Easily walking out of the mud without difficulty towards her. Taking the vegetables she gathered. She got out the wet towel, wiped off their hooves, and petted them.

“Are they alright?” she asked.

He did notice there was pink in her cheeks, hopefully at him. He made sure to have another of his famous smirks.

“Yes- they…they, uh, are,” he answered.

“The dirt on their wool will need soap and hot water, but that’s normal for them to get dirty when they go about,” she asked.

Loki looked down at the towel.

“I have the magic to clean them myself in a snap of my fingers if it pleases you.”

“Loki, could I clean a bit in the palace?” she asked.

“Clean? Why would you ever want to clean?” he asked.

One sheep walked to be by her side. She kept a hand on its head.

“I lived in a vicarage, given to us by Aldwinter to be our home. But since it was the vicarage, there were visitors so often. I knew if they judged the house, they would judge not only me but their vicar. So I made sure it was always as tidy as I could make it.”

She grinned.

“Sometimes I do not mind it at all! And I am alone in this palace with nothing to do until you decide to show up. May I clean a little? Lighten the magic some?” she asked.

Cleaning. All of his life, that was the job of the servants of the palace, never one of the princes. Loki tilted his head at her, he opened his mouth and for a second he couldn’t form words. But then he nodded his head with a shrug.

“Why…well, you are the one staying here, so I don’t see why not.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Stella did not mind cleaning a big palace or gardening. As her coughs lessened, as she got better, she found she no longer became tired so easily. She did miss her children terribly- she could imagine James running over to the kitchen and making himself sick on chocolates. She could see John with the dog running through the halls and opening every door, and hear his feet hurrying over the floors in echoes. She could see Jo going to the library and devouring book after book until she fell asleep with a novel on her face on the couch. How they would have loved this place!

Perhaps…when she was better…she could find a way to still keep in touch with Loki. She would take them on a trip. A free day of traveling, even though it was not to London but another world.

Nevertheless, she didn’t mind dusting every surface and sweeping off the floors. It was better to act rather than dwell all day.

As she was contentedly scrubbing away the floors of the main entryway one day, there was a knock at the door.

She jumped and released a gasp. If it was Loki, he would just conjure himself inside. Who could it be? A burglar? Surely, an enchanted castle could protect itself, could it not??

But then there was a voice, a booming, masculine, baritone voice that made her jump again.

“BROTHER!”

A burglar would not announce themselves like that.

She cautiously walked closer.

“Brother! Are you living here? Do not play your games, Loki, I wish to speak to you!” he stated from outside.

“On my way!” she replied. She picked up her skirt and walked over to open the door.

She opened the door to find a tall, large, muscular man with long beautiful blonde hair, blue eyes, and a blond beard. Stella was slightly taller than some women, but he hovered above her like a blonde bear. He looked down at her and smiled brightly.

“Oh…hello…” she greeted shyly.

“Why! Are you the Midgard lady they say lives here?” he asked.

“I…I am,” she replied. “I am Mrs. Stella Ransome, I’m pleased to meet you.” She curtsied small.

He shook her hand. She accepted it and found his grip matched her suspicion about his strength.

“Oh, I am Thor! God of Thunder and Prince of Asgard!”

Stella’s hand flew up to lightly touch her throat. Thor! Thor himself here! She was a devout Christian all of her life and now she had met not only one but two pagan gods! What on earth was she going to tell her Sunday School when she returned?

Thor kept talking excitedly, his handsome smile shining on his face.

“Why, how happy I am Loki had finally settled on a lady! He had several princesses in the past show interest, but they never liked him or he never liked them, and-”

“Oh no! I’m not his…his….his companion of that sort. This is a palace he made and I am only the guest here.” she answered.

Yet, what more did this god of thunder have to say? What was he like? What sort of powers? What was it like to be a god? She had no fear now, only curiosity.

“Prince Thor, would you like to stay for some tea?”

“Why, tea sounds wonderful Lady Stella!” he replied.

Calling her that made her smile. If this prince was a burglar, he was the nicest burglar she had ever met.

Giving him tea and a tray of biscuits, she told him about how she ended up here. Then she asked him to clarify more about Loki and him. Thor informed her that they were princes of Asgard, sons of King Odin and Queen Frigga and that he was the eldest brother and in line for the throne. Thor answered questions about Asgard. She brought out a sketchbook she found in the library and Thor drew the realms of the map. Stella was awed at it. Her world had been small in the marshes- to think there were so many other realms with so many other lives and people and their stories! How big everything was and she was just one tiny speck on a circle that moved between Midgard and Asgard.

Thor was munching on perhaps his tenth biscuit by now. Not that it stopped his talking.

“We hear that the Frost Giants wish to try to take over again- those are the ones in Jotunheim! They won’t touch a hair on my brother's head anymore. One day, I will find King Laufey to defeat him in battle!” he boasted, pumping his fist.

“It is natural to be protective of one’s family,” she commented.

Thor wiped the crumbs off his beard. “Maybe that’s why Loki’s been hiding since the battle- he’s scared of them!”

“Hiding?” she prodded.

Thor nodded, sucking down his tea.

“He has been away for some time. Father won’t tell me why, and Mother seems strong. But sometimes I think I hear her crying from a distance. You must find Loki when he shows up next- tell him that she misses him! That he has to come home!”

She clasped her hands on her lap and gave him a smile.

“I will be glad to do so. I have been able to persuade him into a few things recently, so I think he might listen to me,” she said.

“How good of you, Lady Stella!” Thor declared.

Before she could say, he slammed down his teacup, making her jump and gasp aloud in surprise, demanding another cup of tea.

The magic palace fixed the teacup back to normal, and Stella, her heart slowing down after that surprise, poured him another.

That evening, she waited for him at dinner. She was adorned with her hair up in a bun and another ballgown. It was navy blue and had little stars adorned across it, making her look like the night sky. She began to eat a little after her stomach rumbled.

She knew it was past sunset, but there was no response. Nothing. No sign of the trickster god.

“Loki?” she asked.

Her voice echoing was the only reply.

Enough time had passed. He required her to fulfil the bargain and here she was just as she had been every night for some time now. What was going on?

She got up from her chair. She passed the lush banquet and went down one hall. It had another marble floor, but there were windows with the red, velvet curtains drawn. There was a hall of doors.

She heard a sound like a grunt from the door in the far corner on her right. Green lights flashed from it.

She walked carefully closer to it. There was another flash of light, only it was light blue. And another frustrated huff.

She had heard similar huffs of frustration from a certain office for over a decade. There was no doubt now Loki was behind.

She was now at the door and realized it had creaked open.

Her eyes went to the opening. She gently said his name.

“Loki, wher-”

She saw him and her voice turned into a gasp, cupping her mouth

Loki was definitely there. The room was a smaller library with neater bookshelves and a fireplace. He stood in the center over a high table with a book full of runes on it.

But he looked different.

His skin was a bright blue and his eyes red.

Loki turned, his red eyes wide as he noticed her. Stella froze where she was, for she could not run. Was this some new enchantment he could do? Was he practicing and was that why he was late?

Yet his face turned into a frown, his teeth gritted. His red eyes glared at her. She should have run, she should have screamed. Yet she could not move.

He turned his back on her, his voice angry as he tried to cover his own face.

“Don’t- don’t look Stella! Go away!” he ordered angrily. The tone in his voice speared her heart.

“Are you hurt?” she insisted. “I was wondering why you were missing and-”

“I said to go away!” Loki barked. “And don’t look!”

Normally she would run. But something in her intuition told her to stay. There was a hurt to his voice that stirred her. He needed someone by him.

She walked inside cautiously.

“I…I am sorry I peeked in, but…Loki…”

His back was still turned. She could see bits of his blue neck beneath his raven curls. He stood before the fire.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No! I’m not hurt at all!” he replied, something of a choked sob in his voice.

He was behaving no better then Jo when she was four years of age.

“But your skin…did someone do this to you? do you need an ointment?” she asked.

She reached out a hand to gently touch his shoulder. He flinched away and then turned around. She took in his cerulean skin and how much brighter it made his red eyes appear.

“I don’t need the healers! Norns! I just- I’m just doing a spell and-”

She peeked and saw him uncurl his hand and clench it. His skin turned to white and his eyes to blue. But she saw there were still tears in his eyes, despite the stubborn frown on his head.

“What is happening?” she asked. “You don’t get this upset taking another person's form. Please, I’d like to know.”

She insisted he sit on the chair. She had him magic over another mug of tea and some sandwiches on a tray. They sat on the floor before the fire.

“Do you know what a Frost Giant is?” he asked.

“Yes. I hear they’re considered your enemy here,” Stella responded. She could discuss Thor and his family later.

Loki kept his eyes on the fire.

“All children in Asgard are taught to be terrified of them Stella…this is my true form. I’m a runt of a Frost Giant. Left behind as a baby to die in a tundra. Unwanted since the moment I was born. All of my life I was told of beasts who slaughter innocents. Only to realize I had to look in the mirror to see one.”

Stella’s eyes softened at him.

“Loki…that’s…that’s horrible…”

“I’m going to control it. Hide it. Push it away so no one will tell, no one will be able to see. I will be dead, I won’t be nothing, I’ll prove to father I’m worthy, I will!” he hissed. He slammed a fist onto his lap.

Stella leaned forward.

“May I see it again, please? Just once.” she asked.

He turned to her and swallowed. But he only turned his forearm and hand blue.

“May I?” she asked.

He gave her his arm and hand. She put her hand beneath his to lift it and then, with her other hand, pressed a finger on his blue palm.

“It’s cold. Cold like snow on Christmas, like a steam on a summer’s day, like a chapel in the morning…those aren’t bad things…” she consoled.

She traced up to his forearm. He felt himself shiver at her touch, his body stirring at the press of her hand on his skin. A tingling he kept down. She looked quietly and carefully.

“Could I have the box with my collection, please?” she asked.

He easily conjured it to the room. She lifted the lid and set it aside. She took out some trinkets- spoons, shells, bottles. She set them in the air like a painter, next to his hand.

Then she looked in and smiled. She got out two pebbles. Then she got out her diary and opened to the first page. She got out a pressed flower. Setting them in her hands, she moved them close to Loki’s hand.

“See! They’re the very color of your skin!” she sheered.

As Loki looked down, he saw she was right. The shade of the flower and the pebbles matched the skin of his Jotunheim form.

“Now, if only there was a box big enough, I could add you too!” she teased.

He did not reprimand her for her joke, even if he had every right to. He looked up at her.

“What about blue makes it your favorite color? Why collect blue things and not something…something red or green?” Loki asked.

She traced her finger again over the pebbles and flowers. She then smiled at the other miscellaneous things she pulled out.

“It’s the color of peace. The color of heaven. It represents the sky and the sea- the two things we think of when we discuss eternity. It’s rare in nature, for it is a sacred color. Blue dye once had to be imported, for it was costly. They say that Mary wore a blue shroud. It is the color of serenity…of kindness…”

She set the items down. Though his hand was as cold as ice, it felt good on her against the warm fire. His eyes shone up at her.

“Your skin is beautiful when it’s blue. And you shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

Loki took in a deep breath and then shook his head.

“But…the Frost Giants are…are hated…hated!”

“I don’t hate you,” she replied.

He blinked, squinting his eyes further at her. She kept her sweet smile at him.

“What? You…you don’t?” he asked.

She released his hand and began gathering her things to put back into the box.

“I’m not your servant or misteress here. You saved my life and my health. Could a truly monstrous person do that?”

His eyes sparkled. She set them back in and sealed the lid. She looked back up at him, her plate of food untouched, as was his.

“Loki, if you think my husband is so hateful, so bad…. if I could love him, how could I think less of you? Not from anything you freely chose to do, but because of how you were born? I wish you didn’t discover it in this way, and despite what I have heard…I don’t agree about Frost Giants. They can be good and kind…”

“The stories…” Loki began muttering.

“Maybe the stories are wrong,” she suggested.

She handed him a cup of tea. His magic was starting to melt back to his usual pale color, except for his hand.

He noticed that the tea set was white except for the blue flowers painted all over it. Of course, it was in relation to Stella being the one staying here.

Looking down at his hand while it was still blue, he saw that the petals of the flower on his cup matched the shade of a Frost Giant's skin.

For once, at least for a minute, he did not feel ashamed.

[madman479r]

Jaune: *Relaxing and watching TV*

RWBYNROE: *Enters room*

Ruby: Hey, Jaune?

Jaune: Yeah, Rubes?

Ruby: Settle this for us. Emerald said she saw you buy a gun but I said that's ridiculous because you never wanted one before.

Emerald: I literally saw him go into a weapons store. Plus, he spent 20 years in that fairy tale land. Maybe he wised up and got something with range.

Jaune: Why the big deal? What is there a bet?

Ruby: Yep. Me, Weiss, Nora and Oscar said you didn't get a gun and Yang, Blake, Ren and Emerald say you did.

Jaune: Hope there wasn't money involved because I did I fact get a gun. *Pulls out revolver*

Nora: Aw crapbaskets! *Hands over lien*

Ruby: wow! Is that a Mateba model 6 unica Autorevolver?!

Jaune: Oh yeah. Looked good so I thought I'd get it.

Yang: But I kinda have to ask why?

Blake: And a revolver of all pistols. They take forever to reload.

Jaune: Well you see *Scroll alarm beeping* 3:30 already? Alright.

Weiss: What does 3:30 have to-?

Jaune: *Puts a bullet in revolver and spins the cylinder before putting it to his head and pulls trigger*

**CLICK**

Jaune: Welp, back to the show. *looks at gun* I'll see you tomorrow.

RWBYNROE:...

Jaune: What?

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Cornered

Pairing: Dark Peter Parker x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Peter can’t live without you and he’s not afraid to show it. 

WARNINGS: Fake Suicide Attempt; Manipulation.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

--

“Don’t! Please, Peter.” you cry out, watching as Peter pulls the knife closer to his wrist, the sharp edge pressing hard against his skin, dangerously close to his veins. 

You’re both crying after a huge discussion that started because you had decided that it was best to give your relation a small break. It’s getting draining to deal with Peter’s constant protectiveness with him always looking over your shoulder, trying to make your decisions for you. 

He’s overbearing and it’s sucking the life out of you. 

Nonetheless, Peter had always been a gentle boyfriend so you made the mistake of assuming that he’d be reasonable enough when you revealed what you had decided for your future. Apparently you were entirely wrong about him. 

“If you leave me, I’ll have no reason to live and then you can truly be free of me. Isn’t that what you want?” he practically chokes on his tears, a small gasp exiting his lips as he draws a cut into the skin. A few drops of blood paint this skin, dropping on the floor. 

“It’s not! Just… put down the knife, okay?” you beg, taking a step towards him. “We can talk this out, Peter.” 

“Why should I listen to you? You’re going to leave me, no matter what.” Peter gives you a sad smile, taking another step back as you try to get near him.

The knife digs again and he groans, the blood starting to roll down his wrist. 

“I-I won’t. I promise, Peter. I’ll stay with you, if that’s what you really want.” you panickly propose. His eyes light up at your offer, hope filling them as he loosens his grip on the knife.

“I want that. And we’ll be together and you’ll love me again? You promise?” he desperately asks, fingers clenching around the knife as he awaits for your answer.

You only hesitate for a brief moment, but you can’t allow Peter to do this. You have no other option but to take him back. 

“I promise. Now please get away from the -” you don’t even get to finish your sentence as Peter immediately drops the knife, which makes a loud noise as it falls down on the ground.

Before you can properly register what happened, Peter’s arms are around you. He lets out a shaky breath, pressing passionate kisses all over your scalp as you stand there, motionless in his arms.

You’re mortified by what just happened, but more so at the promise you’done to Peter. Now you’re never going to be able to leave him. 

Exactly what he wanted. 

[aftgficrec]

hi I'm so excited I caught you guys open :D

I was wondering if you guys could find some fics where Neil brings up his past in casual conversation or his past gets brought up because of something he said or did

Also I've read a lot of the older soulmate fics where they can feel each other's pain or communicate telepathically and stuff like that but was wondering if there are any new ones :)

Ty u so much <333

There is so much material here I decided to split it into 2 parts, one with fics about Neil’s past, and one devoted to soulmate aus.  Enjoy! - S

references to Neil’s past:

people Neil met on the run here

Foxes learn about Neil's past here

The Foxes react to Neil’s life here

The Foxes react to Neil’s scars here

The Foxes react to Mary’s abuse here

videos of neil on the run here

Neil’s secrets unravel here

Neil says ‘it’s fine I’ve had worse’ here

Neil shows off his knife skills here

‘The Bet’ here 

‘here I am, there you go again’ here

‘I'm not broken (I'm made for a mosaic)’ and ‘More Afterthoughts, Chapter 39’ here

‘arrivals/departures’ here 

‘TFC minifics...’ Ch 23 here

‘heavy hands, heavy hearts’ here

‘"I've endured far worse"’ here

‘it whistles through the ghosts still left behind’ here

you may also like:

Neil with languages/accents here

Neil with languages/accents 2 here

‘No straighter path than to struggle’ here

Neil also shows off his knife and language skills in ‘I Hope You Lie To Me’ here (ch. 9)

Neil’s past:

Andrew, I'm fine by AceSirenSinger [Rated T, 2081 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew passes through the door into the ensuite bathroom, and he freezes an instant before he understands why. The bathroom tile is smudged red, just so. Someone bled here, and then wiped it, too quickly. Andrew wants to call for Neil, but he is suddenly unsure if he is alone in his apartment.

tw: nightmares, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: knives, tw: violence

Killer Bunny by godless_writer [Rated T, 6661 words, complete, 2023]

Neil started his second year in college thinking his past was behind him. His father was dead, Riko was dead, he was no longer running – nothing left to hide from. At least that is what he thought before six FBI agents barged into his team’s practice one day. Or The team finds out Neil had to kill some of his father’s men while on the run.

tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: panic attacks

Bound for Error by confusedtoadd [Rated M, 22759 words, incomplete, last updated July 2023]

“You claim you’ve left your truth bare, yet you still lie, interesting don’t you think Nathaniel?” Neil was paralyzed, stuck between begging for her to stop and strangling her. They were a mix of his parents' wishes, his father's anger was bubbling over, his mother's survival instincts charged his legs with vigor. “Perhaps I should have stepped in sooner. No matter, they will know the truth soon, you did promise no more running, Nathaniel.” OR The foxes react to Neils life, pre-canon included.

tw: implied/referenced suicide attempt, tw: implied/referenced suicidal thoughts, tw: implied/referenced self harm,  tw: violence, tw: blood & gore, tw: torture, tw: abuse, tw: psychological abuse, tw: panic attacks

Secrets by The_stars_ship_us [Rated T, 1265  words, complete, 2023]

Matt sees Neil's scars for the first time and Neil wakes up, still sleepy, and feels comfortable and safe enough to speak in his true accent

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: scars

The Best That You Can Hope For (is to die in your sleep) by Major_816 [Not Rated, 10840 words, complete, 2022]

The first time O’Malley saw the kid was in a low-level underground gambling ring, walls crawling with asbestos and next to every bastard inside armed with something sharp if not something packed with warped metal and gunpowder.  He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but he surveyed the crowd of the room with years more experience than he should have. There were scars cutting across exposed bits of skin, sick looking in the light of the place and stretching hotel-bible-page-thin over crooked bones.  He was a wispy thing. Nothing more than a scrap of a boy stitched together. O’Malley was half-convinced a strong wind might blow him over, but the kid turned, those quick and clever eyes burning across the room and O’Malley could recognize that sort of fight instinct.  He saw him again half a year later in Northern Florida.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: scars, tw: panic attacks, tw: dissociation

Broken bones by All_for_the_andreil [Rated T, 1126 words, complete, 2021]

Neil gets injured during a game and freaks out. Andrew finds out what exactly happened to Neil in Baltimore.

tw: implied/referenced torture

I guess I can drop the accent now by poly_pr1nce [Rated M (we say T), 495 words, complete, 2020, locked]

Neil reveals the final thing he's been hiding about himself after the Foxes win against the Ravens and Riko's death

...'ah yes, my shirt will cover this'  by @jingerhead [tumblr, 2021]

This prompt is great, I've read some angsty fics about Neil getting hurt and they're great BUT I love the idea of Neil getting stabbed and he's just like.....'ah yes, my shirt will cover this' and everyone notices right away. I think something super angst or something more lighthearted would be equally great haha!

tw: injuries

Art

what’s life on the run like? art by @meaucrow

Thinking about all he went through trying to survive art by @microolli

[ohtobeleah]

Self-flagellation // Tom Kazanksy

Summary: The death of Goose Bradshaw rocks the TopGun class. Iceman struggles with the ideology that his death could have been prevented if he wasn’t sure sure of himself.

Warnings: Suicide attempt. Suicidal tendencies. Depression. Mentions of pregnancy.

Word Count: 3.2k

Author Note: Day Five of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Self-harm. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The warm soapy water soothed Tom’s aching muscles as he let himself slide down the side of the bath till the only thing remaining above the water was his head. Notes of jasmine from your scented epsom salts he swore he never indulged in filled the bathroom as the drip from the leaky faucet filled the void, the silent but all consuming void of nothingness that had followed Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazanksy around ever since he saw Nick ‘Goose’ Bradshaw break his neck during a freak accident.

It could have been avoided, the death of Goose Bradshaw. If Tom hadn't been so arrogant, if he hadn't started the chain reaction of events that led to Goose's death by cutting Maverick off—perhaps it all could have been avoided. He was so arrogant and sure of himself that he could get that shot, it was just a training exercise, no one should have died. 

The more he thought about it as he sunk deeper and deeper into the water, he knew he should have moved. He knew that it was his fault, his actions, and every choice that led to the death of Goose Bradshaw. 

And that was something he couldn’t live with. 

“Tom!” Your voice cut through the water like a breath of fresh air as you pulled your fiancé up from under the water he’d sunk under. “Jesus Christ what the hell are you doing?” It was the shock of walking into the bathroom and seeing your fiancé completely submerged and not making any attempt to move or get up that was talking. “Tom?” You asked as you assessed his face with both your hands cupping his cheeks. “What are you doing? What’s gotten into you?” You were in search of an answer that perhaps would have been written in the lines on his face—but when Tom reached up to take your hand in his and kissed your knuckles a few times. You knew something was wrong, very wrong. It was the look of dismissal in his eyes. 

The very look you saw from your mother right before she was admitted into the loony bin. 

“I’m fine—“ Tom tried to reassure you as you tried to keep your composure. “Totally fine dear, just thought it was real quiet under the water.” Tom  wanted to tell you about the voices in his head that he’d been trying to silence. Or about the way the burn his lungs felt as he begun to run out of oxygen made him feel closer to Goose. He wanted to be under that water—if you hadn’t pulled him up he would have truly stayed there. It seemed like a peaceful way to go. 

He wanted to tell you that it was all his fault, he killed Nick Bradshaw and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He couldn’t live with the guilt, he saw that little kid on his mothers hip at the funeral three days prior and ever since he made eye contact with little Bradley Bradshaw—Tom wanted nothing more than to trade places with the RIO he killed with negligent flying. 

But he didn’t tell you any of that. Tom Kazanksy wouldn’t let his walls come down for no one. Not even you—he didn’t want to be seen as weak minded. His father had instilled a great fear of being seen as less than man enough if he were to ever shed a single tear. So the idea of crumbling to his knees, holding you tight and telling you he wanted nothing more than to trade places with a dead man was far beyond the realm of comprehension. 

“I’m fine honey, I was just in my own world for a second there.” You were completely disinclined to believe what your fiancé was saying. The signs were all there. The warning signals had been popping up for weeks. But all you did to keep the peace was nod in simple silence as you sat on the edge of the bathtub. “I love you, I’m sorry for spookin you.” 

“You’d tell me—“ You cooed as you pushed Tom's hair from his forehead. “You’d tell me if you weren’t alright wouldn’t you baby?” The question packed a punch Tom wasn’t exactly ready for. He couldn’t tell you, you’d think he was certifiably insane for having such thoughts. He didn’t want you to worry about him, he was fine, he was totally and completely fine. 

So he lied right through those perfect teeth of his. He held your hand back up to his lips and pressed gentle kisses across your knuckles. His eyes told you a completely different story to the rhetoric he was spinning. Tom was going under, he was drowning in his own sorrow and guilt for a man he’d let down, that he’d killed. But he wouldn’t tell you that, he couldn’t bring himself to explain to the love of his life. 

So he lied. He lied and lied and lied, hoping that one day soon he’d believe himself. 

“Absolutely.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

He didn’t mean for it to happen, Tom Kazanksy never meant for his actions to result in his colleague and friends' untimely death. He didn’t mean to rip a family apart at the very seam. 

But he had. And he couldn’t cope with the guilt. 

“I’m worried about him, Carole.” You sighed as you walked with the newly widowed woman to her husband's grave. “He blames himself, much like Mav.” 

“It’s nobody's fault—“ Carole cooed as she held a bunch of roses in her hand and her sons in the other. Bradkey didn’t understand where his daddy had gone and it broke your heart. “It was just a freak accident—I know my husband wouldn't have put the blame on anyone, and I don’t either.” 

Carole Bradshaw was a beacon of hope to all the aviators who had lost a dear friend. She was the very reminder they needed to keep going, to keep her husband’s legacy alive by doing what he loved the most. 

“I think you should get him to talk to someone if you’re really concerned, even if he doesn’t think anything’s wrong—it always helps to talk it out.” Carole mentioned as she walked with you side by side. “I talk to a therapist about this new chapter twice a week.” She admitted tentatively. “Sometimes it feels all too much, then I remember I have Bradley.” She smiled softly, looking down at her husband’s surviving son. “He deserves to have a mother who’s as put together as can be.” That’s when Carole looked at you genuinely and wholeheartedly saw into your very soul as you held back tears. “Tom needs to be as put together as he can be, for the little one.” 

“I haven’t even told him yet.” You could feel your bottom lip wobbling as you spoke. “I don’t want to overwhelm him.” You were only a few weeks along and hadn’t worked up the courage to tell your fiancé yet. He wasn’t himself, between his need to be alone and his lack of attention to your relationship, you felt as if the news of a child would completely dismal Tom's very delicate mental state. “I’m not sure if he’s ready—“

“Maybe if he knew he’d helped create life then the idea he took it away wouldn’t be as overwhelming.” Carole always knew just what to say even when she was barely keeping herself together. After all, it was her husband's grace you were going to visit—not Toms. “Not that he had any involvement, because it was an accident.” 

“How many times have you told yourself that?”

You had to ask. “You know, before you started to believe it?” 

Carole let out a deep sigh that sounded like it came from her very soul. She squeezed her son's hand three consecutive times and did her best to keep her composure. 

“I tell myself that every day.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

“Honey?” Days turned into weeks before you had even noticed that the weeks had long since turned into months. Tom was for the most part a shell of his former self. He wasn’t home when all the lights seemed to be on. “Tom baby, are you home?” 

You’d gotten a call from Viper halfway through your shift, he was concerned to say the very least about Tom and the fact he hadn’t shown up for work this morning really had him worried. He’d asked the pilot if he was doing okay a few times since the accident—but every time he pressed, Tom did what he did best and shut the very people who cared about him the most, out. 

“Tom? Honey it’s me baby—Viper called?” You cooed as you placed your keys in the little dish by the front door. The house was eerily quiet for the mid afternoon. Usually the offshore breeze would be blowing through the open windows, but when the air felt still, stale even. Like nothing had moved since you had left this morning. Like nobody had been home all day—yet your fiancés trunk was in the drive. A dead give away. “Honey?” 

It was all very ominous, the stillness of your humble apartment, the ground floor of a four story building on the outskirts of Fightertown. The usually warm and cozy living room felt as cold as ice when you walked on by. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nothing seemed different or misplaced—but the quiet hum, the bubbling anxiety inside your chest told you something was wrong. Something was off and something terrible was about to happen, or had happened. 

You remembered what your mother looked like the night your dad had taken her to the emergency room. Her night gown was soaked in crimson blood that would never wash out. You tried. 

“Tom? Honey, are you in there?” The bathroom door wasn’t locked, but it was closed shut. Your hand tightened around the doorknob as you let your forehead rest against the painted frame. “Please just answer me? I won’t come in if you don’t want me to.” You sighed to yourself as you closed your eyes and tried to will away the thoughts of your mother. 

You always thought it would be you, mental health instability ran in your family like nothing you had ever seen. But here you were, your fiancé had been suffering and he refused to let you in. He refused to be a burden on you and now? Now you were afraid to open the door, you were terrified beyond belief at what you might see. 

“Tom—“ Your feet felt frozen as you turned the door handle, the bathroom door slowly but surely creaked open. Time stood still as your eyes landed on the broad shouldered aviator lying in bloodied bath water that looked as thick as gelatin. “Oh god! TOM!” 

The shrill that left your body as you rushed over was a sound so painstakingly familiar that for a moment you swore you had heard your father scream behind you. History had a funny way of repeating itself. 

“Tom, honey—open your eyes baby look at me!” You tried to stay as calm as you could. “I’ve gotta call an ambulance.” That was the priority, call for help, stop the bleeding, save your fiancé’s life. You kept repeating it over and over like a mantra that would forever be embedded into your soul. Call for help, stop the bleeding, save Tom's life.”  

The home phone was down the hall and boy did it kill you every second you were gone, but when you came back to the bathroom, you brought bandages and gauze from the first aid kit you kept in the kitchen with you. 

“I’m here baby, I’m here.” Tom was unconscious but he still had a very weak, very faint, hardly there at all paulse. “Please don’t leave us, we’re right here, please please please don’t do this to us.” Twelve weeks, that’s how far along you were. For twelve weeks you had kept your pregnancy a secret from everyone except Carole Bradshaw. For twelve weeks your fiancé had been so distant and so closed off, disconnected even he hadn’t noticed the bouts of sickness, the fatigue, the way your stomach seemed a little more distended then it usually did. You weren’t showing all that much—but you thought the man you loved unconditionally, with your entire heart, with everything you had and more, would have noticed. 

But he didn’t. 

“Come on baby.” You tried to move him from the bathtub but the dead weight of Tom Kazanksys unconscious body was far too heavy for you to handle. “Stay with us, please.” Blood threatened to stain all aspects of the bathroom. The tiles, your clothes, even Tom's skin. But you did what you could with what you had to stop the bleeding coming from his wrists. Slashed deep. You had to hold back the nausea you felt as you wrapped both your fiancé’s wrists tight to stop them from bleeding any more, but judging by the amount of blood in the water and on the side of the bath—Tom had already lost a lot. 

This wasn’t a cry for help, this was so much more. This wasn’t just to feel something, this was to feel nothing at all. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more observant.” You cried as you kept Tom above the water, his head lulled to the side in your hands as you waited for the medics to arrive. “Honey, oh baby we love you so much, please don’t do this to us, please don’t leave.” You had to keep your fingers pressed against his neck, pressed against Tom’s pulse point to remind yourself he was still with you. “If you leave us so help me Christ Tom I’ll never forgive you—don’t you do this to me baby.” 

***~***~***~***~**

“No.” The last person Tom Kazanksy wanted to see was you, but here you were—sleeping in the small hospital chair beside his bed with your hand delicately intertwined with his. “No god no—“ He wasn’t supposed to be here with you. He was supposed to be dead, he wasn’t supposed to be alive where the burden was all too much and the guilt was all consuming. He couldn’t be here. “I’m alive?”

He couldn’t remember what happened after he’d sliced his wrists, but for what he could put together he assumed you would have been the one who found him. He left a letter on your pillow, he wondered if you’d found it. 

“A clinician is going to come in and speak with you soon.” Tom looked over at you as you spoke, your eyes were barely open, but when he finally met your gaze he saw the hurt he’d caused in them. “Tom—“

“You should have let me die.” Was all he said back to you. The words he spoke hurt more than he would ever know. “It’s my fault he died.” 

“Maverick said—“

“Forget what fucking Maverick said Y/n!” Tom snapped as you readjusted yourself in the chair you sat perched on. “I killed him! Goose died because I was flying recklessly and now I can’t live with the fucking guilt—you should have let me die!” 

“There are people who can help Tom.” You were a little more stirn than you would have liked to have been, but your fiancé had just tried to kill himself over his own deep rooted resentment for himself. “God why on earth do you think that killing yourself is the only option here?” 

“Because I don’t wanna go on living knowing I ruined someone else’s life!” He cried, Tom Kazanksy barely ever cried, in front of people anyway. But here he was, crying in front of you after he’d failed at taking his own life. You’d stopped him. “And if you hadn’t come home I’d be fucking dead! I wouldn’t have to live with myself and I wouldn’t have to look at you and wish you’d stop interfering!” 

It hit you in that very moment that when you’d found Tom in the bath he had in fact not been alright, he was trying to drown himself. Only you’d pulled him to the surface. 

“I don’t want you around anymore.” You looked at your fiancé with pleading eyes. “I don’t love you enough to stay, I don’t love you enough to keep fighting the fight I know I’ll fucking lose because I’m not strong enough.” It hurt more than anything else in this world. “You don’t need me, you don’t deserve to have to babysit me wondering when I’ll try again, because I will. I’ll try again until I’m dead and gone and don’t have to live with the guilt.” 

“Tom—“ Tom Kazanksy was the love of your life. He was once the funny and charismatic man who swept you off your feet. But now as you sat by his hospital bed after saving his life, all he could say to you was why did you even bother. “I can’t leave you after this, you need someone—“ 

“If you stay I’ll just end up hating you—“ That was the nail in the coffin of your broken relationship. “I’ll hate you for saving me and I’ll hate you forever, so please, just leave, go.” Maverick stood by the door, he’d come to see if you needed anything. He had heard every word Ice spoke and his heart was broken for you. You didn’t see any of this. 

This was so much worse than he ever thought it was. Maverick watched as you got up out of your chair, crying hysterically as you held a protective hand over your small but there baby bump. He knew. He knew you were pregnant, Carole had slipped up one night when she was in her own head about the entire situation.

“And don’t think I don’t know either.” Tom added as your tears fell down your face. He watched as you stopped in your tracks. “That baby is better off never knowing me.” He hissed as you kept your back turned, he wasn’t the same man you loved. This was the shell of a man you once knew, a broken man who had pushed everyone, including you away. “If you had bothered to tell me I would have asked you to abort it, saved you the trouble of my burden.” You turned back to face your fiancé as he spiraled further into his psychotic break. “It’s one of the reasons I did it, I don’t deserve to be a father after what I did.” 

You took a deep breath as you wiggled your engagement ring off your ringer before you slowly moved back to the bedside. Tom watched you with teary eyes of his own. He couldn’t believe that he was giving up his entire world because he couldn’t handle the immense guilt, the shame, the fear he felt all for kissing one of his friends. 

“You were right.” You dropped the ring into his lap, deciding that if Tom Kazanksy had given up on living that he didn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve your support, your love, your energy or your child. This was different to what your mother went through, this wasn’t just depression, this was selfishness and cruel behaviour. 

And hell—two could play at that game, become why on god's green earth should you continue to try and save someone who didn’t want to be saved?”

“You weren’t worth saving.” You whispered as you turned on your heels to head out of the room as the clinician walked in. Loving Tom Kazanksy had turned into a losing game. But you had just one final thing to say over your shoulder. 

“Say hi to Goose when you see him, maybe you’ll believe him when he tells you it wasn’t ever your fault.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

[bbcphile]

WIP Wednesday

I've finally worked up the courage to post the opening of one of the Mysterious Lotus Casebook fics I'm writing (Li Lianhua/Di Feisheng/Fang Duobing), specifically, from my post-canon fic where LLH's shiniang tried to sacrifice herself to cure him.

Tw/cw: suicide attempt, mention of off-page non-consensual medical procedure, internalized ableism

***

Li Lianhua crashed to his hands and knees on the ground as the last trickle of his borrowed qi abandoned him, the densely-packed sand doing nothing to cushion the blow. The impact rattled through his spine and ribs, shaking loose a bout of coughing that forced him to swallow down the burning flare of copper trying to escape from his mouth. He couldn’t cough up blood now, not here, too many steps away from the water’s reach. It would leave evidence of his route, a trail that his shiniang would undoubtedly follow once she had broken free from the immobilization. He couldn’t let her find him until the job was done. 

He pushed himself to standing, his arms and legs shaking hard enough to nearly drop him back to his knees, and he blinked to will the dancing black spots from his eyes. The waves awaited him, and he refused to crawl to meet them. He took a staggering step toward the sound of crashing water ahead of him, far fainter now than it had any right to be, and squinted against the sunlight to get his bearings. 

A large gray lump on his left snagged his attention, disrupting the blur of gold and blue that filled up the rest of his view. Why did that look familiar? He took an unsteady step closer, pressing his palm against his chest to convince his lungs to hold back a cough one more time, and the gray lump resolved into a rock. 

A rock that had once served as a pillow that was soft only in comparison to how hard the rest of the day had been.

Of course. He’d landed at Donghai beach. He swallowed back tears with a bitter laugh. Never let it be said that the universe didn’t have a sense of humor.  

He’d returned after all: three months late for the duel and over a decade late for bringing his decrepit body back to the waves that had so decisively spat him out. But surely this time, with all the mysteries solved and no business left unfinished, the sea would accept the offering of his broken frame. Li Xiangyi was long dead and it was past time for Li Lianhua to follow his example. He was already a ghost in every way that mattered. And this was the only way to guarantee his shiniang would live.

She would be furious, of course, but wasn’t furious better than dead? How could it be unfilial to make sure she lived on? Too many people had died for him; he refused to let her join those ranks. Dying to save her was already a far better death than he deserved. 

As for the others, Xiaobao would have his teachings and would be too busy climbing the heights of the jianghu to miss the weak physician he once protected. 

And a-Fei—

—well, how could he still fixate on defeating a ghost with Xiaobao shining more brightly than Li Xiangyi ever had?

No, this end was far better for everyone, and best of all, no one would sacrifice their life or be forced to play caretaker to an empty husk of a man.

A familiar chill seared through his veins and meridians, despite the warmth of the fur of his outer layer, stealing away his breath and the amorphous blue blur before him. He took another stumbling step toward where it had been, his heart stuttering painfully in his chest. 

Not much longer now. It seemed his frenzied dash here and self-shattered heart meridian were more efficient for what he had in mind than the weight his waterlogged fur coat would have offered.

Perhaps he didn’t need the coat for this at all. His body would certainly float further without it. And not even his shiniang could save him now, so what harm could it do to leave some evidence behind? Xiaobao might not believe the beggar’s words, but surely this fur cloak at the water’s edge would put to rest any lingering futile hopes. And then Xiaobao would tell a-Fei.

And if it brought them peace, if it let them say goodbye, then how could he not leave it behind?

It was decided, then. 

He lifted his hands to the coat’s laces, then paused. Were those voices? For a moment, he could have sworn he heard—

—Ah, no, the hallucinations must have started again. 

He smiled. At least he had heard a-Fei and Xiabao one last time, if only in his mind.

He untied his laces with fumbling, stiff fingers, and let the coat fall behind him. 

His heart and lungs clenched with another spasm, and a wave of dizziness broke over him, threatening to drop him to his knees once more. 

He fought against it, muscles shaking as they never had during battles. He couldn’t surrender now; not until he reached the water. He could manage three more steps. He had to.

He tried to lift his foot again.

The world swam before him, and darkness dragged him under.

[enqmind]

Okay, more fic. This is the one I should have done first, but what can you do?

Will likely turn out to be a multipart. (Word to the wise, I'm very easily bribed with reblogs, follows and kind words -wink wink-)

Ghost/Female Reader WC: 831 18+ content

Warnings: Suicide attempt by reader, gaslighting(?), manipulation(?), Local Manc has worst possible reaction to a suicide attempt

Reader notes: Thin enough to fit into a standard bathtub, light enough to be lifted from a standard bathtub by Ghost, mentally ill, might turn out to be pale skinned later (haven't decided yet. If so, feel free to ignore. I'm not here to gatekeep.)

One Man's Treasure

 The hallway was dingy, even with the lights popping on at the slightest movement. According to the landlord, the lights were dimmed at night to prevent their circadian rhythms from being disturbed.

 Sure.

 Nothing to do with the cost of living crisis. Ghost believed them, thousands wouldn’t.

 He trudged along, each door uniform and bland as he headed to his flat.

 He was almost at his own door as a pocket of shadow caught his attention.

 Door after door after door with the same shiny printed veneer seemed to oddly glow in the dim light. One next to his had a dark shadow lining one side.

 He stalked over.

 Ajar.

 Of course. Fuck he was tired.

 He was about to pull it closed when a scent wafted through his mask.

 Lavender, vetiver and the familiar base note of blood.

 Who lived here again?

 The image of a woman rose in his mind. Pretty, polite, always offering a greeting smile if they happened to run into each other. Sometimes she seemed like she wanted to ask him something, but nothing ever came of it.

 That’s all he knew. She kept to herself and never seemed to have guests over.

 A perfectly functional neighbour.

 He pushed the door open.

 The dim light in the hall let him adjust to the darkness of her flat quickly. It was messy and a certain staleness passed under the perfumed blood scent.

 A soft flickering glow caught his eye, emanating from under the bathroom door. A rectangle of white standing out in the dinge.

 He crept through the living room, eyes constantly moving through the gloom for signs of danger. Ears pricked for any noise.

 A sigh from the bathroom.

 Ghost hesitated, but the smell of blood was strong enough to get his hand on the door handle and swing it open. Ready for any threat.

 All he found was his neighbour in the bath. Wearing only bra and knickers and lying in orange tinted water. A stanley knife dropped on the floor in a pool of blood.

 There was a lot of blood.

 Another sigh.

 But not enough to kill. Not even enough to knock her out, really.

 He approached warily, seeing a mostly empty bottle of spirits sitting on the far side of the bath.

 That explained both her unconsciousness and all the blood.

 Carefully, he took her closest wrist and examined it.

 She hadn’t nicked anything important, despite her best efforts. The lines went vertically, tracing the likely paths of the veins down her forearms. She was clearly seeking results.

 No shit, Sherlock. She lives alone, who the hell could she even get attention from?

 Wasn’t that the point of leaving the front door ajar?

 In the middle of the night on a Tuesday?

 It wasn’t worth thinking too much about. He needed to get her awake and to A&E, not ruminate on her train of thought. That was the psych ward’s problem.

 He rose to his feet and went to pull the light cord.

 The square of white on the outside of the door was a piece of paper stuck to it with some patterned tape.

 ‘Do not enter. Corpse within. Call 999.’

 A sigh more like a gasp came from behind him, accompanied by a splash.

 He turned to see her hugging herself, almost snuggling into the lukewarm water as her head started to slip under.

 He grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her into a sitting position.

 Her eyes fluttered open and she blinked at him, head clearly addled by alcohol and blood loss.

 Then she smiled at him. Lit by the candles that drew him to her in the first place, she looked radiant.

 “You came,” she whispered, eyes glittering with affection.

 She threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek that felt like nothing at all.

 She drew back with a wry chuckle and shy smile.

 “I thought you’d be taller.” A giggle. “But not by much.”

 He could almost see it reflected in her eyes despite the low light of the scented candles.

 The white skull of his mask making him look like death incarnate.

 How happy she looked, how relieved to be face to face with the Grim Reaper…

 He wrapped his arms around her and she snuggled into his chest.

 “Thank you,” she murmured. “I was so scared I’d fail.”

 He felt something crack inside his mind.

 Hers was a life she didn’t want.

 Ghost moved an arm under her knees and picked her up out of the bath, blood tinged water sluicing off her and onto him and the floor.

 He didn’t know why she didn’t want it.

 She clung onto him, eyes widening.

 “Where are we going?”

 Frankly, he didn’t care.

 “For now, Purgatory,” he answered. “Later? Who knows.”

 He felt her relax into his arms.

 “Okay.”

 All he knew was that if she didn’t want this life, he’d be more than happy to make it his.

[imkumichan]

Call of Duty x Dazai!Reader

Call of Duty x Makima!Reader Warnings: MC's personality is based on Dazai Osamu's characters from Bungou Stray Dogs. suicide attempt.

Took place after modern warfare 2022

.

It was almost midnight when Soap and Ghost were sitting on a rock before each other near the riverside under a bridge. It was a perfect location for them since it was easy to look out for anything from their place, but It's been days since they went on a mission together to gather more intel regarding Vladimir Makarov. But they still have almost no information about where he is right now. So they decide to take a rest for a bit before going back to the safe house. And everything is normal until Soap managed to see a young girl on the bridge.

Soap can't really make out the girl since it's quite dark and high from where he was sitting. She stands atop a bridge abutment without anything supporting her. Soap knows that his face must be so easy to read because he could see the lieutenant turn his head to see whatever caught his interest.

Then, he saw her fall.

Fall into the river.

She's falling from the top of the bridge to the river below it. head coming down first.

And Soap could see the girl keep falling without screaming, almost like she was accepting her fate, and he can feel something throbbing inside his chest. Then, everything feels like slow motion just like in the movie. And without taking his eyes off of the girl who is still falling, he starts running toward the river as fast as he could. He can hear his lieutenant shout his name but it doesn't make him stop, even after he saw the girl already fall into the river and her body could not be seen anymore, Soap jumped into the river, hoping he could save a life without the needs to pull a trigger of his gun.

.

Soap brings her in his arms as he walks towards the riverside before putting her on the ground to check her up. He was still on his knees when he could see someone walking fast toward him from the corner of his eye, but his attention was still on the girl in front of him. If before he can't make out what the girl looks like, now he can see her clearly.

The girl probably is no older than 20. She wore a long white shirt and black long pants. Her shoes are also the same color as her pants. But what caught his eyes the most are the bandages that wrapped around her hand and neck. He could only see her palms and her face. Which concerningly looks so pale right now. Soap's hand was reaching her chest to give her CPR if he needs to, but he was startled slightly when the girl suddenly opened her eyes and sat up right away.

"Ah, i made it"

a feminine voice filled with a bit of annoyance reached his ears and Soap was expecting any reaction but this.

"Are you the one who interrupted my drowning?" she asked without turning her head to face him.

"What?" 'Did he hear her right?'

"I was trying to commit suicide"

"What?"

So, he did hear her right since it was Ghost who asked her this time.

"yet, I did trouble you, so it is my fault at this point" as if it explained anything to them.

She was quick to stand up and look around her surrounding. Soap must admit that he was lost of words. But before he can say anything, the girl, once again opened her mouth.

"Since i troubled you, i'll help you out with something 'kay? but don't get used to it. I'm still pissed because you ruined my suicide"

The girl has the audacity to cross her arms on her chest and speak to them as if everything was their fault. And soap would be laughing if he wasn't still in shock from the girl. Even Ghost seems uncertain about how to handle this situation.

Then, the girl turned her back, walking away in the opposite direction from where they come. Her wet clothes are still clinging to her body but that was not something that make him and Ghost gripped their gun tightly, ready for action.

"I'll tell you where Vladimir Makarov's gonna sleep in the next few days"

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1081

TW: Suicide Attempts

Anon asked: 

How are you with the prompt of a character... almost committing unalive before being stopped by somebody?

I think about this a lot. I’ve for sure written scenes like this (posted under the cut). I sort of live vicariously through it; it’s cathartic almost to receive the non-judgemental help from fictional characters when you yourself aren’t doing too well sometimes. 

So prompts-wise:

Your character is embarrassed when they’re found. They’re so open and vulnerable that they can’ t help but feel awkward and uncomfortable when they’re found. 

Is the caretaker angry? Are they shouting? Does this make your whumpee even more embarrassed?

Is the caretaker quiet - almost too quiet. Are they scared? Does your character feel shame for this? 

Do they pass out before help arrives? How does the caretaker find them? Are they bleeding? Are they seizing? Are they choking? Are they drowning? Does the caretaker administer CPR?

Who sits in the waiting room? Who is kicking themselves thinking: “How the hell did I not see this?” 

Instead of screaming “why did you do this?” your caretaker, with a sad amount of understanding, says “I’m going to help you.” They’re resolute. They don’t want your character to feel even more of a burden.

Does your character leave a note? Or do they just... get up and leave without the intention to harm themselves, but find that that’s where they’ve ended up. 

Write that character spiralling. They go from numb to their skin prickling with overwhelming emotion. 

How scared is your character when they inevitably wake up? Are they confused? Who do they wake up to?

If they’re found before they try anything; perhaps the caretaker takes them to a nearby restaurant; to get them food and out of the cold. Maybe this is where your character finally opens up. 

This is an excerpt from my WIP book Hologram that I wrote a few years ago now. TW again for attempted suicide. 

If anyone’s every interested about my OC’s feel free to ask...

"Is this it?" A voice from beyond the door questioned.

"Yes, but sir..." the doctor hesitated. "Just remember what we told you."

"He's not in his mind. I know."

"Just pretend you know what he's talking about, it'll make the transition smoother. We'll be down the hall if anything happens." A third voice warned, the tone of which Mitchell recognised as his doctor. The door opened and a figure stepped in.

The visitor had been warned about his friend; how he was no longer in his mind, how he'd been kept in a vegetative state for thirteen years... they warned him about how he'd look, and the visitor had steeled himself to stomach the image of his friend laying prone on the bed. At worst he expected a tube to be shoved down his throat: for his body to be corpse like and attached to a range of alien machines... hell he'd even pictured the idea of Mitchell's body carved open and stitched together under bloody bandages, his thin, pale white skin stretched over his skeleton and protesting against every flex of muscle.

Perhaps he anticipated a disturbing stillness that accompanied a person close to death and on the brink of collapsing into their own mind. After the initial explosion; when the visitor had to be hospitalised they told him they never found the body. He begged and cried but they insisted that his friend was gone; well and truly disintegrated into clumps of viscera that were washed away when repairs inevitably began on the building. He cried some more when they lowered an empty casket into his grave, he wasn't there, no, he was still laid up in hospital, but his absence then just sparked the desire for his presence now.

He had to be there for his best friend; he was the last tie to sanity he had.

So when he rounded the door into the private room, anticipating an older, corpse like version of his childhood friend, his heart sank when his expectations weren't met.

Instead, the events before him were so much worse.

See, when the short British man slithered into the room... he did not expect to see his own friend preparing to slice the veins on his wrist with a scalpel.

At his gasp, Mitchell's head swooped up and he faltered, staggering back so his bare skin was touching the plated wall. All wires had been disconnected, and hung loose over the edge of the bed. The scalpel remained firm In his shaking grasp. The Child’s eyes darkened as the visitor spoke, choking on his words at the fragility of the man before him.

"Hey Mitch." He stammered, paused just a few feet from the hunched over frame. Mitchell closed his eyes and huffed through his nose and angling his head away. The blade didn't move from where it was poised over his pulsing, black vein.

"Oh fuck off!" He groaned, "for Christ sake I thought this shit would stop after... for fuck sake, please just go away."

"Good to see you too." The brown haired man swallowed.

"You always see me, you won't leave me alone." Mitchell's sentence gave him pause.

"What do you mean?" He asked cautiously.

"'The fuck d'you think? You're dead and my fucked up brains been manifesting you and whoever else as a way to torture me. We had this conversation before, you dumb fuck!"

"Oh..." the short man sighed, "Oh man..."

He'd been warned about the simulated dreams, though no one knew for sure what occurred in them. Their heart shattered upon the realisation of the emotional torture Mitchell must have suffered as a result. When the fabric of reality is torn from underneath you like a rug... it was no surprise that Mitchell was grasping at threads; desperately trying to tie knots with his shaking hands.

"I just want it to stop." He uttered pitifully, the grip on his knife tightening further as he brought it closer to the blackened vein beneath the pale skin of his wrist.

"I'm sorry, but it all just needs to stop."

Out of options, and knowing Mitch wasn't the negotiating type, he didn't hesitate to dive forward and get a secure grasp on his arm.

And Mitchell stopped.

He stopped moving. He stopped breathing. His blood ran cold and his body turned rigid as though his joints were replaced with concrete. With wide, grey eyes he stared at the intrusive hand as though it had grown more fingers, he exhaled, shaky, as though terrified of moving. His face contorted in an expression of horror and bewilderment.

Mitchell could feel him. He could actually /feel/ him on his skin.

And he wasn't just a mental presence, his calloused fingers added a welcome texture, his skin was clammy with anxiety and uncertainty, and the grip felt tight and reassuring. The blond had to physically force back the tears as this - this was all real. Static crashed against the walls of his skull, sloshing and frothing as though trying to escape but he held on tight. He held on tight to the feeling and the reality he had been presented with. When his mind cleared a little, he uttered the first word that fell onto his tongue, the word that hadn't left him; the name that was always in his mind.

"J-Jack?" He stammered.

"Yeah?" The visitor ventured. "It's me, Mitch."

"You're alive." He stated, bewilderment thoroughly overtaking his grief stricken features.

"Yeah." Jago ‘Jack’ Davis said with a light scoff, his nervous energy forcing him to find the tragic situation humorous. "So are you."

"You're not dead. you're- you're actually real."

"Yeah, mate."

Mitchell launched into a bone crushing hug, scalpel since discarded on the tiled floor. It fell with a clatter that neither man heard.

"You're alive." He continued to babble. "Holy shit you're alive."

"I know, I'm here, god I missed you..." he said into Mitchell's tangled hair, wrapping his arms around his trembling torso.

"I missed you too." Mitchell said, returning the gesture as the floodgates opened and he allowed himself to sob un-apologetically.

"I missed you so fucking much." He hiccuped.

[nena-96]

Como hablas español quiero decirte que tu escritura es horrible. Además, ¿por qué eres tan estúpido? Te envié preguntas y no has respondido a ninguna. Nadien le importa que fuistes abusado sexualmente de ti, probablemente tú lo pediste!

Vete a la mierda! No sirves para nada. Eres la persona más irritante. Sinceramente, la gente sólo finge ser amable porque siente lástima por ti. Los mundos son mejores sin ti 😂😂

imbécil No dejes que la puerta te golpee al salir.

Wow Anon, I’m not going to dignify you with a response in Spanish 😒

Just to be clear, I haven’t responded to your “asks” because I was busy with life 🫢 I know right that’s so shocking, I don’t just live on tumblr. I have a few other asks and I have yet to reply, but luckily those mutuals are respectful, unlike yourself. [TW: Suicide attempt]

Also, who in their right mind would say, “you asked for it” to a person who went through trauma?

If you didn’t know, two years ago on my birthday Nov20… I was this close 🤏🏾 in consuming an entire bottle of Ibuprofen 500mg that I always kept hidden in a drawer in my bedroom. My palm held 30pills, as I stared at a wall. Hell, there was a time when I had grinded up a few pills and put them into a cup of water, but guess what… I didn’t drink it I threw it away 🫢

There was only two things that stopped me. 1) i recieved an email, (I forgot to turn my phone off that day) and a author replied to a comment that I wrote for their Romione fic, which made me smile and realize, “wait, if I do this now I won’t get to read the rest of their story, they won’t know how much I care about the way they write Ron and Hermione”

[ just in case you want to know what fic I read, and maybe this will make you less of a foul human being the story is called: Not Yet by Rennervator on A03. But please don’t think of leaving foul reviews because that’s truly pathetic 😊]

and reason 2) I didn’t want to traumatize anyone when they would walk into my room and see the aftermath of what I was about to do. Even in my darkest moments I think of others, crazy right!

Given, I still have days (too much to count) in which I think why bother? I feel alone, sometimes before going to bed I listen to music and just lay there as tears stream down my face. And think to myself that maybe just maybe I’ll get better someday.

Even last night, my day started off great and ended up with my mom yelling at me because I tripped over knocked down a basket of flowers, crazy how she called me fucking worthless/why I always have to fuck things up and then 30mins later acted like nothing happened 🤔 that definitely doesn’t mess with my mental/emotional state at all *I’m being sarcastic if you don’t understand, my love*

I hope the door doesn’t hit YOU on your way out, and if it does I feel incredibly sorry that the door was touched by someone like yourself.

Please get some help.

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Uncertain

for Angstpril, Day 24: Trauma (alt)

cw: whump aftermath, wound cleaning, mentioned weight loss, non-sexual nudity, discussed death wish/suicide attempts

prev ///// masterlist ///// next

note: please mind the warnings. If you'd like to read a version of this chapter without a specific element, feel free to PM me and I'll send you an edited version. Stay safe, everyone!

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It was a mile's trek back to their great-uncle's house, made all the longer with the pelt of the rain on their back and the weight of the injured man in their arms. Cerus had begun the journey upright, stumbling along with a thin arm wrapped around Tansy's shoulders, but it had soon become apparent that he was in no condition to walk. They'd lifted his shaking form, trying not to think about how light he was, how his flesh radiated heat even through the wet clothing. How the shipwrights had him working out in the cold anyway.

Neither of them spoke a word throughout, and when Tansy spared a glance down to check on Cerus, his eyes were closed. For his own sake, they hoped he was unconscious.

Aldon was still not home when they opened the door, but that was perhaps for the better. They weren't certain he'd be all too happy at the idea of sheltering the former tyrant. For now, Cerus would have to be their secret.

Tansy carried him upstairs, to the sparse room their uncle had set aside for them, and lay Cerus on the bed. Their shoulders burned from the effort of getting him here, but now was not the time to rest. They discarded their waterlogged cloak, and began to cut away Cerus's soaked rags. The man seemed to be awake now; half-lidded eyes above hollow cheeks, staring dully at the ceiling. He made no move to struggle, or even speak.

He was considerably thinner than he'd been at his trial, the sharp outline of ribs and hip bones jutting against pale skin. Scars and bruises, old and new, covered his body, and when they rolled him onto his side to check his back, they were met with a horrific number of whip marks, some still oozing blood, darkening the bedsheets.

Though his eyes were open, Cerus responded to Tansy's examination as if he were unconscious, offering neither remark nor resistance, and Tansy was left wondering if it was the fever that had left him numbed to the world around, or if it was simply how the man protected himself from the constant maltreatment.

"I'm going to clean your wounds," they said, watching for a response. To their surprise, Cerus's eyes sharpened.

"And wh—" He let out a cough that shook his body. "Why would you do s-something like that?"

Why indeed? Wanting to help the suffering was human nature, but when the sufferer himself was the cause of so much misery, what was one to do? They did not reply, rolling Cerus onto his stomach.

"Wait here," they said, though they doubted he was capable of doing otherwise, and walked down the stairs, toward the kitchen.

Why indeed. The strangeness of the situation was starting to take hold of them. How could they do something like this? Saving the very person they'd sworn to depose, bringing him into their home, tending to him. Would anyone else in the village, in all of Feyadel, do the same, or was Tansy mad for making such a choice? What would their comrades in the battalion think of their decision, were they here to see it?

More than why they'd done it, another question was heavy in their thoughts; what were they going to do, now that they'd chosen to help? Cerus was under sentence. He lawfully belonged to the shipyard, regardless of the abuse he'd suffer there. Even if they could grant him a reprieve from the rain, he couldn't very well stay here; eventually someone would come looking for him. Still, they couldn't in good conscience just hand him back over to the docks, not when he was clearly ill, not when he could barely stand.

For now, they'd try and curb their worries, and think only of tonight. Whatever tomorrow brought, they'd handle it in the morning.

They gathered linen cloth and water from the kitchen, tucking a small bottle of brandy under their arm as well. Tansy was a soldier, not a medic, but they'd still treated their fair share of wounds. The parcel of clams watched them forlornly from the wooden counter, and Tansy cast a glance back at it as they climbed the stairs. First they'd tend to Cerus, then get a start on dinner before their uncle returned. And hopefully, he wouldn't notice if they cooked for three.

Cerus flinched when they opened the door, as if startled from sleep, and Tansy knelt by the bed, depositing their supplies beside them.

"This will sting," they warned, as they wetted a cloth with brandy, then wondered why they bothered. Couldn't they at least find catharsis in the necessary pain that came with cleaning his wounds?

Cerus inhaled through clenched teeth as Tansy touched the cloth to his back, his next breath turning into a whimper when they began to gently scrub the torn, feverish skin. As much as they wished they could, Tansy found no solace in his pain. They finished cleaning and binding the cuts without another word, then covered Cerus with a blanket, trying to ignore the way he stared at them.

"You're not a priest," he said bluntly. "Nor a healer."

Tansy lifted their chin. "I'm a soldier," they replied. "I fought to end your reign."

He showed no reaction. "And you did. So why?"

Tansy turned away. They didn't need to have this conversation with him, of all people.

"Y-you should've left me."

That halted them in place. "To die?"

Cerus let out a bitter laugh that rapidly degraded into a coughing fit. "Do you think I don't desire an end? Do you think I fear death enough to cling to a life such as this one?"

Tansy frowned. "If that were so… would you not have found your own end?"

 "If I throw myself into the sea, they haul me out. If I cut a vein, they hold me down and send for a healer. I am not allowed to escape. All I can do is wait for my body to fail."

"You'd rather I'd left you to be beaten, then."

"I have received more beatings than a man can count. What's one that goes unfinished?" His words dissolved into another vicious cough. "You were a soldier. Certainly, you saw friends felled by my troops. Family."

"You'd have difficulty finding a soldier who hasn't," Tansy answered, their tone flat. Why would he bring up such a thing now? Did he wish to turn them against him, to drive them to throw him back out into the rain?

"Then you have as much reason to hate me as everyone else," Cerus said. "Why bring me here? Why not leave me to die, or even end me by your own hand?" He tried to push himself up with shaking arms, but fell back onto the bed with a cry. "Y–ghnn—you've lost family by my hand. This very village burned by my hand. Why let me draw another breath? Why not strike me down?"

Tansy shook their head. It seemed that Cerus was trying to goad them into anger, but why? Whatever the reason, they would not allow themselves to be persuaded by him.

"I've seen enough bloodshed for one lifetime," they answered.

"And I am at fault for that," Cerus protested.

They closed their eyes against his words, reaching for the door. "Rest."

"I felt no remorse, no regret," Cerus called after them, voice rising, shaking. "Will you not take vengeance?"

Tansy closed their fingers around the door's handle, clenching it tightly. They almost wished they could, and certainly wished they didn't feel this odd, misplaced pity. But it wouldn't be vengeance anymore, it would be simple cruelty. An honorable execution was seven months too late, and they could never bring themselves to raise a hand against someone as weak and sick and hurt as Cerus was right now, especially not at his behest.

When they glanced backwards, the former tyrant was wearing an expression they couldn't quite place. Was it anger? Fear? Simple disbelief that Tansy would dare tend to him?

"Will you not take vengeance?" he repeated, his voice now barely above a whisper, and Tansy shook their head.

"What vengeance is left to take?" they murmured, and finally opened the door, stepped through, and pulled it closed behind them.

§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump

[dijwarcomic]

[ursulaismymiddlename]

In the Grip of Despair - Dream of the Endless x Reader

The Realm of Despair is a desolate place, but Dream always answers a formal calling

Rated T for Trigger Warning: Suicide Attempt

Thanks again @captainpoopweinersoldier for all the encouragement You know Morpheus agrees with you on so many things haha Thanks also to @whats-rambled-rambled for squealing with me as well!

“Brother, I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil.  I request an audience.  Attend, Dream.”

It was not often that Morpheus heard the call of his sister Despair.  She and her twin Desire were close, and as such, Dream found himself with a healthy caution when it came to either.  But from his place near the heart of The Dreaming, he could not ignore the formal request.  It would be… discourteous.

With little effort, he appeared in his sister’s realm.  The misty mirrors and rotten doorways littered the air as ominous as any nightmare he might have created.  And it was easy to follow the scurry of rodent feet as they rushed to return to their mistress, to live among her stringy hair and bite at her sallow skin.

“You called, sister?”

“Dream,” she rasped, his sigil still perched upon her worn fingers.  “Thank you for heeding me.”

Morpheus shifted slightly, straightening to his full height as he looked down at her.  “I presume this is no social visit.  What is it you want, Despair?”

It was her turn to move, lumbering to her gallery to replace his sigil in its appropriate spot.  Her snort of a chuckle held no mirth, but it also did not hold the malice he was so used to from her twin.

“Call it a professional courtesy then, brother,” she offered. A few rats squealed in protest as her feet shuffled her closer, parting them like underbrush.  “Though the matter for which I am calling is a personal one.”

“Speak your piece.”  Dream’s voice held all the command of his station, uninterested in being toyed with and thinking, in part, he knew what this could be about. 

Despite being their sibling’s shadow, Despair was not quite so cunning as Desire.  Not quite so interested in causing trouble for her older, more proper brother. She actually held quite the respect for him, especially after taking up her current mantle.  Aside from Desire and The Prodigal, Dream was a close third on her list of favorites.  Though she and Delirium had been growing much closer over the last centuries.

“I do not wish to take up your precious time, brother.”  She turned to him, sunken eyes averted as she lifted her own sigil to tear at the skin of her cheek.  “I only wanted to speak with you in regards to your lover.  Your former lover.”

Dream’s jaw clenched, mouth twisting into a grimace.  “That matter is not of your concern.”

The mention of you caught him off guard, a bitter taste in the back of his throat.  Things had not ended on good terms.  In fact, in the interest of your safety, the Dream Lord had made a quick and definitive exit, leaving no room for pleading. No room for second thoughts.  He even went so far as to banish you from The Dreaming, to save both you and himself from more heartache.

“Those in my realm are of my concern,” Despair countered, turning to shuffle her way through a row of dingy wall mirrors suspended in the fog.  Without needing told, he followed after her before she could disappear from sight.

Her words struck a chord in him.  Morpheus had certainly quit himself of you only a handful of months ago, the thought of you still raw in his chest.  But he had become too consumed by you, a mere mortal, and the closer the two of you became, the more he feared your ruin.  Dream would sooner rip out his own heart than see you waste away from your place in the Waking World.  See the vibrancy of your spirit worn down by the stress of loving an Endless being.  And so he had done just that, ripped the beating heart from himself and left you behind.  Built a wall to quell the temptation of returning to you again and again.

Though he would not dare to call you fickle, he knew that hearts of humans moved swifter than those of the Endless. He'd hoped that his feigned detachment would make things easier for you to move onto some other mortal being, no matter how it ate at him. But to know now that you resided in this desolate realm pained him.

And the pain only grew when his sister stopped in front of a familiar mirror.  Even adorned with cobwebs and cracks, he recognized it.  The mirror above your bathroom sink.  A window into Your Despair.  The sight of you alone was a stab to his heart, the blade of it twisting viciously at the dark circles and reddened rims of your eyes, the hollowness of them.  The vibrancy he once so cherished had been snuffed; a desaturated gray to match his sister’s realm.

His own eyes swam, head bowing under the weight of his guilt.  “Why do you show me this?”

“Because I have no quarrel with you, brother.”  Despair’s voice was grit out with the sound of unshed tears from countless eons.  “Desire is my twin, my mirror.  But I know neither of our powers would be as great without yours. Dreams sweeten the taste of desire and turn it to ash in the mouths of those who dwell here, with me.”

The truth of her words did little to assuage his heart.  Neither did the sniffle and quiet sob that drew his attention back to the mirror before him.  Your fingers were wiping almost frantic at your cheeks, knuckles dragging tears from your eyes as your other shaky hand tried to steady itself around some sort of orange bottle.

“What are they doing?” Dream stepped closer to the mirror, the rats beneath his feet parting in protest.  His eyes narrowed as he watched you close your eyes and take a ragged breath.

“That is why I called,” Despair crept forward to join his view.  The hook of her sigil dragged along her jawline in a bloody caress as she regarded the scene before them.  “Their sadness is… exquisite, but I take no pleasure in it.  I thought you should have a chance before they leave my realm in search of our eldest sister.”

Dream’s gaze snapped to his sister in shock, mouth dry and his heart sinking deeper into the void of his chest.  A glance back at the mirror showed you steady, resigned, reading the label on the bottle you held. Your face grim determination as your fingers moved to unfasten the lid.

“Sister?” His voice was a terrified plea.

“Go,” Despair nodded with unaccustomed encouragement.  “No door is locked to you here.”

In a blink, Morpheus was gone.  A swirl of black sand disintegrating into the ether.  Despair plucked a rat from her shoulder to cradle in her arms as she turned away, its teeth gnawing into her ragged flesh.  The rest of this story was not for her.  It was up to her elders now.

—

“Stop.”

The familiar voice shuddered along your skin, stunning you to stillness even as you clutched the now-open bottle of sleeping pills.  It took the breath from your lungs, it always had.  But you hadn’t heard it for months now, not even in the sleep deprived recesses of your memory.  You could feel as he materialized beside you, goosebumps rising on your skin.  And part of you wondered if this was madness finally taking hold of you as your eyes stayed transfixed on the contents of your hands.  Not daring to hope.  Not daring to breathe.

A broken sob slipped past your lips as Dream’s pale hand wrapped carefully around your wrist.  How long had you pined for his touch again?  The soft silk of his skin along yours, even as it held you fast.  Your eyes rose, first to the mirror and the sullen image of your reflection, then finally to his face.  His face as pale and handsome as you could remember.  Eyes dancing in the sparse light.

“You will not find my realm with these.  Only the Sunless Lands await you at the bottom of this bottle.”

His voice was softer, soothing, and it ached in your chest as you sniffed.  “Better there than this.. This nightmare of a waking world.”

Lord Morpheus, King of The Dreaming, proud creature that he is, lowered his head.

“I was a fool.”  Pain laced his voice, and guilt.  He dared meet your gaze again, closing the scant distance between you slowly, fingers plucking the bottle from your hands with little resistance as you watched him.  “I’d hoped you would live a mortal life, free of the complications of my station.  I thought it would protect you from further heartache.”

“You are a fool,” you spat, though the quiver of your lower lip hampered the venom of it.  Pain and indignation, sadness and fear, and even relief at the sight of his face… it all warred in you.  Overwhelmed you.  Until all that could come out was a mournful keen as tears welled in your eyes once more.  “I couldn’t even dream of you.”

Your knees buckled beneath you, but he was there.  Morpheus caught you easily, strong arms pulling you into the warm softness of his jacket.  Cradling you against his chest like a precious thing.

“Shhh, my love,” he murmured into the crown of your head.  “I will not let you go again.”

[ohtobeleah]

How do the rest of the daggers react to Hollywood and Jake’s deaths?

Bruises // Jake Seresin

Hollywoods (Reader) Death

-> Hangman:

Absolutely destroyed. There’s a deep sense of guilt imbedded into him that he should have done more.

He goes between believing you did it on purpose to believing wholeheartedly that it was just an accident.

Jake never recovers, he ultimate ends up swallowing his entire collection of pain killers to be with you again.

-> Rooster:

Takes it on the chin.

He’s used to people he cares about leaving him.

Sure it hurts for a while, you left a deep impression on his heart just from your ability to still have empathy and understanding for others after what you went through.

Rooster doesn’t cry, but he mourns you. He cleans out your locker on behalf of Jake.

-> Phoenix:

Is in utter disbelief at first. She doesn’t understand how you survived so much and died besides the man you loved.

Helps coordinate your funeral.

Cries whenever she’s alone but never around Jake or Bradley. Bob sometimes catches a glum but Phoenix is usually pretty good at keeping her emotions in check.

-> Bob:

Like Phoenix, his initial reaction is disbelief.

Bob cried for days. He doesn’t understand any of it. He rings his mum to tell so someone, just anyone who will listen because your story makes him queasy his religious beliefs. He doesn’t believe a god worth serving would put someone through what you went through just to take you in your sleep.

-> Fanboy:

Cooks meal after meal after meal.

He knows Jake won’t be doing well so decides that cooking for him would be the best way to help.

He organised for the Daggers to hold a small celebration of your life down by the beach before the funeral. It’s casual, there’s drinks and Jake gets so drunk out of grief that Fanboy has to carry him home:

-> Coyote:

Doesn’t have a single word to say.

He found out while driving and had to pull over to throw up.

At the funeral his knees feel weak. He doesn’t have any words to describe the feeling of grief that he feels so deeply. His bones feel like they ache at the thought of you possibly giving up the good fight.

-> Payback:

Immediately believes it’s a tragic accident.

Doesn’t want to even consider that you did this on purpose.

Understandable though he knows what trauma does to a person. So the more he finds out about the situation, the more he realises that maybe, just maybe, you did it on purpose.

Makes sure to remove all the hard liquor from Jake’s home.

-> Mav:

Questions why someone who he once considered a friend would send their only daughter on a mission he knew was a suicide mission.

Jakes Death:

-> Rooster:

He’s the one who finds Jake. He tried to save him by shoving his fingers down this wings-man’s throat but it’s to no avail. Jakes gone.

He’s mad. So mad it consumes him.

Rooster goes the rest of his life believe Jake Seresin was a coward.

-> Phoenix:

When she’s first told the news, it’s denial at its finest.

Phoenix doesn’t believe Jake would do that, but when Rooster stares her down and physically starts to sob? She knows it’s true.

Helps coordinate the funnel.

-> Bob:

Understands why Jake did what he did the minute he found out.

Feels conflicted. He once again questions his belief systems and wants answers to questions he can’t ask because the people he needs to ask those questions to are gone.

Swears blind he sees Jake at his own funeral. Lingering around the coffin like a lost soul.

-> Fanboy:

Cooks for the entire squad. Organises for everyone to stay together at Hakes house the days following his death.

Tells Rooster that he’ll contact Jakes family to see how they’re going.

-> Coyote:

Can’t process the idea Jake Seresin isn’t on this earth anymore. He doesn’t feel whole anymore.

Goes through all their old photos and recounts memories for months after his friends death.

-> Payback:

His immediate reaction is that at least Jake is with you, where he needed to be.

Has a reoccurring dream about you and Jake on a farm somewhere he doesn’t recognise.

-> Mav:

Two losses from the same squad is enough for him. He mourns Jake like a son.

[dangermousie]

This scene is something else!

Honestly, it's just so so so amazing! The way she tries to talk him down from being an aberration.

Ooooof!

The way she's bleeding from fighting to drag him off the ledge and is still trying to wake DH up. I looooove that she actually manages to get through OMG.

Ji Sung is such a good actor because you can tell the exact moment DH is back in the body.

[fridurwrites]

The Loss of the Constant - Chapter 5 (The Quiet Shade)

CW: Self-harm, suicide attempt.

The Travelers’ Song has no words. It’s been a part of Hearthian culture since before the Hearthians had a name for themselves. A melody echoing in the dark. A simple promise. If you can hear this, it says, then you are not alone.  It was Esker’s idea to adopt it as the Venture’s unofficial code. Gneiss, though not officially a part of the Venture, had volunteered even then to produce an instrument for each outgoing astronaut as soon as possible. With Esker, they painstakingly sit down and compose a part of the melody for each new player. After their first launch, Esker traditionally teaches the new astronaut their part on the Attlerock, and on the rare occasion they’re all together the pieces twist and combine into the most beautiful arrangement. Gossan hopes it never stops evolving, even long after the founders are all gone. Tadpoles learn it by heart as they grow, simply from hearing it as a lullaby. Every Hearthian that has ever been a Hearthian has known the song, somewhere in their heart, and whether or not they have the same reverence for it that the astronauts do they carry it with them wherever they go. For Gabbro, there’s a wooden flute mostly-finished in Gneiss’ workshop. It’s a simple design with a hidden depth to its sound, a versatile instrument that fits Gabbro’s personality so well. Gossan refuses to imagine a world where Gabbro never receives it.