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nereidprinc3ss · 8 months ago

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trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago.

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out.

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy.

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere.

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death.

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death.

Just… not yours.

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial.

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job.

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns.

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to.

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well.

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital.

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.”

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat.

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words.

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle.

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that.

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good.

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now.

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago.

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa.

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps.

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was.

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door.

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking.

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before.

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now.

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed.

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one.

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing.

The door closes as quietly as it opens.

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse.

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get.

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough.

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth.

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall.

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain.

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly.

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in.

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night.

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise.

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention.

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern.

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place.

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking.

“Hm?”

He hesitates.

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog.

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it.

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone.

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel.

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand.

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight.

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass.

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass.

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead.

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did.

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things.

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore.

And yet.

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful.

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever.

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour.

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now.

You doubt they ever could.

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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vocalux · 6 months ago

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tw for cotards delusions ( ? ) only delusions : there is a chance it could be triggering for someone

— sorry if its bad or confusing , its my first time creating something like this !

— reverse cotards syndrome / rcs

rcs is a syndrome in which a dead person has the delusional belief that they are ( still ) alive !

symptoms ; ;

1 - experience of emotions : this describes the unusual experience of individuals who even after death feel emotions .

the emotions may be felt differently , strangely , confusingly , or in extreme ways . people with rcs may not know how to describe or understand what they are feeling , and may not know how to express it .

2 - physical sensations : this symptom describes the false sensation of physical things , such as feeling the wind passing by you , feeling cold , being touched , etc .

usually the false sensation comes along with : feeling blood passing through your body , heart beating , organs working etc .

3 - hunger : people with rcs often feel hunger , whether it is false or " real " , but when they try to eat , they throw up the food .

4 - constant memories : rcs usually comes with constant memories of life when alive , which can be just in the mind , feeling and / or seeing physical things , like people who are not there , old smells , etc .

5 - denial of death : individuals with this syndrome strongly deny that they have died , pretend and / or believe that their memories of death , burial or others are false and created by their own mind .

6 - automated movements / routine : rcs makes the person , even without realizing it , follow the same routine they had when they were alive .

7 - repetitive search for things that make you feel more alive : wearing a certain type of clothing , some makeup or product , way of acting , some object that makes you seem more alive to the point of interfering with your daily life and / or coexistence with other people .

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shitty-proendo-blackout-posts · 5 months ago

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I’m going to preface this by saying i am against faking disorders and therefore anti endogenic “systems” but can you genuinely explain why you believe that endos are valid./srs i just wanna know your thought process

- the vast majority of endogenic systems arent claiming to have a dissociative disorder. and the ones who do arent claiming to have no trauma whatsoever, just that the trauma didnt cause their system to form. (or theyre being really pedantic about the word "usually" in the dsm5 but i can only think of one person who does that). i dont think that counts as faking a disorder.

- i also dont think its hurting anyone for people to have an experience thats vaguely similar to a disorder without having said disorder.

- i try to respect people's beliefs, even if i dont understand or agree with them. even if i didnt believe endogenic plurality was a thing, i still would respect people who do believe it. because in my opinion, it harms nobody. im not going say that im anti-past life therians just because i dont believe in reincarnation, or put anyone religous on a dni because i dont think that any higher power exists.

- and speaking of: werewolf therians arent faking clinical lycanthropy. undeadkin arent faking cotards syndrome. so following that logic, nontraumagenic systems arent faking did/osdd. [I am not trying to use either of these disorders as a "gotcha", I am just explaining the mindset I have. But if anybody with cotards syndrome would like me to delete this part, please let me know and i will do so immediately. /srs]

- the brain is weird. multiple identities/selves/whatever without childhood trauma probably isnt the weirdest.

- also i might be misremembering but arent theyre multiple authors who have said that they can actually talk to and/or hear their characters? i highly doubt every single author who has experienced that has did and introjects of their characters and just doesnt realize it.

i hope at least some of this makes sense 👍

#clarification just to put my mind at ease:#im not claiming to be right nor am i claiming that you are wrong.#im not making an argument for or against anything.#these are just my thoughts on it /gen #lol.txt

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iliadicjasontodd · 7 months ago

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Do you have any Jason AO3 fic recommendations? Or just DC AO3 fic recommendations in general?

Hello! Hi, yes I do.

So, of course, anything by yutro @boyfridged, first of all, such as paint it over, black out days, & leave no trace, but genuinely all of their work is incredible. They understand Jason on a fundamental level- though to say he understands only Jason that deeply would do him and his writing which is so, so skilled, a disservice :))

the clay steals the clay by zipadeea is beautiful.

I'm sure you're familiar with it, but PLUTO. by orpheusaki @damianbugs is, imo, a classic. It recalls some of the feeling of some of the best parts of Countdown for me, for obvious reasons.

all of ceramicheart's (who I'm not certain would want me linking his tumblr blog!) work also- in particular redshift, but all of that series and, like I said, I love all of her work. ultimate Kyle Rayner understander & beautiful writer.

What the Living Do, Anonymous, is one of my favourite fics, esp as someone trying to give Jason Cotard's Delusion at every possible occasion.

last word WISDOM better get some even too late by Esmenet is one of my favourite fics point-blank. the Anne Carson of it all...

Get Used to Dying, by papered_king is one I always associate with the above, stylistically also! Love the meta of this, love theatre as horror.

a second darkness by vlnlr @batphobique. This absolutely blew me away, and the script format was, personally, a major bonus. I will probably be reading this over and over again.

mushrooms at sunrise by bleepbloopskoodlebop & Amble On (and your friends will surely find you) by Nightsrk both feature Jason dealing with schizophrenia, and I am very, very fond of both.

the Emergency Line series by crucifixinhell

i am what i am by luuma.

dirt by sunspikes. It's horror to me.

Time Loop fic! Ad Infinitum; Modified by familiarities (twistsandturns)

The Cold Like Coming Home by cabezas_de_vaca.

Smashing Tail Lights by CunningCrow @redactedcrow. I have read this about 5 times. I am still (very patiently) waiting for part two. It was, I think, the fic I read directly after reading Lost Days for the first time.

Apollo by sparkypants. the horror of never letting go!!! the horror of bruce wayne specifically never letting anything go!!!

Incomplete, but which came first (the robin or the grave) by figofswords @figofswords. Two years on I'm still hoping for more but it's very good as is as well!

do you listen to the girl in red, white, and blue? by ThatSpicySeaFlapFlap. Stephanie Brown girl of all time Stephanie Brown

Trapped by lurkinglurkerwholurks. I must have read it about 15 times whenever I'm feeling anxious. Because something is wrong with me.

Song of the Insensible by Jade_green.

The Whale by chucklesbuckles if you want some very terrifying Jason, & Get Joker by them (featuring maybe one of the only Harley Quinn depictions in a fanfic I've found compelling, not that I know her well) also!

Your reflection, your bitter deception & dust in my mind by KangaRou.

Bloodstains Won't Make It Matter by skylarkblue.

This is orphaned, but The Last Laugh.

Enough by Lunette3002.

Batman Kills the Joker by DragonflyxParodies & Palimpsest by cabezas_de_vaca both take interesting metatextual approaches to killing that stupid clown.

You're No Hero to this Story, Just Another Wretched Pawn by EventualToast. The way this is written is so genuinely unmooring and perturbing; it feels very authentically like derealisation and the true experience of profound horror despite most of that being magic.

To My Brother by a_silly_gander, I’d feel less like St. Sebastian if you’d stop searching for another arrow by worthy_willow, i know (do you know?) by cuephrase, imperfections can be nice by mikkal, Where You Perfectly Stand by cherrysour, what's in your head? by sinistercacophany @sinistercacophony (also has very good aftg fics, as an andrew enjoyer I come back to their work often), . I am at heart just sentimental about Dick & Jason.

the prophetic spring by yellow_caballero @yellowocaballero. I need you to understand I barely ever approve of Reverse Robin AUs. It's a thing. I talked about it extensively. I don't even care about or actively dislike a lot of the characters this au focuses on but it doesn't even matter here, seeing as I've been a fan of this author's writing for ages. So much tragicomedy. If you, or anyone reading this ask happen to be a fan of TMA do yourselves a favour and go read their TMA work also.

Late Night Langoustining by whaleofatime. I rarely read fluff but I'm very fond of this one.

Stage Directions by confusedrambler.

I mention sparingly but arkham!jason was my first foray into DC at all- and so naturally Ill Weeds Grow Apace by LananiA3O is something I've come back to, mostly for nostalgia nowadays. And trauma of course.

So if you want to absolutely ruin your entire day and possibly week and possibly several months, Of Broken, Blazing Wings by FrEShAVocaNoob. It absolutely wrecked me, I felt genuinely unwell after, but it was worth it.

Clearly Calm and Keeping Terrorised by Batbirdies & the Make a Little Birdhouse in Your Soul series by bacondoughnut are others I think everyone knows, but I thought I'd mention them anyway.

Anyway, I'm sure it shows that I've got a bit of one-track mind when it comes to characters I read fic about, but I hope this is a good collection for you. It took me two hours in one sitting but for some reason I can't write an essay for my master's degree? Fascinating.

#asks #fic #noa.txt

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revolvinghell · 4 months ago

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oh good we're doing this.

What your favorite Will Wood song says about you!! and if i dont say yours feel free to let me know

Where do you get off?: either asexual or VERY horny, no in between.

The Song With Five Names: you REALLY like to confuse people when they ask about your favorite song. You also need some of that Old Time Religion.

Front Street: you probably watch the 2019 bbq videos on repeat. Also, drugs.

Chemical Overreaction: in the words of blake jennings: lsd is not a hobby. no, neither is screaming.

Mr Capgras: youre cool! but maybe work on those trust issues.

Blackboxwarrior OKULTRA: do you even understand half of this song?? Genuine question, I want to know.

Cotard's solution: lemme guess. You have unmanaged anger issues that you manage to suppress, until you have a bad day, and then the doorknob is enough to make you punch a hole through your wall. …same.

Vampire Reference: YOU ARE COOL. I am biased, but you are COOL.

2012: you probably lose yourself a lot. and say "fuck" a lot, that too.

2012 (again): you call this music.

Laplace's Angel: i have nothing to say. theres such a wide array of Laplace's Angel fans that it's impossible to pinpoint similarities.

I/Me/Myself: 💅

Aikido: you probably played this on valentines day. My only question is: why do you think this is an acceptable love song?

Bones: not a day goes by where this song isn't stuck in your head.

Destroy to Enjoy: anger issues, hating religion, did i miss anything? oh right. CONSTRUCTION SOUNDS

The First Step: admit you have a problem. will wood is not a coping mechanism either, by the way.

2econd 2ight 2eer: you quote this song every time you leave a room. STOP IT.

6up 5oh cop-out (pro/con): you hate police. but this song is about getting arrested for drunk driving.

You liked this (okay, computer!): this is a total shot in the dark, but you either hate the internet or want to be a cult leader.

Any 2018 demo: you like this more than the original song. And you're gayer.

Memento Mori: mm, how's that existential crisis going today? On schedule? Good? Okay. Go to therapy.

Red moon: …do you exist??

…And if I did, you deserved it: youre probably an artist of some kind.

Tomcat Disposables or Euthanasia: you could benefit from lexapro. Or any other antidepressant for that matter.

to be continued lol

#william woodiam #William woodiam #will wood and the tapeworms #wwattw #do you like how i talk?

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rosesrotofficial · 8 months ago

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asks from the slaughterhouse

How would ronin or angel react to someone with Cotard’s syndrome? It is a very fascinating thing to research so I’m just asking for funsies!

ans: they would both empathise because both ronin and angel have gone through feelings of their bodies unbelonging to themselves and so understand feeling so disassociated they feel dead.

though their care would come through in different ways:

ronin's more caustic, would crack "dead girl/boy/person walking" jokes, as a way to help them cope.

angel would be openly caring + concerned; she won't push, because god knows she wouldn't want anyone to push her. but she'd help, the best she can. i just have a vision of her and the person with cotard's lying in bed next to each other, watching the ceiling fan go.

(our discord discord discord :3)

#killer chat #killer chat asks #ronin killer chat #angel killer chat

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clusterrune · 1 year ago

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thank you so much

i know many of these actually come from quotev but i want everyone here to know their interaction, support and views in general are increadibly appreciated. /srs

#important #mod kris #resource books #understanding book series #understanding narcissism #understanding cotards #diary of a narcissist #are you a narcissist

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mothergold · 1 year ago

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| I Wanna Make My Murder Look Like A Suicide |

Pairing: Diluc x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark content, Yandere, Yan!Diluc, Fem!Reader, Reader wears a dress, Diluc is your husband, Abuse, Manipulation, Reader is disabled, Reader uses a cane, Reader is referred to as Diluc’s ‘Wife’, Mentions of past forced feeding, Arranged Marriage, It is implied that reader’s family was abusive, Scratching (Reader), Diluc is very cruel in this, Kaeya appears towards the end, Dissociation, Reader has a mental breakdown, Stockholm Syndrome (? I’m unsure about this one ?), 4.6k Words.

A/n: Reupload because I deleted this foasijfasodi but yeah idk I really just think yandere!Diluc is neat. Also, the title are lyrics from the song Cotard’s Solution by Will Wood and The Tapeworms.

Summary: When your family arranges a marriage with the wealthy owner of Dawn Winery, you jump at the first chance you can to escape your cruel family, but what new hell awaits you on the other side?

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asked in a cold tone.

It threw you off for a moment but only briefly, because if there’s one thing you could promise yourself it’s that your husband, Diluc, would never harm you. But somehow you couldn’t help but clutch onto the fabric of your dress, the same one he gave you on your first wedding anniversary, hands shaking for some unknown reason.

“I was just going for a walk. Would you like to j-” He cut you off mid sentence, snapping at you in response.

“No, I don’t want to go anywhere and neither should you. It’s”— He checked his pocket watch before quickly tucking it back into his pocket— “Three in the morning and both of us should be heading to bed.”

“But-” Before you could get another word in he’d grabbed your wrist and pulled you forward.

That was your cue that it was indeed time to end the night, in bed… with your husband. Your beloved husband who would never steer you astray. So, then why did you have this feeling in the pit of your stomach that something was terribly and unmistakably wrong?

Soon the sun rose and pierced through the window of your bedroom, waking you up with its warm rays and urging you to get ready for the day. You didn’t have anywhere to go or anything to do exactly—to be fair you never did—but that never stopped you from looking your very best. So, you quickly put on a decent looking outfit, brushed your hair, and grabbed your cane. And just as you were about to descend down the stairs you saw the flower embroidered basket out of the corner of your eye. It always tempted you, or maybe taunted is the more appropriate word, and you decided against fighting your desires and instead hooked it over your free arm.

You checked both ways before tip-toeing downstairs, hoping your walk was closer than it was last night. Closer and closer you came to the front door, you knew it was silly but you really wanted to take a walk and you couldn’t understand your husband’s rejections towards it. Your hand was on the bronze knob and you were just about to turn it when a hand placed itself on your shoulder. You jumped and looked to see who it was and to your surprise and relief, it was Adelinde. It made getting caught a little less scary and a lot more tedious, because you knew there was nothing you could do to keep her watchful eyes off of you.

She smiled fondly, too fondly, and finally spoke. “You’re supposed to be resting. Come on, let’s get you some breakfast. Master Diluc is expecting you.” She led you into the dining area.

Pulling back an open seat, Adelinde helped you into your seat, pushing your chair closer to the table while the both of you waited for Diluc to arrive. And once he did she did the same for him and walked outside as he dismissed her. Not once did she look back and it made you nervous for reasons you weren’t sure of. The both of you waited in thick silence for the food to arrive, and once it had he took a few bites before he ordered everyone in the house to give you two some privacy.

It was that moment, that moment right then and there that made you question just what exactly your husband would say or do. Maybe an answer to last night’s little event, or something truly dreadful instead. It was the very minute you happened to look at him that he set down his utensils and spoke at last.

“Are you unhappy?” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just questioned the very existence of you in his life.

You were stunned, but not too much that you couldn’t speak.

“Of course I am! What kind of question is that?” you replied defensively.

Your heart began to pound harshly against your chest, and you could feel the sudden drop of your stomach. Clenching the fork in your right hand you tried grounding yourself, controlling your emotions, but the feeling was so strong you started to cry.

Diluc reached over and gingerly wiped away the stray tear on your cheek. “Please, don’t cry.” You were silent aside from the hurtful whimpers you let out. “I’m not mad.”

Diluc slowly made his way out of his chair and knelt beside yours in an effort to comfort you, but that did quite the opposite. He gently held onto your left hand and looked at you with softened eyes, except for the fact that they were grey and empty. You tried to stop crying but your tears became uncontrollable, and soon you were sobbing into the crook of your right arm’s elbow. It felt like your world was caving, as if your heart stopped and the air was stripped straight from your lungs. The worst part was how you had no clue what was the real problem, that was until you said that loathsome phrase you always did end up blurting out.

“Are.. Are you leaving me?” you asked timidly.

The fear in your voice was evident but you couldn’t find the strength or courage to pretend otherwise. Sometimes when you blurted it out you hoped he wouldn’t answer, just so that there was no choice for rejection. It was better that way you told yourself, even though he had never rejected you. To be frank, if he hadn’t put that worry in your head in the first place, then you wouldn't have reacted this way. But if there’s one thing you learned from this marriage it was that Diluc would show you only what he wanted you to see. So, to the world he was an honest man, a doting husband, and above all, kind, but that was not the reality you lived.

Diluc took both of your hands now and gave them a tight grip, looking you deep in your eyes. “I will never leave you. Okay, sweetheart?”

His words felt less like a promise and more like a threat. You used to have so much more fight in you, but these days you barely had any left. So, you nodded and allowed him to give you a hug before the both of you finished up your breakfast. The remainder of the day was spent watching out the windows of your regal prison, dreaming of the day you could finally feel the sun on your face again. This was the pattern of your every day, from the moment the sun went up and till the very time it fell below the ground; wishing and praying that someday your fate would change. Perhaps that day was closer than you presumed, but you were doubtful.

The pattern continued for weeks, you had constant flare ups and Diluc would consistently refuse to let you leave the house. Until, one day ,the pain had lessened enough to the point where you didn’t need your cane or wheelchair, and instead could truly stretch your legs for once. It was by no means a permanent thing but you wanted to celebrate this small relief, and with what you might ask? A nice walk through the outside breeze of course. Today was the day you were so sure that Diluc would let you outside, or at the very least walk with you.

So, you found a comfortable outfit to wear, looked at your aid with a triumphant smile, and carefully descended down the stairs. You were proud to be able to have a day free of your mobility aid, it was liberating, but you knew once you saw Diluc at the bottom of the steps that something was wrong. Something was very wrong, indeed. Slowly you walked down the staircase and once you were face to face with your husband, you could see his face was that of a truly frustrated and fed up man.

He knows, you thought to yourself.

“You’re late,” he said in a cold tone as he pulled out a chair at the table for you, and helped you into your seat.

You kept your sights on your food as much as you could, because you knew damn well that Diluc could sniff out your true feelings with ease. Making sure to hold eye contact with Diluc as much as you could stomach, you took deep breaths as you readied yourself to ask the question you’d been dying to ask. This all depended on how healthy you appeared, if he caught even a whiff of pain or weakness it was all over for you.

“Sorry,” you said weakly.

Already your heart was banging hard in your ear drums, causing chaos before the eruption had occurred. You both waited patiently, and you, silently, for the remainder of the food to be served to you. Once you had been served the usual meal you were given, you stared at it for a good moment while Master Diluc began digging in almost immediately. Maybe he was in a better mood today, you thought to yourself. Maybe, or maybe not. He soon noticed you hadn’t touched your food and ushered for you to eat.

“Eat,” he demanded, a hint of urgency lingering in his voice, but the overall tone was still harsh.

It was when your teary eyes were long focused on the meal with no urgency to touch it that he raised his brow in suspicion and watched you with an angered expression. It was one thing to try to run away from his hot and cold exterior, but it was another to avoid his good deeds entirely. He set down his utensils with a loud clank and looked straight forward at you, trying his best to contain his rage.

“I said, eat.” He demanded through grit teeth.

This was the side of him that many– no, everyone missed completely. Those close to him didn’t see how cruel and unforgiving he was behind closed doors. They didn’t know that if all your food was not eaten how Diluc would sit there to make sure you ate even just a little more than you could stomach, against your begging wishes, of course. No one, and I mean no one except those that resided in the home, knew about his harsh tendencies. And that meant that not a single soul knew just how horribly he treated his sweet angel of a wife, but maybe it was better that way. After all, if someone like you was stupid enough to stay then maybe you really did deserve all the torture he’d constantly put you through. And you’d think that after his hardened voice demanding you to eat that your fear would kick in and force you to shovel down your food, but you’d be wrong.

“Is there something wrong with the food, my dear?” He asked through grit teeth, again.

You shook your head and tears fell into your food.

Diluc stood up from his seat and stared you down. “Then what is wrong?”

You said nothing. Instead, you continued to cry into your food as Diluc stared down at you like a troublesome child. You just couldn’t stop, no matter how hard Diluc told you to calm down, relax, or ease yourself, it was all to no avail. It only furthered your pathetic tears. Diluc wanted to know the truth, just for you to tell him why you refused to eat, but if you told him the truth he’d only become more angry and you weren't sure you could handle that at the moment. You weren’t sure you could handle this life a moment longer, but unfortunately you didn’t and never had a choice. It was tragic really, but that was life for you.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried to leave him before, trust me, you tried, but it was all to no avail. You could hardly make it downstairs without some help, so what made you think you could escape all on your own unscathed. When your family arranged the marriage you blindly accepted, thinking escaping your heartless family must be a better life than if you were to stay, but boy were you wrong. Diluc was sweet at first, kind and gentle just as he is in the public eye, but it wasn’t till the honeymoon that you realized something was terribly wrong. And by time you realized your mistake it was far too late.

“I-” You started to speak, but were quickly cut off by your choking tears.

You tried your best to speak up, say something, anything, but each time you were silenced by gut wrenching cries. The one time you attempted to look up to address the situation you were met with cold, unfeeling eyes and averted your gaze with hiccuping sobs.

“Ugh, will you just spit it out already?” Diluc groaned in frustration.

That only furthered your sobs and worsened it. Your hands tangled into your hair and began to scratch at your scalp for relief, but you only ended up with a sore scalp and traces of blood underneath your fingernails. Your tears grew bigger, your cries louder, and all sense of rationale left your body. The atmosphere was foggy and unclear, like looking into a cloudy looking glass for reasoning and coming up with absolutely nothing in return. You swore you heard a voice through the thickness of it all, but even as you were dragged from your seat in the dining room and led back into the privacy of your own room, you held no grasp on reality. It must’ve been hours, maybe days, or so it felt like, before you started to come to. A strong grip held you close to something, something warm, and rocked you comfortingly as small shushes could be heard near your ears.

It was only moments later that you began to recognize the world around you, and the familiar figure holding you close. Too close. It was none other than Master Diluc. Why he was holding you in such a tender and intimate position, you weren’t sure you knew, but you one thing was for sure, it felt extremely uncomfortable. You writhed in his holding, trying your damnedest to squirm out of his hold, but he was much stronger than you. A pins and needles sensation spread from your hips to the tip of your toes, and you could barely move from your position. Your hands were free aside from the vice grip Diluc had on your arms, almost crushing them as he held you closely. You felt the need to cry all over again, but suppressed it as hard as you could. Thankfully, your attempts worked and this time you remained strong.

You tried to remain quiet and confident, but your confidence was shattered the moment you heard his sweet yet poisonous voice ring through your ears. “You’re awake.”

Unfortunately

“Y-Yes. What happened?” You asked, trying to put the pieces together.

Diluc shifted into an upright position and prepared to tell you some of the truth. He couldn’t have you trying to run off, again. Unfortunately, what Master DIluc didn’t know was that your determination far outweighed any punishment he could potentially give to you. After he explained it to you in his own version, you nodded in agreement and expressed your exhaustion. You wanted to go to bed and forget all about this day., even though it felt like it had just begun. Sure, Diluc had his suspicions as to why you so suddenly wanted to sleep after such a conversation, but he brushed it off as his own paranoia. After all, he’d curated a life that he made damn sure you could never run away from. At least, not without some help.

That night was spent with eyes vigilantly open, wide and observant as you rested your head on the pillow, keeping out for when Diluc would come to bed. If he caught you in bed awake right now he was sure to have a few words, but you’d simply lie and say the pain kept you awake, which wouldn’t exactly be far from the truth, but it wasn’t the truth. You watched out the only window you had in your room, gazing at the open sky full of stars and the full moon and wondered what was taking Diluc so long. What was taking him so long? He should’ve long been in bed by now. So, why was he still hard at work in his study? Regardless of the reasoning you calmed yourself down, trying your best to satiate your impatience, because if you weren’t careful it could very well be the thing that led to your downfall.

It must’ve been about an hour or so later when you heard the heavy footsteps of your husband head up the stairs and then quietly trail into your shared room. You could vividly hear him discard his clothes and climb into what you guessed were more comfortable ones. He kissed you softly on the forehead, foolishly believing you were asleep, and climbed into bed with you. Feeling his hot breath against your neck sent shivers down your spine, you couldn’t remember the last time you slept without him breathing down your neck, literally. It was awful. Although you were thankful that tonight his vice grip wasn’t holding you in place —making it perfect for your little escape plan— there was still a heavy feeling of discomfort floating throughout the bedroom.

You were patient, and all that patience of yours finally paid off when you heard the light to heavy snores of Diluc behind you. It was time, time to make your escape. It would be tricky getting out of the bed with him in it, but thankfully Diluc was a heavy sleeper. Slowly and very very carefully you removed the blankets from your body and started to slide down to the edge of the bed. Closer.. Closer.. Closer.. Until finally, your legs hung off the edge of the bed. Diluc shifted in his sleep and let out a loud snore which caused you to jump in your own skin, but looking back you saw he was still fast asleep. Letting out a silent sigh of relief you steadied yourself with both hands as you placed both of your wobbly feet to the ground. Now, the next part would prove one of the most difficult tasks, getting your cane. It currently sat in a cage with other canes and umbrellas you owned (not that you ever actually left the house) and could potentially make a lot of noise if you weren’t careful.

Cautiously you tiptoed to the cage and took a slow, deep breath before reaching inside and slowly pulled it out. It was a wooden cane so if hit at just the right amount of speed it could make quite enough noise, not as much as it would if it were metal, but it would be just enough to awaken the young master. With extreme caution you began to pull it out, further and further, until it was almost fully out, but in an unfortunate turn of events your hand began to grow weak and numb and you dropped it. Thankfully, you were able to grab it with your other hand before it could wake up Diluc, but not before it banged against the cage in a painfully loud manner. You froze in place, not moving a single muscle until you heard the light snores of Diluc once again. Carefully pulling out the entire cane you then positioned it as you usually would for the day and used it to help you hold your weight upright, as you gradually turned the doorknob and opened the bedroom door.

Peeking out the door you could so no one and nothing except for the moonlight illuminating the hallway. Now was as good a chance as any to make a run for it, and so you quickly tiptoed down the stairs with the help of your cane to steady you, eagerly walking towards the door the moment your feet touched the first floor. Your hand hovered above the knob as you stopped in shock. Was this it? Were you finally going to leave this miserable and pitiful life to live one full of joy and freedom? It is what you deserved after all, you thought. It’s what you had always wanted and needed. Without wasting a moment sooner you turned the knob and braced yourself for whatever waited for you outside those doors, and stepped outside for the first time in a long time.

It must’ve been summertime because the heat was thick and the air was muggy. If you had been out on a daily or constant basis you were sure you would’ve hated it, but in that moment you loved nothing more than to feel the heat and thick, muggy air. You never realized how beautiful the Dawn Winery was from the outside until just now. Crystalflies flew through the air and around the grape vines. The moon was full and the stars shone brightly in the nighttime sky. It was beautiful, everything you’d always dreamt of and more. The flowers were even more beautiful than you had remembered and they smelt even better than you could’ve ever dreamt of. Everything was perfect, absolutely perfect. That is until you saw the mansion lit up with lights and realized that he and possibly everyone else was awake.

You tried to make a run for it as best as you could but you were stopped by a hand on your wrist pulling you backwards and down onto the ground. You fell into a puddle of mudd, soaking your nightgown as you looked up in horror at the man that was supposed to be your husband. His face was cold and full of fury, you’d never seen him look like this before. This wasn’t like those other times when you tried to take walks, because this time you had actually tried to leave him. Leave him all alone with only his wounded pride and broken heart for comfort. He was seething with rage and all you could do in reply was cry, cry like a child that had been caught with their hands in a cookie jar. You didn’t know what exactly prompted you to cry so much, so hard, and so pathetically, but you continued to do so anyway.

“Come inside, now.” Diluc demanded.

But now that you had a taste of the outside world after such a long time of being deprived of it you wanted more, so you shook your head and rejected his commands. This only further angered Diluc, because he then pulled you up by your forearms and dragged you back inside. You clawed at the door frame trying to stay outside, but he was much stronger than you. He threw you onto the floor and slammed the door shut, proceeding to lock it tightly with a key you’d never seen before. Immediately Diluc started cursing at you, a bright fire in his eyes that consumed his very being began to spread as you realized you had royally fucked up. You couldn’t even focus on a word he was saying because all you could imagine was whatever hell he was about to put you through.

One Week Later…

“Come on, let’s get you all nice and pretty.” Adelinde said, tightening your brand new dress that Diluc had bought you.

It was an apology, a present, but you knew the true nature of the young master, and nothing could fix this marriage, not even your own freedom. You stood there and looked in the mirror as Adelinde fixed your hair with a smile. You too would’ve smiled if it weren’t for the grim reality you faced. Especially on days where Diluc invited over his brother for dinner. Kaeya had no clue of anything that went on in the mansion, not a damn idea, but that didn’t mean he had no suspicions. Kaeya was smart like that, could catch onto things quickly especially being the cavalry captain, and this sort of thing was no different.

After Adelinde had gotten you all nice and ready the two of you descended down the staircase where you ran into Diluc and his brother, Kaeya. Kaeya looked towards you and smiled, helping you down the rest of the way. Kaeya always was a helpful and kind man like that, constantly helping those in need. Sometimes, just sometimes, you wished he’d help you escape this place, but that was a childish dream. The two of you exchanged pleasantries as you all sat at the dining room table and awaited your food. Everything was going well until the events of a week ago started to come flooding in. You tried your best to hide it but with how brightly the sun started to shine through the windows you couldn’t help but miss the heat and the thick air you once touched.

“Are you alright?” Kaeya asked, but you playfully brushed off your odd behavior with laughter and a joke, but he was not convinced.

No, Kaeya was not so easily swayed by the same type of joking behavior he too would use to cover his own emotions. So, he watched you the entire dinner all the way till the end. He noticed how flinched against his brother’s touch and noticed how your gaze always seemed to find itself lined up with the open windows. Something was wrong, something was not right about this and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He would not let you suffer a moment longer, no matter how impossible the mission seemed. Kaeya wanted to tell you this, he wanted to reassure you that he was going to help you escape, but he could never find the right time with Diluc and Adelinde breathing down his neck as he was sure they did the same, and much worse to you.

It soon came time to say his goodbyes and as he did he locked eyes with you, saying things with them that he would never dare to say out loud in front of the young master. Even though it was just a dinner, and a revealing one at that, he planned to have many more dinners with Diluc in the future, warm up to you, get closer to you, and hopefully gain your trust enough to help you escape this awful, awful place. That is if he didn’t get killed in the process of it all…

#diluc x reader #diluc x you #diluc x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #yandere diluc x reader #yandere genshin x reader

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