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stil-lindigo · 2 months

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lead balloon (the tumblr post that saved me)

if this comic resonated with you, it would mean the world to me if you donated to this palestinian family's escape fund.

no creative notes because this isn't that kind of comic.

I know I don’t owe any of you anything but I still felt compelled to write about my long term absence. And I feel far enough away from the dangerous spot I was in to be able to make this comic. I have a therapist now, and she agreed that making this could be a very cathartic gesture, and the start of properly leaving these thoughts behind me. I am still, at seemingly random times, blindsided by fleeting desires to kill myself. They’re always passing urges, but it’s disarming, and uncomfortable. I worry sometimes that my brain’s spent so long thinking only about suicide that it’s forgotten how to think about anything else. Like, now that I've opened that door for myself, I'll never be able to fully shut it again. But I’m trying my best to encourage my mind in other directions. We'll see how that goes.

I am still donating all proceeds from my store to Palestinian causes. So far, I've donated over $15K, not including donations coming from my own pocket or the fundraising streams which jointly raised around $10K. In the time since I made my initial post about where this money would be going, the focus has shifted from aid organisations to directly donating to escape funds.

If you'd like to do the same, you can look at Operation Olive Branch, which hosts hundreds of Palestinian escape funds or donate to Safebow, which has helped facilitate the safe crossing and securing of important medical procedures for over 150 at-risk palestinians since the beginning of the genocide.

#cw: suicidal ideation #cw: suicide #cw: self harm #cw: mental health #cw: depression #i made the balloon the main representation of my self destructive urges for a reason but im not going to explain it #i tried to keep a lot of the details in this vague #it would be my worst nightmare if this comic encouraged someone to hurt themselves #so. please dont #for a long time even the thought of making this comic felt so insipid and narcissistic #with the state of the world as it is #having the only threat to your life be yourself felt so privileged and trite and shameful #but doing this comic made me sit down and process things in full #and im just. very grateful i didn't give in to my thoughts back when i sincerely felt i'd be more useful to the world dead #i also feel the need to say that this wont represent everyone's battle with mental illness. its unfortunately different for all of us #there is no fix-all #and im afraid this might be one of those comics that either resonates a lot or misses the target by a mile #i made it for myself foremost. and now that its done im glad i did it #thank you for reading #and please stay alive #stillindigo art #stillindigo comics

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mitchelf-citadel · 29 days

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Stitches

Far beneath the pale light of the sulfur sun, she turns many into one.

Certified Termina Moment

Fear and Hunger: Termina

#my art #horror #digital painting #grimdark #cw: gore #fanart #fear and hunger 2 #termina #fear and hunger termina #stitches #cw: body horror #cw: blood #cw: self harm #funger #fear and hunger fanart #fh2 #gore #guro

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deadeyedfae · 4 months

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Here it is! Part 3 of Dead Eyed Ivy Second Puberty Edition 💜🏳️‍⚧️

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ccycloneblogging · 11 days

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There's been much cute art of DogDay recently...

Time for some ANGST!

Tw: Self Harm.

#toon logic au #dogday #tw: self harm #tw self harm #cw self harm #cw: self harm

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anti-kawaii-daily · 5 months

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Today's Anti-Kawaii Character of The Day is Runa from the oneshot manga, Dangerous Love!She wears Dark Girly most of the time but she does wear China Kei at the Cafe where she works, she also fits into the Yandere archetype!

#dangerous love #Runa dangerous love #dark girly #girly kei #china kei #yandere #also Runa is a rare LGBTQ yandere and that makes her stand out amongst characters like Yuno Gasai or Kotonoha Katsura #cw: self harm

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lynxgriffin · 1 year

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Three small dreams of bright sharp things

I was just thinking recently how all three of the main Lightner teens seem to have some kind of affinity/joking nature/interest in sharp things that can hurt, and wanted to art about it. There’s probably lots that can be said about that, but I do hope they all realize solidarity in that and get the kindness they need!

Little darker than my usual stuff, but it’s fun to branch out in subject matter!

#lynx art #deltarune #cw: blood #cw: self harm #cw: impalement #susie #kris #noelle #did pretty quick color for this #also if anyone's going to bring up the 'monsters don't bleed!' deal: please refrain #it's just dream imagery my dudes it's not real

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fivewholeminutes · 4 months

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A Series of Small Offerings

PART ONE -8- The Way That You Were

To tear that knife from what once / Would have been dead fingers

I have. Struggled a lot with this one, but I am glad it is done. I've had this idea rotating in my brain for a month and I have tried starting it at least 3 times both traditionally and digitally before I decided to turn it into a cut out, because I feel the most confortable making cut outs, actually.

HUGE, ENORMOUS shotout to @copper-sands / @ancientbygone for being my hand anatomy expert!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Without it this piece would look way worse <3

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captainjamster · 15 days

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Falling Apart (And Coming Back Together)

Pairing(s): John Price x Reader Warnings: explicit, graphic depiction and description of self-inflicted harm and the aftermath of patching it up Wordcount: 1.7k Summary: John helps put you back together again. AO3 Link: Right here <3

AN: Please reread the warnings and take them seriously. This explicitly depicts the act of self-inflicted harm. If you are vulnerable to topics of mental ill health, self-harm, or gore, this is not for you.

Full fic is under the cut <3

It's funny, you decide. Survival.

The human desire for survival is one of the deepest instincts. It perseveres from life to death, in consciousness and unconsciousness, something that keeps your heart pumping and brain sparking. Yet the things that someone finds themselves doing in an attempt to survive can be so fucking counterproductive to that desire for survival.

The blade digs into your skin, leaving a line of parted flesh that slowly fills red, creeping into the wound and blooming against the paled, tensed dermis. Each mark is like an exhale of relief; a calculated movement, drawing out the misery that claws underneath your shell, dripping to the floor in fat blobs to mingle with the teardrops already pooled there.

The first cut is always the last straw of your control. It's as easy as a flick of your wrist - the metal always glides through cleanly, so fast that your body almost takes a moment to react. One is never enough.

You lose track of time, pushing through the way the metal bites into your flesh, tearing it open and spilling out your pain. It's only the cramping of your hand that pulls you out of the angry motions, trembling so fiercely that the lines become jagged, forcing you to pause and observe your morbid masterpiece. Your eyes climb the ladder of lines, over the angry skin singing in pain, each split leaving it redder and redder.

The bathroom feels so small and all too big at once. The blade glints against the light as it wobbles in your fingers, and you fight against the vice your ribcage has around your lungs, inhaling a little more each time until the fuzziness crawling into your periphery retreats and silence finally breaks through the heartbeat in your ears.

Despite the space lacking on your thigh, you pick a spot to drag over experimentally, feeling the addition sink into the innumerable chorus of hurt that smothers everything else. It starts off slowly again, between waves of cathartic release and dips of anguish that wrack your body, until the marks overlap each other in a sick game of connect the edges, obscuring where one starts and the other stops. The blade is slick, sliding between your fingers as you struggle for a grip, cursing at your useless hands and the way they tremble. Crimson blotches the roll as you grab it, fumbling for paper towel to wipe the damn thing clean, when you finally notice the approaching footsteps much too late.

"Sweetheart?"

Your hand drops against your thigh, instinctively curling around the thin tool as the other shoves the roll back into place. John doesn't try the door handle, but you can hear him standing outside.

"Sorry, yeah?" You croak, trying to swallow the tightness creeping up your throat. There's never a point in hiding things from John, but the way he pauses before he responds tells you that he knows exactly what's happening.

"Don't be sorry, s'okay. Just didn't see you when I got home."

It falls quiet, each breath catching in your chest. A part of you wishes he would ignore it and leave, but you hear him inhale before he speaks.

"Can you come out for me, love?"

"No."

As usual, a bitter thought snaps, John takes your rejection in his stride.

"Okay, that's okay too."

There are words, explanations and apologies, straining on the tip of your tongue, caged behind your teeth as they drag through the flesh of your lip, leaving your mouth stained with the same iron filling the air. John breaks the silence with a gentle clear of his throat, and the door groans as he pulls his weight away from it. "I’m gonna get your stuff, alright? I’ll be right back."

Once he retreats far enough, you scrabble into action.

You can hear the kettle humming as it boils through the wall, listening for John as he walks through the steps of your crisis recovery plan. Adrenaline shakes your fingers as they press the towel to your skin, watching it soak up the red that dilutes the white paper. Heat radiates through the thin material, leaving the sticky clots that try to scab to smudge and stain, clinging with a stubbornness to your already sensitive skin.

There’s more blood than you expected, and an ache is spreading into the muscles. You stubbornly wait a few more minutes, wrapping up another wad of towel around your hand, but when they still sluggishly bloom with maroon, you resign to grabbing your phone from the cistern lid.

>> first aid kit

John's at the door almost as soon as you send the text. "I'm going to come in. Okay?"

The door cracks open, each slow inch that it swings ajar offering a possibility of changing your mind. When it fully opens, he doesn't make a face at the way your figure curls in on itself, just brings the kit over. The sound of his knees popping echoes through the bathroom as he drops a towel down and kneels down in front of you, tugging open the zipper and instantly reaching for the antiseptic wipes. It’s practised, methodical – the tearing of the wipe, his gentle touch, the way he takes care not to agitate the puckered skin further.

“I’m sorry.”

You can see the struggle not to furrow his brows. Instead, he gives you a sad smile, gently scooping your hand up to intertwine his fingers with yours as he presses the disinfectant against the cuts, monitoring your expression for any discomfort. "You don't need to apologise, sweetheart."

You swallow, catching the reflexive apology and forcing out other words. “I just feel bad every time.”

The shake of his head is slow as he dabs as a fresh droplet that seeps from your skin, soaking up into the last unsoiled spot of the wipe. "It doesn't matter. I’d rather you alive than dead. If this is what it means to have you alive, then I want all of it."

Any remaining argument falters at the conviction in his words, slinking back into the depths of your misery, barred off by the loving kiss John presses to your knuckles when you wince.

“Couldn’t ride out the wave. Waited 15 minutes, then 15 more, then 15 more.”

He gives an apologetic hum, disentangling his fingers to grab another wipe and rip it open. “I’m sorry, baby. You did everything right. Sometimes it happens anyway.”

There’s a bitterness in the way you huff a laugh, and John looks up at you, lips thin with worry. His concern has you embarrassed, gaze drifting down to your lap. “It shouldn’t. I should be better. Stronger. Like you.”

His hand pauses against your thigh between swipes, and for a second worry that you’ve angered him grips at your chest, before he blows it away with a long exhale. “Way I look at it, y’are stronger, love. You’ve been doin’ this for years, before I was even here to help. Y’ve been so strong that you got yourself through every single time – not me, not your therapist, not your friends. You.” The back of his palm brushes against your cheeks, smudging the droplets that’ve begun to trickle down your cheek. “I couldn’t be any stronger than that. But I want to lend you some of my strength, anyway.”

Your fingers find his again, curling together as you listen to the gentle brush of fabric against skin amongst your sniffles. The softness of his touches are soothing, a repetitive sensation that pacifies the burn of antiseptic, working with the waves of exhaustion crashing down to bring a heaviness to your puffy eyelids that you’re struggling to fight off.

“I think this one might need a bit more than a clean, love. Gonna get the steri-strips, okay?”

His voice brings you out of the sleepy stupor, nodding foolishly as you process his words. You miss the warmth of his hand against yours as he pulls a plastic sheet out with a fond chuckle, tearing a section off and peeling the protective layer away. “Gonna have to help me with this one, baby. S’that okay?”

Clearing your throat, you sit up straighter, giving him a thumbs up. He gives you one back, a small smile spread across his lips. “Alright. Hold the skin together for me, yeah? Just like that, you got it, good pet. You’re doin’ so well.”

The steri-strips are placed meticulously across the jagged edges, in little white bridges that strain to connect both sides. John rubs delicately over the last one, leaning down to press a careful kiss against the shuttered skin, before pulling away. “There we go, baby. Before we put away the kit, try standin’ up?”

He offers a roughened hand, poised as you push off the toilet, the other suspended at your waist in case your legs give out. Your thigh burns with the tension of standing up, foot hovering against the floor as you tentatively put pressure on it. Though the edges flex and crease, none of the cuts tear open, clinging to the hardening, superficial layer already closing them up.

John lets out a pleased noise, dropping your hand to zip closed the kit and grab the handle, before straightening up with a groan. “Alright, my lovely. Sofa and a cuppa?”

You can’t help the small, grateful smile that tugs at your lips as you nod, offering a hand that John doesn’t hesitate to encase with his own. He ushers you down the hall, mindful of your pace, into the soft, cushioned seats with a soft blanket draped over your lap. Passing you the remote, he presses a quick kiss to your forehead, before excusing himself.

Chatter fills the room as you settle on a random show, the gentle aroma of tea spilling from the kitchen as John returns with two cups, holding one out to you. He brushes off your thanks as the cushions dip under his weight, holding his arm out, and you don’t hesitate to dive into his side. Warmth radiates from his arm as it wraps around you protectively, nestled against your hip, and he pushes another kiss to your head before resting his own against it.

“I love you.” He hums, barely audible over the laugh track of whatever shitty show plays through the speakers, and something that’s felt broken inside of you all day finally clicks into place. “I’m so proud of you for getting through another day.”

Once again, you fight the tears prickling at your eyes. But for the first time today, it isn’t accompanied by the pain in your chest, just a small inkling of warmth that blossoms in your ribcage that sings as John squeezes you affectionately.

“I love you too.”

Dividers by cafekitsune

#tw: self harm #tw: sh #cw: self harm #cw: sh #price x reader #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #jams writings

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casteliacityramen · 1 month

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|| Previously ||

|| Content Warning: Blood/Grievous Injury and Self Harm ||

"How much time ya got?" Ayumi's guttural voice exits from below the curtain.

The ramen stand has broken even after the last couple of customers. While additional sales after this point is a gain on profits, it's not like they're in a rush to get rid of ingredients.

"I'm calling the shots until Ray gets back. I say when," Rio absentmindedly yawns.

Ayumi takes a deep breath in response.

"I smelled the blood on him before he got to our door," Ayumi whispers, gritting her teeth and clenching her eyes tight.

"Turns out nobody thought to block the area off or anything. Just a bunch of half-made buildings that might as well have been made out of wet cardboard.

"She got it worse than I did." Ayumi slips her hand over the stump, grimacing.

"When she fell, Jack evolved on the spot in the stress of it all. She wouldn't be alive if he had to carry her as a stubby little oshawott."

"The docs saved what they could, but the rest was gone. Buried under rubble. When Alex was called to the center and saw her daughter, he flipped his shit. I get it."

Ayumi's face darkens, clenching her jaw so hard that her facial hair twitched.

"What I don't get is why he took it all out on my son. He cussed him out. He threatened him. He said it was his fault! All of it!"

Ayumi shot forward, her voice echoing like a cannon onto the street, startling anyone unfortunate enough to be within hearing distance.

"He didn't even get a chance to properly clean himself until he got home. I had to help him do it. He couldn't lift his arms or say anything, he just cried until he passed out," She growls, shaking her head as her breathing got deeper and faster at the memory.

"I wasn't having any of that."

"Our supervisors forced us on different shifts. Then, after a couple weeks, Alex and Aila moved to Nimbasa. I haven't talked to either of them since.

"So yeah, when I saw someone who looked like Aila for a split second, my brain got fried. I thought for a long time about what I'd say to Alex, but Aila? Shit. It's been four years and I just..."

Ayumi's tensed shoulders fell, confusion and sadness mixing into her anger.

"What the hell were you thinking? Why did your dad do that to my son? Do you blame my son, too?"

"Y'know how it goes? When some tauros shit goes down and your brain keeps comin' up with scenarios? All of that sat in my head for too long. It got mixed into noise. When I saw someone who reminded me of her, the noise got the loudest it's ever been."

Ayumi takes a deep breath of air, sighing as she continues.

"Jack hasn't talked about it to me. Even now. He's actin' tough, trying to make sure nothing bothers him. But I know it bothers him. I hear him cry some nights. He won't talk no matter how much my husband and I try."

"Just like when I lost my arm, Jack and Hal were freakin' out. Constantly asking me if I was okay and if I needed help. Worried out of their minds. But I kept telling them I was fine. I was okay. Nothin' bothers me. Even though a lot of what I'm going through bothers me."

"I keep doin' that 'nah I'm good' shit whenever I have a shit day and I know they see right through me. But I'm the only one getting any sort of stable income and if I let them know how much I'm strugglin', they'll feel guilty or..."

"They'll feel like a burden," Ayumi groans, placing her forehead in her hand.

"You saw how that Umbreon was when he left. I don't want to see my baby and my man like that, bendin' over backwards to do more than they should. Feeling awful because they know I left my clan for them."

Ayumi peers between her fingers at the tip jar sitting behind the stand.

"Or doin' something stupid like steal from someone else's honest work. I know Jack's still a kid, and kids do stupid shit, but I know he's still beatin' himself up over the whole damn thing."

"I mean, ya asked," Ayumi sheepishly rubs her fingers together, retreating into the shade in a tinge of embarrassment.

"I did," Rio mutters, carrying the likeness of someone who attempted to take a drink from the forceful end of a pressure washer. Regardless, she collects herself, sits straighter in her chair, and gives Ayumi a hardened look.

"I don't know anything about being a mom, but it sounds like you're putting everything into it. That's more than enough."

"What if it isn't?" Ayumi whispers, her voice trembling.

"It will be."

Ayumi softly laughs at Rio's absolution. She's repeated those words to herself countless times, but hearing them from someone else was rekindling her slipping resolve.

Feeling a small weight fall from her shoulders, she slowly forms an idea.

"... Can ya do me a favor?"

For the first time since Ayumi started, the two ease up in their seats, using whatever time they had to finally relax. The sounds of Castelia City filled the silence in between.

"Y'know what?" Ayumi shattered the silence in a sudden (and loud) realization, much to Rio's chagrin.

"I was too focused on noodles and making you listen to my sob story that I forgot to ask you for your name," Ayumi laughs. Rio pauses, coming to the same realization before she also laughs and reaches out with her paw.

Referenced Posts: Ayumi mistaking @asktoastythearcanine 's Allen for someone else Graymont Design BuildJack Stealing the Tip JarRio's question to Ayumi

|| Pinned Post | Story So Far ||

#cw: medical #cw: blood #cw: self harm #pokeask #pokemon ask blog #rio #ayumi #rockruff #samurott #plot #jack #aila #shoutout to the owner of asktoasty because you added something delicious to something I already planned to do #you added gasoline to an already-lit fire

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