#cw suicidal imagery
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1:43 pm
#cw suicidal imagery#omori#little mari au#omori basil#omori mari#omori hero#omori kel#omori aubrey#omori sunny#my art#from my omari au hehe
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someone pls teach him proper trigger discipline
#friday night funkin'#fnf#pico newgrounds#fnf pico#pico's school#woe funny newgrounds guy be upon ye#pico fnf#newgrounds#cw suicidal imagery#? i guess. is that a tag i hope so#cw suicidal ideation#cw guns#i love drawin him with blank eyes tbh it looks fun#this was jsut gonna be a doodle but then i put too much effort into the lines and it was over#based on his down sprite in the funkadelix mod. i thought those looked fun and went into a fucking trance and drew this pls help
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a comic about a nightmare ive had, and my first shot at trying a comic, tried to give it a better ending than how it normally goes
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Some Resident Evil depression and anxiety headcanons
These boys really going through it.
Headcanons for Karl Heisenberg, Albert Wesker, Chris Redfield and Leon Kennedy.
Karl Hesienberg
Forgets to bathe
Chain smokes
Alternates binging and not eating
Sleeps in his clothes
Sleeps in a chair
Picks skin and scratches himself
Dissociates by staring into space
Dissociates by working without rest
Albert Wesker
Repetitive motion stimming, drums fingers
Cold showers
No sleep
Will not eat
Intrusive thoughts of self harm
Homicidal ideation
Increased orothorexia
Anxious cleaning, cleans glasses obsessively
Chris Redfield
Alcohol
Chain smoking
Deliberately gets into fights as self harm
Suicidal ideation, toys with Wesker’s old gun
Sleeps constantly, has nightmares
Deliberately puts himself into danger
Dissociates staring off into space
Stops shaving
Leon Kennedy
Alcohol
Gambling
Sex, sexual sadism
Fits of rage
Self harm by deliberate self injury
Intrusive sadistic and homicidal thoughts
Sits in one spot without moving
Selective mutism
#resident evil#albert wesker#albert wesker headcanons#Chris Redfield#chris redfield headcanons#cw alcholism#cw anxiety#cw depression#cw dissociation#cw mental health discussion#cw suicidal imagery#cw unhealthy coping mechanisms#karl heisenberg#karl heisenberg headcanons#leon s kennedy headcanons#leon scott kennedy#resident evil headcanons
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Little accidents. A fatal misstep.
Heartbreak taught you well.
#fhr#fallen hero#fallen hero retribution#''heartbreak taught you well'' = cyrus' whole Deal in a phrase#dude is too committed to viewing his trauma as a lesson to ever consider processing it any other way#cw suicide#(murder technically but. y'know. the imagery)
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#artists on tumblr#collage#religious imagery#judas iscariot#davedrawsstuff#no image description#suicide cw
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Mama, we all go to hell
#persona 5#p5#goro akechi#p5 crow#mamakechi#cw suicide#you can pry pieta imagery from my cold dead hands#happy halloween go listen to Mama by MCR#my art#art 2022
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Kings of Death
[note: Johnny Silverhand is dead, and I thought you might need something to make this day sadder so here it is. You're welcome]
#cyberpunk 2077#cp2077#male v#johnny silverhand#kerry eurodyne#silverdyne#kerry x v#kerry x johnny#CW death themes#CW suicide imagery#suicide imagery#Death themes#my art
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This project is currently unnamed and very early, so I'm not sure about sharing it anywhere more official until I've written more and gotten a better handle on it. But I'm happy with it so far.
Synopsis: A suicidally depressed man discovers a dying fallen angel in the woods. In nursing it back to health, he not only finds a reason to keep living, but discovers a darkness in his heart he'd never even imagined.
Massive CW for suicide, depression, alcoholism, religious imagery, and a little gore.
Every day when the early morning sun was hovering just below the horizon (on the days he wasn't blackout drunk), Samson would put the noose around his neck. He'd originally tied it what, a month ago? It could have been two or three by now, as a cocktail of SSRIs and vodka had started to turn time into a haze of half-remembered days. The calendar on the wall was two years out of date, the clock on the stove blinked all zeroes after a power outage (he didn't have the manual to figure out how to reset it), and his cell phone was at the bottom of the lake out front.
Samson learned how to tie a noose in Scouts. Or more accurately, he figured it out himself fucking around with ropes while the other kids were following instructions. It had been a poor approximation of the real thing as used for generations of cruelty, but he'd tied it secure and gotten it to tighten around another boy's neck. It was a joke, obviously, but they didn't see it that way. That was the last time he went to Scouts, but only the first of many nooses he'd tie over two decades. This one felt nice and strong, secured to a beam in the roof of the old cottage's attic with a stiff hitch knot. It was an old polypropylene rope his daddy used to use to keep the boat in place by the docks. Maybe the reason he hadn't kicked out that stepladder yet was the image of this stupid fucking blue-and-yellow striped rope around his rotting corpse-neck when they found him, bloated and maggot-ridden and leaking fluids all over the attic floorboards. "What a pathetic bastard," they'd say, and they'd be spot on. But the walk to the hardware store was long, and he sold the truck to stock up on liquor, so he was caught between laziness and his last remaining shreds of dignity.
Today that shred went out the window. Samson found her number on the side of the fridge where daddy used to keep all his contacts (daddy always had a shit memory even before he got old, and he passed it on). He tried dialing it into the old landline and only realized he was still paying for that shit when the call connected and her voice came through loud and clear. "This is Cynthia Dawn, I'm not at the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you." Her voice was soft like downy feathers and blindingly bright. The voicemail Samson left was probably worth a restraining order. So that noose was looking nicer than ever, and that stepladder was looking flimsier than ever.
Samson would never find out if he was really gonna do it that day, cause in that split second before, as he stared out at the sun rising over the lake, the room went ablaze with a light more effulgent than any he'd seen. In an instant his vision went white, only pierced by soft little pins of red and green and blue, like when you press down on your eyelids with your fingertips. No matter how tight he squeezed his lids closed, hoping to banish the flash, it was like he was staring straight into the sun. Tears started streaming down his cheeks and drenching his beard.
And then it was over. The light retreated out through the attic window, leaving Samson's world dancing with colours like an impressionist painting. He stood there a long moment, heart heating in his neck, mouth dry, wondering if he'd just seen God or if a stun grenade had been silently lobbed through his window. With shaking hands, he slipped the noose off his neck and climbed down off the ladder. He took a few tentative steps towards the window, pressed his hands against the glass, craned his neck to look out. The lake was so placid it was like time stood still, stained golden by the sun's rays spilling out over the horizon. Out to the left side of the cottage, the shed where daddy kept all his fishing shit back in the day. It was untouched, both by him and by whatever caused that light. But off to the right, where the woods sprung up around the old slipway, there was a dying remnant of that glow that bleached the leaves and filled the sky with an odd haze.
He grabbed one of daddy's rifles from the safe and slipped a hunting knife in his jeans pocket before setting off out the back door. The lawn that spread out from the cottage to the road was overgrown, dotted with those little white wildflowers. It would've looked picturesque, if it weren't for the rusting lawnmower, the dying garden twisted with weeds, the dilapidated guest house that hadn't been used in a decade. Actually, come to think of it, this might have been Samson's first outing beyond the cottage walls in weeks- he'd been subsisting on canned food, liquor, and over-prescribed Zoloft for god knows how long.
So for the first time in weeks, he walked down that old paved road until the sign for Fire Route 41 came up on his left, just past the slipway. The gravel road seemed to wind on for eternity through those woods, dotted with the occasional cabin that lay vacant- it was just coming up to the end of the off-season, and soon eager tourists would swarm the lake looking for a fantasy of the life Samson grew up hating. For now, though, the woods sat still apart from the glow that beckoned him.
The light faded as the determined man grew ever closer, threatening to be extinguished any moment and leave him at a loss. A few times, he wondered what he was hoping to find at the source of that divine glimmer. The face of God? Salvation? Some kind of science-fiction portal that could whisk him away from this existence into a more prosperous one? He clutched the rifle against his chest as he stood there on the edge of the woods, the epicenter of the glow just a few dozen feet away. It was waning dangerously low now, no longer capable of blinding Samson, leaving the spot looking like a sun-bleached photograph. Whatever he was looking for, he trudged ever closer to his prize.
And through the trees, in the underbrush, a thing unlike any that Samson had seen revealed itself. At first he wondered if an egret had been shot down, as a layer of downy white feathers was scattered about the trees like berries in spring. Just past the treeline, a pair of massive white wings spread across the ground, broken and twitching like a thing about to die. They glittered like fresh snow as he got closer, rifle raised to put the poor thing out of its misery. And then the wing shifted like a bolt of pain had rushed through it, and he heard a cry of anguish unlike anything bird or beast could produce. Something soft and melodic, like a piano screaming in pain but trapped by the beautiful temperament of its keys. And when those feathers moved away, beneath them, Samson saw a writhing, contorted body of nude flesh punctuated by cuts and scrapes that oozed a thick golden fluid. The bird-thing turned, craning its neck, looking up at the man that towered over it. Its lips were parted as if in prayer, its eyes staring down the barrel of daddy's gun.
Samson lowered the rifle as he looked into the face of God.
Next part
#writing#untitled project#i hope somebody likes this!#i like it lmao#cw suicide#cw depression#cw alcohol#cw religious imagery
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Everyone wants the big chair, Meg...
Been chipping away at this one for a couple of weeks, and I'm really happy with it!
#control#control remedy#jesse faden#she#zachariah trench#dylan faden#cw: suicide imagery#tw sui implied#cw: blood#cw: guns#just in case#trench came out looking so disney...#my art
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love trial [from oct/2022]
#umineko#umineko no naku koro ni#sayo yasuda#yasuda sayo#zepar#furfur#umineko spoilers#cw hanging imagery#cw suicide imagery#jichanart#fun fact the filename for this is 'gender' which is pretty on the nose lol so this gets a matching caption to the twt post
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cw suicide mention & imagery
original play idea where people seem to live their normal lives but the audience gets the feeling that something’s wrong, there’s a tension and there are things that obviously go unsaid that hang in the air between the characters uncomfortably long enough until the last member of the audience has filled in the blanks in their own way.
there is a figure off to the side, a very young man in a suit, watching them, unmoving and silent, and as the scenes and progress, as characters leave and appear, as the setting changes, the young man is always there. no one interacts with him, but there are moments when they almost do. when the characters stop what they’re doing when they stand close to him, and appear to listen. but there’s nothing.
the sound of TV news reports, all playing over each other, create an uncanny and uncomfortable buzzing that never, never stops, and there are too many to really make out the words. they get more silent the closer they get to the young man in the suit, quieting down to nothing when they stand by him to listen — but the characters seem unaware of the change. so does the young man, statuesque though he is.
then there’s a little girl, covered in dirt, her hair askew, her cheeks rosy — the image of having spent the day outside, playing in the dirt, a smile on her face, her eyes big, as she skips towards the young man and asks, “can we go now? can we play?”
the young man cards his hands through her hair and says, “you go ahead, i’ll be right there.”
but still he stays there, seated.
everything continues as before, but the characters slowly undergo a complete change in character, in routine, in appearance. the old man who wore suits is not dressed in sweats and old, worn out, dirty shirts. the sweet, kindhearted young adult is now quiet and apathetic. the woman who, in the beginning, was talking her friend’s ear off and could barely stand still is unmoving now, staring out into nothingness.
the buzzing and bustling background noise is slowly, gradually getting louder as the characters become increasingly nonverbal and unmoving. the lights dim down.
then all at once, after a crescendo, the noise stops suddenly, the lights turn off completely, before, with warm, yellow light, a woman we’ve seen before — as she stares into nothingness — appears on the stage, slowly approaching the young man as if unsure of her body but undeniable in her grace.
they smile at each other for a moment.
m, whispering: you’re not supposed to be here, not yet
w, cradling his cheeks: i was always supposed to be here long, long before you
m: i know. i’m sorry, i—
w: i know. i forgive you. i’ve always forgiven you
m, after a while: but not yourself
the woman shakes her head.
w: a mother will never forgive herself for burying her child, and a father will forgive himself even less. (a beat) you have such a handsome face.
m: it’s not your fault
w: so beautiful, those eyes, i’ve missed you so much
m: listen to me, it’s not your fault!
w: and your hair! papa would be so glad to know that—
m: mother. mama. listen to me. it’s not your fault
w, tearful and whispering: you were supposed to be fine. you were always supposed to be fine. it was never supposed to be this bad, we were supposed to help, but—
m: i know. i tried, i really did. both times
in that moment, the little girl comes skipping on stage again, approaching them with her wagging ponytail.
g: what are you doing here, mama? will you play with me now? it’s been so long!
the woman gasps, her tears getting the better of her as she falls to her knees and pulls the girl to her chest, who readily returns the hug
w, sobbing, kissing her cheek: hi, baby. yes, i’ll play with you, of course i will. let’s go.
the young man helps his mother up, allowing her to pull him into a hug, and she whispers: “as much as i love her with all my heart, i’m so proud of the young man you’ve grown into. and now i have you both, just as i always did.”
the young man brushes a kiss to her cheek, then lets her go, watching as his mother disappears with the little girl.
m: i have to stay a while. i’ll follow you soon.
(woman and girl, hand in hand, exeunt)
the lights dim, and the buzzing returns, accompanied by the sound of dragging footsteps the audience cannot see, until everything’s back in total darkness. the noise stays. growing louder in increments, leaving the audience uncomfortable and unsure if this was it.
as they quiet down, we hear a man, sobbing uncontrollably, before eerie silence takes his place, too.
the curtain falls.
#idk what this is but it’s deeply fucked up suicide awareness#obviously there are no dialogues except for that one half assed thing but the dialogues and the imagery and the stage setup and directions#will allude to the fact that the young man who killed himself remains uncomfortably in the lives and the minds of those who miss him#and he cannot leave because he chose this. he’s anchored to them more than he was when he was alive#maybe he’ll have a soliloquy or two. or maybe the empathetic character will speak for him in ways that we do when people die#in the ways that we put words in their mouth and turn them into people they might not have been because grief is funny like that#the static buzzing news caster noise is obviously 1) the 21st c at large; 2) grief preventing you from feeling calm; and 3) doom news#there will be quotes like ‘your death it won’t happen to you. it happens to your family and your friends’#yes the young man is trans. no that’s not why he killed himself. yes the mother takes the blame bc that’s what mothers will do#it’s all just fucked up what can i say. there are no redeeming qualities#suidice cw#cw suicide#it’s 2am i have nothing to say in my defense#i was overcome with the urge to write a play and the ideas for it sorry#not st
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been working on a project lately
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If I die, what would be my reward?
You have murdered me, murdered me, murdered me...
#one of my favorite jcs fanarts actually#art#my art#digital art#jesus christ superstar#jcs#jcs korea#cw religious imagery#tw suicide#tw blood#musical fanart#musical theater
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a garden grew right through the pavement
(a cozy trio au)
warnings: drug use, addiction, depression, attempted suicide, abuse, hospital stays
The date was November 14th, 2011. It was a Monday, so maybe Mouse should have anticipated the harsh dip in his mental health that happened so suddenly. Between the phone that rang every day that he forced himself to answer and the scattered texts that he didn’t have the energy to acknowledge and the fact that he was sleeping on a few blankets on the floor most nights, he was just... tired. No part of him wanted to keep trying when life seemed to be so stacked against him. And he had enough contacts that getting pills wasn’t an issue. He just had to take enough of them, and go to bed where he always did, and his mother’s calls wouldn’t have to be a problem anymore.
But ignoring his phone meant his also ignored the texts that came through, including the one that mentioned Jay was bringing him food. That impromptu dinner delivery was the only reason an ambulance was called at all, let alone in time to do anything. And hospital sheets could be itchy and uncomfortable, but it was a lot warmer there than it would have been on his bedroom floor.
Jay had made two phone calls that night, one to emergency services, and one to the number that had been calling Mouse’s phone for weeks. But while the ambulance had arrived in time to get them to the hospital, he’d sat alone in an uncomfortable chair in the hallway all night. Parents who had promised to rush over as soon as they could simply never arrived, and he sustained himself on snippets of conversation that he could catch from doctors until he was allowed into the room.
The only company he had was when he walked down to the cafeteria for coffee as the sun was rising, a teenage girl with bruises on her arms, a split lip, and a laminated bracelet on her wrist insisting on holding his attention. She drank a whole cup of coffee in the time it took just to prepare his own, and then disappeared before he left to go back upstairs and continue his waiting. But that wasn’t the last time he saw her, either.
There were three days he spent in and out of the hospital, talking to the people behind the desk at the entrance to the psych wing. When he was turned away every morning, he stopped for another cup of bitter coffee before trying again with the afternoon staff. The girl - Hailey, as she finally introduced herself - was always around, making casual conversation during the hours he lingered there. She was seemingly always around, though he only saw her outside of the cafeteria once, when she was signing her own discharge papers on his way out one evening. She’d seen him, and smiled and waved, and he initiated the conversation for the first time before she had the chance to make it to the door.
As it turned out, Hailey’s situation was an unfortunately predictable one. Most of the bruises had healed since she was admitted, with only one particularly nasty one sticking around on her thigh. It was from where she’d hit the table when she ran from the house, not even real evidence of why she had gone to the hospital in the first place. And he’d seen them that first night he’d hung around, she was sure. Jay, the guy who harassed the psych ward nurses at shift change every day while he waited for his friend’s discharge, had been nice enough to offer to walk her out when she got to leave. He was even more insistent when she mentioned she didn’t have a car, offering to wait for a cab with her in the cold if she didn’t feel like accepting a ride from a stranger.
But telling him she didn’t exactly have somewhere to go anymore would be too dangerous. And no reasonable man in his twenties was going to care about a nineteen year old who was homeless and jobless. Except Jay wasn’t anything at all like she anticipated. He pulled out cash from his wallet, insisting he didn’t need it for himself and she should get a hot meal for herself. And she was invited along to lunch the next day, if she wanted to meet at a diner down the block after another set of discharge papers were signed at the end of a seventy two hour hold.
It was probably stupid, meeting up with two men she didn’t really know for food, but it was free food. Jay paid for burgers for all three of them, and extra fries, and she wasn’t going to turn that down in her state. Until she could find a job that didn’t put her on her father’s payroll indefinitely, free food from friendly strangers were all she could afford. And if that turned into crashing on their couch, just for a night or two, it probably wouldn’t end any worse than going back to her parents’ home would...
And, when it was still the three of them in one apartment years later, when two of them had detectives’ badges and the other had a half decade long streak of sobriety, they realized that one awful week might have been the best thing that ever happened to them.
#one chicago#jay halstead#hailey upton#upstead#mouse gerwitz#greg gerwitz#greg mouse gerwitz#moustead#mouseupstead#cpd#chicago pd#cozy trio#alex does moodboards#drug use cw#drugs cw#depression cw#attempted suicide cw#abuse cw#hospital imagery cw#november 2011*#the 2011 au#many thoughts lately all of them this#feel free to ask any questions about this and them#i promise i have so many answers
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[A video is embedded. It opens on Miyo, glaring at the camera. He seems to be in Kamo City, going off of the graffiti on the grungy wall he's leaning against.
"Might as well record this stupidity for posterity. You rolling, Iori?" Miyo asks.
"Ace Cameraman Junpei Iori, at your service!" the teenager recording cheerfully reports. "Now catch!"
Miyo rolls his eyes but dutifully accepts the low toss of an Evoker.
"This is. So stupid," he sighs, then takes another deep breath as he lifts the device to his temple. "I just press the trigger and yell Persona, right?"
"Yep!"
"... fine," he sighs. "Persona."
Miyo pulls the trigger - and the alleyway is suddenly a great deal more cramped as a massive winged serpent that seems to be made entirely out of shadows, with only a few splotched of dark red and burned gold, manifests.
"What the FU-"
The video ends with Junpei dropping the phone.]
Why yes of course I drew this. Months ago, actually. Which would be why Miyo still has brown hair in this.
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