[They should stop laughing. Stop - doing what they're doing, hands roving up and down their arms. And then the scratch, the dig of nails into skin. Dry, graying motes of dead skin the outer carapace, ha ha, before they get to the juicy center. The burn, the widening streaks of red.
Deeper, deeper. Maybe if they keep going, they'll carve everything apart and fall to ribbons. Wouldn't that be nice, for everyone?
The words are rough, hoarse with the lump swollen in the bit of their throat, jarring everything, blocking everyone.]
cw self harm
Deeper, deeper. Maybe if they keep going, they'll carve everything apart and fall to ribbons. Wouldn't that be nice, for everyone?
The words are rough, hoarse with the lump swollen in the bit of their throat, jarring everything, blocking everyone.]
You're not Frisk.