Hallucinations - Blog Posts

Technoblade and hallucinations

I am very very new to the dream smp fandom, but can I just say that I love it? It’s fucking awesome. I just started watching canon two days ago, and I’m hooked, ladies and gentlemen. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on, but I’m hooked. 

I came here for a reason, though, not just to introduce myself, though that might be a good place to start. Hi! I’m strawberry frog, you can call me frog, or strawberry, I don’t care which, and I suffer from hallucinations, which is why last night when I stumbled upon the subsection of fanfiction where Technoblade has hallucinations, it made me cry so hard I called my friend up in a huff and a fuss and she thought I was dying. I was so happy. I was so happy, guys, I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. (Ha, I’m saying guys like I have an audience-- remember, kids, words are just for the void. Nobody knows me, and so long as I don’t know them they can’t hurt me.) 

Technoblade has hallucinations! Technoblade has hallucinations! Technoblade has schizophrenia in AUs, Technoblade has hallucinations and they cause him problems and they cause him paranoia and distress and all of the things that they cause me and it’s not just part of some half-assed trope where the hallucinations are just a false diagnosis and it’s really just magic powers, superpowers, supernatural influence. No. Technoblade has powers, sure, but the hallucinations aren’t his powers. They’re a side-affect, and a harmful one at that, and I have spent too many long nights hiding alone in my bed from monsters only I can see waiting for this. It makes me so happy, in that twisted, cruel way that being seen in distress strikes your soul like midnight church bells. 

My hallucinations are debilitating. I spend days awake at a time, simply hearing my best friend’s death cry on repeat and wondering if this time it’s real or if I’m being stupid again and wondering when it’s going to stop. Technoblade tries his best to drown out the cries for blood, I do my best to drown out my fucked-up delusions and the people I see in my side-view mirror who disappear when I look twice. 

I just. I want to know, how did a fucking minecraft fandom make me feel more seen that anything else I’ve ever consumed in my entire life? Please, somebody, tell me. I’ll even present my application for people to talk to me about it. 

See? Here: PROS AND CONS OF TALKING TO ME ABOUT THE DREAM SMP

pros: 

-I will love you forever

-I know basically like two things so you can explain everything to me in incredible detail and I will listen with great attention and interest and it will make you feel important

-Maybe I’ll write something for you one day

-I’m a lesbian

-I’m the funniest person I know

-I like Technoblade

cons:

-None that I foresee

So. Talk to me? 

DAY 4: A Good Night's Sleep

Law can't escape, even in his dreams. Especially in his dreams.

You know those games where you hit the ball around to get it to the finish line? Law is the ball. Trigger Warnings : - Implied Character Death - Graphic Description of Corpses - Maggot - Blood and Gore - Psychological Horror - Implied Genocide Nothing is graphic except the description of the corpses but it's definitely there. Feel free to let me know if I missed anything. Fandom : One Piece Character(s) : Trafalgar D. Water Law Words Count : 962 No. 4: HALLUCINATIONS Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)

Law ran and ran, but he couldn't escape. The white stretched everywhere, on the buildings, on the trees, on the people . The cold air bit his skin viciously and his ragged breathing formed condensation in the air.

The smoke morphed before his eyes, winding and wrapping all around him. The smell of smoke and burning flesh hit his nose and Law doubled over to vomit.

He was so hot, his skin was clammy and he felt like he was suffocating in his heavy black feather coat. The coat swallowed him up completely, almost suffocating him and Law wondered when it had arrived on his shoulders. It must have been Cora-san who had put it there. But where was Cora-san?

The smoke thickened, taking on the appearance of crows with bloody feathers. Drops of blood fell onto the pristine snow. White. Red. Black. Law’s head kept spinning.

Where was Cora-san?

If they didn't hurry up, Doflamingo would catch up with them.

(Doflamingo had already caught up with them.)

(Cora-san was dead.)

Law looked up at the sky. The stars shone brightly in the dark night, incandescent and untouchable. (How could he see them through the smoke?) A star grew in the sky, grew and grew until Law could see only it, until his retina burned in his eyeballs.

Strings of gold descended from the heavens, like the will of a vengeful god (run Law, run), and fell to the earth with all the force of a meteor. The ground shook and Law fell into the bloody snow. 

The threads streaked the sky by the thousands until Law could no longer see the stars, trapping him in the White City. (City of the Dead, City of Angels)

A birdcage.

(Doflamingo was there.)

(Run, Law, Run.)

The blood-stained raven croaked, a cruel, bitter laugh. Law wept with it. His tears felt like stardrops, burning against his cheeks.

Law began to run again. The white continued to advance, marking his skin and seeping into his body, all the way to his lungs. Soon, the white would swallow him whole until nothing remained of him but a bloodstain on the snow.

A weight fell on his back, sending him to the ground and snow poured into his mouth. Law tried to swim through the mass that clung to his skin like blood, but chains around his feet pulled him deeper into the earth.

Law screamed. But no one heard him.

The pressure on his back grew more intense and when Law opened his eyes again, Lammy's lifeless eyes were staring at him. Law was drowning in a sea of ​​severed limbs and rotting flesh. Bones sticking out in all the wrong directions, teeth falling out of twisted smiles. Gaunt skin covered in white spots.

The white had caught up with him.

(Dead. Everyone was dead.)

Law was the only survivor.

“See? There is no despair in this world. Someone will probably come and give you a helping hand.”

A maggot crawled out of Lammy's eye and into Law's ear.

But he couldn't scream.

(But he couldn't cry.)

If he screamed, the Navy would find him and kill him.

(If he cried, Doflamingo would find him and kill him.)

It was his only way to leave Flevance alive.

(It was his only way to leave Minion Island alive.)

A skeletal hand placed itself over his hand and mouth, preventing him from screaming. Terrified, Law followed the arm with his eyes, barely daring to move or breathe. Cora-san smiled at him, blood running from his nose and a broken tooth.

“I’ll die smiling! Because if you ever think of me, I want you to remember my smile.”

Cora-san's coat spontaneously caught fire. As usual, Cora-san didn't notice. The fire spread to the mountain of corpses that Law was on top of, licking the soles of his shoes.

The World Government wanted to remove all evidence.

(But they wouldn't be able to, because Law was still alive.)

(For that, he had to run.)

(Run, Law, Run.)

A hand locked around his ankle, cold and bony. Lammy’s head snapped around in its socket, the skin of her face melting around her eyeballs. She was smiling.

“Big brother, let’s go to the festival!” 

Lammy’s hand tightened, her fingers digging in painfully until blood flowed.

“Big brother, why don’t you want to play with me?”

There were tears in her eyes.

“Big brother, why don’t you love me anymore?”

Law tried to pull away, tugging and kicking. He fell out of the pile and into the snow, Lammy’s torn-off arm still clinging to his ankle.

Gunshots rang out in the night, making Law flinch violently.

(Two brothers face to face, a gun in their hands. A perfect mirror.)

(Cora-san's body falling on the chest where Law was hidden.)

Law began to run, Lammy's arm like prisoner's chains around his feet. Black and pink feathers flew around him, a raven laughed in the distance.

Strings wrapped around Law's throat and hands. A doll tangled in his puppeteer's grip.

"You can't run forever, Law."

He couldn't escape.

  He couldn't escape.

   He couldn't escape.

A crevasse opened beneath his feet, snow cascading down and dragging Law down with it. The white covered him, swallowed him, ate him whole.

But just before Law was completely devoured by the white, an open hand closed around his wrist. Warm and soft and gentle. A blond man smiled at him, black and pink feathers dancing around him.

“If you want a good night's sleep, nothing better.”

(Law hadn't slept properly since Cora-san died.)

(The world was so noisy .)

“Cora-san?”

Law's voice was weak, almost inaudible.

(No one had heard him cry amidst the explosions, long after Cora-san died.)

(Cora-san could always hear him.)

“ Wrong .”

Law screamed.

(No one heard him.)

I'm sorry.

My brain creates sound hallucinations by associating everyday sounds with sounds my dad usually makes to keep me alert for the next hour every now and then.

flashback to that time in 2023 where I almost had a psychotic break and thought I could hear fucking Johnny silverhand in my head :3

sometimes I think I can still hear him when I'm stressed

I’m rising from the dead for whumptober!! This is my first time doing any writing challenge, so I’m excited to see how it goes!! This work does prompts 1; Panic Attack and 2; Hallucinations.

I plan to do 7 works for whumptober, and I’m really excited to write them! For now, enjoy some dazatsu (I’m so sorry Atsushi)

Angel sees some pretty crazy stuff

Hi has this happened to anyone here? 😃

You're Still Bleeding

Ⅰ. ⚘ Of Roses & Regrets

Synopsis: Uraraka Ochaco is haunted by the (death?) of Toga Himiko. The war may be over, but her mind is fraying, unraveling into rose-tinted memories and crimson hallucinations. Midoriya Izuku tries to help her move on, but mourning is never linear, and the past refuses to stay buried.

Preview: "Healing is uneven. Quiet. Sometimes it’s crying while brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s staring at a cup of tea for hours. Sometimes it’s walking the same street Himiko bled out on, again and again, hoping something will feel different.”"

Words: 1.9k

Tags: tgchk, not really major character death, midoriya izuku is a good friend, horror, obsession, survivor guilt, angst, hurt/no comfort, grief/mourning, hallucinations, emotional baggage

Notes: if im being honest this has been rotting in my drafts for about a month or so.. i also REALLY need to stop writing horribly miserable queer love stories. hope u liked it just as much as i do!!! if im being honest, i dont know where to take this next lolol pretty please lmk if u have any ideas.. MANY THANKS FOR READING<333 also cross-posted on ao3!!

Blood trickles down her teeth, She smiled like she forgave me. I begged her to stay.

Ochacco doesn’t remember falling.

She remembers Himiko’s face, inches from hers. The weight of her body pressing close as they collapsed together, as if the battle itself had decided they had done enough. She remembers the rain, washing the blood away before it could dry. She remembers reaching out, fingers brushing against skin that had always been just out of reach.

Then—nothing.

And when she wakes, it’s over. The war, the fighting, the girl who had smiled through bloodstained teeth—all of it is over. She hears it in the way the medics talk around her, avoiding her eyes when she asks about the League. She sees it in the way no one tells her where Himiko is.

She doesn’t ask again.

Because she already knows.

And yet, she can’t stop looking.

She lies in bed with tubes in her arms. When she blinks, she half-expects to see red.

Instead, she sees flowers. A vase of them—roses, too bright against the sterile white. Ochacco stares at them without really seeing.

“She’s still asking about her,” one nurse mutters.

“You mean the League freak? The knife one?”

“Shh—don’t call her that. She might hear you.”

“She’s been staring at the same wall for twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, and it's freaking me out.”

Ochacco curls her fingers into the blanket, gripping it tight.

This is how it's been for a few days. People whisper and talk about her, without telling her anything. Like she's not even there. Like she's the one who didn't make it.

The discharge from the hospital is quiet. She’s healed enough, they say. No need to keep her here when there’s so much rebuilding to do. A nurse hands her a folder of papers and a plastic bag of her old belongings. The folder has her name on it. The bag has a cracked phone, scorched gloves, and a single, still-damp hair tie.

Not hers.

She holds it in her palm for a long moment, heart stuttering. Ruby red, stretchy. The kind you’d find on a convenience store shelf. It smells faintly of iron and roses.

She says nothing. Slips it into her pocket.

People talk about healing like it’s a destination. Like there’s a point you arrive at where everything stops hurting.

Ochacco knows better.

Healing is uneven. Quiet. Sometimes it’s crying while brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s staring at a cup of tea for hours. Sometimes it’s walking the same street Himiko bled out on, again and again, hoping something will feel different.

It never does.

But sometimes, she thinks she sees her. Would it really be so wrong to hope?

In a slashed lipstick tube left on a windowsill. In dried rose petals scattered like secrets across alley concrete. In red—always red—smudged across glass like a kiss or a warning. A heart drawn in blood. A name scratched into wood. A flash of blonde hair in a crowd. A shadow ducking around the corner. Red eyes, wide and bright like they were on that last day.

She blinks, and it’s gone.

Always gone when she looks.

Always gone.

“Have you thought about talking to someone?” Izuku asks her one day, gently. He brings her bento boxes sometimes. Tries to smile like he used to.

“I’m fine,” she says.

“You’re... not, though.”

Ochacco shrugs. “Are you?”

Izuku doesn’t answer.

He sets the bento down without a word.

Ochacco doesn’t touch it. Just stares at the chipped edge of her table like it might offer her something.

He breaks the silence. “I passed by the train station last night. Thought I saw her.”

She freezes.

“Wasn’t her, obviously,” he adds. “Just some girl with space buns and a limp.”

Ochacco exhales through her nose. “You still look, too?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Old habit.”

They sit with that for a minute. Then Izuku says, “You know she’s probably gone.”

“Probably,” Ochacco echoes.

“But that wouldn’t stop you.”

She looks at him then, really looks. She doesn't know how to say the things that matter anymore.

He’s thinner than she remembers. Eyes rimmed with something like sleep deprivation or grief, maybe both. 

“You know what’s worse than losing people?” he says, voice low. “Losing the part of yourself that used to care about anything else.”

Ochacco swallows. Her throat burns.

Izuku nods toward the bento. “Eat something.”

She picks up the chopsticks. Doesn’t say thank you. He wouldn’t want her to.

But as he stands to leave, brushing a hand briefly over her shoulder like a goodbye, something settles in her chest.

Not peace, but a weight she can carry.

What would I ever do without him.

She finds an incident report two weeks after returning home.

It’s crumpled at the bottom of a file, misfiled. The date matches the last day of the war. It lists casualties, injuries, environmental damage. One line makes her pause:

Subject: League member (female). Status: presumed deceased. Body unrecovered.

She reads it once. Then again.

The words don’t change, but something inside her does.

Presumed. Not confirmed.

Unrecovered. Not buried.

She stares at the words until they blur. Then reads them again.

The dreams start small.

First, it’s Himiko standing in the rain, smiling. Her head tilted like she’s asking Ochacco a question she can’t hear.

Then it’s her voice. Low, sweet, syrupy. "You're still bleeding," she whispers.

Ochacco wakes up breathless, her hand still reaching out.

The worst part is that for one brief, aching second, she wants it to be real.

Sometimes she dreams in first person—sees her own hands stained with blood. Sees herself cradling Himiko’s face. Sees the moment her eyes closed.

Only... sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes they open again.

Sometimes she closes her eyes on purpose.

Just to see her again.

The dreams rot her from the inside, but she drinks them like nectar.

It’s easier there. 

She starts to visit the alleys. Narrow, winding paths with peeling posters and rusted gates. Ones Himiko would've liked. Places where you could vanish if you wanted to. Places heroes don’t patrol often.

She tells herself it’s nothing.

She tells herself she’s just... curious.

But one night, she sees lipstick smeared on a wall. A deep, wine red.

Next to it, the faint outline of a heart.

Her fingers shake as she traces it. Tells herself it's just graffiti. It could be anyone.

But her chest is tight. Her throat dry.

Please, she thinks.

Just once—let it be her.

But then, she recalls-

There’s talk of a new vigilante. Not quite a villain, not quite a hero. Small-time acts. Petty crimes. Stolen bandages. Blood drained from criminals—but no deaths.

No one knows who it is.

But Ochacco hears the description. Blonde. Agile. Always smiling.

Hope curls inside her like hunger.

She shouldn’t want to believe it.

She does.

She doesn’t say anything. 

But the thought echoes inside her regardless: I hope you're just as eager to see me again.

She starts walking the city more at night.

Her steps feel heavy, like they're someone else's. She thought about how Himiko always stared at her with those gorgeous, ruby eyes, like she was something shiny. Something good.

Ochacco wonders what she looked like to Himiko in those final moments. What did she see? Was there any softness in her gaze? Or was it just a mask, the same one that Himiko wore so often?

She wonders, too, what Himiko looked like to her. Had she ever really seen her? There's so much they haven't shared with eachother. Does she know enough about Himiko to keep her memory alive after all this time? Or was she left with fragments, pieces of who the girl once was?

The first time she sees her, really sees her, it’s raining.

Ochacco’s umbrella is flipped inside out, and she’s muttering curses under her breath when she looks up and—

There.

Across the street.

Blonde hair, matted to her cheeks. A hoodie pulled low. Eyes locked on hers.

Himiko.

It has to be.

Their eyes meet.

Just for a second.

But it's enough.

Ochacco steps forward.

A car blares past. When it’s gone, so is she.

Ochacco stands there, soaked, heartbeat like thunder.

The dreams get worse.

Or maybe they get better.

Because in them, Ochacco doesn’t wake up gasping anymore.

She lingers.

She walks familiar streets dipped in dusk, and every rose she passes wilts in her hands. Red petals stain her palms like cuts. Like kisses. Like guilt.

Himiko waits at the end of the path, always. Leaning against a lamp post, or crouched on a windowsill. Lipstick smeared like war paint, like ritual.

“I missed you,” she says in every dream. Or: “You looked so pretty covered in red.” Or: “I never wanted to hurt you, you know.”

Sometimes she wears a crown of thorns.

Sometimes she wears Ochacco’s old hero uniform, soaked in blood.

Ochacco always reaches for her. And always wakes up before they touch.

She starts keeping roses in her apartment.

Deep red ones. The kind that bruise when you press your thumb in too hard. The kind that rot fast, leaving stains on the wood.

She doesn’t throw them out.

Instead, she lines the petals along her windowsill, like offerings. The smell clings to her clothes.

Once, she wakes up with a thorn scratch on her wrist.

She doesn’t remember how it got there.

In her dreams, a reoccurring symbol: 

Red ribbons float through the air like severed veins.

Red nails tap-tap against porcelain.

Red eyes shimmer like lanterns in the dark.

Red lips curl, open, and whisper her name.

She's seated at the edge of a field that shouldn't exist. The grass is a little too tall, swaying in wind that feels more like breath — warm, humid, close. The sky overhead is black, starless, thick as ink, and feels as if it might collapse onto her at any moment.

The roses beside her bloom with mouths. When she reaches to pluck one, it shudders and sighs—"Why did you let me die?"

She freezes. The voice is hers. Or maybe not. Maybe it's—

Another rose blooms. It laughs. A choked, wet sound.

She stands. The ground underneath squelches like flesh. Her feet sink an inch.

A figure waits just beyond the roses. Himiko’s silhouette. Only her hair doesn’t fall the way it used to. It's soaked. Dripping. Her face is a blur, smeared and obstructed.

The figure tilts her head. A giggle. Then—

The roses begin to bleed. A slow trickle of red pools around Ochacco's shoes.

She blinks.

Himiko’s smile is made of teeth. Too many. Not human.

She starts to run—but the field stretches. The sky groans. Every step feels like dragging her legs through syrup.

And then she wakes. But her mouth is open, and the taste of blood is there. Not hers.

One night, a message is spray-painted across her apartment door.

Messy handwriting. 

COME FIND ME.

The paint is red. Still wet.

Her fingers tremble as she touches it.

She smiles.

hehe, love that my hallucinations are getting worse, love that for me, so demure so mindful

You cannot give up just yet. Get up.

"Twin!Delusion AU" by me and @ridokichan (from our previous post)

(their dynamic in nutshell, basically.)

Besides them being "isolation-induced hallucinations" - This is also partially based on bereavement hallucinations disorder (it is not nessesary for a person to be "passed" to fall under such diagnosis. but considering how on other side of the portal Stan didn't even knew if his brother is alive in there - name still works.)

Realistically speaking - those kind of hallucinations are a response to an overwhelming emotions, a coping mechanism & form of isolation formed desperation.

Stan is so desperate to fix the portal, to get his brother back/fix this mistake that mind will willingly make it seem like everything is alright.

You supress your emotions because you got more important things to focus on? Oh trust me they will find the way out.

Now a question: then why are they in a form of children?

Childhood represents innocence, unconditional love, and a time when they were truly happy together. Subconscious will always choose this form because it literally offers protection, allowing to mentally escape into the past rather than face the unbearable present. After all, Stans character is about partially clinging to the past while Ford was one that wanted to move forward. (i am not talking about Ford holding grudges from the past like a dead dog he is, no)

Seeking comfort in purest and safest version of your brother, one that never looked at you wrong, one that never pulled the curtains on you when you asked for help....... Sounds right to me.

next

Me and @ridokichan -s headcanon about "isolation-induced hallucinations" with Stan twins.

First experience with the portal was definitely..... Insufferable. For both of them.

At least someone's looking out after them.

I know he was spiraling and didn’t think about the letter he wrote from a ghost to a living. But every time I think about this I’m like did bro just not take a minute after destroying everything in his room to literally think over everything he’s learned and done since “hallucination” Maddie started speaking to him???

Also that homo love letter 😭 thinking about that from the perspective of “Maddie is just a hallucination, this isn’t real” is insane to me. Bc if that were the case then bro your gay ass is showing (and I want you to pursue Xavier 💔), how would the writers of the show ever expect me to believe you were in love with Maddie if this alternative was the reality pls- 💀

actually the way Simon acted at the beginning of s2 is so insane. Bro thought he had a mental breakdown so bad he had incredibly detailed hallucinations for hours at a time and just. Did not tell anyone