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#murder tw
njamil21 · 2 days
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And she's all out of bullets too...
Figured I'd try my hand at this meme, even if I'm a little late to the party haha! Sakura will always be my number one best gal, she's so precious to me and Lenore has become such a fast favorite with her wit and charm, I love her so much! But god, are their aesthetics so wildly different so the idea of putting them together in this meme had me cackling! It took me a while to figure out who would say what but I'm happy with how it turned out! This was so fun to draw and I hope you get a chuckle out of this too.
Please do not edit or repost without permission. (I edited my commission prices!)
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diejager · 11 hours
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End of Scene Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, murder, death, blood and gore, sadism, Dark!reader, dark!Ghost, stabbing, stalking, Ghostface!reader, home invasion,
Part 4
Slinking from shadow to shadow, you stalked the backdrop of a familiar house, eyes wandering over it’s baby blue walls and curtainless, wide windows, showing the world their private life. Every argument, every fit and every smile were on show, none hidden from prying eyes or dangerous attention. It was practically calling your name, asking - no - it was begging you to do something about it, to give this obnoxious and arrogant neighbourhood something to fear and watch out for. It was waiting for someone to humble this so-called “safest neighbourhood in the world”, no security camera and no patrolling police. It was just taunting you, especially when you hated the owner of this house. 
Abigail; sweet, sweet Abigail was tonight’s squealing pig. She was so whiny, always complaining about how her life was so hard when she lived off her parent’s money, in the richest part of the city and could afford whatever she wanted. She was a spoiled brat, spoiled rotten to the core from what you’d come to learn through a long month of observation. You didn’t liked brats, much less spoiled ones, Simon taught you to hate them, he whispered to you at night about how he would beat them to a pulp. You learned to learned to put them in their place.
And she was so easy —too easy. She followed the same routine, her nights spent drinking until all she could do was waddle to her bed, trying and sometimes failing to reach her bed and just laying on her floor. Abigail was at her weakest in a drunken stupor, bumbling and stammering as she spoke when you called, watching as your raspy voice confused her, but the best moment was meeting her in the morning, her paranoid glances around her and awkward gait from her pounding hangover. While she was fun to spook, you were growing tired of watching the same thing over and over again, she wasn’t what you were looking for anymore and soon, you’d have to move on, find another obsession. It was time to end this story. 
You crouched outside her window, licking your lips in anticipation, you waited for her to stumble into the kitchen, searching for her new bottle of aged wine that you caught her buy for over two hundred. Seeing you moment, you crawled through the open window that she always left open for better air circulation, stalking past the kitchen entrance and hiding away in her closet. You had to bite your tongue to keep your excited giggle from slipping, enjoying her ambling through the small gap in the door, she placed her wine glass and bottle, and ungracefully dropped down on her couch, hissing about her back pain. 
You stared with bated breath, gazing at her while she took sip after sip, throwing herself deeper in the ground with how fast the alcohol was getting to her head. You huffed, pushing open the closet door without a sound and sliding behind her. She was too drunk to be aware of her immediate surrounding, a sloppy and annoying person that you were about to… bring to the limelight with your art. Knife in hand, you swiped at her neck with your free hand, gripping her throat to pull her back, throwing her to the ground with little care while she wailed and begged. 
“Please! Please! What do you want?! I’ll give you anything! Anything!!”
You straddled the back of her thighs, ignoring her tearful screams in favour of admiring her helpless figure, too weak to fight you off and too drunk to do anything. 
“Anything I want, yeah?” You cackled, watching her nod and gurgle out weeps, “I want your life then.”
Raising your knife, a clean and well-kept buck knife that Simon got you, you took a shuddering breath, scenting her terror before you swung down, sinking it deep into her back. You appreciated her choked scream and the wet squelch of your stab, blood pooled from her wound when you pulled out, spraying you in red when you stabbed her once more. You killed with passion, a final act of acknowledgment to a person you grew to know, an integral part of your stories. You sunk your knife into her again, and again, and again, flicking blood all over you and around you, staining the furniture and walls with flakes of red and the cashmere carpet of hers with a pool of blood. 
You listened to her choke on her blood, her chin painted a bright red and eyes blinking slowly, you sat back on your haunches, head lolling back with a heavy, but satisfied sigh. Slowly reaching into your jacket, you pulled out your camera and switched it on, quickly admiring the previous pictures you took with prior actors. Sliding the knife back into it’s sheath, you kneeled forward, gloved hand harshly grasping at the roots of her bleached hair and propped her up for a selfie, her body still warm under you and mouth dripping blood. Smiling behind the mask, you took a few pictures, the shutter clicking loudly in your ears with the bright and blinding flash of the lights, and dropped Abigail, her head slamming roughly with a wet splash on the carpet. 
You flipped through the shots, admiring your bloody work with a proud hum, unbothered by her dying rasp and last wheeze. You secured your camera in the pocket you sewed in your jacket and stared at your piggy one last time before you’d leave the closing scene of your story to reporters and authorities to write and critique. You hummed a small lullaby, looking over the dirtied walls and smeared floor, you turned to the window you crawled in from. Then your phone shook, vibrating in your coat, and in a moment of curiosity, too happy to be mad that you were interrupted in your moment you looked at the caller name. It was Simon!
“Hi, Si,” you grinned, a higher pitch in your tone despite the modulator’s incapability of catching it.
“ ‘ello, kit,” his reply was slow, lazy in a way, unlike your giddy one, “Where are you?”
You looked around the room and open hallway, it’d be useless to lie to him when you answered him with the voice changer on, and lying to him would disappoint him. You hated disappointing Simon, how that small, but warm gleam in his eyes would turn cold and blank, showing how much he was displeased with your acts and decision. 
“Abigail’s, just finished.”
You caught a proud rumble - more so a growl - from his side and clothes shifting as he moved from, what you presumed, his bed. 
“At piggy’s? Sloppy, kit, what if there are cameras?”
You laughed, a loud, boisterous and belly chuckle.
“You know me, Si. You didn’t teach me to be sloppy, I know what I’m doing.”
“Good, do me proud and I’ll fuck you good when ’m home, yeah?”
Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @@cod-z @sweetnanah @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami
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genderkoolaid · 1 month
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(Source)
On February 8th, this nonbinary child was violently beaten by three cis girls. The school did not call them an ambulance after the beating was stopped, and they later died in the hospital from head trauma. They have also been deadnamed and misgendered in their obituary and in the news. As the author of the article puts it:
How is that not national news? A 16 year old beaten to death in a public school bathroom? By other students. All these unanswered seemingly obvious questions about what transpired, and how the adults involved acted. That should be every headline. In fact, almost every local outlet covering the story misgender and deadnames Nex, using their same assigned at birth. The indignities pile on. We don’t yet know if Nex’s nonbinary identity is directly tied to this incident. But, my God, it sure matters to me that this would happen to any child. A nonbinary kid assaulted in a girl’s bathroom. That outcome from the narrative of anti-trans rhetoric these past years. Still why wasn’t this story breaking news? It involves a nonbinary student in a public school. And school violence and school police resource officers. It involves the deep fear so many trans youth have shared with me about their schools.
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one-time-i-dreamt · 9 days
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I passed a law that made it illegal to use the same word in a sentence twice and everyone hated it so much that they all started chasing me around the United States in an effort to kill me.
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a-gay-poptart · 23 days
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Say their name.
CW AND TW: CHILD DEATH
Say.
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Their.
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Name.
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Nex Benedict was a indigenous trans nonbinary teenager. Their head was beaten against the floor in a bathroom stall. Less than 24 hours later, they died, most likely from undiagnosed head trauma. Conservatives say they want to, "protect the children", where was the protection for Nex? That's the thing. There wasn't any. Nex died. And many more trans, queer, and nonbinary minors will if we don't step up and do something. What happened to Nex has and will happen to queer folk around the globe. Say their name.
Edit: I didn't expect this to get much attention, but thank you everyone. What alot of people, "forget" to mention was that Nex was two spirited, which means they were indigenous. The fact that I wouldn't have heard about this if I didn't have Tumblr is absolutely revolting. News needs to be covering this. But what are Republicans doing? Sucking their thumbs and crying about how, "trans people shouldn't be able to piss". What are Democrats doing? Twiddling their thumbs and groveling to an old geezer that somehow falls up the stairs and supports I$r3@l. It's disgusting and America needs to do better.
Edit 2: Any and all hate/saying that Nex Benedict wasn't murdered (they were) will immediately get deleted, just because you don't like trans people doesn't mean you can be an whiny little bitch. A child was murdered. This has nothing to do with politics, a child was murdered.
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seaslugsims · 1 year
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March 1st is Disability day of Mourning/Remembrance. Today we remember all the disabled people who have died as the result of negligent or intentional homicide by caregivers and family. Disabled lives are worth living and protecting.
anti-filicide toolkit | list of disability charities/orgs
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vague-humanoid · 5 months
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I see people sharing those "fun" videos of IDF troops playing with Palestinian kids
reminder from a 2015 story
During the Israeli bombardment and shelling of the Gaza Strip last summer, an Israeli soldier approached a 74-year-old Palestinian woman Ghalya Abu-Rida to give her a sip of water. He gave her the water, took a photo with her and then he shot her in the head from a distance of one metre. He then watched as she bled to death, the Palestine Information Centre reported.
these photo ops aren't reality
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egberts · 4 months
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politijohn · 11 months
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In a country evoked by fear and hate while armed with too many guns, this is our reality.
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headspace-hotel · 26 days
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What could i possibly say about this
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Single sniper shots to the head.
Children.
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jyndor · 5 months
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oh my god tw for child death, murder, racism, islamophobia
a 6 year old Muslim child was murdered and his mother was severely wounded by their white male landlord outside of Chicago (NBC affiliate). they are also Palestinian, according to the mother's ex-husband.
their landlord, who is facing hate crimes charges as well as first degree murder and attempted first degree murder charges, said "You Muslims must die" while attempting to kill her, and it is suspected that he was motivated by the escalation in israel-palestine.
the mother is expected to survive. her son's name is Wadea Al-Fayoume. he just turned six two weeks ago, and now he is gone.
maybe don't call people "human animals" and say they're all terrorists.
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genderkoolaid · 25 days
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I just saw a freaking take like "transandrophobia is erasure, transmisogyny is murder. Just admit transmisogyny is worse."
Crazy thought here but what if the whole erasure thing makes murders less likely to be seen as such?
People's understanding of erasure is, ironically, so clouded by erasure as a social force that it just reinforces itself.
Anyways. I have the Archive of Violence Against Transmasculine People for explicitly this purpose.
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one-time-i-dreamt · 1 month
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I went to band camp for marching band for the first time, and I found out that the marching band staff was trying to get us involved in a ‘pyramid scheme’ and they were trying to kill us. Later I pulled out my trombone and started sniping the staff with it from a hotel window. I shot a couple before I tried to shoot one of the band directors, who kept dodging.
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saintshigaraki · 6 months
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thinking about sukuna violently murdering your husband before stealing you for himself :/ sukuna didn't have to kill him in order to spirit you away but he didn't murder your husband out of necessity. he did it so you know where he stands, above all other men in power in strength and in status.
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dycefic · 2 years
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The Late Traveller
I should have known, of course.
A little old hotel in the middle of nowhere, with a creaking wooden sign instead of neon? Red flag.
A hollow-eyed, weary-looking young woman at the desk who seemed hesitant to let me get a room? Red flag.
A picturesquely old-fashioned room with a patchwork quilt on the bed that smells a little too musty? HUGE red flag.
Only they’re actually not. Not the first two, anyway. I travel a lot. There are a lot more seems-haunted old-house-turned-traveller’s-rest places than most people think, and in my experience most night auditors are hollow-eyed, faintly eldritch, and disinclined to let someone check in just before dawn.
Of course, the patchwork quilt should have been a dead giveaway. Tired 80s decor and a chenille bedspread? Entirely normal. Patchwork quilt and nineteenth century charm for less than $100 a night? Sus. Very sus. Should have warned me then and there.
In my defense, I was really tired. I’d been driving for two nights and a day, I was exhausted, all my car snacks were gone, and I just wanted to close my eyes and get horizontal. I handed over some cash, stumbled upstairs, made sure the blinds were down, and passed out.
I didn’t wake up until late afternoon, and I felt like shit on a shingle when I did. It took me a couple of attempts to put on my pants and stumble out of the room to look for some sustenance. My expectations weren’t high, but most places at least have coffee-making facilities, and in a pinch a cup of coffee and chugging all the available milk will keep me going for a while. There might even be some of those little packages of cookies, which usually give me an upset stomach but are better than nothing.
There wasn’t a coffee station. What there was was a vending machine with a buzzing, flickering light inside it that made the dusty snacks look even less appealing than they already did.
I was debating whether to risk a can of soda of unknown brand and vintage - sugar and caffeine don’t readily go bad, and I was starving - when I heard a little cough behind me. “Are you a guest, dear?” the old woman said when I turned around to blink at her. She was thin and tottering, faded-looking, and while there weren’t actually cobwebs on her, she looked as if there should be.
“Yes. Is there a kitchen or something where I can get some food from this century?”
Her eyes flicked away. “There’s a diner,” she told me. “Not far down the road. You should try there. I’m afraid the facilities here aren’t what they once were.” She sighed deeply.
Belatedly, my sense for the uncanny started to tingle. “So I should check out and keep moving, huh?”
“Yes, dear. If you can,” she added, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Before sunset.”
Aha.
I could have been more tactful with the old dear, I suppose, but I didn’t have it in me just then. “Lady,” I said, folding my arms and glaring at her, “I am very tired, and very hungry, and being tired and hungry makes me very cranky, so I’d really appreciate it if you could get to the fucking point. You’re a ghost. This is one of those haunted hotels that lure in travellers to sacrifice them to demons or beg them to break curses or whatever. Fine. That’s on me. Shouldn’t have been suckered in. But enough with the veiled warnings. Just tell me what you want.”
The old woman hissed softly, like a startled cat, but she didn’t vanish on me. That was good. The really timid spirits did, and it was annoying as shit. Then she shook herself and cocked her head. “I see,” she said, her voice stronger but less human-sounding. Ghost voices don’t have the body of a human voice, unless they really work at it. “You’re not… ordinary.”
“That’s an understatement.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay. You’re here. You’re trying to warn people off, so you’re not a willing participant in whatever’s going on here. I don’t mind releasing you, because I personally find the binding of unconsenting spirits to be a disgusting abomination, but if you don’t get to the point I’m going to get even testier than I am now.”
“We’re bound here.” The night-auditor was in the doorway, three or four shadowy figures behind her. I heard a faint murmur that suggested there were more further back where I couldn't see. “He traps us, and kills us, and then we’re still trapped.”
“Okay, there’s a he. Necromancer?”
“Not exactly,” the old woman said grimly. “It’s the fear that sustains him, the fear and the suffering. Do you know how long it takes someone to starve to death?”
“About a month, usually.”
“He can usually drag it out to at least two, by allowing a little food now and then. An illusion of hope.” The old woman looked bitter. “I was the first. This was my house. He came, one night, and I opened my door to a lost traveller. I’ve had many long years to regret that.”
I allowed myself a small growl. That wasn’t just evil, it was rude. “Well, he made a mistake this time, just like you did.” I paused. “He’s not a demon or something is he? Because that takes special equipment, and I’m not sure I have enough wormwood in the car.”
“No, he’s no demon. Only a mortal magician who draws power from the suffering of others.” This was a spirit who hadn’t spoken before, a man with the pouchy, drooping look of a stout man who’d lost a lot of weight before he died. He looked shrewd, though, and the look he gave me was assessing. “He’s living.”
“Oh, good. In that case, lead me to him.” I felt in my pockets for the charm I’d picked up six small towns ago. I tend to tap out protective charms fairly quickly, but this one still had some life in it. She’d been a gifted witch, that one… and a good kisser, too. I’d try to stop by there again soon.
They led me down to the cellar, and showed me the hidden door. In theory, the door couldn’t be opened from the outside. In practice, most doors open once you put your fist through them and then rip them right off their hinges. That sounds impressive, but behind the disguising layer of dried clay it was one of those flimsy modern doors that’s basically made of laminated paper and plywood a toddler could break through.
I went through the door fast, not wanting to give him time to get a spell ready if he didn’t already have one going. He hadn’t been expecting me to come through the door - I got a look into his scrying mirror over his shoulder, and he was watching my car. Probably getting ready to pixie-lead me back to the hotel when I tried to leave, the normal next step in this game.
I’d taken him completely by surprise. He managed one hex-bolt, which I shrugged off, and then I had hold of him. Like most of the spider-types, who let their webs do their hunting for them, he wasn’t physically strong or fast. I am.
Much more so than any human.
It felt fitting, that a man who starved and tormented his prey should find that he’d caught a bigger predator than he was. I didn’t drop the body until I’d drained it of every accessible drop of blood. We don’t usually do that, despite the stories. We’re still equipped with all the usual human organs, and a human stomach is not designed to hold five liters of fluid in a hurry. Ours do get a bit bigger, over time, taking up some of the space in the abdomen that the atrophied bowel doesn’t need any more, but I still felt as bloated as a tick when I finally dropped him.
“I needed that,” I admitted, licking a trace of blood off my lips and tucking the feeding fangs away behind my teeth. “Thank you.”
The ghosts might have feared a vampire in life, but they all looked delighted now. They clearly appreciated the poetry of the man who had starved them being devoured before their eyes. “At least he left someone with a full belly,” the girl who’d posed as a night auditor said with satisfaction. They were already looking less… real, and less human. Without magical anchoring, ghosts who have been dead for a while can’t usually pass for living any more. There were at least thirty of them, all up. He'd been here for a long time.
“His spells still bind us here,” the formerly-stout man said, tugging on something I couldn’t see with spectral hands. “Can you undo them?”
“Technically, no. Most vampires aren’t magicians.” I grinned at him. “But here’s an interesting fact. Phosphorus fires burn magic. That’s why so many vampire and magician strongholds are burned down.”
He grinned back, a deaths-head grin that would have frightened someone mortal. “And you have phosphorus?”
“Got some in the car. I’ll go get it as soon as the sun goes down and set this place alight.”
We had a nice chat until sundown. The old lady showed me around, and I filled a few boxes with antiques and other valuables or items of sentimental value that she didn’t want torched. I put all the identifiable stuff the wizard had taken from his victims - IDs, rings, engraved watches, that sort of thing - in a separate box, and buried it with enough juice from the corpse that any dog, sniffer trained or otherwise, would go straight to it. The ghosts’ bodies were all buried under the floor of the cellar, they said, so once the fire was out and the investigation started, they’d be found.
Of course not all vampires are alike. We’re as different as any humans are from each other. But most of us feel a certain kinship with our fellow dead, especially the ones who didn’t go by choice. I volunteered to be turned, but I know plenty who didn’t, and I don’t care for that any more than I do for binding spirits. It was a pleasure to be able to help them out, and make sure their families found out what happened to them.
It doesn’t take much phosphorus to set a fire. When I drove away, the house was already ablaze, and the ghosts had vanished.
Or so I thought. Three miles down the road, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a familiar face. “Haunting the photographs, huh?”
The old lady shrugged. “I can if I want to.”
“I’m not judging. Anywhere you want me to take them?”
She beamed. “Somewhere interesting. A museum or something, where there are a lot of people and interesting things to see.”
So yeah, I’m basically the reason there’s a haunted 200-year-old patchwork quilt hanging in the Texas Quilt Museum. I donated it, along with the picture of my old lady’s grandmother (who made the quilt) and the old lady (who I credited with the donation). Nobody seems to have noticed yet, except a local witch who’s started hanging out there to get knitting advice from the old lady.
You know, vampires get a bad rap, but we really do a lot of good for the community… in our own way.
#
Note: To my knowledge, there isn’t a haunted quilt in the Texas Quilt Museum. But the museum itself exists, which is very neat, and it looks well worth the visit even without a ghost.
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selfshippingquotes · 3 months
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F/O, putting a hand on S/I's shoulder: I think we're gonna have to kill this guy, S/I.
S/I: Damn.
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