#please heed all warnings

[whumpcereal]

i want to see will's eventual rescue!!! :D:D:D

Do you, @hold-him-down? Here you go...

part of the kennel. set a year after will and tommy's disappearance. tommy and annie have been free for nearly six months; will has been sold away to whumper extraordinaire, pat deangelis, whom you'll get to know here. master list here.

content warnings for: extreme dehumanization, depersonalization, derealization, pet whump, references to noncon, noncon body modification, references to organ harvesting, forced nudity, collars, electrocution, captivity whump, creepy whumper, conditioned whumpee, thoughts of death, adult language

will's rescue, he's coming home

There is some awareness. The mutt knows that he exists. He is real. And at the same time, he isn’t real at all. The pain he feels is real. The feeling of Pat’s knife blade against his skin, the grinding pressure of the bolts in his jaw, the wet heat that seeps from deep inside after he’s used; he feels it all. But then, he doesn’t. 

He isn’t–he can’t. He isn’t himself. There is no self to be. Not anymore. There is sensation and there is darkness and there is nothing in between. Everything happens to the body that used to belong to someone with a name, someone that people knew, but someone that no one cared very much about. No one will ever care for him again. That much he knows. It’s easier to retreat into the darkness than to entertain the thought that someone might love him. He’s not meant to think anyway. So he doesn’t. He won’t. 

There is a man with Pat when feeding time comes. The syringe is full of the usual brown slop, but the mutt doesn’t care. He takes what he can get. When Pat lifts the lid on his tank, he scooches dutifully onto his ruined back. He’s still bleeding from yesterday, but he can’t really feel it; so much of what used to be skin is scar tissue now. His nerves are dead. 

He thinks he might be dead soon too. He isn’t sure he knows how to look forward to it, but there’s something comforting, knowing that, soon, the darkness won’t be interrupted by any more pain. 

“You got a visitor, pup,” Pat says dryly. 

He kneels beside the mutt’s tank and reaches to cradle the boy’s head in preparation for his food. The mutt doesn’t make a sound; he’s not even sure that he can. When he can think, he idly wonders if his vocal cords are swiss cheese beneath the scabs and scars left by Doc’s bark collar. Doc never took it off, even after he’d wired Will’s jaw shut. Pat soldered the collar’s lock permanently closed; he did the same with the little locks that keep the mutt’s mitts in place too. 

The mutt hasn’t seen his own hands in he doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t even remember what they look like. But he remembers the white hot shards of molten metal splattering against his skin. He hadn’t screamed, even then. He knew his purpose just as well as he knows it now: to suffer. That’s why Pat bought the mutt in the first place. Perhaps Will had been a whipping boy at Doc’s; here, the mutt is even less than that. 

Sometimes, when the mutt comes back to himself for a stretch of time, he misses Tommy, even though he knows it is wrong. He wonders what it would feel like to be used gently again, to know any kind of apology or affection, even at the expense of his body. 

He misses Annie even more. 

Not that it matters. Not that he can think about it. Just now, there is nothing but the feeling of Pat’s hand beneath his snaggled and greasy hair; nothing but the rubber tubing that Pat shoves between his cracked lips. 

The dim outline of another man hovers over Pat’s shoulder. For just a moment, the mutt’s eyes strain to see, but there’s only a faceless body, a voice that he doesn’t recognize. He isn’t sure if that’s good or bad. 

“He looks like shit,” the other man says. “There’s nothing to him.”

Pat laughs, and at once, the piston of the syringe shoves forward and a slosh of blended dog food and water hits the mutt’s teeth. The mutt sucks dutifully at the little tube, swallowing whatever he can. There won’t be any more until tomorrow. 

“Well, I didn’t think you were after him to win any beauty contests. It’s not his outsides you’re interested in.” 

The mutt closes his eyes. His insides hurt. Everything hurts, and the hurt means he’s still alive. He doesn’t know if he wants it to stop. He knows he should roll onto his stomach, that he should let the man feel his insides. He doesn’t have to think to know that.

But the other man drops into a squat next to Pat and peers into the tank. “Lemme see his teeth.” 

“His jaw’s bolted–”

“Yeah, I gathered. But I still want to see his teeth.” 

Pat pulls the syringe away, and the mutt doesn’t whine. His head falls back against the plastic bottom of the tank, and Pat’s hands reach for him again. Pat uses his dirty thumbs to pull the mutt’s chapped lips backward from his teeth, which are permanently joined by Doc’s wires and bolts. 

“I brush them every now and again.” 

It’s a lie, of course, but the mutt won’t disagree. If his teeth hurt, he hasn’t noticed. That doesn’t mean they don’t hurt, but what the fuck does it matter either way? 

Still, the mutt’s breath picks up. Why? The thought is tiny, like a knifepoint in the back of his mind, but it’s there. Why is this happening? Why won’t it stop? Why?

“I think he likes you,” Pat says with a soft laugh. He rubs his thumb over the mutt’s lips, catching the dry skin with the edge of a callous. “He’s getting all worked up.” 

“That’s not what I’m here for,” the guy grumbles back. “If he’s not healthy, it won’t be worth using him for parts. I mean, look at him. He’s fucking gray. He’s, like, two seconds from sepsis. People don’t want kidneys that are already failing, you know?” 

The mutt jerks against the floor of the tank. His insides. The man doesn’t want to use him; he wants to gut him. The mutt shouldn’t care. He should just let it happen, let everything fade into darkness for good, but the thought is growing now, slicing through his gray matter. Why? Why me? Why isn’t it ever over? 

The mutt can’t breathe.

Pat dangles his arm over the edge of the tank. He’s still laughing. “Well, now! That’s the most excited I’ve seen him in weeks. Guess there’s still someone in there after all.” 

Someone. The mutt used to be someone, that’s true. He shakes his head, only just swallowing the moan of protest that he can feel building in his abused throat. He wishes he could open his mouth to gasp for breath. He tries. His jaw stays firmly shut.

“It doesn’t mean he’s healthy,” the guy shoots back. 

“And what do you care if he’s healthy? Does it matter to you if he dies on the table? You want the things that are keeping him alive, and damned if he isn’t still kicking. He’s got working lungs, doesn’t he? A heart that’s still beating. Just look at him!” 

The mutt closes his eyes and squirms against the plexiglass walls, pulling in as much breath as he can through his nose. He remembers a movie he watched with his father, when he still had a name. In the movie, a man’s beating heart is ripped from his bare chest. The mutt imagines his heart being ripped out; it must be small now, like the rest of him. Tough and ashen. 

He can’t feel his heartbeat, though. Maybe it isn’t there at all.

He is drowning. Pat tucks a hand against his throat in warning. The mutt has to get it together. He has to impress the new man. He has to be prepared to suffer and like it.

Pat slaps the mutt across the face, shoving the soft meat of his cheek into Doc’s hardware. The mutt whines without thinking. The collar deploys. His throat snaps and burns. He seizes against the walls of the tank, but when it subsides, he is breathing again. He feels his heartbeat.

He is still alive, and the new man is going to kill him. 

Another memory of his father. A book. To die will be an awfully big adventure. 

The mutt doesn’t want an adventure; if he could want anything, it would be relief. 

The new man leans over the tank. His face looks funny. 

“You’ve kept him this way the entire time you’ve had him?” the man asks.

The tank. That’s what he must mean. When the mutt was still Will, he’d laughed when Pat showed him the tank. It set off the collar, but he didn’t care. The whole thing was just ridiculous. Like something you’d put an overgrown lizard in. Glass walls, a mesh top. Just enough room for a body to lay flat. It made Tommy’s dog house look like a motherfucking palace. 

It’s a fucking coffin masquerading as a terrarium. It’s a coffin. His coffin. Will’s. Oh, God– 

He doesn’t want to think anymore. He wishes he could scream. 

“I take him out when the mood strikes me,” Pat replies, and the mutt freezes when Pat’s rough hand cups his face. “He’s still nice and tight, even after all this time. The doc trained him well. I will miss that once you take him to play Operation, but I’m sure I can find another boy somewhere. Maybe one whose jaw has more range of motion, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not interested in that,” the man snaps. 

“You’re pretty touchy for a guy who wants this little fucker’s organs on ice.” 

The mutt whines again, before he can stop himself. The collar responds. As he twitches and burns, he looks up at the man who is going to kill him. Their eyes meet. The mutt doesn’t understand the look on the guy’s face.

*

Derringer winces as the kid’s body stills in the tank. It’s not like he wasn’t prepared for this; it’s not like he’s new. He’s been on the task force for the better part of a decade, and he knows how depraved people can be. But this—everything that’s come out of Barker and his contacts, it’s next level shit. 

He looks down at the body in the glass tank. Christ, the kid looks barely human. He’s emaciated—of course he is; according to what the Mahoney boy told them, his jaw’s been wired shut for the better part of a year—and his gray skin stretches too tightly over his bones, some of which have been obviously broken and poorly set. And that’s concerning, but somehow not as concerning as the webwork of thin, deliberate scars that covers most of the boy’s naked body. He’s been defaced. Decorated. 

Ruined, Derringer’s mind supplies. 

He can’t imagine the pain. The boy must have spent hours under Pat DeAngelis’ knife. And when he wasn’t being slit open like a fish, it was worse. He can see the blood and pearly smudges that line the boy’s inner thighs. Derringer doesn’t want to think of the scars he can’t see.

There’s no question it’s Will Cartwright, but whatever resemblance exists between the photos and videos Derringer’s seen and the broken person in front of him is limited at best. How could it not be, after what the kid’s been through? 

Will watches him, brown eyes wide, and Derringer looks back. Their eyes meet for just a second. Hold on, kid, Derringer thinks. It’s almost over. You’re almost home.

He hardens his face again and looks back at DeAngelis. 

“I’ll take him.”

“At the price we agreed on?”

Derringer shrugs. He can’t make this seem too easy. “He’s pretty beat up.”

“So you can’t skin him and make a profit,” DeAngelis laughs. “Though I’d buy it back from you if I could. I’m a little disappointed you’re going to destroy all my handiwork when you cut him open.” The jackass rakes his nails over the boy’s chest, opening wounds Derringer hadn’t realized were fresh. The kid flinches but stays silent. DeAngelis nods his approval. “I’ve worked hard on him.”

“I can see that,” Derringer says. 

“But he’s outlived his usefulness, and I thought, waste not, want not, you know?”

Will’s eyes slip closed again. Derringer wonders how much the kid really hears, if he even has it in him to be frightened anymore. He hopes not. It will make this next part easier. 

“Sure, waste not. But he is in rough shape. And you can’t personally guarantee his health, so—“

DeAngelis’ eyes narrow. “How much?”

“I’ll give you five grand for him as is.”

It’s an insult, and they both know it. Will probably knows it too, if he understands any of what’s going on around him.

“We said ten. And you know you’ll make more off of all his bits and pieces. That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know that. He might not have anything viable. He might die before our people open him up. He’s practically dead already.” Derringer ignores the twist in his stomach; it’s too close to the truth. “If we can move his heart and lungs at least, I’ll kick you back a percentage.”

Will turns his head suddenly, and a tear slips down his soiled, sunken cheek. 

Derringer sucks in a quick breath and forces himself to look away. He’s still in there. The kid is still alive, even if he is in pain. 

Just a little bit longer, I promise. 

*

The mutt wants to die, but at the same time, he doesn’t. 

He knows what the new man is planning. He understands. And even if he doesn’t quite know why, he knows he doesn’t want it to happen. Staying alive isn’t really worth it, but it is. It is. Because maybe–maybe this isn’t forever. 

It’s a stupid thought. He hasn’t had a thought like that in he doesn’t know how long. This is why he shouldn’t think. He should let the darkness take him. He should let the pain slip away. 

But the pain that’s going to come before–he can’t stomach it. 

Okay, poor choice of words. 

Behind his closed eyes, he imagines himself cut open, his scarred skin peeled away from his chest like flaps. He can almost feel hands reaching inside to grab the things that are keeping him alive; he knows he will feel it when the time comes. Fuckers who do things like this, they get off on the pain they inflict. He will feel himself being disassembled piece by piece. 

It’s more than he can bear. 

“Fifty percent of his proceeds,” Pat is saying. 

“Jesus Christ, you must think I was born yesterday. He’s not worth fifty percent.” 

The mutt isn’t worth anything. There’s nothing he can do to keep Pat from going through with this. 

Except–

“Twenty five,” the man shoots back. 

The mutt blushes, but the men aren’t looking at him now. 

He doesn’t make a sound–the two shocks he’s already had were plenty–but he starts to rock his body gently back and forth. He’s got to roll over. He isn’t much to look at, he knows, but Pat likes to look at his handiwork, likes to know the mutt is his creation. It excites him. And if the mutt can just get Pat excited, remind him of how good he is–

“Twenty-five? I’m giving you a fucking treasure trove here. You don’t have to hunt for any of the goods; he’s got them all. I should be charging you a fucking finder’s fee, not knocking down the price. I paid a pretty penny for this little mutt; he’s worth more than five grand and a measly twenty-five percent.” 

Fuck, the mutt should be touched, shouldn’t he? He’s worth something after all. 

“What the fuck is he doing?” 

The mutt doesn’t stop moving. He’s almost made it. 

*

Derringer bites back a gasp. This is worse than the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter let on. Of course, they don’t know what’s happened since Will was sold away.  His back is completely destroyed. The thick, ropey scars from Barker’s bullwhip are as bad as he expected, but what DeAngelis has done–it’s like he’s traced every one of the boy’s veins with his knife. It’s a root system of carnage. It looks like DeAngelis reopens the wounds at will; there are a few still weeping. The smell is gut churning. 

DeAngelis laughs. “Awww, pup! You want to show the nice man what else you have to offer, don’t you?”

The kid forces himself onto wobbling hands and knees; Derringer doesn’t know how he manages it. He dips his head and shoves his bony backside a little higher. His hips are a mess of black and blue fingerprints, and a silicone plug swells from between his red-striped buttocks.

“I told you, I’m not interested in that,” Derringer spits. Christ, how is this kid still alive? 

DeAngelis sighs and nudges the plug with his fingers, and Will dutifully grinds backward. Derringer has to fight not to look away. The poor fucking kid. 

“No, mutt,” DeAngelis says, swatting softly at the boy’s naked ass. “That’s done now. We had a good ride, but it’s getting a little sad, isn’t it? And besides, apparently we’ve got to protect the integrity of the merchandise if I want any return on my investment.” 

Derringer has been doing this for years. He sees people at their lowest points on a regular basis. But damn if his heart doesn’t feel like it’s breaking when Will throws his body back against DeAngelis. Will’s dark, greasy head swoons against DeAngelis’ chest, his brown eyes pleading where his mouth cannot. Tears slip down his cheeks, but he only presses himself closer to DeAngelis. It’s a grotesque thing to watch: the kid is begging to be used with every ounce of strength he’s got left. 

How do you ever get over that, Derringer wonders? Will is begging for pain because he thinks it will keep him alive. What happens when that stops? When the pain isn’t a memory, but something that’s carved into your skin for everyone to see? Tomorrow, when Will Cartwright is safe in a hospital, how will he live with what Barker and DeAngelis have done to him? How will he live knowing the things he’s had to do? 

Will’s hips press backward again—almost instinctively, Derringer thinks—but DeAngelis only shoves him away, letting the boy fall face first into the tank. 

“I said no. Don’t fool yourself, mutt. You’re no prize. That’s why you’re here in the first place. If anyone had wanted you, you would never have ended up with me. I don’t want you. I never did. I just needed something to do, and I’ve done all I can with you. Now it’s time to let this nice gentleman do all he can. At least now you’ll be doing something useful, huh?”

Will’s decimated back heaves with a silent sob. Derringer’s hand clenches into a fist at his side. 

“If you don’t want him,” Derringer says, “then you should be willing to let him go for five.”

“7500.” 

“Six.”

“Seven, and forty percent of whatever you get for his bits and pieces.”

“Seven and thirty.” Even as he says it, Derringer has to remind himself that Will Cartwright will still have a beating heart days from now, that there will be no percentage for his bits and pieces at all.

DeAngelis looks down at the naked boy with impassive eyes; the open wounds on the kid’s back shine under the fluorescent light.

“Fine. Seven and thirty.”

“Done,” Derringer says quickly. 

DeAngelis leans over the tank. “Did you hear that, mutt?” he says to Will’s back. “It’s time for you and I to say goodbye.”

And then, Will shrieks. The sound is more animal than human, lodged somewhere deep in the boy’s scarred throat, and when the sensor on his collar picks it up, there’s a cruel snap of electricity. But Will only screams again. And again. And again. 

Derringer starts forward. “Hey—“

DeAngelis only shakes his head and heaves the mesh lid back onto the tank. Will’s body thrashes against the glass walls of his prison, and he doesn’t stop screaming, even as the collar pops against his throat.

He thinks he’s fighting for his life. There is a part of Will Cartwright that still believes he’s worth saving, that wants to go on living even if it means being trapped in DeAngelis’ fucking tank until he dies.

Hold onto that, kid. You’re so close. Don’t let go now.

But still, Derringer knows that a part of Will Cartwright will stay trapped here, even when the rest of him is safe. The kid’s real fight is just beginning. 

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Derringer says. “His heart—“

DeAngelis kicks the side of the tank. “He’ll pass out soon enough; it’ll save you the trouble of drugging him for the trip.”

Derringer wants to wrap his hands around the fucker’s neck, but it isn’t part of the plan. The others are waiting outside. DeAngelis will be in custody in minutes. He will never be able to hurt anyone like this ever again. He and Barker and all of their disgusting contacts are going to rot in prison. They are going to pay.

But it doesn’t mean Derringer doesn’t want to inflict some pain himself. For the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter. For Justin Huang, whose husband is still lost somewhere overseas. For every soul they’ve pulled from the depths of hell since Barker’s operation was blown open—and for the ones they were too late to save. 

But right now, all he wants is to make DeAngelis suffer for Will. 

But Derringer is a professional. He manages to smile, even as Will’s close-mouthed sobs keep coming. 

“Well, thanks.”

*

Will can’t hear everything they’re saying. He can’t hear anything but his own screams, really—it turns out, when you can’t open your mouth to scream, the sound just echoes in your own head. Still, it feels good to hear some version of his own voice. To know he’s there, even if it’s only for a few more hours. 

And he is there. Will is there. The mutt is too, but he’s already slipping into the recesses of Will’s brain, silent where Will is screaming. Will will scream until he can’t. He will scream and he will fight until his heart is cut from his chest, and they cannot stop him. 

He doesn’t notice when Pat locks the mesh top on the tank. He doesn’t quite feel it when the tank is hoisted onto a push cart. He doesn’t care when he starts to roll away. He doesn’t stop screaming. 

The pain from his collar dulls with every shock. It’s no worse than anything else he’s suffered, and it matters less now. He gurgles against the electric current, but he doesn’t stop himself from making noise. He won’t give Pat the satisfaction. He won’t give the new guy a break. He gets to decide how this goes, even if it’s the last decision he ever makes.

Will rides the electricity until his whole body shakes, and he beats the sides of the tank with his shoulders, his elbows, his heels. They ignore him, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.

His jaw aches to open, and he feels himself fighting against the bolts and wires that Doc installed all those months ago. Nothing budges, but he pretends that it does. Another throat-shredding scream, another jolt of electricity. Over and over and over again. 

With every snap of current, Will lets himself think of the people he’s leaving behind. No one wants him, not like this, and he gets it, he does. But he is himself for the first time in a long time, and he isn’t going to waste it. 

He screams and the collar lights up, and when he closes his eyes, he sees Annie. She is smiling at him, her big brown eyes crinkled at their corners. She reaches for him with her little hand, and Will tries to reach back. His mitt brushes the mesh top of the tank. Annie fades, and he screams again. 

Tommy is there when the shock comes, wrapped in his favorite hoodie and leaning against something Will can’t see. Tommy’s head tips back, and he laughs. He is happy. But looking at Tommy hurts, and Will screams, and he is relieved when the shock sends Tommy away. 

Will’s father takes Tommy’s place, young and a little sad, like he was when Will’s mother took off. Bud? he says, but somehow, he doesn’t say it at all. He looks so tired. Bud, I miss you so much. I’m sorry—

Will screams so long and loud that the shock stops before the sound does. He wilts on his bloody back, exhausted. He’ll go again, he will, he just needs a minute—

“What the fuck?!”

“On the ground! ON THE GROUND!”

The tank isn’t moving anymore. Will can’t see Pat or the new man. All he can see is a metal ceiling beyond the mesh top. It’s dark around him, but there is light, just outside his range of vision. He doesn’t scream again. He stills. He waits. He listens.

“Get his hands behind his back and make sure they’re real fucking tight.”

It’s the man. The man who is going to kill him. Will doesn’t understand. He tenses against the glass bottom of the tank, his bloody skin smooching awkwardly along the smooth surface. His mouth twitches, as if to bite his lip, but too late, he remembers that he can’t. The pain starts to build again, needling at him from every direction. Still, Will strains to hear. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the voices, even as the world begins to gray.

“You fucking son of a bitch—you’re a Fed—“

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, DeAngelis. Turns out, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Not that it will matter too much once my team sweeps your depraved little Xanadu here. I only wish they’d put you in a fucking tank.”

Will’s brow wrinkles. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. The pain washes over him again, and his atrophied muscles seize. He groans, but the collar doesn’t react.

“Get him in the car. I’ll help the kid. Make sure the ambulance is en route.”

The floor beneath Will stutters a little, and then the man is kneeling over the tank. 

“Will?” 

Will shakes his head, trying to force his eyes back open, trying to understand. No one’s called him by his name in so long. How does the man know his name? 

The mesh disappears from overhead. The man leans over the tank. His face is dark and stubbled in the dim light, and Will presses his body somehow flatter against the bottom of the tank, even though it hurts. Somehow, he finds the strength to scream again, and the snap of the shock flares against his throat. 

“Will, no–no, kid, I promise, everything will be okay.”  

The man’s voice is suddenly soft. He leans closer, and Will can see that he has blue eyes. The man doesn’t smile, but his face isn’t unkind. It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Will, my name is Special Agent Christopher Derringer. I’m here to take you home.” 

Home. Will’s eyes sting with fresh tears. It can’t be true. The man is lying. Will doesn’t have a home. No one wants him. How could they? He needs Pat. He needs someone to tell him what to do. 

“Will? You’re safe now.” 

But Will isn’t safe. Everything hurts so badly, and he is so tired. He knows he should keep fighting, that he shouldn’t believe what this man is saying, but he can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. 

His eyes close, and he lets himself go. When they open–if they open–maybe he will understand. 

*

The boy loses consciousness before the paramedics get there. 

“Christ almighty,” one whispers under her breath. “The poor kid. How on earth–” 

Derringer nods, standing by as they carefully lift Will from the fucking tank. They lay him gently on the gurney. His skeletal body looks too small on the blue sheets. One of the paramedics covers him with a space blanket, and for a moment, the boy looks like he must have as a child; for all that his body bears the marks of Barker’s and DeAngelis’ cruel treatment, his face is untouched, innocent. 

Well, almost, Derringer amends, thinking about the bolts and wires that have kept the boy silent for the better part of a year. But like this, it almost looks like he’s just fallen asleep; like maybe, everything that’s happened to him was just some kind of fucked up nightmare. 

It isn’t, of course, and when Will wakes, he’ll know it too. 

Derringer follows the gurney to the ambulance, and he prays that the kid will stay asleep as long as he can. What comes next might be some kind of relief, but it certainly won’t be easy. 

The heavy doors close, and Derringer digs in his pants pocket for his phone. He scrolls for the number, and he ignores the clenching in his gut as it rings. 

“Mr. Cartwright? Agent Derringer. We’ve got him. He’s coming home.” 

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader, @sad-boys-anonymous, @whumpzone

#the kennel #will cartwright oc #pat deangelis oc #chris derringer oc #tw noncon #please heed all warnings #whump #whump writing #whump series #pet whump #hi it's been a minute and i'm sorry

[darubyprincx]

musings upon the paradox of hope; being an Ashes webweave

@SICKOFWOLVES / Soft Science, Franny Choi / Untitled poem from our poetry document / In the Absence of Hands, Yours will Hold Second Best / Glowing by The Oh Hellos / morningsaidthemoon / (i'll tend to the flames, you can worship the) ashes

#ray's tag #ashes au #webweave #keys' art #yo wassup #described #i decided to not be a coward and actually put image descriptions into all of these however barebones they might be #also for those of you checking the post for context: this is about a fic that i've been writing! #you can find the link to it in the last source- it's empires smp gen and currently stands at 72k words #the link takes you to chapter 21 but its easy enough to start from the beginning #heed the tags the archive warnings and the chapter notes please!

[teruthecreator]

(tw for racism, pedophilia, transphobia, child impregnation mention)

yeah idk why y'all read this

i was originally going to just post this and have some tags with my reasonings, but i realized that opens me up to too much bullshit from people who may think i'm being unnecessarily mean or whatever. so i'm going to explain exactly why the screenshots above are something i hold issue with.

firstly, and i just want to get this out of the way, this post is not intended to be a hit piece against the creator. i've seen how she reacts to any mild-mannered or slightly joking criticism, so i know this post is probably going to not land well. but it isn't my intention to make her mad or anything--she's writing a piece of content for the internet, which means she is just as open to criticism as any other poster. and what i intend to go into in this post is criticism. i'm allowed to do this, as that is the nature of the internet. people are allowed to critique whatever they please, and if you don't want critique then you shouldn't post. simple as!

i am also making no attempts to posit myself as better than the creator. i'm not doing this for clout or moral superiority or any of that dumb shit. i simply want to discuss something that's been bothering me for a bit, while simultaneously warning people who haven't read this yet (who may be sensitive to the issues above) to steer clear. if things like casual racism or transphobia aren't properly tagged, then readers who are affected by such things run a risk reading this! same goes with people who are triggered by lewd content involving minors. i wanna make sure people are getting a more critical scope of this work than what has been hoisted up by others.

okay, now that i've gotten that out of the way, i'm going to get into my points.

firstly, the subtle and not-so-subtle racism throughout this fic, especially in relation to serizawa. i'm white, so there is only so much i can speak on without trampling over the words of other fans of color, but some of this feels so blatant it's odd it hasn't been noted earlier. it's important to note before i go into it that serizawa is specifically written as half-black half-japanese for this fic, in case the screenshots don't make it abundantly clear. but there are just too many moments of casual racism in this fic. i'm not talking about the plot point of serizawa being bullied as a kid for being mixed; i'm not mixed, so i can't speak on the accuracy there but it is well-known that black people face a lot of racism in japan. i'm talking about how it seems everyone else has these racist moments that aren't acknowledged by serizawa or the narration as being bad.

reigen hypothesizing over serizawa's exact ethnic background is just strange. yes he's a fairly observant guy (he has to be, with his job), but there is no canonical evidence to suggest he would immediately jump to theorizing whether serizawa is american or not. and the way it's posed in that first quote--"he has darker skin and the kind of hair texture that would likely indicate African ancestry"--is not great. that's an extremely inappropriate way to bring up someone's race. i don't think most people would stare at someone and be like "hmmm well your nose shape and hair texture would suggest you're of this race". it's racial essentialization that is only slightly covered up by the excuse of "oh he tweets in english". there are some other smaller moments of questionable wording, like calling serizawa's afro "sloppy" when it isnt (which btw there's another issue with the creator only referring to an afro as a "fro". it's a hairstyle; you're allowed to use the actual name of it). even if reigen cuts his hair in canon, he never states it's because serizawa's afro looks sloppy. (also there's something to be said about the casual racism baked into making your employee cut his natural hairstyle for a job, as that is a very real issue many black people face when wearing their natural hair or even protective styles in the workplace.)

i'm especially bothered by toichiro's very casual racist remarks. toichiro in this fic is a general bother of mine (most of which can be boiled down to "he would not fucking say that"), but the way she chooses to characterize him in relation to serizawa feels gross. calling a black man a slave should be a very obvious red flag, but also saying serizawa (again, as a black man) has a "brutal masculine appeal" is also extremely stereotypical and racist. and really there is just no need for it; toichiro's actions in canon prove how shitty of a guy he is without the need for him to be racist (along with other things i'll get to in a bit). as my girlfriend put it: he doesn't need to be a member of the fucking kkk to show he's a bad guy.

there's also, again, the very casual racist remark of calling serizawa a "dog". i don't care if that isn't the intent; when you are writing a character of color you need to be aware of your wording, even in insults (unless she intended to make tsuchiya racist, which i don't think she did).

secondly, the eugenics/child pregnancy bit. it is surreal to even have to write this, but i seriously do not understand the purpose of either of these bits in the story. they are so minor yet so jarring you can't help but wonder why they're there. once again, i do not think you need to have toichiro doing esper eugenics just to prove he is an evil guy. he has nuance, and by making him casually reference child pregnancy (like that isn't an INSANE thing to say) reduces that nuance to nothing. that's the only reason i could see why that bit was included: to make toichiro look worse. but, even still, the author is running the risk of potentially triggering victims of csa or people who don't want to see that by not properly tagging the mention of it (or, at the very least, warning readers in the intro notes). the only other explanation for it would maybe be shock factor??? but that's a pretty shitty thing to use for shock factor, if i'm honest. also the fact that the esper eugenics was referenced again in a more recent chapter just has me very disturbed and confused. there isn't a canonical explanation for why we see less espers who are women than espers who are men, but that doesn't mean we need to jump to fucking Eugenics. it's weird!

thirdly (and this is probably one of my biggest problems and the main reason i wanted to make this post), the weirdly lewd/sexual language shou uses constantly, along with referring to reigen as a pedo or a creep at several points. frankly, i think it's pretty fucking gross for someone in their near-40's to be writing a 12-year-old talking so casually about sex like that's normal. which, i'm sorry, but it's not. yes, teens know about sex and like to joke about lewd shit. but a 12-year-old is not about to make references to a grown man's virginity. 12-year-olds draw dicks on their desk bc they think it's funny. 12-year-olds say the word "buttfuck" because it has the words "butt" and "fuck" in it, and those are the two funniest words on earth to a kid that age. i literally do not understand the purpose of having shou be so lewd all the time. for one, it doesn't make sense for his character. shou is shown time and time again to be extremely mature for his age, but that maturity extends to shit like assembling a counter-terrorism unit and extending a hand to his father to allow him to try again. and even then he's still just as naive as any other kid his age! the omake where he's telling his guys to go to the "far right corner" based on ritsu’s advice proves that he still has plenty of blindspots that are indicative of his age. leaning into this raunchy, lewd version of shou is just weird. and, again, i think it is made a bit weirder given the author's age!!! not ageshaming or whatever--i'm 23 and i write fanfic, clearly i cannot judge there--but it is just extremely inappropriate in my opinion. also having shou be more versed in sextalk than serizawa is odd too and speaks to a larger issue of serizawa's infantilzation throughout this fic, but that's something i can get into in another post if people want an explanation.

also, the way she constantly calls reigen a creep and even has him being accused of being a pedophile during the twitter cancellation is extremely inappropriate when, again, there is NO CANONICAL BASIS FOR THIS! everyone just calls him a fraud and a scammer during separation arc; there is never a reference to reigen being seen as a pedophile in that arc. and, yes, while there are versions of mob psycho where reigen is very clearly written as a creep (looking very specifically at the netflix adaptation), that doesn't mean it's good. honestly, the creep mentions all just feel like really poor jokes that do not land in the slightest.

finally, the transphobia (aka WHY IS SHIMAZAKI A CHASER). i literally do not know what else to say other than: why? why is this a thing? why is he a chaser? what is the purpose of this? is it a joke? i feel like it's supposed to be, but seeing as the author is cis i don't think that's a joke she should really be making. it not only comes out of left field, but it's just kind of a weird thing to ascribe to a character for no reason. not to mention, it's uncomfortable! trans women deal with enough creepy antics from cis men in real life--why must they be accosted by this guy too? it's just weird and uncomfortable.

i wanna round out this post by saying, once again, that i'm not trying to attack anyone with this post. but i do hope people come away from this with a new perspective on this work, and maybe think twice before recommending it uncritically to someone. to the author specifically, i hope you can read my post without rage or indignance blinding you. i might be a little blunt or rude in parts, but it's only because i'm passionate and i don't mince my words when it comes to things i'm passionate about. to the readers, understand i am not judging you for reading this fic without noticing these things. your own life experiences will give you certain blindspots and there's nothing wrong with that. i have plenty of blindspots of my own! it's what makes us human.

there is more i could say, but this post is long enough. i ask that if you come to me in my inbox or in dms about this that you treat me with respect, as i will do that for you. writing something like this took a lot out of me, as i'm usually not so open about my opinion on shit like this.

have a good day :-)

#mp100 #side quest #yeah this is all from <- that fic btw #ive been sitting on this for about a week or so bc ive been nervous abt posting something like this #i dont want people to think im making a callout post just to call shit out #im doing this bc i dont want people to get triggered by this content and because i want fans to be more critical of the content they consum #media literacy is something A LOT of fandoms struggle with and it leads to things being praised uncritically #i simply want people to have perspective when going into a thing #anyways uh. goodbye <3 #edit: took the tw tags off bc tumblr was suppressing the post bc of it #so PLEASE heed the warning at the top if u have specific triggers and things

[inkykeiji]

Have you thought about a Tomura-nii? 🥺

ooooh my god anon

tw: pseudocest (adopted siblings), coercion, taking advantage of a younger sibling’s naive and innocent nature, implied size difference (reader is smaller than tomura), female reader, virgin!tomura, masturbation, blood, noncon, overstimulation, blowjobs, use of the word daddy to describe adoptive father, honestly just really fucking nasty and genuinely disgusting, please be careful with this lil piece words: 792

i have!!! i just feel like he’d be really fucking gross, you know??? disgusting in the most heinous way, like flawless tomura but a hundred times worse. i feel like he’d totally be a shut-in, completely inexperienced because your adoptive father (afo) never lets either of you—his fully grown adult children—out of his or kurogiri’s watchful protection. but that doesn’t mean there aren’t times when they aren’t looking.

tomura-nii has never been touched, romantically or sexually, by anyone else, but he is an avid consumer of porn + hentai, so much so that it borders on addiction. and eventually, it just isn’t enough. it isn’t enough to spend hours locked away in his room, jerking his cock until it’s red and wrecked, skin chafed so bad its flaking and peeling and bleeding, thin little wounds that weep crimson staining the lines of his sweaty palm a watery pink. it isn’t enough to throw hundreds and hundreds of his father’s money at those online cam girls, making them do unspeakable acts and recording it all for him. it isn’t enough, he needs more, he needs real; something he can feel, something he can touch, something he can own and mark and sink his teeth into—flesh and blood and bone filling his hands and yielding beneath his fingers and quivering around his cock. 

he needs you. 

and sure, he’s sheltered, but you’re even more sheltered, not even allowed access to the internet without daddy’s heavy supervision—so when he sees you, his innocent, naive, totally fucking clueless little sister, he knows he can manipulate you into doing whatever the fuck he wants you to, because nii-san said so, and nii-san knows best, right? nii-san is older, wiser, the boss, and what he says goes, always. he’s basically second in command beneath your adoptive father; even kurogiri seems to bend and break to his every will and whim and wish. 

so who are you to say anything, to know any better, against your bigger, smarter, better brother? who are you to deny him, to say ew and no and gross and it’s wrong! when he slinks into your bedroom in the middle of the night, waking you with his ragged pants and the vigorous slap of his fist against his pelvis, and streaks that lacy little nightgown with thick strokes of glistening cream, quickly cooling as they seep into the dainty fabric, heavy and gelatinous against your skin?

who are you to refuse him, when he asks if he can see how pretty your pussy is, when he asks if he can play with it, unexperienced fingers grinding and pinching until your rubbed-raw clit is swollen and your trembling thighs are stained with copious amounts of your own slick and your eyes are lidded and glassy, vision downy at the edges and bleary with tears, because it (finally) feels so good, too good, that you’re fucking sobbing? 

who are you to reject him, when he says he wants to show you his cock, when he tells you to hold it in your soft little palms and pet it until it’s oozing something sticky and shimmering all over your skin, when he demands that your lick your hands clean, that you put the head in your mouth and suckle on it, that you glide the tip of your tongue, rounded and hard, over the slit as fast as you can—back and forth, back and forth, until he’s shoving the entire thing into your mouth and he’s stuffing your throat full of something thick and acrid? 

nii-san says that it’s okay, that this is normal and what good little sisters are supposed to do, that brothers and sisters who love each other so much do this all the time, and don’t you love him, too? don’t you want to show him just how much you love him? just how perfect and obedient you are? 

and nii-san would never lie to you, would never lead you astray, would never ever want to hurt you, so you should believe everything he says without question, right? right. 

and, christ, you’re so fucking good, so sweet and precious and daddy’s flawless, faultless little rule-abiding princess, adhering to every order and regulation given to you. but daddy doesn’t deserve you, or your good nature and kind heart and eager-to-please tendencies; not when tomura sees you more often, takes care of you better than daddy ever has or ever will, so shouldn’t you be his flawless, faultless little rule-abiding little princess, too? nii-san deserves your attention so much more than daddy does, don’t you think? you owe him this much, yeah? 

of course. of course you do.

#WHEWWWWW #please please PLEASE heed the warnings alright i triggered myself writing this #if you have any sort of incest trauma at all proceed with extreme caution #stay safe my friends <333 #anon isn't he so disgusting #he’s SO disgusting #eeeee hehehehehe #tw pseudocest #tw noncon #tw coercion #tw blood #i hope u enjoy this anon bb i used it as a writing exercise so its totally unedited HEHE #have a lovely night and stay safe n hydrated!! #inky.bb #clari gets mail #inky.tomura #inky.tomura nii

[whump-in-the-closet]

Running

cw: major injury, thoughts of death, belittling language, sidekick whumpee, manipulative whumper

***

Sidekick runs until their legs give out. They fall to their hands and knees, but their arms give out too. And they’re lying on their back, staring at the sky.

Oh, if only they could lie there for eternity. Sink into the concrete and never have to move again. It sounds so, so nice. They can see their own breathing, floating up in puffs of air.

Blood soaks through their jacket, and when they pull their hand away, blood stains their fingers. Red drips to the concrete. They can’t feel the wound anymore. It’s achingly numb– but the sky is starting to spin, and fracture into a million little pieces. Gray smoke rising up and enveloping everything and everyone…

They push themselves to their feet, stumbling, tripping over loose stones, but they can’t stop. They can’t stop.

Sidekick falls to their knees. Red splatters the concrete around them.

They can’t go on.

The reality crushes them. It digs into their shoulders, and climbs into the gaping hole in their chest, ripping it further apart. Sidekick should have never left– Hero would have been able to help them.

They really are an idiot.

Like Hero always said.

Some part of them– the one that had told them to run– said Hero had left them first. Hero had left them in the building.

Sidekick slumps against a wall, both hands stained red as they clutch their side. Breathing feels forced– like their lungs are crumpled and thrown out.

They shouldn’t have left. Closing their eyes, they repeat it over and over to themselves. It becomes a mantra.

Shouldn’t have left shouldn’t have left shouldn’t–

They’re an idiot.

Drip. Drip.

More blood on the concrete.

“I’m sorry.” The words slip out as Sidekick falls in and out of consciousness. “‘M sorry,” they mumble. “Please, please, I don’t…I don’t want to die.”

Unseen by Sidekick, Hero stands over them, arms crossed as they consider Sidekick with cold eyes. In one fluid movement, they crouch down and jab at Sidekick’s wound.

Sidekick cries out, their voice strangled.

“Does that hurt?”

Sidekick sees Hero and slumps in relief. They nod frantically– and for a moment, hope rises inside them– maybe they won’t die here– maybe they won’t die at all.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a dimwit, this wouldn’t have happened. We both know you can’t survive without me.” Hero stands up, brushing at the dust on their pants.

They aren’t staying.

Sidekick reaches out with a bloodied hand. Please don’t leave. “I know! I know, and… I’m sorry. Don’t leave me!” Tears well up, a combination of pain and fear.

Hero remains unmoved. “Why should I help you? I don’t need you.”

I don’t want to die. But all Sidekick can manage is a sobbing, choked plea. It’s incoherent.

Hero sighs. They like sighing. It conveys so much. And this particular sigh conveys a certain tired annoyance. “You’re lucky you have me to put up with your idiocy.”

Sidekick continues to cry, but this time it's with relief. “Thank you, thank you, I’m sorry–”

“Shut up already.”

With another sigh, Hero picks Sidekick up. “If you get blood on my suit…” they leave the threat hanging.

Sidekick pushes their hand harder against their wound, muffling a cry. And yet, as the sky begins to fragment around them again, all they can feel is relief.

Hero is right.

They’re an idiot.

#sidekick whumpee #hero whumper #sidekick whump #this did not turn out the way i had planned it #so #actually that’s all #enjoy #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #whump drabble #hero and sidekick #whump prompt #sidekick #hero #heed the warnings at the top #please excuse any typos #i’m running on three hours of sleep and five cups of coffee

[dedkake]

i'd do anything | an sga dubcon reclist

a limited selection of the wealth of dubcon fic in the sga fandom

there is a sliding scale of how dubious the consent is in these fic, as well as other warnings, so please read responsibly.

aliens make them do it

Mercy by astolat | e, 1.5k, rodney / john John stared down at his hands, a little numbly, watching Rodney wrap the long leather strap over and under his wrists, binding them together. Operation Think of Atlantis by Liviapenn | e, 3.4k, rodney / john "Hey," John said after a while, "did anything like this ever happen to any of the SGC teams?" Want by velocitygrass | e, 3.7k, rodney / john They'd found him here three hours ago, naked, arms in shackles that were chained to the ceiling. At One's Pleasure by Ladycat | e, 3.8k, ronon / teyla / rodney / john “I will do this,” Teyla says. If anything, she looks interested at the explanation. Boundaries by esteefee | e, 4.2k, rodney / john The Alien High Priest makes them do it. This was for the AMTDI challenge, finished way too late. And the Boxes Came Tumbling Down by FrankTheSnek | e, 7.3k, rodney / john There was an art to hiding your true self, an art John had mastered. Sometimes however, life forced you into situations where hiding was impossible and all your secrets were revealed. Once things are forced into the open, can John pick up the pieces and hide himself away again? Does he want to? What I Meant To Say by Cesare | e, 7.7k, rodney / john AMTDI, bondage, boots, and bottom!John, by request. Warning, AMTDI noncon/dubcon issues apply. Stay, that's what I meant to say, or do something But what I never say is stay this time I really meant to so bad, this time But you can never really tell when somebody Wants something you want too… -- David Bowie, "Stay" Like She Owns Him by trophic | e, 8.6k, sam / john In order to negotiate with an alien society, Sam needs to bring along a sex slave in a harness. John volunteers. A Little Bit More (But Not Too Much) by Green & Ladycat | e, 10.7k, rodney / john John swallowed, because that should not have been sexy. He found himself breathing shallowly, the scent of Rodney -- sweat and grass and a little bit of mint, like aftershave long faded -- oddly overwhelming. "Just because I'm American military doesn't mean I haven't … wondered," he said, struggling to try and sound normal. Decreasing Radii by cathalin | e, 27k, rodney / john An alien device forces John and Rodney to do something they wouldn't do otherwise. The aftermath is not easy. But sometimes, not-easy leads to good things.

power imbalance

Take It Like a Man by sabinelagrande | e, 1.7k, rodney / john John Sheppard, occasional cocksucker. Bound and Waiting by A_Storm_of_Roses | e, 2k, larrin / john “Now, now, there’s no need to struggle so much. You’ll hurt yourself.” John finds himself at Larrin's mercy once again, this time with a much more enjoyable outcome. Passion's a Prison by sharkie335 | e, 2.6k, rodney / john Rodney held up a large hunting knife, repeating, "I don't have to untie you." Wake by Speranza | e, 3.3k, john / rodney, multi John's more than a little buzzed by the time he decides to go through with it. Brownian Motion by 30toseoul | e, 3.6k, ronon / teyla / rodney / john John gets bounced into an alternate reality. Contractual Obligations by velocitygrass | e, 4.4k, rodney / john "Get a condom for Rodney and something to prepare John," he heard the director's voice coming from somewhere. He slowly looked up, and it suddenly dawned on him what that meant. If you want to kiss the sky by siegeofangels | m, 7.8k, multi Warning: John fucks a lot of people, willingly but not necessarily happily. Warning: Kind of meta. helpless plaything by torch | e, 8.2k, ronon / rodney / john So, John Sheppard falls through a quantum mirror and ends up in a universe where Rodney and Ronon are warlords. And hey, they like him. A Fate So Sweet by Telesilla | e, 13.7k, rodney / john, multi Rodney McKay, owner of the exclusive brothel Pegasus House, doesn't usually train new workers. Former airship pilot John Sheppard, however, might just prove the exception to the rule in more ways than one. Theban Bond by tigerlady (shetiger) | e, 15.3k, evan / john, evan / rodney / john When John had been promoted to lieutenant colonel, he'd mostly been in shock that Elizabeth had managed to keep him in Atlantis at all. So in shock, in fact, that he hadn't even remembered the other responsibilities that came along with his new rank until Major Evan Lorne showed up at his door, ready to serve. Term of Service by Resonant | e, 16.2k, rodney / john, multi "You're telling me that you would sell your bodies for curiosity, orbital shielding, and a quarter-charged ZPM?" "Well, yeah. Who wouldn't?" **Warning for noncon also Wrapped in a Red Ribbon by auburn | e, 23k, rodney / john Det. Sheppard and CSI McKay must go undercover to catch a serial killer. **Warning for noncon also Vegas Dirtbag!Lorne AU by Anagrrl & chaos_monkey | e, 35k, evan / john, cam / john Major Evan Lorne looks like the all-American dream guy, the perfect poster boy for the US military, on the surface. The type who'd have your daughter home smiling and maybe a little disappointed by nine pm sharp, even if you'd said ten. Clean cut, easygoing. Good-looking in a way that's completely nonthreatening, even a little bit boring. Safe.

under the influence (drugs and alcohol)

Abandon by Zinnith | e, 2.7k, rodney / john "If you come inside now, I won't be able to help myself." Rodney on alien Viagra. Natural Aptitude by rageprufrock | e, 4.3k, rodney / john "Hey," John said, blinking. "You're kind of a slut, aren't you? Them Other Boys Don't Know How to Act by eleveninches | e, 4.6k, rodney / john Tag for 3x03 Irresistible. Rodney fails at getting his revenge, and Sheppard fails at getting his point across. Synchonicity by amireal & seperis | e, 10k, rodney / john "How long have we been walking?" What Happens in Pegasus, Stays in Pegasus by kisahawklin | e, 11.2k, jennifer / rodney / john Sex at a science convention! What could be better? Advantage by Resonant | e, 14.9k, rodney / john This slave-owner thing was a lot of responsibility.

under the influence (mind whammy)

If You Trust In Me, I Can Be Anything You Need by zoemathemata | e, 3.2k, rodney / john From a prompt on the sga_kinkmeme - John/Rodney, begging, conditioning, d/S, dubcon Months after he was kidnapped, John escapes and returns to Atlantis, but he's miserable. His captors conditioned him as a sexual submissive and to come on command and only on command. Embarrassed and desperate, craving the satisfaction and headspace of those experiences, he turns to Rodney for help. - UNBETAT'D Release Mechanism by Hth | e, 7k, ronon / john “It is temporary,” the old man said. “Activating the release mechanism within a certain period of time negates the– “ “Mine,” Sheppard said, in the slow tones of someone who was working very hard to stay calm, “doesn’t have a release mechanism.” “That’s a problem,” the Avorian said. Heart of Ice by crysothemis | e, 8.6k, rodney / john "That's the problem," Rodney said. "You don't care about anything." We Cannot Live Within by laureltreedaphne | e, 9.6k, rodney / john John grinned. "So McKay's attractive to everyone?" Fix (John's Point of View) by crysothemis | e, 33k, rodney / john John has a problem. Rodney really doesn't want to help.

#stargate atlantis #sgarecs #fic #heed all those warnings please #just felt the need #to share the love for dubcon #maybe i'll make lists for under the influence #and amtdi #that include the less dubcon-y ones too #someday #<33

[alienaiver]

Heavy is the Heart that Grieves

Aizawa Shouta x gn!reader (with a hint of past shirakumo oboro x reader)

warnings: character death and the exploration of grief, minor mention of suicidal thoughts, hurt and angst wordcount: 2.3k content: major angst, hurt/comfort, sfw, canon compliant, genderneutral reader, poc!friendly reader, season 5 spoilers, bittersweet ending, oboro’s 30th birthday but he’s still canonly passed away, reader was in love with shirakumo when they were young but ended with aizawa and he’s comforting them on this day, ready to be there for reader as they grief over the loss of their best friend, lots of ugly crying and snot, aizawa’s going thru it too, not beta’d or proofwritten (also as a minor warning, im not saying what aizawa's doing is healthy either!)

notes: my own best friend was supposed to turn 30 last week and tHAT was a big blow for me. i had a lot to process and would’ve liked an aizawa to hug me through it so i wrote this to comfort myself. everyone grieves differently tho and i am probably my only target audience on this. stay safe everyone and heed the warnings<3 'right here' by ashes remain is what mostly motivated my aizawa if ur into music and lyrics!!

22.54

You’re snuggled up close to Aizawa who’s massaging your scalp as your favorite TV show is running on the television. It’s a typical Thursday evening and usually you both would have work in the morning but together with Yamada you’ve all three taken the day off tomorrow. It stings in Aizawa’s chest if he thinks too hard about tomorrow, so he tries not to. You laugh at a joke being made and he lets air out through his nose. You reach for the chocolate on the table in front of you and Aizawa’s heart squeezes as you offer him a piece before you take one for yourself. You’re good at that, putting others before yourself. He declines with a kiss and a thank you to your forehead and you shrug, “more for me, then.”

You’re trying to be stealth but it’s not lost on Aizawa how often you check the clock and the shaky sighs you release each time the handle has traveled further and further, closer and closer to the date and also farther and farther from the day you last saw him. It’s scary to count down like this and as he’s done all day - if not all week actually - Aizawa pushes it away, deep down inside him where he doesn’t have to think too hard about it.

Because just like Shirakumo, he’s good at putting others before himself as well, even if he doesn’t believe he can even compare to a boy like him.

 23.39

Your feet fidgets under the shared blanket and the laughs you’ve let out during the funny bits of the episodes has worryingly diminished. They’re now as bland and performative as Aizawa’s small snorts to indicate he enjoyed the joke. Aizawa’s massaging of your scalp and nape has increased in pressure, exuding his own tension through the motions. There’s no more chocolate and while none of you even wanted anything to begin with, it’s served as a good fidget and distraction through the excruciating long hours you’ve been pacing through like a marathon this evening. You know Yamada is on shift at his radio station and Aizawa sucks in his teeth when he realizes neither of you can call him at midnight.

“Should I turn on the radio?” he asks as the outro begins for the fifth episode and you nod as you push yourself closer to him, finding comfort in the closeness. He reaches over you for the television remote as you reach for the remote for the radio. You can’t believe it’s 2022 and Aizawa Shouta still owns a radio and CD-player. In the back of your mind you know it’s so he can hear Yamada in the most authentic state with a quality of sound he just can’t get on his outdated Samsung phone but the thought is still so ridiculous that it brings a smile to your face despite the time and rapidly approaching date.

 00.00

A song ends on the radio at precisely midnight and you know it’s Yamada’s own planning and doing. There’re a few beats of quiet before you hear Yamada inhale and Aizawa feels his heart shatter in a million fragments as his best friend opens his mouth. Aizawa knows it’s only you and him that’ll be able to detect the wobbliness of his voice in his next words,

“Today has just become May 5th and that marks a very special day,” Yamada laughs and continues, “today my best friend’s turning 30. So I’d like to celebrate and play his favorite song. Dear Generation Alpha listeners, you might not recognize this song but I promise it was big when I was young!”

As the volume of the song slowly rises, you hear Yamada mutter out a “God I sounded old,” too close to the mic and you both snort of laughs. Aizawa hears the first tell-tale of your emotions as you sniffle in too. The vocals in Hoobastank’s The Reason makes you squeeze Aizawa’s arm and he reacts by squeezing you closer to him and kiss the top of your head.

You’ve never been sure why this was Shirakumo’s favorite song. You’d often asked and he’d made a joke about the beat and the speed in which he creates clouds fits, but the lyrics are so unfit for him and has always felt so. Aizawa feels the warm wetness of your tears as they glide down his forearm. He steels himself and evens out his breathing.

“Do you remember back when he accidentally stole that chocolate milk because he was distracted by the teller and none of them noticed?” Aizawa chuckles and heaves a breath in to add, “yeah, she was madder about the fact that he came back to pay because she thought if she’d missed it, he could’ve just kept it.”

A shaky laugh leaves you as you continue the story after Aizawa, “yeah, she saw me waiting for him outside and insisted he got one for free so we could have one each.”

Aizawa knows the stories you’re gonna be re-telling. You tell them every year, twice. For his birthday and for the date of his death. The heaviness you’ve all three felt on his birthday hasn’t been as immense in many years but a milestone like 30 had punched all of you in the gut when you’d counted and realized.

You sniffle again and you try to conceal a sob behind a laugh, “or that time he changed clothes in the classroom.”

That one actually succeeds in making Aizawa laugh because as annoying as the situation had been back then, it’d morphed into a sort of happy, core memory of his friend after he’d gotten older.

You exchange a few more stories of his chaotic but always good-natured way of interacting with the world, of the laughs and his never-ending attempts at brightening up anyone’s day. After another one of how he had been one of the people hyping up Yamada’s hero-persona haircut, you’d turned around in his grasp and hidden your face in his chest before full-blown sobs had left you.

Aizawa is biting the underside of his lips as you let out heart-wrenching sobs, the ones that makes his stomach ache. He coos at you and kisses the top of your head while his hand is drawing comforting circles over your back.

“I miss him,” you choke out before you hiccup and Aizawa nods, “me too.”

“He should’ve been here, Shou, he should’ve." you cry out and Aizawa can’t hold back his own shaking, “I know.”

“But he’s not here. He’s not anywhere.”

 Aizawa’s often felt out of place compared to his fellow humans around him, felt like he was one link off in emotional range and rationality. One thing he’s completely in tune with other people in is grief. Grief has struck him as natural as unnatural as it is. The need to talk about the days where his friend was alive, to go to his graveside and have conversations, the keeping of plants he knew Shirakumo liked. All of those things have made perfect sense to his process as much as they weren’t logical to his rational mind at all. He feels at ease when you make his favorite dish that you’ve perfected for the sake of his birthday or the days where you stop by U.A with a can of Shirakumo’s favorite soda for you, Yamada, and him to enjoy.

But he doesn’t like when other people are grieving. He’s unsure as to what helps and he feels inadequate. But he supposes he can’t do too much wrong, seeing you still decide to spend every terrible death anniversary and birthday with him, comforted by his stunted emotional availability.

You try to breathe in through your nose but it’s effectively blocked by all the snot your body’s producing from such a heavy cry. Aizawa hushes you with a kiss to reassure you he’s not going away before he pulls away to reach for the tissues strategically placed behind the couch, in his reach.

You sit up and take one from his hand before you blow your nose. Aizawa tells you good job, merely to make you smile and he succeeds. You throw the used tissues towards the coffee table and none of you says anything as you miss.

“He was supposed to be here. We were supposed to go to his Mom’s. I was supposed to be making the food with her,” you’re crying again, fidgeting with your hands. Aizawa’s unsure whether or not he should stay down in case you want to cuddle again for comfort or if he should mirror you and sit up with you.

“I was supposed to find him a grand present. One that would blow his mind completely. Maybe we’d even find one together and surprise him with something. I don’t know, a fucking car or something."

Aizawa snorts and you scoff out a rather pathetic excuse of a laugh at your own joke before you grab onto Aizawa’s shirt. “Probably not a car… you and Yamada would need equally as big presents and I’d be too broke for that.”

Aizawa decides to sit up with you, if the pull on the stomach of his shirt is any indication from you of what you might want. He grabs onto your hands and squeezes. “He’d probably ask for something small, like a new couch cover or something. Or a CD even though no one collects them anymore.”

Aizawa nods and agrees, “or socks. He always wore those socks with holes.”

You throw your head back and laugh truthfully, “that’s right, I’d totally forgotten. God they were so disgusting.”

You lean forward so you’re in Aizawa’s space again and he wraps his arms you, inhaling your scent he’s gotten so accustomed to and which brings him great comfort. He doesn’t have the heart to react too emotionally – if he does, he’s not sure he’d be able to contain the information about Kurogiri that he himself obtained not even a year ago. Him and Yamada had chosen to keep quiet about it to any of Shirakumo’s relatives and loved ones and as much as it pained him to keep it from you as well, the hole Shirakumo’d left in your chest still had a long way to go for healing. He’s confirmed in those thoughts when you start sobbing uncontrollably again, muttering out a muffled, “it should’ve been me.”

Aizawa tightens his grip almost aggressively and firmly denies that. You shake your head, “but he had so much to offer. He was so bright, Shou. He should’ve been here.” The last part is yelled out and while Aizawa’s logical mind has half a mind to mentally apologize to your neighbors, his emotional mind is screaming out in agony at your words. He knows you’re not saying them to hurt him or with any malice, but they sting, nonetheless.

He starts rocking you back and forth in his arms, cooing and kissing you as he desperately fights back tears. A few gets loose and down onto you.

 02.05

You’re starting to calm down and Aizawa has succeeded in moving you to the bed. You’re cuddled up to him as you croak out a weak, “I miss him”, hiccupping as you go. Aizawa just replies with a “me too” every time, desperate to wrap up some of your pain and take it from you. He thought you were asleep 12 minutes ago but another thought of Shirakumo had made you sob out again. You’d leant up to kiss Aizawa then, which had triggered the response.

Shirakumo was very much and very obviously in love with you – and you’d been just as painfully in love with him. None of you had ever acted on your emotions but it’d been clear from the first day you met that you’d somehow end up in a Happily-Ever-After kind of situation. Shirakumo had often whispered to Aizawa and Yamada about confessing when his hero career was secure and he’d have something worthwhile to offer you while they’d both tried to encourage him to confess while they were in high school.

But it should never come to pass. The very same week that Shirakumo left the earth he’d started mumbling about confessing after his work studies. Yamada had hyped him up and Aizawa knew that you were going with similar thoughts.

Aizawa clears his throat to stop a sob from escaping and gently, your fingers trace his cheek, cooing back at him as he did to you. With a hoarse voice you’d let out, “it’s going to be okay, Shou. We have each other.”

He nods and this time he’s the one to hide his face in your neck. You coo and let your fingers run through his hair with meaningful whispers returned to him. He calms down faster than you did and kisses you. You kiss him back, “tomorrow we’ll go to the grave before we visit his Mom, right?” you confirm and Aizawa nods while he lets you move stray hairs behind his ear, “good. I’m glad we’re all going this year. She’ll be happy to see you and 'Zashi too.”

He knows she will. She often chastises them both for not coming around as often as you do and makes lots of leftover food they can take home in nicely wrapped Tupperware so they have proper food for their demanding jobs.

You cuddle close to Aizawa and knows you’ve exhausted yourself enough to fall asleep. You seem calm and collected but he knows your body is mostly just tired.

One last time he kisses the top of your head before he mumbles out a goodnight. Tomorrow might not be brighter than today and the loss may feel even greater than it has in years, but so long as he has your hand to hold, he can face tomorrow and support you in his friend's stead.

#bnha x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa x reader #mha x reader #aizawa shouta angst #bnha angst #i think thats all thentags...... #again please heed the warnings thanku<333333 #nohr.writing #nohr.bnha

[imabillyami]

8 years ago on this day...

8 years ago on this day my dad died. He was 45. It pretty much happened out of nowhere. 

As in, we didn’t expect it to happen when it did and the way it did. 

He was an addict - alcohol, narcotics, plentiful drugs, the whole palate, you name it.

He had already had a massive stomach tumor, a perforated stomach & had already died due to that on the table at age 35. The doctors who brought him back said it was a sheer miracle. 

He got a second lease at life, but he didn’t use it. He never stopped drinking or searching the high of one more hit, even though the doctors told him it would kill him.

Still, his death happened out of nowhere for us. And it was quite tragic.  Cause in the end it the doctors were right. 

Don’t get me wrong, I hated my dad, I really did. He ruined my entire childhood, he ruined my mother, he ruined a good portion of my life.

I don’t remember many days as a kid where one of us didn’t end up beaten into a pulp. He started when I was still a toddler and he never stopped. Yet my mom stayed.

Even after he tried to stab her to death in front of me when I was 10. Even when beat her daily and broke her bones. Even when beat me and broke mine. He tried to kill himself in front of me when I was 12.

He tried to go after my little sister when she was still a toddler, but I never let him. From that day on it doubled the amount of beatings I took, cause he got a kick out of it when I put up a fight whenever he tried going after her.

When I was 14 he once again beat me into a pulp, before he kicked me out for being “a filthy whore” and “his biggest mistake”. After that I attempted to end my life for the first time. And after everything was said and done, my mom made me come back.

Just a few of the many highlights of my childhood/ teenage years. 

My dad left me mentally and physically broken to the point where even now, many years later, most days walking or even standing hurts. Badly. His abuse paved my own way into addiction. 

What I’m trying to say with all this, I’ll never understand that side of my dad. The violent side that is.

What I understand better now though, the older I get? The addiction and the mental health issues he was facing. 

Much like him, I’m dealing with a number of serious mental health conditions. Even now that I’m diagnosed, most days are a never ending struggle. 

Much like him, I’ve been an addict to everything I could get my hands on since my teenage years. That’s when the toll all these beatings took on my body started to really show and when my mind really started processing all the trauma that he'd put us through. 

Much like it did him, my addiction almost killed me. It was only a couple of years ago that my own addiction was so bad that I had pretty much given up and accepted that it would take my life. 

I hate my dad. Most days I’m glad he’s gone. But I understand his pain. So much.

Only thing different is that I never chose the path of violence that he chose. I never chose to hurt anyone or put them down to make them just as miserable as I was. I never chose violence to break someone.

I chose kindness and redemption and I was fortunate enough to find a way out of the addiction he could never escape. I’m thankful I chose that fight every day. And I’ll keep choosing that fight every day. 

That being said, I am 615 days sober today. Longest I’ve been since I started using at the prime age of 13. And I couldn’t be prouder of myself for that. 615 days and hopefully forever. 

I’m not gonna lie, I’m in pain almost every day, both physically and mentally, but for me living with that is better than not living at all. It’s better than endlessly chasing the numbness or the next high. 

And despite everything I just said, I still grieve my dad. Not the man he was, but everything that could’ve been. 

Despite everything he did to me I had chosen compassion. I had helped him get into rehab only months prior to his death, cause everyone else, even my mum, had finally given up on him. 

I was barely 20, an addict myself and in no shape to take care of anyone, yet it was a last ditch effort to maybe somehow make him love me. Joke’s on me, cause he never did. 

Last time I saw him was the summer before his death outside that rehab facility I dropped him off at. Our last text convo was making tentative plans for Christmas. A week later my then 13y.o. sister and my mum found him dead in his apartment. Multiple organ failure.

I never had a proper father figure to look up to, so what I’m really grieving is the idea of a father figure that could have been. 

The topic is quite controversial within our family, too. 

My mum just shoved everything aside and is still making him out to be this great guy that he wasn’t. She chose denial. Deep deep denial. My sister was too young to remember the worst of it. We shielded her the best we could, really. 

My dad finally left us for one of his many affairs and moved out when she was 9. He moved away and she saw him twice a year after that.

I saw him once a year when he came to visit. And we couldn’t be in the same room for more than two minutes without things getting physical between us.

I still remember an instance when I was 17 and he tried to lay hands on me again during his visit. I punched him right in the face in self-defense and he had a pretty shiner after that. 

My dad only moved back into town 6 months before his death in an attempt to fix things with my mum and my sister. I was already in college by then, I visited home during my term break though. Sometimes I wish I hadn't.

In these six months he did a number on my sister though, to the point where up until this day she sees him as this big hero. 

A lot of it also is thanks to my mum’s stories. My sister firmly believes that my dad was flawed, yet was the best dad ever. My mum and sister are both so deep in denial that it physically pains me. 

Me? I can’t forgive him. Never could. I see him for the monster he truly was. And I don’t believe in “protecting his memory”. Not when it’s all lies.

And every year around this day I can’t believe how much power he still holds over me, even from his grave. I’ve been in therapy on and off for 15 years, yet there’s things I can never let go or forget.

I’ve mostly forgiven my mum for what she put us through by staying with him. Mostly. The memories of my dad haunt me to this day though. The muscle memory is still there and the pain never leaves. I have constant physical reminders. 

Anyway. Today I’m grieving the idea of a father I could’ve had and I’m grieving the things and years I lost to his cruelty. I’m grieving, yet I’m celebrating being alive and sober and on the path to a better life at the same time. 

If you made it till here, just know this: I don’t want any pity. I don't wanna hear how strong I am. I know I am. But I wish I wasn't. I'd rather be not traumatized, but that's beside the point.

What I want is this: If you have someone you love, I want you to go hug them (a friend, a parent, a pet, whoever) today and think of a good memory you have with them, maybe tell them you love them. That would make me happy. 

#for the people who really wanna know me #this is basically me trauma dumping #and by that I mean this is me talking about the dark and twisted shit #some of it at least #read at your own risk #cause this is about my dad and my childhood and it gets really dark #so heed all the trigger warnings please #they’re all there for a reason #this date is of significance to me #and it’s not for good reasons #death tw #abuse tw #violence tw #alcoholism tw #addiction tw #illness tw #attempted suicide tw #pretty much any and all tws you can think of I guess #i'll probably delete this later #just had to get my thoughts out #personal stuff #i forgot to add #attempted murder tw

[marsixm]

might need to get off twitter as much bc the way ppl post on there is making my medical anxiety go crazy lately

#sorry but its insane to be posting random contextless whatsapp messages #that are not in any way formatted as a government missive #as a new thing from a foreign govt warning people about a covid strain #in very extreme terms #that when googled provid nothing #like please if that was about anything else a random whatsapp screenshot would be obviously not heeded #this is getting ridiculous #like sorry you are not immune to propaganda! you cant just turn off your misinfo red flag checker when its something you agree with! #like for someone actually interested in doing the right thing and learning more the way ppl talk online is not helping at all

[whumpcereal]

the kennel, part nineteen

NOTE: I swear to goodness I am working on Jacky and Joe, but this just came out today, so here it is.

part of the kennel (masterlist here).

content warnings for: EXPLICIT NONCON, extreme dehumanization, extreme pet whump, filmed whump, creepy/intimate whumper, human trafficking, forced nudity, cages, restraints, collars, threatened electrocution, dissociation

part nineteen, reduced to an object

They leave Will in his cage for days. 

Well, that’s not quite true. He hears the door open and shut, feels Annie’s feathersoft touch on the sole of his foot, but he doesn’t let himself stir. Or maybe, he doesn’t even think about it. Maybe he just doesn’t move because he can’t. Like, he cried himself into oblivion after Annie cleaned him up, and now there’s nothing left. 

Maybe it’s better that way. 

Doc doesn’t care if he eats, and now Will doesn’t either. Even after however many days, he can still taste Tommy, feel the sour warmth down the back of his throat. And since he isn’t eating or drinking, really, there’s no reason to go to the recreation yard. He wonders if he can make himself disappear, if maybe he’ll die before Doc wants to use him again. 

No such luck. 

At some point, it’s Doc, not Annie, who opens his cage. Doc’s hand locks around his ankle, and without speaking, he drags Will’s atrophied body backward from the crate. Will doesn’t give any sign that he’s felt it, because why should he? It’s not like anything is a surprise at this point, and it’s not like he cares what happens to him now. Whining and getting served with a shock isn’t going to make any of it better. 

“Oh, little mutt, it’s not as bad as all that, is it?” Doc murmurs. 

Will keeps his forehead pressed to the concrete floor. 

“You know, your little exercise with Champ caused quite the stir. I think we may find use for you after all.” 

The Will of six weeks ago would have had something to say. He would have laughed, and he would have said something like Joke’s on you, buddy. I’ve been aggressively useless my entire life. 

But this Will doesn’t speak. Not unless he’s commanded to, and it doesn’t seem like that’s what Doc is in for just now. Not that Will cares. 

“Up on your knees, boy.” 

Will doesn’t even bother to try to do what Doc asks. He knows he can’t support his own weight, and he doesn’t figure it matters if he ever does again. Doc’s toe lands hard against Will’s ass crack. Will’s body jars, but that’s it. Nothing happens for a moment, like Doc is waiting for something, and then the older man sighs. 

“Stay still, then,” Doc mutters.

Doc’s dry hands are at Will’s hips, and he slips Will’s briefs down and away from his backside, letting them stop just above his knees. And fuck, Will should be afraid, but somehow, he isn’t. It’s not like he doesn’t know where this is going. 

There’s a soft click, and he feels Doc’s hand press one of his asscheeks to the side. Something warm and slick falls into his crack, and then Doc’s fingers follow, slipping over his hole and then inside of it. Will stays silent, but this time, he feels a dry lump in his throat–no tears; he hasn’t had enough water for those. But still. He didn’t feel it the first time, just the pain that came after. But this doesn’t feel right. Not to him. His flesh is still tender, inside and out, but it isn’t even that. Even if he had words, he isn’t sure he could explain. 

Maybe it’s that the contact is intimate, but Will didn’t ask for it and doesn’t want it. Maybe it’s that there are other pets in their cages, watching his humiliation. Maybe it’s that he can feel in Doc’s touch that the older man doesn’t think he’s touching another person at all, that this is all business to him. Maybe it’s that, on some level, he knows he’s being prepared for Tommy; that even here, Tommy is worth more than he is. Will always comes last if he places at all. 

Will feels something slip inside of him, small at first, and then stretching what shouldn’t be stretched and settling wide. He scrunches his eyes shut and tries to breathe. 

“The people are asking for you, little mutt. And since you’re drumming up business, I thought I’d help you out this time. We’ll make sure that you’re ready, won’t we?” 

Doc waits again, but what the fuck is Will going to do about any of this? If the guy wanted to hear his opinion, maybe he shouldn’t have outfitted him with a fucking bark collar. Will turns his head and lets his cheek rest against the cool concrete. His breath is hard and fast. 

Doc sighs. “Fine. Play dead. But you’re not dead yet, mutt. You can thank Champ for that.” 

Yeah, because this is something to be fucking grateful for. 

Doc doesn’t put him back in his cage right away. He forces Will to lap at a metal bowl of water first, and then he pulls up Will’s briefs and locks him away again. But there’s no relief this time. Every time Will shifts, he can feel the plug inside of him shift too, a reminder of exactly what’s coming–and exactly what he’s worth. 

- - - 

It feels like days before Doc brings Will back to the doghouse. Maybe a week. Tommy doesn’t know. It’s hard to know anything anymore. He can’t predict what’s coming next, and it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no getting out. He’s not stupid enough to believe otherwise. He doesn’t think Will is either, but it’s not like he can ask. No, Tommy knows what Will’s presence demands, and it isn’t conversation. 

Tommy had a feeling it was coming. Doc hasn’t fucked him again since that first day– “You know, Champ, this isn’t about me. I’m not who the people want to see.”--but there have been others. Red collars like Tommy, but with black hoods over their faces. Doc directs them from outside the box, his voice pumped in over speakers Tommy hadn’t realized were even there. 

Harder. I want to hear him scream. 

Lick up the mess, Champ. Show the people what a good boy you are. 

Grab his hair, you stupid mutt. Make sure the camera can see his face. 

But there’s been some downtime for the last little bit, for whatever it’s worth. No other red collars, just the familiar burn and stretch of his tail, keeping him loose and ready. But when Doc chains Tommy’s wrists above his head and fits him with the massager again, lets it thrust inside him, lets the tension build until he’s shaking and moaning beyond control, Tommy knows exactly what’s coming, even as his brain melts inside his skull. 

This time, Will isn’t blindfolded, but he doesn’t look at Tommy. Tommy understands. He can’t look at Doc or the cameras either. Looking means knowing. Recognizing what’s been lost. That part of him is being systematically routed out from somewhere deep inside, and that he’ll never be able to get it back. 

It’s not a thing you assume about yourself, that you’ll be reduced to an object for someone else’s, well, use. At least, Tommy never did. But he supposes he’s been an object for most of his life. That grand jetés and fouettés and port de bras are designed to be looked at, and that, for a long time, Tommy’s body was just their means of projection. He loved to feel eyes on him as he moved, loved the warmth of other people’s energy, the way that it pushed him farther, higher. The way that it made him feel alive. 

It isn’t the same now. The cameras never shut off, and Tommy can feel himself trying to shrink from their omnipresent eyes in a way he’s never shrunk from attention before. But there’s no escape, no curtain that separates this life from another. There’s just–nothing. Tommy knows that as soon as he sees Will’s defeated face, already stretched in discomfort by the familiar ring gag. He can’t see Will behind the mournful brown eyes, sunken into a face that’s so gaunt and pale that it would make Tommy’s gut turn if every nerve in his body weren’t directed toward the pursuit of forced pleasure. 

Doc smiles as he leads Will into the box by his leash. Now that he knows what to look for, Tommy sees the black electrical box attached to Will’s collar. There are rusty bandages beneath. Will must have hurt himself that first time, screaming the way that he did.

Tommy hopes Will won’t scream this time. He doesn’t want this to hurt Will anymore than it already will. 

“Lookit who’s back for another little guest spot,” Doc says with a soft laugh. He ruffles Will’s greasy hair, wiping his hand on his pants when he pulls away. He looks at Tommy. “I thought it was time you got to feel good, Champ. You’ve done so well this last little bit. You deserve a reward.”

Tommy isn’t gagged, but he can’t form words. Sensation rises inside him and he cries out like an animal. Still, he shakes his head. Will is not his reward. Will is his best friend, and Tommy doesn’t deserve him. Not after what’s happened. 

Will is kneeling at Doc’s feet, but he is barely there at all. His mittened hands are braced in front of his knees, natural as anything. Like he doesn’t remember that he’s a man. Doc snaps his fingers, and Will rises onto his, well, his mitts and knees. He’s wobbling like a colt, and his eyes are unfocused and far away. Tommy wonders how many times Doc has made Will practice that particular move. 

“Good boy,” Doc murmurs to Will. Doc reaches down, and Will barely flinches as Doc pulls a tapered plug from his backside. Doc smiles back at Tommy, waving the slick plug in the air between them. “He’s ready for you, Champ. You can use him however you want.”

“I–I don’t–” Tommy bleats, but his words are lost to the thrumming inside. 

“You do,” Doc says firmly. “You know that you do.” 

He knuckles his fingers into the shiny knots of Will’s hair and tugs. Will doesn’t make a sound, thank God, but his blank face terrifies Tommy. Will should be frightened. He should be angry. He should be something. But this– 

What has Tommy done? 

Doc clips Will’s lead to the same hook in the floor as the first time, and then he moves to Tommy. “It doesn’t matter which end you use, but you will use him,” he whispers savagely. “That’s what your public wants, and if you don’t, you know exactly what will happen to him.” 

Tommy wonders if Will wouldn’t prefer death, but when he looks at the empty shell of his best friend, he doesn’t know if it’s possible for Will to want anything at all. And selfishly, Tommy doesn’t want to let him go. 

“Will you–” Tommy swallows and groans as another wave of sensation crashes against him, but he forces his eyes to Doc’s. “Will you let me–let me–decide–” 

Doc laughs, and he scratches his fingernails against Tommy’s sweat-soaked scalp. “Awww, Champers. Not just yet. You’ll do as you’re directed, and if you’re very good, maybe I’ll let you freestyle with him someday.” 

Doc unfastens Tommy’s wrists, and this time, he doesn’t remove the massager. Tommy is hard and trembling, and Doc has to help him over to Will’s hunched body. Tommy collapses on his knees in front of Will, but Will still doesn’t look up. 

Doc smiles. “Have fun, you two.” 

And then he steps outside the box, locking the door behind him. 

Tommy looks at Will, at his dead eyes and diminished body, and the rational sliver of his brain wants to take Will in his arms and hold him close, to fucking hold him until he’s warm and there’s some sign of life in him. But then Doc’s voice comes over the speakers. 

“Fuck his mouth until he chokes, Champ.” 

And Tommy, sweating and sobbing, takes Will’s face in his hands, and, God help him, does what he’s told. 

Will never looks up, and he doesn’t scream. Never once does Will scream. But when Doc takes Will away an hour later, Tommy does.  

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader, @sad-boys-anonymous, @whumpzone

#the kennel #will cartwright oc #tommy mahoney oc #doc barker oc #tw noncon #please heed all other content warnings #whump #whump writing

[candyredterezii]

its crazy going in the notes of that post n seeing ppl talk how the tiktokers would harass n yell at them for being in their shot when filming at like. school or something like

also the fact that app a lot of these kids are doing this shit in the middle of school hallways, between classes ... that's so fucking insane to me.

#candyredtext #im so glad i grew up in the age i did #school hallways between classes is for eavesdropping on gossip and visiting ur locker #TAKE IT FROM ME KIDS. UTILIZE UR LOCKERS #DONT PUT ALL UR SHIT IN A BOOKBAG #IT REALLY WILL FUCK UR BACK UP IN UR EARLY TWENTIES IF NOT SOONER. #PLEASE HEED MY WARNING

[daydadahlias]

Omg do you have any fave sex work AUs? I love those too! Doesn’t matter which fandom.

ok if you're saying it doesn't matter which fandom I am in fact going to direct you to my literal holy grail: Filthy Lucre. this was THE fic for 16 yo Jess. and honestly it still holds up as one of my fave fics of all time.

#it is panic at the disco so trigger warning for all of us brendon urie haters out there #but just ignore that it's brendon #bc this fic is a fucking masterpiece #there is a lot of heavy material in here so please do heed the trigger warnings but i really fucking stand by this being a banger #i was literally talking abt filthy lucre the other day lmfao i love that fic #16 yo me went batshit INSANEEEE for filthy lucre #i havent read it in a long time but #im gonna continue to honor 16 yo jess's memory and say it's the best fic ever #pigeon #anon #im trying to think of if i have any other faves #there's like. literally none in our fandom which is devastating for me personally #panic had so many good ones sigh #as much as i hate panic! at the disco GODDD their fics were good

[curiouscrux]

Approximately 2000 words of existentialist musings by Looks to the Moon, interspersed by board games with her neighbor.

#finally published this #rain world #fanfiction #many many months after it was finished #it is heavy on the #existentialism #so heed all of the warnings that come with that can of worms #one robot splits her time 80/20 thinking about purpose and wanting to give her brother a hug #looks to the moon #five pebbles #lttm #rw #5p #why am i linking this directly to my tumblr? #iunno. kind of pleased with it.

[ingo-ingoing-ingone]

After Team Plasma attacks the Battle Subway and Emmet saves his passengers, Ingo is too late to save him.

SO UH HI I wasn’t originally gonna write this but. A friend wanted to see it written and I couldn’t say no.

This is an ALT END for The Good In Me. It’s not even canon to the first fic because Ingo never speaks to Emmet. It’s just something my brain cooked up at work and went “wouldn’t that be SAD.”

HEED THE WARNINGS. it is EXACTLY what it says on the tin. If hurt no comfort is not for you, PLEASE skip this one.

#submas angst #tw blood #tw death #tw grief #hurt no comfort #submas #emmet #ingo #subway boss emmet #subway boss ingo #submas fanfic #PLEASE HEED WARNINGS #PRETTY PRETTY PLEASE #i slapped this down at midnight whoop whoop #*inflicts it upon you all*

[multi-lefaiye]

“Stars - 1997″ - Juno Study

It’s finally here! The Juno character study! Not sure if that’s the right word but y’know what that’s what I’m calling it.

Content Warnings: Discussions of domestic violence and abuse in general, discussions of death and murder, mentions of cancer, semi-graphic descriptions of a corpse, vague/implied suicidal ideation, and depictions of a character smoking a cigarette.

Tagging (i don’t have a general taglist so i’m mainly tagging folks who i thought might be interested/have shown interest, but if you want to be tagged in general when i post things like this let me know!!): @wherearetheplants @skitzo-kero @nicola-writes @albatris @emotionalsupportpuma 

--

“You’re an asshole. You know that, right?”

Juno looked up from where they'd been sitting beside the pool, bare feet dangling over the edge and into the cold water. A few feet away, lit by the tell-tale glow most undead carried with them, sat a spirit, looking at them with an irritated furrow of her brows.

"What'd I do this time?" they asked, their voice dry and brittle as an old, fraying rope.

Normally, Juno wouldn't respond in public, not where people who couldn't see the spirit might hear. Tonight, however, it was three in the morning and the outdoor pool beside the Lockridge Motel was completely deserted. No one could hear Juno talking to the empty night air.

The spirit scoffed. “So that’s what gets your attention?” she sneered.

“What's your fucking problem?” Juno snapped, glaring at her as their fingers tensed around the cigarette they were holding.

"You've been ignoring me for the past fifteen minutes," the spirit spat, her eyes narrowed in distaste. "I've been trying to talk to you, but you only fucking looked up when I called you an asshole.” There was a brief pause, followed by a scoff. “It's like you don't care."

The spirit was a woman, or at least Juno assumed she was based on her appearance. Like every ghost Juno had encountered, she looked how she likely did at the exact moment of her death, however long ago that was. That was something they never got used to, looking into the eyes of frightened corpses brought to life. Though, in this case, the corpse was more angry than scared.

This spirit had pale skin, with mottled bruises adorning her throat and skinny arms like grotesque flowers. Her short, wavy hair was poorly dyed a bright blonde, with black roots plainly visible, though it was missing several patches as though some of it had been ripped from her scalp, and her almond-shaped, glassy eyes were a deep, muddy brown. She wore a knee-length black dress that was tattered and torn in places, hanging off of her emaciated frame.

All in all, every sign pointed to her having a violent death, which meant this wasn’t going to exactly be a pleasant conversation. Juno felt their defensive anger leave them in one fell swoop, and they instead felt very, very tired.

And when Juno was tired, they defaulted to being a dick, which was exactly what they did next.

"How did you know I just couldn't hear you?” they drawled. “For all you know, I could've had a good reason." Juno lifted one hand and took a drag of their cigarette, their remaining eye looking over the woman sitting a few feet away from them. They weren’t wearing their usual eyepatch tonight, but their hair hung just so to hide the mess of gilded scar tissue on the left side of their face.

As they breathed out a cloud of dark, acrid smoke into the starry night sky, the spirit wrinkled her nose slightly. Juno knew she couldn’t smell it, but they also knew it was hard to break most habits, even after death.

"Bullshit," she said with the faintest of wry smiles on her face, though it was clear she was still unhappy with them. "You're talking to me now. Clearly, you can hear me.” All of the humor drained from her face as quickly as it arrived. “What’s your fucking deal anyway?"

Fair point.

"My bad,” Juno conceded after a moment, offering the spirit a shrug and a half-smile of their own. “Was just thinking a bit. Got a bit lost in thought for a while there. I guess I missed you.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, at least. Juno had been vaguely aware of the spirit’s presence for at least five of the fifteen minutes she claimed to be getting their attention, but they hadn’t realized that she was speaking to them. Like many nights in recent memory, Juno’s focus was lost in the ever-shifting waves of the cosmos.

Only the burning cigarette clutched in calloused fingers kept them grounded on nights like this.

The spirit crossed her arms, tilting her head as she regarded them. Her eyes, ringed with dark circles like the bruises covering the rest of her, narrowed. Juno got the distinct impression they were being appraised like some old piece of junk someone had found in their attic.

Not exactly an incorrect comparison.

“You came out here at three in the morning just to sit by the pool and smoke? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” There was a hint of judgment in her words that Juno might have bristled at, had it come from anyone else.

That was something about spirits that they’d always liked. Most of the time, the dead didn’t have much of a filter, especially the angry ones. Something about dying just made it harder to care about social norms and politeness. It made them a lot easier to understand than the living, in Juno’s opinion.

“I do my best thinking when I’m sleep-deprived and breathing in noxious fumes,” Juno said, clicking their tongue as they winked at the spirit in a playful gesture they clearly weren’t feeling. She stared at them, unimpressed, and they tried their best not to fidget under the intensity of her gaze.

“What’s so-” she started.

“What’s your story?” Juno interrupted before the spirit could finish her sentence. She blinked at them, so surprised at their abruptness that she momentarily forgot to be angry with them, and they rolled their eyes. “I mean, not everyone who dies sticks around. You obviously got the shit knocked out of you before you kicked the bucket--what happened there?”

Maybe on another day, Juno would try to be a little more gentle in their approach. Many ghosts were traumatized by their deaths--at least, they tended to be if they remembered them at all--and even the ones who weren’t usually had some baggage to work through. Because Juno was right; not everyone who dies sticks around after, unless they have some shit to deal with.

Generally, spirits responded better to kindness than cruelty, and Juno had enough experience to know that.

Unfortunately, though, this spirit wasn’t wrong. Juno was an asshole, and it was too late at night to pretend otherwise. It would be a disservice to them both at this point.

The spirit seemed taken aback by the direct question, but she didn’t seem upset by their bluntness. Rather, she paused, evidently considering her words. Juno gave her a moment to think, taking another drag of their cigarette.

Their body had long since passed the point of being affected in any substantial by their smoking habit, but the hot smoke filling their lungs was comforting in a way little else was to them these days. They were drowning themself, one drag at a time, but they never got any closer to death.

“I think it was my boyfriend,” the spirit said finally, a weight to her words that wasn’t there before, her voice achingly soft in the silence around them. “I think my boyfriend killed me.”

Juno blew out the breath of smoke they’d been holding, allowing it to drift listlessly up into the night sky. Then, they turned their head slightly to regard the spirit. She looked lost, anger giving way to the fear and confusion they were more used to with ghosts. They hated it.

“You think?” Juno said, poking and prodding at the open wound presented to them. “What do you remember?” All at once, the anger flooded back into her expression.

“Why are you smoking?” the spirit snapped instead of answering the question. If she was a cat, she’d probably be bristling. “You know you’re gonna get cancer--and it’d be the least you fucking deserve, you dickhead.” Juno snorted.

“Eh, I think I’m a little past that point.” Evidently, the spirit hadn’t picked up on the fact that Juno wasn’t quite human, but they weren’t about to correct her on that front. Instead, they smirked at her, their smile all teeth. “Now, come on, what do you remember? Tell me what’s eating you.”

The spirit stared at them in undisguised disgust. Juno wondered distantly if she was this angry in life, or if this was new. The odds were about fifty-fifty on that front.

“You suck at this,” she told them pointedly. “What kind of bedside manner is that?”

Juno shrugged. “It’s not really a bedside manner,” they said, unable to resist. “More a poolside manner, if we’re being honest here.”

The spirit rolled her eyes. Juno’s smile fell and they held their cigarette up to their lips once more.

“But, no, you’re right,” they said. “I’m not trying to offer you comfort right now--I don’t think either of us really is up for that. But if you tell me what happened, maybe it’ll take a bit of weight off of you. I mean, I’m not really in any place to judge, regardless of how you actually kicked it.”

The spirit hesitated as Juno took another long drag of their cigarette, the little ember at the end flaring orange and lighting up their worn features. Any other time, the silence might’ve been deafening, wearing them down and biting at their heels, but now Juno hardly cared.

Because this was another part Juno was used to, a familiar step in the process. Most spirits were hesitant to talk about their deaths, which they supposed made sense. They didn’t like to talk about theirs either, after all.

For a time, the two were quiet, and Juno let the dark cloud of foul smoke drift upwards from their shriveled lungs. Their cigarette was almost spent by now, but they made no move to put it out or light another one. Instead, they held it between two fingers, staring at it with their empty eye. Absently, they tapped the fingers of their free hand against the concrete beneath them.

After a moment passed, they glanced at the spirit and saw that she wasn’t looking at them now. She was crouching on the ground, her bony hands resting on her knees. Her lifeless eyes stared into the pool.

Juno almost spoke again, hoping to give her a nudge, but she beat them to it and began speaking on her own.

“His name was James,” she said after a long minute, lifting her head to look back at them. “I… I think we were fighting.” She furrowed her brow, sitting up and wrapping her thin arms around her battered middle as she curled in on herself. “It was probably about something stupid--he really seemed to like fighting.”

Juno hummed in understanding, tilting their head slightly. “They usually do, don’t they?” It was the wrong thing to say.

The spirit’s gaze snapped back to theirs, and Juno saw themself reflected in her eyes. Whatever anger had been present on her face before was gone now, replaced by an aching vulnerability they were all too familiar with. Juno turned away and looked down into the pool, not wanting to see painful brown eyes any longer.

Their feet were getting pruney.

Distantly, Juno thought to themself that they should get up and go back inside their shitty motel room, but they ultimately decided against it.

“What do you mean?” the spirit asked softly. Juno’s fingers stilled in their tapping. They didn’t know how to answer that, or if they even should answer.

This wasn’t about them. It was about the ghost next to them.

Her question hung in the air for a long moment.

“Keep talking,” they urged her instead of answering, more gently than they meant to. “What else do you remember? You don’t have to tell me everything, but it helps to get it out.”

For another long moment, the spirit was quiet, peering at them curiously. Even if Juno wasn’t looking at her, they could feel her gaze burning into their skin, a contrast to the frigid chill that clung to her undead form.

When they chanced a quick glance in her direction, they saw something they weren’t expecting: a dawning sort of understanding, followed by a flicker of sympathy.

It made Juno uncomfortable, an itching sensation passing under their skin. “... What was yours named?” she asked, using the exact tone of someone talking to a frightened child and asking them about the monsters in their closet.

A flare of anger passed through Juno and they gritted their teeth.

“This isn’t fucking about me,” they said, struggling to keep their voice even as they forced the anger down. Now wasn’t the time, and that wasn’t how they handled things. “Now, come on, tell me what else you remember, or I’m getting up and leaving.” It was an empty threat and they knew it, and based on the spirit’s expression as she watched them, she knew it, too.

The spirit moved, coming to sit next to Juno properly. She dipped her long, spectral legs in the pool and let out a soft sigh as she rested her hands on the edge of the pool. Juno knew logically that spirits experienced very limited physical sensation, so they doubted she could feel the water against her skin.

Still, she seemed to be enjoying herself, splashing her feet idly as she peered upwards to the sky. Juno stared at her for a long moment, then they turned their head to follow her gaze.

It was a beautiful night, with only a few swirling wisps of clouds blocking out the vast expanse of stars above them. Even with the light pollution from the city in the near distance and the flickering neon lights of the motel sign behind them, there were able to see dozens upon dozens of twinkling lights.

If Juno were so inclined, they might have tried to say something nice and poetic. Something fitting for the moment they were sharing with the dead stranger beside them.

Luckily for them both, Juno was never one for poetry, to begin with, and they’d long since stopped seeing beauty of any kind in the stars.

“I like the sky,” the spirit said, taking Juno out of their thoughts. “Especially at night. The stars are really pretty.” She smiled a little, turning her head to look at Juno. “Did you know that it takes so long for some stars’ light to reach Earth that, right now, most of the ones we see are probably already dead?”

“I didn't know that," Juno said. They weren't sure how they felt about that fact. Juno kept their expression neutral, bringing their cigarette to their lips and allowing their eye to fall closed. As they took yet another drag, they mulled over the words. For one small, absurd moment, they wondered if the stars left spirits behind, too. If the light that reached Earth represented nothing more than a ball of fire in an endless void, or if there was more to it.

They breathed out in a huff that sounded almost like a laugh, allowing the smoke to drift upwards. Maybe they really were up a bit too late, if they were musing on the lives and deaths of stars. The last of their anger had left them now, and they let out a soft sigh.

The spirit was quiet for a long moment, so long that Juno wondered briefly if she’d disappeared. When they opened their eye once more and looked her way, however, she was still there. She was looking down now, smile nowhere to be seen as she stared at her hands. Their muted glow glimmered on the surface of the water.

“... I came outside,” she said. “We had a fight, and I wanted to go outside and calm down out here. I was looking at the stars…” Her voice broke towards the end.

Juno stayed quiet, letting her speak. They respectfully averted their eyes and looked down at their cigarette. The tiny ember was truly dying now, and there was barely anything in their hands to smoke anymore.

“James came after me.” The spirit’s voice trembled as she spoke, and perhaps if she still had tear ducts, she might’ve been crying. “He tried to drag me back inside, but I didn’t want to go. I think he grabbed me…” Unconsciously, one of her hands went to her neck, resting against the dark bruises ringing her pale skin.

She fell silent, and Juno decided to let her be for now. There were no words for a situation like this, after all.

The two were quiet for some time, looking out into the night.

“What did you mean?” the spirit asked finally. Juno knew exactly what she was asking, but they looked at her curiously anyway, silently prompting her to elaborate. “When you said that ‘they usually do.’ What did you mean by that?” There was an urgency to her voice now, and Juno knew that they weren’t going to get away from her questioning this time.

A soft sigh escaped them, and they took a long moment to consider their answer. Their shoulders tensed slightly, and they closed their eye again. When they finally spoke, they opened their eye and met the spirit’s dead eyes with a flat expression of their own.

“What I meant,” Juno began, their voice hollow and distant, “is that there are a lot of people like that. Cruel, vicious bastards who move themselves forward by taking others down.” At this point, their cigarette was truly nothing more than a tiny, flickering light in the darkness. They hardly had it in them to care. “However they can do it, really, but they need to control others to keep them down and keep going.”

The spirit was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.  “... And they like fighting because-”

Juno turned their eyes away from the spirit, cutting her off before she could finish. "They like to fight because they always win; it's how they stay in control. They wait until you’re at your lowest, then they strike.”

They remembered the sensation of small, gentle hands running through their hair, of chapped lips pressing against their forehead, of a voice like birdsong echoing in their ears.

The tightening of a rope around them.

The memories made them sick to their stomach, and they gritted their teeth again as they took a deep, shaky breath to steady themself.

“And when it’s all said and done,” Juno continued, forcing down the tidal wave of grief inside them, “they make it out to be all your fault, and they say they’re doing you a favor by sticking around and making you better.” Their voice came out sharper than they meant for it to, but they hardly had it in them to give a shit.

Unconsciously, Juno clenched their fingers and crushed what remained of their cigarette, ignoring the sight pain of what was left of the fire burning their skin. The flickering light was snuffed out, leaving the two in darkness. For a long moment, the two sat in silence in the dark, before the spirit spoke once more.

“... You seem to know your shit. You a psychiatrist or something?” The spirit’s voice was cautiously interested, maybe a tad incredulous, and the thought was almost enough to make Juno laugh as they tossed aside their cigarette.

“Nah,” they said, offering her a sardonic grin. “I’ve just been around the block a few times, you could say.”

Another beat of silence passed between them, long and strangely comfortable. Juno always liked this part. They didn’t necessarily enjoy hearing the same sad stories over and over again, but it was almost worth it if it meant they could have quiet, peaceful moments like this.

Their relationships with humans always fell apart, slipping through their fingers like so much sand, but the dead were easy. Even at their worst, the dead were more understanding, and Juno quietly treasured the moments of peace they had occasionally while dealing with them.

Some days, they thought that it made all of this feel more worth it. “You never answered my question,” the spirit said. Juno glanced her way, but she wasn’t looking at them anymore. Her head was tilted back, and her eyes were facing the stars.

“Hm?”

“You never said what yours was named.” She didn’t turn her head to look at them, but she didn’t have to.

Juno thought about trying to play dumb, but they knew it would be unfair to them both. The spirit had been honest with them, and she deserved honesty in turn. That didn’t make it easy, though, and Juno snorted humorlessly. The sound was scratchy, and it hurt their throat to make.

“You’re a perceptive one,” they said, turning away to look up at the stars with her. In a strange way, even knowing that most of those stars were likely dead didn’t make the sight any less comforting for Juno. Maybe it even made things more comforting, in a way. “How do you know I’m not just really knowledgeable about how shitty people can be? Maybe I am a fucking psychiatrist.”

The spirit laughed at that, loud and full of delight, though it sounded almost like she was trying not to cry. Juno decided to let her have her privacy in that regard, and they kept their eyes firmly upwards.

“Takes one to know one,” is all she said. “When you… when you were talking about it, I could tell. You understand. You don’t talk like that if you haven’t either studied it or lived it in some way. And, I mean this as nicely as possible, but I don’t think you’ve studied it.”

Juno was quiet. She was right, of course, on both counts.

“What was their name?” the spirit asked, a sudden tinge of desperation to her words. “Please… you don’t have to tell me what happened, I just want to know. I want to know I’m not alone.”

“Her name,” Juno began, then paused. They could feel the spirit’s eyes on them, but they didn’t turn to look at her again. Their remaining eye fluttered shut and they sighed, the weariness of the past century weighing on them in a way they were all too familiar with.

It wasn’t often that Juno was made painfully aware of their own reality, but it was in moments like this that they realized just how truly exhausted they really were, in a way no amount of sleep could fix.

“Her name was Estelle.” It was the most they’d said about her since they last saw her, and they felt the familiar uncomfortable twinge in their heart as they said her name, the word heavy on their tongue. “Her name was Estelle, and she promised she’d give me the world.”

And in a way, she did, but Juno decided not to voice that part. The world Estelle had given them was one they'd never wanted to begin with, and now it was all they had left.

“I’m sorry,” the spirit said. Juno cracked a smile, despite themself, and opened their eye to look at her.

“You’re the one who got murdered,” they said drily, “and you’re apologizing to me?” The spirit’s expression was soft now, gentle in a way it wasn’t before.

“You don’t have to be murdered for things to fucking suck for you,” she pointed out. “Or for someone to come around and ruin your life.” Juno snorted.

“Fair enough,” they conceded. “Guess there’s no shortage of life-ruiners out there, after all.” Juno leaned back on their hands, letting out a quiet sigh. Silence fell over the pair once more, this time lasting much longer.

“... So, what happens now?” the spirit asked. She looked troubled, but the anger was gone from her expression now. The vulnerability was still plain in her eyes, though for the most part she now just looked curious.

“What do you mean?” Juno asked, tapping their fingers against the concrete once more.

“Is there some kind of… light? Like, a light appears, and I walk into it, and then I’m on the other side?” The spirit held her hands up as she spoke, gesturing vaguely as if to emphasize her point. It was enough to make Juno snort, a smirk tugging at the corners of their mouth.

“Other sides,” Juno corrected, more out of habit than anything.

“What?”

“There are multiple-” Juno caught themself before they could start off on a tangent, chuckling as they shook their head slightly. “Nevermind, it’s not important. The whole afterlife shit’s complicated, and I don’t think I’m really the person you should talk to about all of that.” Truthfully, they understood very little about how this whole thing worked, and everything they did know they only learned through trial and error.

The spirit peered at them curiously for a long moment, tilting her head. They could sense the question in her gaze, but they decided they weren’t going to answer it right now.

“What’s your name?” Juno asked her instead. She looked a little startled.

“Me?” she asked.

“Yeah,” they said, “you.” They gestured with a hand towards her, cracking a sharp grin as they leaned forward again. “I mean, you’ve told me about the guy who fucked you up and took your life from you, but I don’t give a shit about him. His involvement in your story is over now, and I wanna know your name. Who is the beautiful spirit who decided to grace me with her presence tonight?”

The spirit was quiet for a long moment, considering their words. Without their cigarette, Juno felt a bit antsy, but they didn’t say anything. This wasn’t about them, after all.

“Yūna,” she said after a long moment. When Juno looked at her, she was smiling a little more genuinely now. “My name is Yūna.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Juno said. “Sorry you had to get fucking murdered for it to happen, but you seem pretty cool.”

Yūna laughed at that, more genuinely this time, and their smile softened. There was no way for the dead to truly come back to life, not really, but in that moment she looked more alive than she had the whole conversation.

“For what it’s worth,” she said once she’d calmed down from her laughter, “you’re not so bad either.” She ran a hand through her hair a little self-consciously, as though trying to fix it up. “I’m sorry I called you an asshole and, ah, disturbed you while you were trying to think.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Juno said, waving a hand in the air. “Wasn’t thinking about anything important anyway. Besides, you’re right--I am an asshole.”

“What were you thinking about?” Yūna asked, the same curious expression as before on her face once again. Juno hesitated, and so she continued. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but I’m just… curious.”

Juno thought about a lot of things, in general. Life. Death. Rebirth. What it all meant, at the end of the day. Whether there really was anything worth looking forward to. If there was a point to their existence. If there was a way for them to end it.

They thought about people, too. Good people, bad people, and everything in-between. Some days, they wondered if they could still consider themself part of that.

Tonight, though, they were thinking about-

“I was thinking about stars, I guess,” they said before they could finish that thought, before they could let the usual wave of existential despair and aching loneliness wash over them. With one hand, they gestured vaguely up at the sky. “I mean, what you said earlier, about how most of ‘em are probably dead already. I was thinking about whether or not stars have any kind of afterlife awaiting them, or if they’re just sad sons of bitches waiting for oblivion to destroy them, with nothing to look forward to on the other side of it all.”

“Wow,” Yūna said with a snort. She looked a bit more hesitant now. “That’s, uh… that’s a bit morbid.” Juno shrugged noncommittally, quietly relieved she didn’t ask after any details.

“I’m kind of a morbid guy,” they told her. “Comes with the territory.” With one hand, they scratched lightly at their wrist, at the black mark forever staining their skin.

“And what territory is that?” Yūna’s tone wasn’t accusatory at all, at most teasing and friendly. Juno decided to lean into that.

“Being the most dead-looking living person you’ll ever meet,” they replied in the same tone. “Trust me, it’s hard looking like a corpse--no offense.”

“None taken.” Yūna quirked a smirk at them for a moment, but soon her expression softened again. She looked at Juno for a long moment, then turned her eyes back to the stars.

“For what it’s worth,” she said softly, “you look pretty alive to me.”

Juno wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so chose not to. Instead, they let her words linger in the air. There was a light breeze now, ruffling Juno’s white hair and chilling their skin ever so slightly.

“Do you mind if I sit here with you for a while longer?” Yūna asked, a bit timidly. “I just… I don’t really know where else to go, and it’s nice to actually talk to someone who can hear me.” The vulnerability that had been thick in her voice before was back now, and Juno was nodding before they could stop themself.

“Make yourself at home,” they told her. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. And neither are they.” They gestured vaguely up to the stars.

Yūna chuckled. “No, I guess they’re not.”

The rest of the night passed in silence as the two lonely, lost souls sat together, feet dipped in lukewarm water as they watched the sky. Juno didn’t know anything about Yūna, not really, and she certainly didn’t know anything about them, but there was a quiet camaraderie between them now.

It was the closest to living that Juno had felt in a long, long time.

#multi makes text posts #multi's writing #a modern ghost story #juno london #character study #content warnings on post #please heed them! this is a bit of a bummer #though there's nothing really graphic here. it's all mainly dialogue #also again not sure if this counts as a character study #but i tried! #and i had fun writing this #and this helped me really figure juno out a bit

[babygirlcowboy]

Washed my hair for the first time in a week 🥹🥹 made myself a meal 🥹🥹🥹 gonna maybe do something baking 🥹🥹🥹

#okay im sorry but i need to share some mentally ill thoughts just to get them out of my brain #so uhhh #disordered eating cw #<- like heed that warning please #anyway uhhhhh #i really desperately want to binge eat #bc the last week i have been.. severely neglectful of my physical needs so moral of the story...hungry 🧍 #but ive been in this game long enough to know that if i eat a big meal rn....i will fuvking die #like level 5 tummy hurt...will most likely throw the fuck up #so...i am desperately trying to hold myself back from doing that #but every fiber of my being wants me to go into the kitchen and eat everything in sight rapid dog style #like i just had a nice breakfast #i am not physically hungry anymore #but its just the #'I've been without proper nutrients for the last 5 days and now my body wants them all' mixed with the #'i had a stressful week and i know that pack of oreos in the pantry would feel so fucking good' #like its so emotional based #which is even harder to deal with then the physical shit #gooooooooood #why did god have to give his toughest battle ((literally just eating the proper amount of food)) to his dumbest soldier ((me))