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aftgficrec · 12 days

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My favorite fics are soft andriel, and teen andriel.

Here’s my recs:

Raised on little light by maqicien

Falling is a lot like drowning by chaoticas_hell

This wasn’t in the prophecy (series) by Arirmis

(Account locked) Raise me up so you can watch me fall by Yes_No_ofcourse

And this last one is angst and dark but I do love it

Hiding scars under exy gear By rinz

Wow, that’s a lot of recs in one submission! Usually we just get one or two 🤣. - S

You can find some of those fics here:

‘Raised on Little Light’ here (since updated)

‘Falling Is A Lot Like Drowning’ here (since updated)

‘Raise me up so you can watch me fall’ here (locked, now complete)

This wasn’t in the prophecy by Arirmis [Rated T/M, 73294 words, incomplete, last updated Feb 2024]

Percy Jackson AU where all of the foxes are demigods, Andrew meets Neil shortly after his mom dies, and joins him on the run instead of going back to camp. Part one spans from their first meeting to their first kiss; Part two will take place a few years later, when certain circumstances force them to return to camp, and Andrew has to deal with what he left behind, on top of their current problem. While both fics should be able to be read individually, it does make more sense if you read them in order :)

Part 1: Cross your fingers, here we go (T, 25037 words, complete)

Millport is a horrible, dry as fuck little town in the vast nothingness of the dust hole that is Arizona, and Andrew hates it with vigor. He has been tracking a horde of Manticores for weeks now, and isn’t that something? A half-blood having to chase after the monsters. He is starting to feel like one of Renee’s hunters, when Andrew is pretty sure the nasty scorpion-cats should want to kill him more then he wants to kill them. Or, Andrew expected to find all sorts of things on his first quest. He didn’t expect a twitchy, blue-eyed half-blood with monsters on his heels, and he surely didn’t expect to fall in love with him.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death

Part 2: Mortal Bodies, Timeless Souls (M, 48257 words, incomplete)

„Minyard! Get your ass up and put some armor on! Abby, Greene, get the infirmary in shape, border control just spotted a motherfucking Drakon in the woods!“ As if Wymack’s order triggered it, a ear grating screech echoes all the way to the big house. The camp counselor curses. „Move it people, there are half-bloods out there that need to get to safety!“ Or, for two and a half years, Aaron has been grieving the brother he buried, only to learn now, that Andrew is very much alive. He also has a scarred little shithead in tow, that Aaron wants to punch in the face regularily. Life is fun like that.

tw: blood, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death, tw: vomit

Hiding scars (under exy gear) by rinz [Rated M, 34309 words, incomplete, last updated March 2024]

Juggling a mobster serial killer household and high school is harder than Neil had anticipated. and that goth kid on the roof really needs to mind his own business. OR a high school AU where neil and mary never run from nathan and neil meets the foxes in private high school instead.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: imlied/referenced torture, tw: graphic violence

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captain-astors · 9 months

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#Someone made a new mutsuki playlist and they get it like no one has before. Whoever you are thank you.#Anyways #I referenced myself for the pose but I refuse to ask anyone to photograph me #so I ended up stacking like six copies of Dracula on top of eachother #I think that influenced the fangs #mutsuki tooru #my art #tokyo ghoul #implied abuse cw #implied abuse tw #ommetaphobia

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tildeathiwillwrite · 4 months

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Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 31: Free Day

And... that's a wrap for Whumpmas 2023! Thanks for reading my contributions, I'll see you all in the New Year!

This is the third (and final) part of a hero x villain story that I accidentally created during Whumpmas.

Part 1 | Part 2

TW: blood, surgery, medical staples, referenced abuse, painkillers

Hero was lying on the couch in Villain’s safe house, staring at the ceiling and impatiently waiting for painkillers to kick in, when the door burst open. Villain stumbled inside, covered in blood. Hero shot to their feet from the couch, gritting their teeth against the pain caused by the movement. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Villain bolted the door and leaned heavily against it, breathing raggedly. “Yeah,” they mumbled, pulling off their mask and tossing it onto the nearest surface, “I’m fine.”

“But you’re covered in blood!” Hero protested, anxiously following them into the makeshift surgery room, the original purpose of which they hadn’t yet discovered. Hero stared in horror at the rips on the back of Villain’s suit, revealing the deep cuts underneath.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Villain muttered, rummaging through their medical supplies in search of something. “And it’s not all my blood.”

“You need stitches—”

“On my back? It’ll be fine, I just need a mirror.” Villain held up a medical staple gun. “I’ve done this before. Hurts like hell, but works just as well as stitches in a pinch.”

Hero wordlessly turned on their heel and left the surgery room. Snatching the bottle of painkillers off the small table by the couch, Hero returned and held it out to Villain.

Villain took the pill bottle and set down the staple gun to take the medication. “Thanks,” they said softly, shaking out what was probably more than the recommended dosage and swallowing it dry. They winced and made a face. “Think I might have bruised ribs, too.”

“Sit down,” Hero ordered, picking up the medical staple gun. “I can do it.”

Villain frowned. “You sure? You’re still not a hundred percent—”

Hero shook their head adamantly, ignoring how the movement jarred their own injuries. “I’ll have a better angle than you and your mirror contraption. You don’t need to do everything yourself.”

“Oh…” Villain said softly. They boosted themself onto the table and sucked a deep breath in through their teeth. “I guess… I guess you’re right.”

Hero took a second to clean their hands and put on gloves before they moved behind them and picked up a clean alcohol wipe. “This is gonna sting, but I need to get rid of all this blood.”

They didn’t miss how Villain’s hands curled into fists as they wiped away the blood from the scratches. “How’d you encounter my team, anyway? Did they come to you?”

“Yeah…” Villain hissed through gritted teeth. “Just two of them. Not the fire one, thankfully. I hate fighting them. It was the one who can turn into different animals and the one who has the sound… gun… thing…?”

Hero positioned the head of the stapler in the center of the first of the cuts on Villain’s back. “Guess that’s where you got the scratches?”

“Cor—” Villain began just as Hero pulled the trigger. They yelped, flinching away from Hero. They glared over their shoulder. “Now that’s just mean.”

Hero shrugged. “I didn’t want you to tense up. Get back here, I gotta put one more in that cut and then another two in the other one.”

Villain closed their eyes and pressed the heels of their hands against them. They breathed slowly, purposefully, until they removed their hands and moved back towards Hero. “Alright,” they mumbled, fingers gripping the table's edge so hard, the knuckles turned white. “Fire away.”

Once the first staple was in, the rest of them went in swiftly. Villain flinched away every time, but only a few seconds later would order Hero to put the next one in. Finally, Hero had Villain pull off the top part of their suit so they could cover the cuts in bandages. Villain kept their eyes forward throughout the process, but Hero didn’t miss how their cheeks flushed when they removed their shirt.

“Okay,” Hero said, removing their gloves, “I’m done.”

Villain slowly pushed themselves off the table, wincing at the pain the movement caused. “Oh… that’s gonna bug me for a while.”

“Will your part of the city be all right?” Hero asked anxiously, wondering what would happen if their team decided to invade while Villain was recovering.

Villain waved their hand dismissively. “Yeah, they can handle themselves. I think I threw your old team off your trail by acting all annoyed that they’d showed up and really playing up the whole ‘sworn nemesis’ deal we had going.”

“Oh…” Hero said softly. “And they fought you anyway?”

“They didn’t take too kindly to my very reasonable request that they’d leave me the hell alone. Sure, I got all scratched up but I shot your shapeshifter buddy in both legs and broke the other one’s sound gun so I don’t think those one’s’ll be coming after us anytime soon.”

“Did they ask about Whumper? About how… you killed them?”

Villain smirked. “Nope! I forgot to tell you about this earlier, but I moved the body to the complete opposite side of the city from us. If anything, they probably think you killed them.”

Hero stared at them for a long few seconds. “I…” they stammered, trying to gather their thoughts, “I… why are you doing all this?”

Villain blinked. “Huh?”

“Saving me, stitching up my wounds, throwing off my other teammates, letting me stay at your safehouse…” Hero’s vision blurred as tears began to drip down their face. “I… what have I done to deserve all this? You’re risking everything for me, and I don’t have anything to give you in return….”

“Oh, Hero…” Villain murmured. They took Hero’s hand.

Hero froze, gazing down at it in surprise.

“I saved you,” Villain said, “because it was the right thing to do. You would’ve died in that alley from Whumper, so I took you to safety. I stitched up your injuries because you would’ve died from infection. And I’m letting you stay here because out there, those bastards would just recapture you again.”

“What…” Hero whispered, “What are you saying?”

Villain smiled. A soft, genuine smile. “I care about you, Hero. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I abandoned you.”

More tears began to well up. It was suddenly hard to breathe. “I…” Hero stammered, heart racing, “I care about you too. Please… please don’t get yourself killed trying to protect me. I don’t know… I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Me neither,” Villain murmured, a dark look crossing their face. “Me neither.”

#merry whumpmas #my writing #whump #whump scenario #hero #villain #hero x villain #surgery #painkillers #tw painkillers #stitches #staple gun #medical staple gun #implied abuse #old wounds #referenced torture

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betweendisorders · 7 months

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(trigger warnings in tags)

Basil is folding origami.

The edge of the bathroom counter crests over Aubrey's hair.

It flows past her, like stagnant filth. Like her house was flooded in it, up to her eye level, and then past her hair. Gentle pressure on all her fragile bones.

A fluorescent bulb burns. Ugly, artificial yellow.

She reaches up. One hand fumbles over the cold linoleum. Slick, icy cold water. Small hairs. Shaved stubble. A prickle, a sticking. Venus fly trap.

Her other arm hangs limply by her side, all undone.

She pulls herself up. Clambers over the side, with pained little noises. Has to crumple her body, fold herself against knives' edges. Turn herself inside out. Make herself unnatural.

There's a clatter against the floor, as a razor falls off. She ignores it.

It's a fortune teller. It's made of notebook paper, torn to be square. A little uneven, so some of the teller's teeth are larger and more jagged than others.

He has a quiet sort of expression. Focused. He makes art from notebook paper, and glances across at her.

They're in his driveway.

Nobody's home. Not anymore.

She sits down. The counter is as cold as it is filthy. She's careful not to knock their toothbrushes off. There are two. Aubrey isn't completely sure which one is hers.

She opens the cabinet, with her good hand. The mirror cabinet. Like a magic door, all secret and tucked away. Right where she never would've guessed, last birthday, when she cut herself slicing a cupcake in half. Sliced her skin open on Mom's broken promises last year, about next year, which became this year too quickly for her to keep up with.

Last birthday, when there was nobody to tell her where the med kit was.

But that was last birthday. Next year is here, and all the secrets of the world reveal themselves, when Aubrey's arm comes undone.

He looks embarrassed, when he notices she's watching him. "It's, um. It's a fortune teller." He laughs, a little, to himself. At himself. "It's silly, I know."

"Yeah," Aubrey says, shortly.

He smiles, briefly, across at her. A little pained. Looked back down, and stopped smiling. "Yeah," he agrees, playing with the fortune teller. Putting his fingers through the gaps. Shaping it properly.

And then, he started unfolding it. Ruffling through his pockets, to fetch a scratched, rattling, cheap plastic mechanical pencil.

He glanced at her. Anxious in the eyes. Unable to ignore her. "What, um... what fortunes do you think I should put?" he asked.

The mirror is stained.

Old spittle. Flecks of toothpaste. Smears of something grey and thick, semi-solid. Indistinct streaks. Smudges. Scratches. All those things that marked it as uncared.

Aubrey looks through the mirror.

On the other side, there's a her that isn't her. Her tearstains are permanent. Snot dribbles down from a quivering lip. Blood covers her shirt, dries against her chin.

The bathroom beyond is indistinct. The foggy, dirty glass that covered the shower - no bathtub beneath - glittered faintly. Horoscopic. The linoleum lapped against the smudges on its surface.

Aubrey looks to the other side, and sees a beach. Wishes she could be there, because her reflection isn't her.

"Don't ask me," Aubrey says, shortly. "I don't have a clue."

Basil looked down again. "Okay," he said, quietly. Willingly.

He's stark pale. As pale as he was drowning.

Fuck. "Fuck," she says as much. "Something good, I guess." She sneered, at the horizon beyond him. Glanced away. "God knows we've earned it."

Basil hesitated, for just a beat. Looked like he wasn't so sure.

His pencil scrawled against the paper.

I love you, Mom lies. The stench of blood thick in Aubrey's nose. Warmth, sickly, cradled carefully against her chest. Bundled and fumblingly uncaring. A dying sun, never to collapse into something bigger, or brighter, or supermassive. Just... going away.

I love you, Mom promises, and breaks it next year, when it comes too quickly.

(Anger needed an outlet. Mom wasn't here.)

Aubrey's arm was undone, and her reflection looked scared. Empty in the eyes, quivering lip.

Happy birthday, Mom didn't bother to lie.

"Happiness is just around the corner," Aubrey read aloud.

She looked across at him. Glared flatly. "Did you put this on all the flaps," she asked, though her tone was more like a statement of fact.

"Um... No?" He looked uncomfortable. Vaguely pained. She couldn't tell if it was confusion, or nerves. At being caught.

If he'd done it, at least.

She was sure he had.

She dropped the fortune teller onto the concrete. Let it splay out of her hand, and slip down. Tumble onward, and onward, and onward. Land hard. Bite off its own tongue, so the bark of the future wouldn't warn her.

"Life's bullshit," she said.

Basil hummed, vaguely. Looked away.

"...And then it ends," he said, quietly. Made a feeble attempt at a shaky, pained smile. "Might as well make the most of it?" he offered, like a consolation prize.

And Aubrey, for just a moment, thought of the beach. Where the ocean met the land. Where the unknown met home. Where she could wade into the water and still be safe, and the sun shone so brightly.

The fortune teller crinkled.

The sound made Aubrey's arm ache, dully.

(cross-posted to ao3)

#tw: implied/referenced abuse #tw: implied death #omori spoilers #omori basil #omori aubrey #omori fanfiction #tumblr fic #tw: injury #my writing

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enjoytheglow · 3 months

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Pinterest has sent me an email kindly asking me to please remove any Pins with references to suicide and self-harm on all my boards

And that's a whole section of my Mae board, including the title

#it also wanted me to get rid of any pins referencing substance abuse #“this is a cow farm; you're gonna find cows outside!”#tw suicide #tw sui implied #tw self destruction #tw self destructive behavior #tw self h4rm #sui mention #but he'd still bang me anyway 'cause i still got it! (ooc)

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lady-wallace · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 17 - "Lost in these Memories" (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure)

More Fugo whump for today's @whumptober fic, (With Stand Hugs!)

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Prompts Used: Collar, Touch Aversion, 'Leave me alone' Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 Character: Fugo

~~~~~~~

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Bucciarati made up the tray of food, purposefully placing the bowl of soup, the spoon and napkin, and the glass of water as he mentally prepared to face his youngest team member again.

It had been five days now since Fugo had gone missing on a mission—three since he had been found, and he still hadn't left his room since they'd brought him home.

Bucciarati wasn't entirely sure what to do. Any attempt he had made to coax Fugo out had been met with firm denial, and while he could certainly understand such a reaction after a traumatic event, he knew Fugo was suffering and, worse, suffering alone. He had so far refused any comfort Bruno or Abbacchio tried to offer him, simply staying curled in bed, wrapped in blankets.

Bruno sighed and knocked on the teen's door before letting himself in, knowing he wouldn't get an answer.

"Fugo? I brought you some dinner," he said quietly as he entered the dim room.

Fugo briefly looked up at him from the book he was reading before flicking his eyes downward once more. "You can just put it there," he mumbled nodding to the side table.

Bucciarati did as asked and hesitated before he left. "Pannacotta, I'd like to check your injuries again if that's okay?"

Fugo's hands started to shake instantly and Bruno felt terrible for even bringing it up, but an infection wasn't going to do him any better either.

"No—n-no. I really can't stand anyone touching me right now. I—I can't. Please. I can do it myself. I promise I'll clean them well."

Bucciarati closed his eyes briefly, but nodded. "Alright. I'll leave the medical supplies in the bathroom for you. But if you need help with the ones on your back—"

"I don't! I'm fine!" Fugo snapped, then ducked his head, wrapping his arms around himself. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's all right," Bucciarati told him gently. "Please try to eat something. And let me know if you need anything else."

He slipped out of the room, and his fists clenched in fury the instant the door was closed, teeth grinding.

He and Abbacchio, along with the other soldati had already demolished the gang who had taken Fugo, but what good did it do when the damage had already been done? Fugo had been doing so well recently. He'd stopped jumping when Bruno and Abbacchio accidently brushed him, just generally doing better with human proximity. He'd even started to accept hugs when he was having bad nights, calming in Bruno's careful hold.

And now all of that had been erased instantly by the cruelty of his captors, using his aversion to touch against him. Mocking, hurting, using knives and fists to demolish the fond touches Bruno sought to provide when he was sure Fugo would be okay with it, taking that gained trust and tearing it to pieces.

The image of Fugo when they'd finally found him in that cargo container would forever haunt Bucciarati's nightmares. Shivering in a corner, bloody and bruised, bound hand and foot with a collar locked around his throat, keeping him upright so he could not pull away from his captors without choking himself.

Even the act of freeing Fugo had sent him into a panic attack and there was no comfort Bruno could offer aside from words, which was harder than he had thought it would be.

One look at the teen panicking and sobbing had sent Abbacchio back out to start delivering a justified beat-down of the bastards who had dared hurt Fugo.

And when they got him back, Bucciarati had only been able to do the bare minimum to tend to Fugo's injuries before he flat-out pushed him away and retreated to his room where he had stayed ever since.

Abbacchio met him in the kitchen, breaking Bucciarati out of his brooding thoughts.

"How is he?" the other man asked quietly.

Bucciarati shook his head, grabbing bowls to dish soup out for him and Abbacchio even though he wasn't hungry. "I honestly don't know what to do. There's no telling how long this will go on, especially if he refuses help—"

Abbacchio held up a hand. "First of all, hovering isn't going to help him," he said.

Bruno huffed. "I know that. And I'm trying not to, it's just…"

"I know," Abbacchio replied with a sigh. "I don't like seeing the kid like that either. But he needs space right now. He knows he's safe here and that's going to have to be enough for the moment."

Bucciarati pressed his lips together, knowing the other man was right.

Abbacchio's advice didn't help when he heard Fugo screaming in his sleep that night. He had to get up to see him even though he knew he would be rejected.

"Fugo?" he called as he tapped on the door, hearing the moaning and shifting of blankets. He opened the door and saw the boy wound up in his sheets, struggling, eyes and jaw clenched tight as he let out breathless sobs, chest heaving too quickly.

"Pannacotta," Bruno called firmly, standing beside the bed.

The blond only continued to struggle against the sheets, breaths becoming more and more panicked. Bruno finally had to reach out and help, unable to watch this anymore.

But Fugo flailed the instant Bruno touched the sheets. "Don't!" he shouted. "Leave me alone!"

"Panna, I'm just…" Bucciarati tried, but he pulled away.

Fugo's eyes finally opened and he scrambled to sit against the head of the bed, eyes darting around frantically, not seeing anything.

"Panna," Bruno called again and his head whipped over toward him. "You're home. You're safe. It's just me here."

Fugo's face crumpled, and he curled into himself. "I hate this, I hate this," he cried.

Bruno pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat carefully, making sure he wasn't in any way crowding Fugo.

"It's okay, Pannacotta."

"No it's not!" Fugo snapped, scrubbing at his eyes as he hugged himself, fingers digging into his ribs. "I-I fucked up! I got captured, and I l-let them control me, and I c-couldn't do anything about it!"

Something rippled in the corner and Bucciarati looked over to see Purple Haze materializing. The Stand moaned forlornly as it hugged its knees and rocked back and forth. Fugo didn't even seem to realize his Stand was out, proving how much distress he was currently in. As long as Purple Haze didn't start punching things though, Bruno wasn't going to worry about him.

"You didn't let them control you, Fugo," Bruno told him firmly. "They tortured you."

Fugo shook his head. "But I'm the one who let them see how much it bothered me. I told them to stop, but they—they just made a sick game of it. And I forgot—I almost forgot how much it could hurt." His voice hitched on a sob again. "Because I didn't have to worry for so long but now every time I try to sleep, it's just…that in my head again. But worse, because it's that and my recent capture combined."

Purple Haze wailed again, echoing his user's distress, burying his head in his knees.

Bucciarati's heart ached to hear Fugo talk about it. To know that his mind was so cruel as to combine his recent trauma and that of his horrible past only hurt all the more. He could only imagine how much mental anguish Fugo was going through.

"I don't…know how to make it better," Fugo sobbed. "I didn't want to be like this anymore, but they fucked it all up and I don't know what to do to fix myself."

Bucciarati barely resisted the urge to reach out and offer some form of comforting touch to Fugo. The boy was shaking so hard, just barely keeping the panic under control.

"I am so sorry that this happened, Panna," Bruno told him sincerely. "But none of it was your fault. It was all those bastards back there, and they won't be hurting anyone ever again—I can assure you of that. And you don't have to 'fix' yourself. There's nothing to fix. You survived, Panna, and sometimes that's its own strength."

Fugo didn't say anything. He simply pulled his knees up, making himself small, arms wrapped around himself. Bruno didn't think it was possible for someone in a room with another person—and a Stand—to look so alone, but Fugo was suffering so much right now that his pain burrowed deep into Bucciarati's soul and curled up there.

Purple Haze wailed again and Bruno straightened up, knowing he had to ask at least, for his own sanity if nothing else.

"Do you… want a hug?" he asked softly, seeing the way Fugo kept hugging his arms to his chest. "It's okay if you don't but I wanted to offer."

Fugo let out a soft sob. "I-I do but…I don't think I can handle that much touch right now. I just…I just want it to be like it was before and I'm so fucking mad!"

Purple Haze moaned, rocking forlornly in the corner. That was when Bucciarati had an idea.

"Panna, do you mind if I try something?" he asked, holding up his hands, palms out. "I'm not going to touch you, but please let me know if any of this is too much."

He manifested Sticky Fingers and the Stand crossed the room to kneel in front of Purple Haze. Fugo's stand shifted and looked up at the other. Sticky Fingers slowly opened his arms, not making a move, but waiting.

Purple Haze hesitated, moaned, then suddenly lurched forward and practically tackled Sticky Fingers backwards, letting out a mournful sound.

Bruno watched, shocked as Purple Haze curled up against Sticky and his Stand held onto Haze tightly, rocking him back and forth. It was an odd sensation, both physically and mentally comforting, like being wrapped in a soft blanket and just the perfect temperature.

After a few moments, Purple Haze started to let out a gurgling, almost purring sound, drooling against Sticky Fingers' shoulder.

Bruno glanced over to Fugo to see how he was taking this, and saw a slight embarrassed flush on his cheeks, as he watched the Stands, but his breathing had calmed down a little and he wasn't quite so tense anymore.

"Is it okay? Like that?" Bruno asked him hesitantly.

Fugo nodded. "Actually, yes. It's not bad at all."

Bruno smiled, relief flooding him. "That's good."

Fugo clenched the sheets in his hands, staring down as his cheeks flushed again. "Could you…stay, until I fall asleep?" he mumbled.

"Of course, Panna," Bruno replied, settling into the chair. "I won't go anywhere."

Fugo let out a shuddering sigh and lay back down in the bed, allowing Bruno to help untangle the rest of the covers and tuck them back into the mattress. He then took up a book and stayed there reading until Fugo fell asleep. All the while, Sticky Fingers and Purple Haze stayed cuddled together on the other side of the room.

Over the next few days, whenever Fugo was having a hard time, Purple Haze would appear somewhere in the apartment and Bruno or Abbacchio would deploy their Stands for comfort and hugging. Abbacchio had been somewhat hesitant at first, but Moody Blues had had other ideas, going directly up to Purple Haze and pulling him into a firm embrace.

Another week passed and Fugo finally ventured out of his room for more than just the bathroom and water.

"Feeling better?" Bruno asked kindly as he set some breakfast in front of Fugo.

The blond nodded, and though he was still covered in bruises, showing up all too much on his pale skin, he did look a little better. He picked at his nails, then looked up at Bruno. "Could I…try a hug?" he asked.

Bruno didn't say anything, simply opened his arms to let Fugo come to him.

The boy hesitated, then got out of his chair and came forward, tentatively looping his arms around Bucciarati before he leaned fully into him with a long exhale.

Bruno lightly wrapped his arms around Fugo's shoulders. "How's that?" he asked.

"I think I'm getting there," Fugo said sincerely.

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Check out my Whumptober Masterpost HERE for more stories!

If you want to follow me on other social media or ask about commissions, find my info on My Carrd

#whumptober2023 #no.17 #collar #touch aversion #leave me alone #jojo's bizarre adventure #fanfic #aftermath of torture #implied/referenced torture tw #illusions to past abuse tw #pannacotta fugo whump #parental bruno bucciarati #sentient stands #stand hugs #jjba part 5 #angst #hurt/comfort

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moriiartist · 2 years

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HUNTER’S MOON

Masterlist

Taglist

PAIRING: Werewolf!Punz x GN!Reader

SUMMARY: You’ve always been fascinated with the stars ever since you were a kid, despite how people may have judged you for it. Sucks to be them, though, because they can’t cuddle with their werewolf boyfriend on a stargazing date.

WARNINGS: Language, implied/referenced child abuse, death mention

A/N: Werewolf Punz holds a special place in my heart, even if I don’t really like the way that I wrote this. I hope you guys like it more than I do!

It was rare to find someone with a hobby like yours where you lived, sequestered between mountain peaks that scraped the sky and a hundred miles from the big city.

Since you were a kid, you’ve always been a little different from everyone else. Not enough that you were labeled a ‘problem child’; you always played nicely with the other kids, were invited to birthday parties, post-prom bashes, went on dates, and the like.

Rather, it had always felt like you were disconnected from the goings-on in your hometown. You floated through life, head in the clouds, feet firmly planted in the earth, and your eyes affixed to the brightest star in the sky.

Since you could speak, your fascination for the heavens had blossomed like cherry blossoms in spring. Glow in the dark stars? Plastered across every inch of wall space in your room. Astronaut stickers? The bane of your mother, who found them stuck in increasingly improbable places throughout the house. Star Wars? Played on almost every family movie night.

You consumed space documentaries with a rabid hunger that could only be quenched by Neil Degrasse Tyson’s calm voice. Every weekend your dad made a point to drive you out to some remote point in the wilderness, indulging your fantasies happily. There are probably pictures of you in your little astronaut costume, decked out for career day, rotting away in the attic of the old house.

Which, of course, is all just a long way of saying you thought stars were really cool.

‘Daddy,’ you’d asked one day as you’d lain in the backyard, staring up at the limitless expanse of the night sky. Your mother had put the kibosh on your father driving at so late an hour, so you had to make do with what you had at home.

You pointed towards a certain star that’d caught your attention, glowing brightly despite the light pollution from town. ‘What’s that one called?’

‘Sirius’, your father had told you, as you lay on your backs in the yard. ‘It’s the brightest star in the sky, besides the sun.’

The long summer grass had tickled at the exposed flesh on your arms and legs, but it was easy to ignore the sensation when you could watch as the Milky Way spread her arms wide across the sky. Fireflies danced through the air, thick with the cool, sweet scent of crushed plant life, and the playful breeze whipped the trees into a rainstorm of sound.

Your father had grinned, cheek pressed to the earth, crow’s feet as deep as crevasses crinkling at the corners of his eyes. All fondness. The stars had glimmered like diamonds in the sky. Even the wind seemed to laugh. For one shining moment, you had been, perfectly, incandescently happy.

Then he died, and everything changed.

It was difficult, even now, for you to recall the months that passed after your father’s death. There were no words that you could express that could capture the pain, the longing, the pure, unadulterated grief that had consumed you. Even the stars that had guided you for so long had lost their appeal.

It was even more difficult for you to recall what had happened with your mother.

You may have been young before, but you were far from stupid. You understood that, while your father may have been thrilled with your hobby, your mother was more critical.

To her, it was a distraction from what you needed to be doing: studying, forming bonds with your peers, and getting a good night’s sleep so you wouldn’t nod off in class. Although nobody acknowledged it, she’d always looked… disappointed, whenever she watched the other parents with their ‘normal’ children. Like she would easily trade one of them for you.

After the funeral, there was no one left to protect you when the dam finally broke.

You sighed heavily, the warm rush of breath doing nothing to assuage your body’s protests as heat coiled through your aching muscles. Shouldering the bag strapped to your back, you winced as you heard the heavy metal clink of the parts inside knocking together, and forged onwards; the winding forest trail ahead lit only by the sun’s dying light.

It had been many, many years since that day, and although you hadn’t seen your mother for the better part of a decade, the half-healed scars she’d left behind still smarted. You had made a point not to think about it too much anymore- what’s done is done, and living in the past only served to ruin your future.

(You would know.)

No- rather than digging up the long-buried interpersonal issues you would like to keep buried, thankyouverymuch, today you were hiking out into the woods to see a rare meteorological phenomenon that you had been looking forward to for the past year: the hunter’s moon.

You bit back a grin at the thought of it, unconsciously picking up the pace. Your second most favorite thing in the world was still looking at the stars and all the celestial bodies found in the evening sky, no matter how much your mother had tried to beat it down with harsh words and a cookie-cutter mold to force you into.

Sometimes you had to remind yourself that she hadn’t won. In the end, the only thing that she succeeded in was driving you further away from the ‘ideal child’ she wanted you to be- the ‘ideal child’ that she wanted to own.

Now? You belonged to nothing and nobody except the wilderness.

The wind raked icy claws through the trees overhead, the rush of leaves a rainstorm of darkening autumn colors and sound. It grabbed at your jacket, your bag; it pushed your body forward, almost as if it was as impatient for you to get where you were going as you were.

Birds flitting through the trees had already begun to transition from the day-dwelling species to the nocturnal- the simple two-note song of the chickadee replaced with the low, sonorous hoo-hoos of owls.

The singing of crickets that you had grown so used to in the summer was notably absent, though not surprising. It had already begun to get colder as the earth drew near to the end of its cycle around the sun, and most of the bugs had either died, migrated away, or started to hibernate.

You scratched at your arm with a scowl. Except for the mosquitos, apparently.

It didn’t take long for you to see the break in the line of the trees, and you stepped out into an isolated rock outcropping that jutted out of the mountainside, looking out over the valley below. No clouds obscured your view of the sky, leaving it an unbroken swathe of blood-orange, amber, and roseate hues.

The sun was already beginning to sink below the horizon line, swallowed by a cragged maw of cliff peaks and finally illuminating the moon’s face as it marched westward towards its zenith. The moon hung in the sky like the pendant of a queen’s necklace, large, pale, and uncharacteristically grapefruit-like- almost as though it had been stained by the last remnants of sunlight.

Gravel and drying grass crunched under your feet as you made your way closer to the edge of the point, where a large, weathered stone was wedged deep into the earth. You were glad that you had chosen to wear pants. As you stepped carefully around the mountainous scrub bushes, tall grasses, and wildflowers that dotted the clearing, prickly vines snagged at the fabric, foiled in their plans to mutilate your legs.

You sighed, a small, secret smile playing at the edges of your lips as you stopped just shy of the drop-off, letting your bag roll off your shoulder and onto the ground with a metallic thump. You could enjoy the scenery later- you had work to do.

Before you could begin to assemble your telescope, however, the sounds of the forest that you had grown so accustomed to vanished. The birds, the gentle swaying of the greenery in the breeze- even the stars just beginning to dot the sky seemed to hush.

And then, a howl.

It echoed through the valley, long and musical, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. Your heart began to race in your chest, pounding against your ribcage like a trapped bird might a glass window.

However, you were not afraid. You did not bolt from your spot on the hill, or cower, or even shiver as the sound died out into a whisper of an echo. Nor did you flinch at the dry sound of branches snapping rang out from behind you.

The wind picked up, whipping past you to blow in the direction of the line of bushes and brambles that bracketed the treeline.

You dropped your shoulders and tipped your head back. Sighed breathlessly. Then turned around, hands fisted against your hips.

“Now, I may be human, but I’m not deaf, y’know.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of air whistling around you. Then, a lone figure stepped out from underneath the shelter of the forest’s shadow and into the blueness of the night; a wolf.

It was much larger than any other wild animal that you’d come across on hikes (including the black bear that you’d stumbled into once), towering up to a height that you estimated as a little over a meter, even as it stood a good distance away at the edge of the plain. It was gangly in the way that all young things are, marking it as a half-grown pup instead of a full adult.

Although moonbeams painted its outer coat- the guard hairs- silver, you knew that the pelt underneath was a tricolored mixture of pale gold, dusky brown, and the faintest hint of dark grey. It rippled as the wolf moved closer, shoving its ears forward until they strained against the muscle.

The wolf’s eyes were startling- clear and blue as the alpine flowers that dotted the clearing, and unerringly fixed on yours. What was all the more noticeable, though, was the uncanny intelligence that gleamed within their depths; an intelligence that demanded to be recognized for what it was, and not just explained away as an animal’s predatory gaze.

Your eyebrow ticked up, lips pursing.

The wolf’s tail wagged once. Twice.

You blanched.

“Purpled, no.”

In a blink, you were knocked flat on your back, and you wheezed as a heavy paw pinned your ribcage to the ground. You could barely even begin to fend off a barrage of happy wolf licks as a wet, slimy tongue swiped across your face.

“What the fuck-” you wheezed, spluttering as the young wolf made another attempt at your face. “Dude!”

He licked his jowls smugly, then yelped as you shoved his face away with a hand, wiping the drool soaked into your hands onto his pristine fur coat. Purpled growled without any heat, whuffling at the shiny trails that your fingers at left.

“You’re so gross. I’ve never met a werewolf as singularly gross as you,” you muttered, wiping at your mouth with the collar of your shirt. You glared. “Happy now, asshole?”

Purpled grinned wolfishly, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He was, indeed, very pleased with himself.

Pushing at his broad chest, you managed to heave the furry menace off your body and send him tumbling to the dusty ground. Content with the havoc that he’d wreaked, he let you, perfectly happy to lie on his back as you brushed yourself off, grumbling about ‘stupid werewolves and their stupid puppy faces.’

If you hadn’t clued into it by now: yes, werewolves exist. The information isn’t exactly new to you, given that you’d been enduring Purpled’s wolfish assholery for the better part of two years- though, it was certainly a shock the first time he’d decided to straight-up tackle you.

“Every time I see you, you pull shit like this,” you sighed dramatically, tipping your head back. “Makes me feel bad for Punz. I only get to see you like, what? Once every month or so? And I can barely stand it.”

The young wolf made a sharp noise of protest, and, before you could blink, a teenager had appeared in place of the beast. Although he was still eighteen, he was all long limbs and no filling. His dirty blonde hair was ruffled, sticking up in every direction. His signature purple hoodie was rumpled. He was wearing basketball shorts in the middle of Autumn.

You pressed a fist to your mouth in an attempt to stifle a laugh. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed.

Purpled stretched, popping the vertebrae of his spine one by one until he was on his tip-toes. Then, and only then, he regarded you with a cool blue gaze.

“Excuse you, I am a fucking gift.”

“Where’s your brother?” you asked, completely ignoring him. “I thought you two were supposed to travel together.”

Purpled rolled his eyes. “And spend the rest of my night watching you make moon-eyes at each other? Uh, no thanks. I wanted to avoid the romance as much as I possibly could.”

You stared at him, deadpan.

“Then why did you insist on third-wheeling?”

He coughed, the tips of his ears going red, but you were distracted as your gaze flickered behind him, jumping towards the movement of another body emerging from the woods.

Punz halted a foot away watching the both of you with a mischievous expression. They were wearing their trademark hoodie, the one that was always suspiciously spotless despite them basically living in the woods, and a pair of ripped jeans and hiking boots.

His face was flushed slightly, and his breathing was heavier than normal, almost as though he’d been running recently. Which, if you had to hazard a guess, he had, given the knowledge that his pack’s territory encompassed the entire valley. He could’ve been in any part of it and had to hurry to make the meetup time.

You grinned helplessly, your heart doing that giddy little hop-skip stutter it always made when you saw them, and shyly tilted your head to the side as they approached. Their long stride allowed them to cover ground quickly, and before you knew it, they were winding an arm around your shoulder as you sunk into the heat radiating off their body.

“Hey,” you said, aiming for something cool, composed, and collected- and failing miserably. He grinned, all sharp teeth and teasing eyes, and chuckled. “Hey yourself.”

Punz hummed, the sound rumbling in his chest, and pressed a kiss to your cheek, stubble scraping against the tender flesh. Before he could pull away, quick as a snake you grabbed his jaw and pulled him into a proper press of mouth-on-mouth, feeling his lips curl into a grin against yours.

Purpled made a gagging noise, and the two of you pulled away. You stuck your tongue out at him.

“The both of you seemed like you were having fun,” Punz said idly, a hand coming up to cup the nape of your neck.

The teen shot his brother a disgusted look, still somehow able to maintain the impassive facade that he always seemed to wear. You snickered.

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

It took only a few minutes to assemble the telescope that you had lugged all the way into the wilderness, but by the time you finished, the moon was already riding high in the sky. The slight color distortion that had turned it from its usual white to pale orange hadn’t faded- rather the opposite.

Looking through the lens, even the craters appeared to be a deep pumpkin color. Fitting for the season, you supposed.

The boys had settled a little bit away from where you crouched, staring up at the sky. While Purpled had pulled out his phone, Punz’s gaze was focused solely on you as you worked, the beginnings of a smile turning his eyes into little crescents.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so excited,” he mused, tilting his head. His hair, so similar in color to his brother’s, shifted with the movement, and you found yourself suddenly overcome with the urge to run your fingers through it. You shook your head minutely. Stars now, snogging later.

You chewed on the corner of your lip. “Really?”

Punz grinned. “Yeah, you’re bouncing all over the place.”

Feeling your face heat, you scoffed. There was no malice in the action, however, and by the stupid, smug smirk on Punz’s face, he knew it.

You hesitated, settling your fingers on the grooves of the telescope dials.

“Come on, tell me about the stars,” he goaded gently. “I know you want to.”

It was easy to give in. It always was.

The air was cool, and the ground had long lost most of its daytime warmth, but you felt perfectly fine as Punz tucked you under his hoodie, face just barely able to peek out of the neck hole. He rested his chin on your head, and you felt his whole body rumble beneath your back; you thought it was an awful lot like a purr, but knew that he would be offended if you compared him to a damn vampire.

“Well,” you started slowly, eyes large and glossy as you watched the stars turn overhead. “I know that full moons are already special to werewolves, but this one is even… more? If that makes sense?”

“How so?”

“You know the autumn equinox? It’s one of the only two times of the year when the day is the same length as the night. The other one is the spring equinox.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this moon is the one that comes right after the autumn equinox moon, but because it's so close, it’s still affected by it. Haven’t you noticed the color? And how the sky is waayyy brighter than usual?”

Punz shifted, and you know that he was looking for what you’d pointed out.

“Huh,” he murmured after a pause, the hand on your hip squeezing slightly. “I guess you’re right.”

You snorted. “How could you not notice? It’s normally pitch black out here.”

“Maybe to your puny human eyes.”

You turned around (as much as you were able to, anyways) and smacked him in the chest. He made a mock wound of hurt, then a startled laugh as you wriggled out of his hoodie, stumbling away on giddy legs.

Darting away, you ran around the edge of the clearing, taunting him. Like always, Punz was quick to follow, the shift to his wolf form instantaneous.

Purpled looked up from his phone, taking in the scene. Punz nipped at your jacket playfully, each of his teeth about as long as your pinky finger. Unafraid, you bopped him on the nose and danced away.

He wrinkled his nose.

“God, you two are disgusting.”

@blufr0st @itsonlydana @amearla @bapthadapper @redactedsouls @sina-the-idiot @icarusthefoolish @blockyshieldmaiden @lunarheartsposts

#mori's monster series #a meal for the children #dream smp x reader #dream smp x you #dream smp x y/n #dsmp x reader #dsmp x you #dsmp x y/n #mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #mcyt x y/n #punz x reader #punz x you #punz x y/n #c!punz #c!purpled #tw: language #tw: implied/referenced child abuse #tw: death mention

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debsarcasticplight · 5 months

Text

Starlight

The Impala rumbles to a halt outside The Starlight Motel, its tired engine sighing in relief. Dean leans back in the worn leather seat, rubbing his eyes, exhausted. The road has started to take its toll on Dean despite him having made this trip countless times before. After nearly a decade, his journey here and back again has become the only ritual that keeps him connected to his past and the one person still holding a piece of his heart.

Stepping out of the car, Dean can't help but glance around, his eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. The Starlight Motel hasn't changed much over the years. It’s still the same dingy, run-down place where he and Cas first met, spent countless hours as kids, and dreamt about escaping from someday.

Dean makes his way to the front desk, the bell above the door jingling softly as he pushes it open. The desk clerk, a tired-looking woman with bleach-blonde hair and bright red lipstick, removes an unlit cigarette from her lips before offering him a half-hearted smile.

"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice heavy with boredom.

"Yeah," Dean replies, pulling out his wallet and tossing a few crumpled twenties onto the counter.

"I need a room for a couple of nights."

"Okay, you're in #12," The clerk says, taking the money and handing Dean a key with very little investment.

Dean nods and heads for the lobby, the worn carpet muffling his footsteps. It's early November, but there are still a few flimsy-looking Halloween decorations strewn around in the corners of the motel. Just another subtle reminder that time keeps marching, regardless of whether anyone’s ready to start letting go. Room 12 is just like every other room in the place—barely functional, but it has a bed and a shower, which is all he really needs.

Dean tosses his duffel bag onto the bed and lets out a long sigh. He knows he has to check on Cas next. Doing so has become a routine for him, a way to ease his conscience, even though Dean’s never sure what he will find. Dean’s been renting Cas a room at the Starlight Motel year-round since he left, figuring it's the least he can do for the guy. Cas has a tendency to move around a lot, seeking out the sketchiest people while chasing his next high. At least this way, Dean can try to help his friend retain some semblance of home, even if it's back here, of all places.

Pulling out his phone, Dean scrolls until he finds his favorite picture: two young boys, their eyes wide with anticipation and ready for whatever life has in store. Although the original photo was taken many years ago, Dean can't help keeping a digital copy purely for sentimental value.

Holding a breath, Dean taps "Call" as a pit of concern opens up beneath his ribs. He’s got six different phone numbers for Cas currently, and it's always a gamble whether any of them will even go through.

"Hello?" Cas's voice crackles over the line, already sounding very far away.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, trying to keep his voice casual.

"It's me."

There is a long pause before Cas replies.

"Back again so soon, Dean?"

Dean runs a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to steady his breathing.

"Naw, you know me, I’m just passing through. But I thought I'd call and see how you're doing."

"You know how I'm doing, Dean." Cas states, his voice thick with bitterness.

Dean winces at the truth in his friend's words. Knowing all too well how much Cas has struggled for years now, battling demons Dean still doesn’t fully understand. They had been close once, more so than anyone could’ve imagined, but life has taken them down different paths.

"Listen," Dean begins,

"I rented myself a room at The Starlight for a few nights. Why don't you swing by? I’ll order us some pizza and maybe restock your fridge. We can catch up."

Cas hesitates, and for a moment, Dean thinks he might actually say no.

"Okay, Dean. I'll be there." Cas says, sounding defeated.

Dean hangs up and lets out another sigh, this one heavier than the last. He knows he can't save Cas or fix the mess that is his life. But he also can't find it in himself to walk away either. Not after everything they have been through.

Dean leaves his room, returning to the front desk once more. When he requests an extra copy of Cas's room key, the clerk hands it over without question. She’s seen this all before, the two of them coming and going like ghosts.

Back in his room, Dean sits on the edge of the bed and stares out the window. The parking lot is empty, save for a few beat-up-looking cars. The neon sign of The Starlight flickers and buzzes, casting an eerie glow over everything.

Dean can't help but think back to his and Cas’s origins as he waits. They had been inseparable as kids, each other's lifelines in a world that seemed determined to tear them apart. They had even dated briefly, an awkward and confusing experiment in teenage love. Then Sam died, Dean left town, and Cas stayed behind to pick up the pieces alone. Even now, after all these years, the wrongs of the past haunt Dean, while the present feels no less bleak. But he’s determined to be there for Cas, no matter how impossible the task seems. For the sake of the man he once loved and probably still does, Dean knows he has to at least try.

#spn fanfic #destiel au #endverse!cas #endverse!dean #tw implied/referenced substance abuse/addiction issues #tw implied/referenced mental illness #tw grief and loss #suptober23

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yusuke-of-valla · 9 months

Text

An Allegory Of The Vanities of Human Life

AO3

On a trip to Tatsumi Port Island in 2009, Yusuke overhears something he shouldn't.

Yusuke can’t sleep. He’s been having strange dreams ever since they got to Tatsumi Port Island. He looks at the clock and sees it’s a few minutes to midnight. For a second he’s tempted to go find Sensei, but he knows Sensei will simply scold him and say he’s too old for this sort of behavior, so instead he tries and slips into the kitchen to make some warm milk to help him sleep.

He leaves his room and sees a sliver of light from the conference room. The suite they’re in is large, paid for by one of Sensei’s friends, and he must still be up talking.

Yusuke doesn’t know what possesses him to head closer to the open door, but he can smell alcohol and hear Sensei laughing.

He should go, he’ll be in trouble for being up so late.

“I can’t believe you did it, you old coot,” Sensei’s friend says. “After all these years, you really found the perfect business plan.”

“It’s all thanks to The Sayuri,” Sensei says, clearly drunk.

The Sayuri? What was–

“If the woman who painted it hadn’t dropped dead in front of me, I wouldn’t have anything.”

“You’re still stuck with her kid though, right?”

“Who? Yusuke? Sure kids can be annoying but he knows how to behave.”

Yusuke backs away from the door, his entire body shaking. Sensei stole The Sayuri from Mama? Sensei had been there when Mama died? He’d said that she was alone, that there was nothing anyone could do.

He barely registers as he crashes to the floor and curls up into a ball.

And then everything stops.

Yusuke doesn’t notice at first, too wrapped up in his sobs to notice that the laughter in the other room has gone silent, or that the moon has gotten impossibly large, or the sickly green hues lighting the apartment.

All he knows is that everything he knew was a lie.

Finally he’s run out of tears and notices how everything’s wrong, and he tiptoes back towards the door. Instead of Sensei and his friend though, there are coffins.

Yusuke’s always been told to not make too much noise, especially late at night, so he doesn’t let the scream that’s crawling out of his chest escape his throat, but he feels sick.

Is this all some sort of weird nightmare? Is there anyone else even here?

Footsteps from the outside hall answer his question. Yusuke is quick to curl up behind the couch and hide, and someone breaks open the door.

Yusuke’s pretty sure she’s the angel of death. That has to be the only explanation, with her porcelain skin, pristine dress, and axe.

The angel of death looks around and heads into the conference room. Sure enough Yusuke hears Sensei’s friend let out a scream that’s quickly cut short. The angel of death walks out, her dress still perfectly white. Yusuke tries to get a better look at her, but accidentally knocks over the lamp.

Her head snaps over to him and she stares at him impassively.

“Well, that’s odd.”

“U-um are you going to kill me?” Yusuke asks.

She tilts her head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s a good thing you saw me. Takaya would probably consider you a loose end.”

Yusuke looks down. “Can you at least take me to see Mama after you kill me?” He asks quietly.

“You’re not scared of dying?”

“I-I dunno. I just–” Yusuke’s not a stranger to death. He always knew Mama’s health was bad. That was something she wanted him to know. Mama didn’t want him to be unprepared when she died, so she spent a lot of time talking about it with him. It had helped soften the blow when Sensei had told him. He hadn’t even cried at the quick funeral.

But now that wound’s been ripped right open. Sensei had lied about Mama’s death. Sensei had lied about everything. If nothing he knew was real then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to die?

“I want to see Mama,” Yusuke says.

“What happened to your mother?” The angel of death asks.

Yusuke’s eyes turn toward the door. “Sensei… he said she died when she had a seizure and he couldn’t do anything because he was in the other room, but he lied.”

“Oh, so he killed her?”

“I don’t.. I don’t know that. I know he lied. I don’t know why.”

“Why don’t we ask him?” The angel of death walks over and offers out her hand, and Yusuke takes it. Then they head back into the conference room. The dead body of Sensei’s friend is there, along with a massive coffin.

The angel of death opens it up, and Sensei comes out.

“What? Who are you? Yusuke, what’s going on here?”

Yusuke grips the angel of death’s hand tighter, and she looks at him.

“I’m not going to do this for you.”

Yusuke swallows. “What did you do to Mama?”

“What?” Madarame laughs, “Yusuke what are you talking about?”

“You said she dropped dead in front of you, did you do something to her?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but you’re being very ungrateful after everything I’ve done for you.”

“You stole The Sayuri from Mama. You said it was lucky she died! What happened?”

Sensei makes his scary face, and Yusuke instinctively opens his mouth to apologize when the angel of death squeezes his hand.

“I didn’t do anything,” Sensei says. “She had a seizure in front of me and let it happen.”

“You killed her,” Yusuke says, barely above a whisper.

“What was that?”

“You killed her! If Mama has a seizure you’re s’posed to get her the medicine in the green bottle and call the ambulance! You didn’t even try!” Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

“You can think whatever you want, but you won’t be able to prove it,” Sensei says. “I don’t know who your friend is, but she’s trespassing. My private security will–”

Faster than anyone can react, the angel of death pulls out a gun and holds it to Sensei’s head.

“N-now, let’s all be calm,” Sensei says. “Yusuke, what happened to your mother was an unfortunate accident. I couldn’t have done anything! Besides, I’ve been good to you haven’t I? I raised you as my own!”

The angel of death looks at Yusuke, silently asking a question. He thinks it over for an eternity.

“Did Mama beg you for help too?” Yusuke asks.

The anger on Madarame’s face is answer enough.

Yusuke nods at the angel, and she points the gun at her own head.

“Come, Medea.”

With the pull of a trigger, something…. terrifying and beautiful comes out of her and starts glowing.

Madarame starts screaming and Yusuke closes his eyes and turns away. He doesn’t look back when the screaming stops.

“So, now can you take me to see Mama?” Yusuke asks the angel of death.

“I can’t take you to see her now,” she says, “but you can see her soon. If you’d like to come with me.”

Yusuke nods. There’s nothing left for him here now.

#alto writes #yusuke kitagawa #persona 5 #persona 3 #chidori yoshino #vain art bastard #sad art boi hours #wordcount: 1000-1500 #death tw #idk persona 3 adjacent stuff?#ask to tag #implied/referenced child abuse

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masterwords · 1 year

Text

time is fleeting

Summary: Hotch's mom is dying, and he's making his way through the process on his own until Derek and Jessica and the rest of the team tell him no way. That's what real family is for, right?

Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Derek Morgan

Status: COMPLETE

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

#aaron hotchner #hotch #derek morgan #morgan #hotchgan #criminal minds fanfiction #tw: death #tw: implied/referenced past abuse

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aftgficrec · 14 days

Note

oh i caught you open! can we get some either andrew & kevin or neil & kevin being best friends and supporting each other? i feel like they're not explored enough and the potential is right there :)

Luckily, Kevin and Andrew’ friendship is a topic the fandom is pretty interested in. So much so that we’ve split this ask. In this post we’re concentrating entirely on Andrew and Kevin, Neil & Kevin’s friendship will be addressed in another ask. - S

Some previous recs:

Andrew & Kevin’s friendship here

Kevin & Andrew’s relationship here

Kevin as Andrew’s best friend here

Kevin’s friendship with Andreil here

‘Where The Wild Things Are’ here

‘I know that you'll come if you want’ here

‘N for nebulous’, ‘And Then There Was One’ and ‘Wear it to Eden's’ here

‘Reckless’ here

‘Trust Me’ here

‘Searchlights’ here

‘fugue in red’ here

splinters beneath our nails by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 3719 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew hasn’t decided what to do about Kevin Day. A few days ago, he’d have said that Kevin was dead to him. If things had gone differently, that might still be true. Today, he walks up to the car and throws open the door.

Not again by LetThemCuddle [Rated G, 698 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew circled the stony striker when silence answered him. “Hello? Anybody home? The answer is yes, a lot of nobodies, just one is missing. I’ll give you three guesses.” “Pass.” “Never took you for a quitter. This is quite refreshing.” The goalie quipped, lighting a smoke. “Come on, the cars’ still running.” “I’m going to stay here.” Kevin’s quiet voice echoed through the abandoned stadium. Somber, lacking the usual spiteful energy he towed.

right on time by dayurno [Not Rated, 10915 words, complete, Aftg Mixtape Exchange 2023]

"Has your Butcher called back yet?" Oh. “No,” Kevin replies, frowning slightly. “It’s understandable. He is a busy man.” “Kevin Day making excuses,” pulling away, Andrew puts down, “at this rate, you might just write his name on the margins of your books with hearts around it.” “What? No, why would I do that?” “Why wouldn’t you?” Kevin gives him a perplexed look. “Andrew, do you think I like the Butcher of Baltimore?” Alternatively, when the Butcher of Baltimore issues an order for his subordinates to bring him his childhood idol, he forgets what his choice of career entails. Kevin would hold it against him if he didn't find the man so fascinating.

tw: (accidental) kidnapping

Rescue Me by Demiwitchwoodwalker [Rated T, 4564 words, complete, 2022]

“I can protect you, from him and yourself,” Andrew said in a tone Kevin couldn’t quite place after a long moment filled with nothing but the muffled noise of the game playing on Kevin’s laptop. “I can help you stay instead of running further or back.” Kevin stared at him then, finally letting himself actually look at him, and the same feeling from before returned, feeling like a hand clenched itself around his lungs and heart. He pushed his laptop closed, the game’s audio abruptly cutting off, and turned slightly to face Andrew, whose expression had shifted back into the grin that seemed to constantly be present in the day and whose eyes looked almost dead. Kevin’s lips parted, words rising in the back of his throat, but he couldn’t get them past his tongue. How was he supposed to do this? The memory of Andrew the night before floated through his mind again, when he was as close to sober as he could get, more vulnerable than Kevin felt he’d ever seen a person despite the fact that Kevin was the one halfway through a breakdown. "Why?" --- Aka, how Kevin and Andrew make their deal. (Potential triggers are listed in the tags, please be careful!)

tw: self harm, tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced suicidal thoughts

The Tide by zoeellendraws [Rated G, 20473 words, complete, 2022]

Kevin and Andrew participate in a showcase that could make or break their ballet careers and discover a promising new talent in the process. Or Mysterious Ballet AU

tw: implied/referenced violence

I came for the safety (stayed 'cause you made me feel) by Charcoalll [Rated M, 4621 words, complete, 2021]

“Day? We’re gonna get you out of here okay? Minyard’s gonna make sure you get out of here and down to the bus” Kevin looked over Wymack’s shoulder where he could see the figure of the small blonde man. Kevin nodded, how could he do anything but nod? These people were sticking out their neck for him in a way he couldn’t remember anyone doing before. No words could ever describe his thankfulness. Or: A little glimpse into Andrew and Kevin's relationship before, during and after AftG.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced alcohol abuse

biting down by vincevangothh [Rated T, 2257 words, complete, Aftg Exchange 2017]

kevin learns that in order to understand something, you have to allow yourself to learn, and talks to andrew about neil. '“Did I or did I not tell you that you have asked as many free questions as you are permitted to today?” This time, as Andrew snaps, Kevin hears it. “Free?” he asks around a mouthful of rice, swallowing hastily before he continues. “So if I give you something, I can ask more?” It's a rhetorical question, but Andrew grants him a small nod anyway. “Neil and I have - had - a thing.” Kevin agonisingly anticipates his next words as Andrew scoops up another mouthful of food. Static silence stretches out between them until he swallows again. “Truth for truth. For everything you ask me, I ask you something.” “Deal.”'

Reasons by orphan_account [Rated T, 1895 words, complete, 2016]

“You took me with you when you recruited him,” Andrew muttered, but he knew Kevin was listening. They both knew that it was the closest Andrew could get to a thank you, so they both kept quiet. A list of the times Andrew met Kevin, interwoven with the list of times Andrew met Neil.

Kevin, Andrew and their friendship by @andrews-jort-loving-pipe-dream [tumblr, 2023]

“Why are we here?” “I'm here because it's Josten's birthday next week. You're here because you can't be alone.”

Andrew and Kevin watching a movie together after one of them wakes up from a nightmare. by @foxesbettingpool [tumblr, 2018]

He’d been up the majority of the night, wasting away on a bean bag chair with textbooks, papers, and a mountain of notes surrounding him.

tw: nightmares

Future Andrew & Kevin hc by @thepalmtoptiger [tumblr, 2018]

Andrew and Kevin stay close friends after leaving the Foxes and going pro.

Kevin asks Andrew to be his best man hc by @palmettofoxden [tumblr, 2017]

Kevin asks Andrew to be his best man at his wedding and Andrew just stands up and walks out of the room without answering or even reacting.

Art

andrew & kevin brotp edit by @mint-and-memories

Andrew and Kevin meme art by @foxhole-doodles

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riality-check · 1 year

Text

how max becomes part of the gang in my little bootlegging universe. parts 1, 2, and 3, if you'd like to read those as well.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, descriptions of minor injuries, and a brief reference to hypothetical animal death

Dustin has a knack for finding things. If asked, he says it’s because his mother is forgetful and he always has to remind her where she put her glasses or her checkbook or her purse. If asked by people he actually likes, he says he got it from Eddie, since Eddie is the one who found him.

But in reality?

Dustin’s brain is constantly bored. It’s restless and fast-moving, on to point D when everyone else is still sorting through A. So, while Dustin waits, he searches. He counts the windows of buildings and strains his ears to hear chatter from a street over. He busies himself with combing through the unobtrusive to help quell the feeling of restless pressure that constantly fills his skull.

It’s this need to do that has him spot the flash of lilac that turns the street corner.

People here don’t wear those kinds of clothes. People here wear dark coats and deep colored dresses. People here keep to themselves and do anything to not stand out. And a girl in a lilac dress just turned the corner at breakneck speed amidst all the slow-moving onlookers in drab shades of brown and green.

Here, Dustin thinks, is a pretty crappy place to be.

It’s outside of their usual territory, which is ill-advised at best and dangerous at worst. It’s not controlled by a rival, thank god, but it’s not under Upside Down control, either. It’s a part of town where the buildings look like they’re leaning on each other for support, where kids play barefoot on cobblestone streets, where beggars grace the stoop of every building until they’re chased off by gnarled, formidable old ladies with brooms.

Truthfully, it doesn’t really matter what it is. What matters is the fact that Mike said he was going out, and Dustin wasn’t going to let him go alone, not when he knew there was no chance in hell he’d be able to stop him.

Will has been missing for one day. If Dustin were to ask Mike, he’s sure the answer would be a hell of a lot more specific, but that’s all semantics he doesn’t really care for.

What he does care about is the lilac dress. It’s not like Will was wearing one, but, well Mom always did say Dustin’s curiosity would kill him one day.

“Hang on,” he says to Mike, who’s currently looking down an alleyway as if it’s not a surefire place to go in and not come out. He yanks him by the collar to a building ahead and puts his hands on Mike’s shoulders.

“What?” Mike grouches, and Dustin prays for a little bit of patience.

“I’m going a little bit ahead.”

“Why? Did you see him?”

“No, but I saw something out of the ordinary.”

“Not Will?”

Dustin resists the urge to sigh and shake Mike by the shoulders. “No, not Will. Just something curious.”

“Of course you did,” Mike mumbles without any of the usual humor in that comment.

Dustin wants to sock him in the face, but he says instead, “If I’m not back in five, come after me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mike says, but even that’s more acknowledgement than Dustin was expecting. He’ll take it.

Dustin lets go of Mike’s shoulders and starts heading in the direction of the girl, bypassing couples on the sidewalk and throwing a group of kids their baseball when it rolls toward him. They ask if he wants to play with them, and while that honestly sounds fun, he’s got other things to worry about.

She can’t have gone far. She was moving fast, sure, but Dustin is pretty sure she was moving unsteadily, too. That fast with a limp? She’s running, and she’s hurt.

Dustin isn’t exactly sure why he cares. Well, that’s objectively a lie. Dustin knows he has a habit of finding strays and making sure they’re alright on their own. He doesn’t bother with trying to keep them; he can’t afford to, and a lot of the time, they’re too flea-ridden for his mother to let in the house. So, he feeds them and cares for them as best as he can until they move on to bigger and better things.

(Steve suggested once that maybe they died instead. When he said that, Dustin smacked him so hard he spat out his drink and dropped the glass he was holding. The amount Hopper made him shell out for the glass was worth taking Steve down a peg.

He might be their only consistent and best paying customer, but he can be such a prick sometimes, even if he is trying to get better.)

Dustin rounds the corner easy enough and looks for anything unusual in the alleyways. He makes his way through one block, then another, when finally he spots her.

She’s huddled, knees to her chest on top of a crate in an alley next to a grocer’s. She’s pale, real pale, with bright red hair that clashes with the lilac of her dress, which is stained black and slightly torn at the hem. Her limbs are small and skinny, and she’s not wearing shoes.

Her ankle is busted up pretty bad, and there’s bruises on her arms. When she straightens out her legs, Dustin sees blood crusted on her forehead and at the corner of her mouth.

Shit, he thinks to himself. This is the tuxedo cat on Maple all over again.

He takes his hat off and keeps his hands up, away from his body, as he enters the alley.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You alright?”

She flinches so subtly he would have missed it if it weren’t for his ever-cataloging brain. Her eyes, brilliant blue, flick toward him, and he isn’t sure if she relaxes or further tenses up, but the set of her shoulders changes.

“I don’t have time for this,” she says flatly, and she points a .22 straight at his chest.

“Woah, okay,” Dustin says, backing up a few steps. “I don’t think we need to do that.”

“I think we do.”

“Agree to disagree?” Dustin asks, trying for a smile.

He sees it, the moment she covers up her snort with a frown.

“Now, usually when someone asks if you’re alright, you answer with yes or no,” Dustin says.

“I’m fine,” the girl says.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your ankle is probably sprained.”

“Agree to disagree?” she says to him. Same words, but significantly nastier.

Dustin sighs. “Okay, let’s try again. I’m Dustin. What’s your name?”

She frowns, and her eyes dart all over the alleyway. Dustin wants to follow her gaze, wants to see what she’s looking at, but she still has that .22 trained at his chest, and even he knows that curiosity is absolutely not worth it in this case.

“Max,” she says finally.

“Max?” Dustin says. “That’s a man’s name.”

“Well, I’m a woman, and it’s my name, so I think that makes it a woman’s name,” she snaps.

Dustin shrugs. “I won’t argue with you on that.”

At that, she definitely relaxes. Strange.

“Who sent you?” she asks, changing the subject.

“No one,” Dustin says.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not polite to swear.”

“It’s not right to lie.”

“I’m not lying,” Dustin says. “I’m looking for a friend.”

Max shrugs and leans back against the gray brick of the wall behind her, still keeping the gun trained on Dustin’s chest. “Can’t be me, then. I don’t even know your last name, Dustin.”

“It’s Henderson,” he says, even though that was probably a very stupid move, telling a girl he doesn’t know his full name when all his family and friends work for a speakeasy.

He’s starting to wish he nicked a pistol from behind the bar before they left, like Mike did.

Max, to her credit, seems just as stunned that Dustin said that as he is.

“Mayfield,” she says, lowering the gun an inch.

“Max Mayfield?” Dustin asks.

She nods and keeps lowering the gun. Dustin tries not to let the relief show on his face.

“It suits you,” he says, and he means it.

And there it is, ladies and gentlemen, the first smile he’s gotten out of her this entire time. It’s tiny, and it’s tense, but it’s there, and Dustin finds himself smiling because of it. The gun is almost down when-

“Dustin!” Mike calls and oh, shit.

“Mike, you son of a bitch,” Dustin swears because he looks over, and Mike has his pistol trained on Max.

“I knew you were pulling my leg,” Max says, bringing her gun back up to point at the center of Dustin’s chest.

“Curiosity? Really?” Mike says, annoyed. “Do I need to keep you on a leash?”

“No, but you need to learn how to time your entrances better,” Dustin mumbles, and Max snorts.

Good. Good. If she finds him funny, she’s less likely to pump him full of lead.

“Where’s Will?” Mike asks, keeping his pistol trained on Max.

Dustin fights the urge to roll his eyes. Mike doesn’t even have the hammer cocked.

“Who’s Will?” Max asks, swinging her gun over to Mike.

“Okay!” Dustin says, hopping between them. It does no good, not when Max is up on the crate and Mike is on the street and they both can just aim around him. He does, however, comfort himself with the fact that this will make Mike a lot less likely to shoot.

He’s hoping it’ll do the same for Max.

“Will’s our friend,” Mike says. “He’s missing, and we’re looking for him.”

“I don’t know a Will,” Max says moving her arms up to point the gun at the center of Mike’s forehead. “And I don’t care to. I’m gonna ask again: Who sent you?”

“No one sent us,” Dustin says again. “Why do you keep thinking that?”

“Because one of them always sends someone,” Max says. “They always do. But they can’t make me go back now. I’m eighteen, I’m an adult, and they can’t make me go back.”

Dustin gets the feeling that Max isn’t really talking about Mike and him anymore.

“So if you’re trying to bring me back, you’re gonna be shit out of luck and pumped full of lead.”

“I don’t care where you came from, I just want you to put your gun down and let us go back to finding our friend!” Mike says.

“And I want you to leave me the hell alone!” Max snaps.

“No,” Dustin says, and both of their heads whip toward him.

“What do you mean no?” they say in unison before they glare at each other again.

“Mike,” Dustin says slowly. “She’s hurt.”

“I have eyes.”

“So, let’s take her back to Joyce.”

“Who’s Joyce?” Max asks. Her voice is laced with suspicion, but she’s starting to lower the gun again.

“Our aunt,” Dustin says because it’s easier to say that than to explain everything to a random stranger.

Easier, and also a lot smarter, since he already gave her his last name. Then again, she gave him hers.

“And,” Dustin continues, “she can help us look for Will. If she wants.”

“She is right here,” Max says.

“Then what does she think?” Dustin asks.

Max shuts her mouth so fast her teeth click. She lowers her gun completely, and Mike, a full thirty seconds after he should have gotten the goddamn hint, does, too.

“I think,” Max says slowly, “that they don’t know a Joyce.”

Dustin nods and turns to Mike. “Well?”

Mike sighs and pockets his pistol. “It’s getting late, we should go back.”

It’s the answer Dustin expected, though not in the way he expected it. As good as he is at finding strays, Mike is a hell of a lot better at keeping them.

But before he can say anything, Mike walks away, leaving Dustin and Max alone in the alley.

He holds out a hand for her to take, but she pockets her handgun and jumps down off the crate, straight on to her sprained ankle.

“Don’t touch me,” she grits out, leaning on to the crate and breathing deeply.

“Do you want any help?” Dustin offers, holding out an arm to her.

“I’m fine.”

“I thought we agreed to disagree.”

She snorts and slowly stands up straight. Before Dustin can blink, she slings her arm around her shoulders.

“I can just carry you,” Dustin says, letting her start them off at a slow walk.

“You couldn’t carry a sack of potatoes half a block,” Max says. “And keep your hand above my waist and below my shoulder blades. If it moves, I’m using the handgun. I don’t care that we’re in the middle of the street.”

“First, rude. Second, we’re technically on the sidewalk. And third, I’m not gonna move my hand.”

“You better not,” Max mumbles, but she doesn’t reach for her gun.

Dustin leads her back to Joyce’s and lets her set the pace. It’s slow going, and by the time they get there, the stars have been out for half an hour.

Mike waits for them outside, smoking a cigarette.

“You good?” he asks, pointedly looking at Dustin.

“We’re fine,” Dustin says, ignoring the fact that as they walked, Max slowly slumped into him. She’s basically sideways now and hasn’t said anything for the past five minutes.

“Sorry,” Mike says, and Dustin appreciates that he actually means it. “I just wanted to check out a few more places before we had to be back.”

Dustin sighs. “Any luck?”

Mike shakes his head.

Dustin rests his free hand on his shoulder. “Get some sleep. We’ll go out in the morning.”

Mike nods, and they both ignore the tears in his eyes, the way his shoulders scrunch all the way to his ears.

“Come on,” Dustin says to Max as he opens the door. “We’re gonna get you to Joyce and get you cleaned up.”

“I’m clean enough,” Max mumbles.

“I mean the blood,” Dustin says, leading them through the diner and to the back wall. He feels around for the switch and a little snick lets him know that he found it. He pushes the wall aside and lets it swing shut behind them once they’re in the back.

“I think it matches my hair,” Max says, eyes slipping shut.

“I think it clashes,” Dustin says, moving her to the stage. It’s Sunday, and while they’re never closed, they’re significantly less busy the one day of the week where most of the city likes to pretend they’re moral people.

It’s dead empty, save for Hopper at the bar.

“What-”

“Get Joyce,” Dustin tells him, and as much as he’ll grumble about it, he goes.

“I think it clashes just like that dress,” Dustin says, getting Max seated on the edge of the stage before hopping up after her. Where the band is, he doesn’t know.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Max jokes.

“The dress? Kinda.”

“Dresses,” she says, picking at the hem of her skirt, “in general.”

Dustin looks at her, assessing. They’d need some alterations, but-

“What,” Max snaps, and that’s when he realizes he’s been staring at her waist.

“I just went through a growth spurt,” he says.

“Congratulations?”

“I’ve got some pants that don’t fit anymore. If you want them.”

Max drops her skirt where she was fiddling with it. Dustin smiles in answer to her piercing stare, not knowing what else to do.

“You’re strange, Dustin Henderson.”

“I think you’re even stranger, Max Mayfield,” Dustin says, and the smile they share?

That’s the beginning of history.

#ria writes #bootleggers baby #dustin henderson #max mayfield #mike wheeler #stranger things #st #stranger things ficlet #st ficlet #tw: implied/referenced abuse #tw: referenced animal death

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