#mention of broken bones

[lesiasmadness]

Consider: chaos emerald assisted necromancy

No context for this one, just having fun with an edgy idea

Here's some more:

Bonus:

[protectxthem]

He breathes a sigh of relief when she calls back.

"I don't know. I didn't bother to stop them and ask their name." He replies, trying not to sound sarcastic. "They stabbed and broke my arm and or some ribs. I think." He lifts his head a bit and squints at her. "You what?!" He looks shocked but then snorts softly, before he grits his teeth when he takes in a breath before he starts coughing, flinching from the pain. "Thank god, it works indeed."

"I was just starting to get comfortable and was even about to start bonding with my captors." He tried to tease but when he spoke it just hurt his ribs.

Oh, thank GOD!!!!!!! The beckoning of his tremulous voice to her, reassures her that HE is still ALIVE. A wake of relief departs with her next EXHALE. "I'm right here!" She manages.

Wistful eyes track to the doorway, keeping watchful eye over both of them. "Who? Who did this Howard?" Peggy prods. She knows he has been battered and put through hell so she doesn't wish to prolong her own interrogation too long. "What did they want?-- What were they asking questions about?" She tactfully questions.

Carter's hands expertly move to cradle his face. "Where did they hurt you? Have you been shot? Or stabbed?" She worriedly presses. "It wasn't that difficult. I had a tracker planted on you the other day in cause you would inevitably do something STUPID." She teases him lightly. "Thankfully Sousa's contraption works." It had been a MASSIVE gamble entrusting Howard's life with the tortured looking thing.

"Would you like to go home? Or were you getting comfortable here?" She asks.

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

afton'd reader sets a man up to be straight up point blank Murdered and honestly, good for them, wish i could do that when someone flirts with me when im working smh

(i say that like i've been flirted with more than maybe two times in four years of customer service type shit)

[painsandconfusion]

Harmless

Whumping the Whumpers - Part Forty-three

(tw: broken bones, hand whump/gore, foot whump/gore, body horror, strangulation, unconsciousness, genuinely like a lethal amount of bone damage, hammer, buzzy bright lights that make the autism go weh)

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Ethan’s boots clodded against the stairs as he made his way back down to the workshop. As much as he hated to agree with Nate, there was a spark of fear curling through him now. He’d been that man’s punching bag for far too long. He thought those days were over, but now here he was with a broken nose, black eye, and bruised around the throat from those same hands he thought were long rendered harmless.

To put both his and Nate’s worries to rest, he needed to put an abrupt end to that fear and worry.

Ethan unlocked the workshop door, slapping on the industrial, buzzing lights.

Crawford groaned, curling in on himself like a drunkard who passed out in an alley rather than making his way home - business suit ripped and muddy as he hides from the first rays of morning light.

Ethan moved closer to the broken man who was chained to the ground in the middle of the room. Chained by the neck, too. Nate wasn’t feeling merciful, evidently. Just a short chain ‘round his throat that was padlocked to the floor.

Efficient, Ethan supposed. Full body mobility and absolutely nowhere to go.

“M’ sssorry-” the broken man choked out. Pleading for mercy long after the crime he didn’t regret. One he’d gladly do again if he weren’t so afraid of the consequences.

“No you’re not,” Ethan responded coolly. Distracted. Focused on the wall of tools. “Don’t need to pretend you are.”

“B-ut y-”

“It won’t change anything. Just save it.” He wasn’t feeling the sadism. Not today. Not right now. Right now, this was a chore. Incapacitating the bastard so he wouldn’t ever be able to lay a finger on Ethan again.

Ethan selected a simple club hammer. Iron, he assumed. Polished to a shine on the square ends but left router and dark throughout the middle. Attached by a sturdy handle that could shunt the great weight of the tiny thing without buckling or splintering.

He wandered closer, earning a squirm from the man on the ground.

“..pl-leas-”

“Put your hand out on the ground,” Ethan ordered simply, crouching nearby.

A whine muffled out of Crawford’s curled form. His hands tucked in even closer - up against his chest.

Ethan’s teeth grit. “Either you listen, or I break whatever I have to to get to your hands.”

A silence with another whimper followed. The man still didn’t move.

“Alright,” he sighed, shifting forward onto one knee. Without warning, he swing the bludgeon down, cracking through the man’s shoulders. 

Ethan never could get used to the screams in this room. Maybe some day, but not today. There wasn’t enough softness in this room to steal away the sound and muffle it away. Not even a bit. It just echoed and rang, searing at his eardrums and clanging against the walls in an unending refrain.

He didn’t mind too much. Just enough that he made yet another mental note to bring earplugs. He never did, regardless of how many times he swore that the next time he went down he’d use them. He simply enjoyed the little sounds too much to mind the screams. Earplugs did keep the pain back, but they also took away all the little grunts, whispers, and wheezing, strained breath. They kept back the murmurs and minuscule pleas. The scraping rattle of the chain and the squeak of feet kicking against the polished floor.

It wasn’t like Ethan was a stranger to pain. His ears could ring. So what if he was half deaf by the time he was fifty? Plenty of people give up the same just to attend concerts. He was doing this for a far nobler cause and with a much higher satisfaction rate.

Ethan brought the hammer down twice more- on his bicep and elbow. One cracked, though he wasn’t sure which.

Unable to pull back against his grip, Crawford’s ruined arm was easily pried out by Ethan’s grip. He pinned the wrist down to the cold floor with a knee, then started again.

Fingers barely make a sound when they break. They’re so tiny and brittle, it’s a wonder they’re so useful in the body. Why don’t they break every other day? Anatomy was a wonder to him. One day, he’d study properly and learn to truly appreciate the human body. Its limits and its wonders alike.

Seven hits. Thirteen. Nineteen. Twenty-two. He stopped to reach down, gripping the mangled and mushed bit of flesh. Feeling the broken bones scrape against each other.

A quick glance to Crawford’s face told him the man was either dissociated or on the brink of unconsciousness. Maybe both.

He gave the hand one more squeeze before pulling out the other arm. The muscles there only gave vague hints at resisting, so he was able to pin that one down more easily.

Again, the smashing. The screams. The emptiness of the hand.

It reminded Ethan of rubber gloves. When you’re a child and fill it up with water at the sink. Tie it shut and play with the little blob that’s almost a hand. It had much of the same texture. Flopping fingers barely staying in place. Palm able to bend backwards more easily than the wrist. Soft and hot and difficult to keep a grip on.

He let it stay there as he swiveled around to the feet. Bare toes already bruised against the ground from struggles throughout the past three weeks that they’d had him here. He pinned down an ankle, finding no resistance at all. Ethan looked up to Crawford again. Unconscious, though half sentient through it. Breathing ragged and shallow with eyes almost completely closed. Limp.

Fortunately, Ethan wasn’t here today for the sadism. Crawford didn’t need to be awake or responsive for this session. In fact, he wasn’t sure he wanted Crawford much longer at all.

The hammer came down again and again, shattering the feet into bloody globs on the floor. Chipping up the bone to break his ankles and kneecaps as well. Swing and crunch. Swing and crunch. Swing and crunch.

He desperately wished he could get this man under an x-ray. See just how many bones he was breaking.

Ethan didn’t know how long he worked. He kept going up the arms and legs, feeling at the boneless structures for hints of sharpness and any seconds that were too firm. Then he would strike them as he had the rest. Break the something down to nothing again.

Ethan didn’t make his way back upstairs until the squid fucking itch at the back of his skull was satisfied that Crawford was utterly and irrevocably harmless.

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[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now”

Read it on Ao3

- Time/Malon

- Summary: an injured Link shows up at Lon Lon Ranch

CW for blood and injury, mentions of death and broken bones

——————————

Malon’s hands never shake.

She can’t afford for them to. Sure, there are times when they are a bit unsteady from exhaustion or stress. Sure, there are things that scare her enough to make them trembling a possibility. But in her world, when things get hairy there is only action and no time for anything else.

Now is no different. At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself. Her hands don’t tremble, even as blood oozes over them. Her thoughts don’t falter. No tears fall.

But they want to. Oh, they want to. Because this time feels so very different. She has dealt with wounded animals before and even wounded people (she will never forget the time Ingo got kicked in the leg by Epona; satisfying though it may have been after the man’s behavior, setting that bone wasn’t exactly what she would call enjoyable). Never before, however, has she held the broken body of someone she cares for quite so much.

“You’re an idiot, fairy boy,” she breathes as she presses another cloth to the gash running across her friend’s middle.

“‘m your idiot, though,” he mumbles back. Even now there is characteristic mischief peeking out from behind the exhaustion and pain straining his tone.

Malon rolls her eyes.

Link has been bleeding all over her nice, clean floors and furniture for at least five minutes now. And that’s after he rode in, slumped over Epona’s back, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other clutching the horse’s reins like a lifeline.

He had come because he had nowhere else to go, he had said when she had stepped out onto the porch, eyes wide and heart in her throat. Because he could think of nowhere else that would be safe. Where he would be accepted without hesitation.

And as she had helped him down from the saddle, as he had practically collapsed onto her arms, he had apologized. Assured her he would take care of the wound himself, if only she would provide him a place to stay. As though he were a stranger in her home and not her best friend.

“Oh, shush,” she had scolded, ushering him into the house and lowering him onto the nearest chair. “I’ll take care of everything. You just sit down.”

And meekly, he had obeyed.

Now, he watches her with a slightly dazed look, as she tries to save his life.

For that is what she is doing, really. If she doesn’t get this wound to stop bleeding soon, he’ll bleed out.

As it is, she’s afraid he won’t last the night.

She worries her bottom lip and reaches behind her for the bandages lying on the table.

“Care to tell me how this happened?” The sharp bite of fear is in her tone despite her attempts to restrain it.

And really, who cares at this point, anyway? Her fairy boy is hurt, badly. She’s allowed to be a little worried.

Link drags in an unsteady breath.

“Monster fight.”

“The usual, then.” She shakes her head, sighing. “What I wanna know is what kinda monster fight was it that got you this hurt? I don’t think you’ve ever come around looking like this before.”

Link blinks, long and slow. The blue of his eyes seems unnaturally bright. Maybe because of the light, maybe because of pain. Malon thinks it’s likely both. But it almost reminds her of that little fairy that used to follow him around.

“Did you go into a dungeon or somethin’?”

Her gaze is back on her work, now, as she ties the bandages as tightly as possible. But when he speaks she can hear something almost like guilt in his voice.

“I—” A sharp hiss, fingers fisting in the fabric of his tunic. Malon murmurs an apology, trying to ignore the way the sound is like a dagger to her heart. “I was looking for…for something.”

“Lookin’ for something huh?”

She ties off the gauzy strips of fabric now practically holding the man together and takes a moment to survey her work.

That should hold.

Now, to get that bleeding firmly under control before he passes out…or worse. She grasps the bottle of potion that she had snatched from the cupboard earlier. It’s always handy, she has found, for times when the healing power of Lon Lon milk isn’t quite up to par. Times like now.

“That had better have been one important treasure. Did you get it at least?”

A small smile lifts Link’s lips. Somehow, it doesn’t make him look any more alive. He’s too pale, too ashen. There’s too much blood, coating his tunic, coating his hands and dribbling down from his mouth and nose.

But at least he has the strength to smile. Malon is willing to appreciate small miracles.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Something in the way he says it makes her slightly suspicious. But she hardly has time to figure out why. She wipes her hands on a nearby cloth, quickly so as not to take in just how stark the crimson looks against the white. Then, she uncorks the potion bottle and gets to her feet.

Link moves trembling, crimson drenched fingers toward the bottle. But she shakes her head.

“Uh-uh. You’re weak. Let me.”

With one careful hand, she tips his chin up and holds the bottle to his lips with the other. He swallows its contents obediently.

“That should help,” she says, once he’s finished. She turns away, setting the bottle back on the table. “At the very least you won’t be bleeding everywhere anymore.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs. He sounds a bit stronger already, she thinks. But maybe she’s just fooling herself to distract from the worry currently chewing a hole in her gut.

“Anytime, fairy boy.”

Malon inspects the wound one more time, reassuring herself that it’s no longer in danger of bleeding through the bandages. Thankfully, the potion already seems to be doing its job. The bandages remain a clean, cottony white.

“Looks like you’re out of the danger zone,” she says with a sigh of relief. “But you’re gonna need some rest and a new set of clothes.”

She looks over him once more, frowning. He raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I’m gonna have to tend to those other wounds of yours too. I swear, you look like you let the horses trample you.”

There is a distinct twinkle in his eye now. Already, he is beginning to look a little more like himself.

“Ah, it’s a…a good look then. A seasoned adventurer kind of look.”

Her lips quirk up even as she glares at him.

“No. It’s not a good look. I thought that much was implied. And it’s the kind that gives me a heart attack.”

He grins. But it quickly turns into a grimace as she sets about cleaning a cut along his neck. Gently, she tilts her head to get a better look at it.

“Stay still, now, and let me work.”

He mumbles a tired-sounding reply. His eyes are beginning to drift closed, despite his efforts to keep them open. And as she tackles each injury, he grows closer and closer toward losing his grip on consciousness completely. But the time he is cleaned up and she has managed to help him fumble into one of Talon’s spare tunics he is practically asleep.

“There,” she murmurs, setting aside the bowl of water and multiple cloths that she had used. They tinge the water pink. “Feelin a little better now?”

She knows that she is. The terror of earlier has abated somewhat, every steady breath, every beat of his heart convincing her that the danger is gone. At least, for now.

For now, her fairy boy is safe. For now, her hands don’t shake.

He hums, sleepily. His gaze is trained on the fireplace now, seemingly mesmerized by the flames dancing there. But when she drapes a blanket over him he drags his gaze up to meet hers.

“Hey, Mal.”

“Yeah?”

“I…I think I’m in love with you.” He frowns, thought obviously a difficult task at the moment. “No…know I am.”

Malon stops short, edges of the blanket still clutched in her suddenly shaky hands. A short bark of laughter escapes, a bit louder than she means it to be.

“I think you’ve lost a little bit too much blood.”

“‘m fine,” he retorts, scowling. “Malon ‘m serious. I love you.”

Shaking her head, she tucks the blanket up around his chin and presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Alright, fairy boy. It’s time for you to get some sleep. We can pick up this conversation in the morning.”

His scowl becomes decidedly pouty, though he has little choice but to comply. His eyes slip closed, breath beginning to even out.

By the time, Malon has cleaned up the gory mess (she never wants to see this much blood again, especially not from him), and put away her tools, he is long gone. She allows herself a moment to gaze at him, slumbering peacefully, face illuminated by the flickering flames. He is less pale now and with the blood gone he looks more human. Younger, more like himself.

Reaching out, she rubs her thumb on his cheek, a smile playing on her lips.

“I love you too, Link.”

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 11

I had an absolute blast with this prompt and I've been looking forward to it for a while. I should've gone and bought some wine so I could write being IDed from experience though. Unrealistic writing 😮😮😮

Convenience Store

Each item was set neatly on the conveyor belt.

A roll of duct tape. Kleenex. Air freshener. Trash bags. Zipties. Rubbing alcohol. Superglue. A bottle of merlot. Disinfectant. Sponges. Latex gloves. A wrist brace. Ibuprofen. A hammer. And a bar of chocolate.

A bright beep sounded as the cashier scanned each one.

“Doing some home improvement?” They smiled, placing the superglue onto the other side of the conveyor where one of their customers, the shorter of the two, was busy bagging with their head down. The other stacked the empty shopping basket with the others and pulled out their wallet.

“Definitely an improvement project,” they nodded back with a knowing look. “The whole thing just needs to be demolished and rebuilt at this point.”

“Oh I hear you. A pipe burst in my basement just last month and my spouse had to stop me from tearing the whole thing down then and there.” The cashier scanned the wine and paused. “Your ID please, Mx.?”

They flashed it with a toothy grin. 

“I’m flattered!”

“Just doing my job. Thank you.” They typed something into the system and picked up the next item. A few items later, a snort broke their calm demeanor.

“Hm?”

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry Mx! Just had a funny thought.” The cashier scanned the hammer. 

“Do share! Lord knows we could use the humor.” They elbowed their partner who smiled meekly and nodded along, balancing with a crutch under their arm. 

“Well, sometimes home improvement supplies look a lot like premeditated murder supplies,” they giggled, and the taller one broke out into raucous laughter. The shorter just shook their head. “Sorry, I meant no offense.”

Realizing they were being addressed, they fixed the sullen expression across their face.

“Ah, none taken! I’ve just had a tough day, what with this shithead and all.” A playful poke to their partner who just laughed again.

“You’re in for it when we get home!” They stuck out their tongue.

The other went back to catch the items they’d missed in that time, slipping the chocolate bar in their pocket. 

“Alright, cash or card?”

“Card please.”

“Your receipt?” 

“Sure, why not.”

“Perfect. Have a good one!” 

“You too!”

The taller one took most of the bags, but the other still managed to carry one. They were almost out the door when a voice shouted out.

“Oh! Excuse me, I think you forgot one of your items!” The cashier held up the hammer, and the couple turned around. Neither came forward to claim it, but with a nudge and a whisper, the shorter allowed the cashier to drop it into their bag. “Can’t do any demolition without that, can you?” 

“Absolutely not, I’m glad we didn’t forget it!” The other didn’t say a word, struggling to lift the bag now, and then the two were gone. 

.

“Interesting what you choose to forget, darling.” A hissing whisper in their ear, so different from the friendly persona they put on in public.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re implying,” they averted their eyes as the trunk of the car opened. Fuck. 

Their captor’s foot landed on their broken ankle and they had to suppress a scream.

“I let you have one good leg for today. Don’t let me regret it.” The bag was taken right out of their hand. “In.”

They crutched up to the passenger door but a clearing of the throat stopped them.

“Childlock doesn’t work on that seat.”

Somehow, climbing into the back was more humiliating after that comment. The door was slammed shut before they could do so themself, and they felt the car shake with how hard the trunk was slammed. A horrible indicator of what was to come.

“I behaved around the store,” they grumbled when the doors locked and the engine turned on. 

“And then you fuckin’ ruined it.” 

“Black and white thinking much…” 

A fist flew against the passenger headrest and they were suddenly grateful to be flinching in the backseat.

“I’m buying a car with blacked out windows. That way, next time, I can throttle you in the backseat.”

[star-trek-fandom-confessions]

#863

I personally do not understand human x Klingon or Vulcan x human pairings. Too many shattered pelvises and crushed genitals on the humans end.

[bonefall]

Are you going to keep Goosefeather's curse? If so are you going to change anything about it? From my memory the book was... depressing.

It will probably get rolled into Pinestar's Crusade, building it up into an SE rather than just a novella. There's actually a lot going on in that specific moment, and it makes sense to go over it all at once.

So to answer your question, yes, most of Goosefeather's Curse is staying. Most of the Crusade Generation have depressing stories to tell. If the Thistle Period is defined by the fact that Thistle Law metastasized and went terminal, and if the Campaign Era was when it was newly born, then the Crusade Era was when it was first conceived.

I've been thinking about Pinestar's Crusade idly and mentioned it a few times, but here's my fragments so far;

PINESTAR'S CRUSADE (Fuses Pinestar's Choice and Goosefeather's Curse)

We start in the Crusade Era; there is now more focus on 3 major characters, though it's still built around Pinestar as the POV

Pinestar, Goosefeather, and eventually Pinepaw's apprentice Speckletail.

Pinepaw is born into the start of the Crusades, a bloody period where the Clans are invading Chelford and brutalizing cats in the hopes of appeasing StarClan. He only begins to learn the full story of what happened in Darkstar's Commandment once he begins going to Gatherings as a warrior

The truth being that Oakstar came up with this idea because he couldn't take an L

But even as an apprentice, it becomes quickly apparent to him that what they're doing is evil. They were brutalizing kittypets who aren't trained to fight back.

During his first raid as an apprentice, he allows a ginger-and-white mother and her kittens to escape

This came back years later, when that queen, Crystal, forms BloodClan in response to the Crusades.

Pineheart watches Oakstar die barely a year later to the queen he saved, using early claw extenders to cut right through him. Even if he hadn't been on his last life, it would have ended him.

But, Crystal lets Pineheart go, recognizing the Clan cat who had saved her life.

Watching his dad die along with several friends, and countless more innocent Chelford, plus being released by Crystal, is a Formative Moment.

Doestar continues the Crusades in the name of revenge for Oakstar, but now that BloodClan exists and is ARMED, the easy raids become bloodbaths.

They slowly peter out, not with a bang but with a whimper. She never announces an official end, eventually she just stops organizing them. No one gets closure, especially not Pineheart.

But the 'peace' doesn't last. Just before Heatherstar takes power from Smallstar and begins the Campaign to take the Mothermouth Moorland, ThunderClan deals with the Great Hunger

Pineheart and Goosefeather become very good friends, part of a little buddy group that also included Tawnyspots and Pheasantfeather (who will become One-eye later)

Pineheart was given his first apprentice, a rowdy little one and the niece of Doestar, Specklepaw. He's tasked with helping her fill the pawsteps of greatness she's destined to walk in.

Just like canon, Goose predicts the Great Hunger... though, he is an adult this time around because of some timeline changes.

And, like canon, it fails. They couldn't stockpile enough food to last an entire year of famine, a scorching summer and a frozen winter, they end up losing a huge stock of their food as if it was destiny.

Goosefeather was forced into a role he hates, given horrible visions of the future, and argues ferociously with Pineheart; if they hadn't tried to stockpile, they wouldn't have lost all that food to begin with.

It is in this moment, he comes to realize that every time he's fought back and used his visions like a warning, it's backfired.

So, perhaps, they are instruction.

But, meanwhile, Pineheart can't loose his apprentice or his friends. While others were hunting desperately, he was keeping cats alive through scouting for grubs, foraying into other territories, and...

Every bite of kittypet food he took for himself was a morsel in someone else's mouth. But this... this he kept quiet.

It started a "bad habit" he could never break.

Having lost the previous deputy to starvation and on her deathbed, Doestar nominates Pineheart to the position. He was shocked and upset by this, but he was the obvious choice.

Son of Oakstar, Hero of the Hunger, the cat who had kept Specklepaw alive when all the other kits and apprentices starved.

But, Pinestar took the helm to extreme controversy.

Everything Pinestar's ever done that worked was nonviolent. He's never seen battle do anything but bring harm, and the thought of leading people into war... it makes him feel sick.

But the rest of the Clan can't see what he sees. They yearn for the glory days (even though they were not glorious at all), itch to die for a cause, and leave this old, disgusting subsistence survival behind them. ThunderClan wants blood and Pinestar just wants peace.

Taking back Sunningrocks is an example of this. To avoid losing Clanmates, he proposed to Hailstar that they would have a Joust, instead.

ThunderClan's strongest against RiverClan's strongest. Adderfang vs Mudfur.

It didn't go well.

The problem with those sorts of situations is you have to abide by the deal. RiverClan took Sunningrocks for 6 months. It was humiliating for ThunderClan.

Even the cats he'd saved from the famine were furious with him

The only things that DID seem to please the Clan was when he would throw them fully into battle. Such as Goosefeather's prophecy that WindClan's herbs needed to be destroyed...

Every time a situation like that happened, where Goosefeather would phrase things as a Holy Struggle, Pinestar was thrown right back to the Crusades

Terrified eyes, screeching, cats begging for mercy, his father dead at his paws and feeling horror and relief swirling

Sitting vigil for old friends killed in these horrible fights, like Moonflower, it made him feel like how he felt the day he buried Oakstar.

And the bile rose in his throat, remembering that Oakstar was not there at his Leadership Ceremony, damned to the Dark Forest.

A thought was born, here. What does StarClan truly want? What do they expect of him? If they will send the architect of the Crusades there...

What of a cat who stayed fed on human food and fed grubs to his Clanmates? Or a leader who never knows the right thing to do?

When Mumblefoot retired and Sunfall became deputy, the Clan seemed to love him more than Pinestar. He found himself just... sitting back, and allowing Sunfall to call the shots.

It was towards the end, when Leopardfoot proposed an Honor Siring. He was from a glorious legacy, she wanted kits... and on his end, he wanted the peace that raising kittens could bring.

The warmth of human dens was calling him, but perhaps the warmth of love for children could keep him home.

UNLIKE CANON; Nothing about Tigerkit was born evil.

There was no StarClan vision of Tigerstar; Goosefeather knew full well that Thistlestar was the Leader of Prophecy.

But Pinestar would never give Thistleclaw an apprentice in time. Nor would he ever give his own little son to a cat as vicious as him.

Goosefeather never hurt anyone... but Pinestar just needed a push.

Pinestar was already anxious, unhappy, clinging to the goodness that was his little kits. Even as two of them were lost to minor illnesses, shortly after receiving their names.

It wasn't a lie. It was just half of the truth.

"Pinestar... you have a choice to make. StarClan has given me a vision of blood and war, and Tigerkit will have a role to play in it."

He DID have a vision... of Thistlestar. Not Tigerkit. But that was enough for Pinestar, his fear and trauma took the helm from there.

He'd seen his friends, his apprentice, the kits who had been born and died in his rule, all of them turn into the monsters Clan Culture demanded

Nothing he did ever seemed to work, why would THIS moment be different?

How could he prevent Tigerkit from becoming like that too?! Was StarClan telling him to KILL his son??

Pinestar's never had a vision from StarClan. He doesn't have the aptitude like a Cleric... what he has is a nightmare, of Tigerkit growing so large he crushes the whole camp under his claws

After a week of agony, Pinestar unknowingly creates a prophecy of his own,

"Can only the death of a child break fate?"

Sensing he was close to victory, Goosefeather dipped his head, not denying his question.

And it's the last straw.

And that is the climax of Pinestar's Crusade. Broken from his experiences, every turn taken for peace causing him more pain, the idea that he might have to hurt his own son plaguing his mind, he makes the choice to leave.

It wasn't hard, he'd still had that old bad habit of taking bites of kittypet food, a couple friends on the other side. But what he doesn't know is that by leaving with his life... he prevents Sunstar from acquiring his own.

Sunstar had ONE single life, StarClan was not able to give him more with the previous leader still alive. For leaving his Clan, for unknowingly preventing the transfer of power, and for dismissing the Warrior Code, Pinestar is sent to the Dark Forest after his death.

He can choose to walk there, or spend time in the mortal plane as just a spirit, but StarClan offers him no place in the cosmos.

[catgirlscratches]

I just realized

Inspector Cabanela is left with broken bones but a spotless coat, just like how he had to go through immense pain, betraying his friendship with jowd just to keep a spotless facade, not showing his pain or failures to the outside world. Oughh this game is good

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Continued from this

Author's Notes: gonna see where this Cloe story takes me

Content Warnings: winged whumpee, captivity, broken bones, recovery, reluctant caretaker, mentions of death, 'it' as a pronoun

----

This morning when Galea left home Cloe was still asleep. But when she returns midday he's finally awake, lying on his back and staring up at the high ceiling. When she enters he carefully sits up.

Galea shuts the door a little too hard and Cloe jumps. He holds his splinted arm protectively and keeps his head down.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Galea says, not to comfort him but because it's a fact. She hands up each of her weapons one by one and removes her outer layer.

"Am I yours now?" Cloe asks cautiously.

"Just for today."

"Then what?"

It should be easy to tell him, but Galea hesitates. In the silence Cloe draws his own conclusion.

"Then I go back to him?"

"Not exactly."

"Please tell me," Cloe pleads, eyes welling with tears. "Why am I here? Why bother patching me up if he's just going to hurt me again?"

Galea isn't sure herself. She makes a mental note to stop sitting at Omeron's table. It will save her a lot of future trouble.

"He plans to get rid of you," she says bluntly, seeing no point in sugarcoating it. "He gave you to me for the day to try out. That's all."

Suddenly Cloe is very pale and still.

"Get rid of me," he quietly says to himself. "How?"

"Come on, you don't really want to know."

"He's going to throw me off the mountain." It isn't a question.

Galea frowns. "How did you know that?"

Cloe pulls Galea's cloak tight around himself. He's shaking and staring blankly ahead.

"We find them sometimes, you know. The ones who get dropped. We find their bodies on the ground or caught on branches. They're so shattered and bloody sometimes we can't even tell who it is."

A chill runs through Galea at the mental image that conjures.

"I don't want my family to find me like that," Cloe continues softly. "If he's going to kill me, fine, but please...not like that. Anything else. Please."

"It's not up to me," Galea says.

But as she says it, she considers...maybe it could be up to her. She has no use for Cloe, but has no doubt Omeron would let her keep him if she asked. Maybe she could give him some dignity in death. Even the hawks and falcons her people keep as companions are given that, while the small-wings are discarded like spoiled meat.

Cloe is now fully enveloped in the cloak, hiding his face while he cries. Galea offers no comfort, but does set a jug of water and a plate of fruit and nuts out for him before she leaves.

-

"So," Omeron begins. Galea can hear the smirk in his voice before she even looks at him. "What do you think?"

"Nothing yet," she answers coolly, "it's too damaged to do anything."

Omeron scoffs. "If it can walk it can work."

"With one arm?"

"Yeah, who cares?" Omeron leans in, a wicked grin on his face. "Don't tell me you're getting soft, Gal - "

In an instant she has his head pinned to the table and one of his fingers in her hand, pulled back just far enough to hurt.

"Go ahead," she dares him, "say that again. You don't need this finger, right?"

She bends it further and Omeron yells.

"Okay, okay! Come on, I was joking! Let me go!"

Galea keeps him like that another moment. She bets he never gave in when Cloe begged. Picking on something so small and helpless...coward.

Finally she releases him. He sits quickly sits up and scoots away from her, shaking out his hand and laughing nervously.

"How about I let you keep it another few days?" he offers.

Galea doubts a few more days will make her decide to keep the small-wing. But she has already made up her mind that Cloe is never going back to Omeron. She tells herself this isn't sympathy, but spite towards the boastful warrior who gets his kicks torturing things weaker than him.

"Deal," she says, turning back to her dinner. Omeron wisely takes his meal elsewhere.

[sacredwrath]

P1. Three days

This is part 1 of a long oc whump fic I've been working on. Check the masterpost for possibly triggering themes to come later.

Torture for information, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, breaking whumpee, vauge military setting, beating, broken bones mention, negative self talk

Jesse watches a faint sliver of sunlight creep under their cell door. It illuminates their surroundings just enough to see the dim outline of their hand laying against the cold cement. Their fingers are broken on this hand and look like gnarled twigs soaking up the pale sunlight.

With each passing second, the light grows brighter, and their heart picks up speed. Dread sits heavy in their gut, pinning them to the floor more effectively than the chain around their neck.

Soon.

Jesse groans, pain lancing through them as they wriggle their unwilling body further into the corner's illusion of safety. Part of them is disgusted at their own futile desperation, but a louder part just wants to be as far from the door as they can get.

Pathetic

Give up. The traitor in their head prods.

“Shut up.” they hiss back. What's happening to them?

Relax, they remind themself. Stay calm. Be patient, the others will come for you.

If they wanted to, they would've come by now. The traitor whispers back. As always, it sounds like Morgan's voice.

As if conjured by the though, the lock rattles and their cell door swings open.

"Morning sunshine!"

Jesse tries to scramble back, but their body is already pressed up against the stone wall. Officer Adrian Morgan closes the distance in a few brisk strides, grabbing the chain around their neck and hoisting them from the floor.

"Miss me?" He drives a punch directly into the mass of dark bruises covering their ribs eliciting a cry of pain.

A month ago Jesse would have fought back. Weeks ago they would have hid their pain under a blanket of snarky defiance, but now it's all they can do to keep from dissolving into hysterics. Pathetic

Morgan hurls them to the ground. On instinct, they try to catch themself, but only manage to land on their bad hand, sending burning jets of pain blazing up up their arm.

They're screaming before the beatings even started.

Each kick targets their injuries. Morgan's steel toed boots hitting cracked bones and untreated gashes. They want to sob, but can only manage whimpers as the air is driven from their lungs again and again.

Stop, please stop, please!

Jesse begs silently, not letting the traitorous words past their lips.

When it's over, Morgan speaks to them. They can't understand his words.

Desperately, they try to calm themself. Slowing their panicked breaths, letting the sensation help draw them back.

Morgan is dragging the cell's only piece of furniture, a low wooden stool over to where they huddle. It's pointless, but every fiber of their being screams at them to run.

To disappear

"Good, now you're awake, we can get going." Morgan's voice is cheerful, as always. As if they're old friends on their way to lunch. As if his boots weren't stained with their blood.

Jesse can only manage a groan.

"Oh stop being so dramatic!" Morgan chides. "I've barely touched you."

Jesse draws a trembling breath, trying to form words through the pain.

"Clearly." They snap.

Morgan rolls his eyes. "Oh please, you entitled little shit! Trust me, it could be a lot worse."

Jesse doesn't trust him.

"Which I'll happily show you unless you start talking. I'm not asking for much, not even names. Just give me the location of your base. If you're lucky your little band of idiots will be gone by now. They'd have to be morons to stay after we caught you." He pauses, “which is possible, I guess. After all, they did let you join up.”

He pulls a long knife from his belt and carefully begins paring his nails. For a long moment neither say a word.

Jesse stares at the ground, trying to avoid looking at the knife in their enemies hands. They've been through this before. At this point, more times than they can count. It's not an option, they can't give up the others. They won't. No matter what.

Morgan won't go easy on them, the thought alone makes their blood run cold. But there's nothing they can do. They just have to pray someone comes back for them. Betraying their location wouldn't be as simple as letting slip a base or safe house, their base is their home. Most of the team grew up there. Even if they did abandon it, the location would give away several of their identities and that would be fatal. For years they've managed to keep it secret, not just from AQUA police, but from the entire world. That secrecy is precious and hard won. Not a single soul outside their family knows where to find them, and Jesse refuses to be the one to screw that up.

Something small and sharp hits their face, interrupting their thoughts. Morgan flicks another piece of fingernail at them.

"You're not going to hold out much longer." He observes. "You're almost at breaking point already."

"You're wrong" Jesse wishes their voice was a little less shaky. Morgan grins

"Am I? Look at yourself." He gestures with the knife and they can't hide their flinch. "You realize you're almost completely unbound now? Any competent rebel would have grabbed that chain and used it to choke me out by now. Hell, even you would've tried some stupid shit like that a few weeks ago. But what happened?" He pouts. "You were always pathetic, but now..." he gestures to them again, huddled shivering at his feet. "How much longer do you really think you'll last?"

Despite themself his words hit home. Jesse wonders the same thing. Every agonizing second that passes in this place kills another piece of them. How long till there's nothing left?

Morgan lowers his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "I bet you lay awake at night so scared it feels like it's eating you alive. You worry the fear alone might kill you. I bet you wonder why your precious crew hasn't come to get you yet. What if they forgot me?" Morgan whines in a mocking sing-song. "It's worse than that though. They're glad you're gone."

The words hit like a gut punch. It's not true. Their friends love them, they would never abandon them. especially not to a fate like this. Their friends love them. Don't they?

"That's not true! You won't convince me to betray them by pretending to know us. I won't betray them." Jesse spits back. They sound confident, angry, but their tormentors lips still twitch with barely contained amusement.

"Sure you will." He looks thoughtful. "Just give it time. You already have, in the little ways. When you got here you trusted them completely, but the longer it takes for them to save you the more you wonder. Was any of it real? They were pretending to care about you the whole time. Pretending you matter. Lucky for you, I'm here! Here to remind you just how worthless you really are.” He kicks out lazily, making contact with a burn on their shin eliciting a gasp of pain. “Eventually you'll realize how stupid you were to think anyone could care about something like you. You'll remember what it feels like to be nothing." He spits the last words, watching them flinch as he articulates the very thoughts the traitor whispers in their head. “Maybe you never really forgot…” he trails off, watching them. Fresh tears well in their eyes. They want to disappear.

They can't take it anymore

"I give you three days." He stands, casually flicking the knife closed and glances at his watch. "Damn. Wasted all our time chatting again! Lucky you." He winks, dragging the stool carefully out of reach. "Don't miss me too much.'' He gives a little wave and strides from the cell.

Masterpost | Next

[serickswrites]

Make Me Your Villain XXVII

Master list link here (includes chapter links, character bios, and summary)

Ok, so we are now winding down with the story gang. This is the last main chapter, though there is a very cheesy epilogue out next week.

Warnings: death, blood, gore (brief mention), broken bones, grief, mcd, funeral, grief rituals, heart break

“I would like to pay my respects,” the red-haired man said once Nova had let Henry hold her. Someone had set his wrist. She would heal it later. Right now she barely had any energy to keep her eyes open. Not that she wanted to keep them open. Liam was dead, what did it matter. Did anything matter? “When you are ready of course. My family and I would like to say thank you once more.”

“We would as well,” another civilian family said as they stepped forward.

Nova looked around in awe as more and more of the civilians Liam had worked so tirelessly to save stepped forward. He had saved countless lives. A significant portion of Hiraethian’s population was alive because of Liam and everything he had done.

The mayor stepped forward. “I would like to offer the opportunity to all of those whose lives have been impacted by Liam by offering a state funeral.”

She couldn’t be serious. “Absolutely not,” Nova said angrily. She would not allow the mayor make a mockery of Liam.

The mayor’s eyes widened in surprise. “Of course I don’t mean to intrude on your mourning. Perhaps instead of a state funeral, we can still have an chance to honor him. Let him lie in state.”

Nova opened her mouth to give a scathing reply, but Henry cut her off. “We would be honored. Thank you.”

Nova glared at him but didn’t say anything. They could fight when they got back to the Haven.

The mayor’s eyes brightened a touch. “Wonderful. I will have the best funeral director in town meet with you later today. They can go over with you how you would like to have him arranged and interred.”

“I don’t want that. He wouldn’t want that. I want to take him home.” Nova had stopped listening to the mayor. Had stopped listening to anyone as she stared down at Liam once more. She wanted to take him home, clean him, put him in his best clothes, and then…Then she could begin to say goodbye.

Henry quickly added, “We would be happy to host them and go over how to arrange the ceremony.”

Somehow they got back to the Haven. Nova wasn’t entirely sure who was with them. She didn’t care. She just wanted to be alone with Liam. It had taken two people to carry Liam into the med bay and lay him on the exam table. Was he always this big? Had he always taken up so much space? He was a giant among men. She stared at him, the painful silence in the room growing.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered as a lone tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry I failed you.”

She stood over him and cupped his cheek. His skin was cold and sticky where the flecks of blood had dried. “I wish it was me. It was supposed to be me. You should have let it been me.

“But you wouldn’t be you if you let it be me.” She wiped her tears away.

Nova went to the sink and filled a basin with water. She grabbed towels and a chair. She placed the basin and towels on the instrument table and placed the chair by Liam’s head. “I love you, more than anything, Liam,” Nova said as she dipped a towel in the and wiped along Liam’s jaw.

She repeated the process over and over. Until the basin was filled with pink water. She started the process again, when Henry walked in. “Oh,” was all he managed to say.

She didn’t respond. She just kept dipping the towel in water and wiping Liam’s face. His neck.

“Can I join you?” Henry said, finally breaking the silence.

Nova nodded, not trusting her voice. It should have been her. This was her fault. She failed. Failed all of them.

Together, Henry and Nova cleaned Liam’s body. They worked in silence, each in their own grief. They cleaned and combed his hair. Cleaned his face, neck, chest, stomach, and arms of all the blood coating them. They removed the tattered shirt from his ruined chest. Nova began to sob again as the extent of his chest wound was revealed. Jude had punched clean through Liam’s chest, completely destroying his heart.

Eventually, after they had dressed him in his finest outfit—the suit he had worn when they got married—Henry spoke again. “I’ll go see if the funeral director is here. She will stop him from….,” his voice broke, “from decaying. You two can discuss what you want to do after.”

Nova nodded again. She didn’t care if the funeral director could make him look like he was alive. She couldn’t bring him back to life. He was gone. She had failed in healing him. She stared down into his eyes once more. Eyes that she had stared into endlessly. Eyes that she knew better than her own. Eyes that, as her grief became all consuming once more, she would never see smile again. Never see laugh. Never see as he made love to her. Never see again.

“I love you, forever and always,” she said, wishing she could hear and I love you, gorgeous, in this life and the next one more time. She kissed his lips delicately. Then she kissed each cheek. And finally, she kissed his forehead as she closed his eyes, one last time.

The funeral director, as it turned out, had powers. She could freeze time, and her assistant was a green-crafter—someone who could manipulate plants. They had laid out a plan of letting Liam lie in state in the open air, wreathed in flowers of Nova’s choosing. Nova didn’t really care for the discussion until the assistant asked her for plans for after the ceremony.

“He wanted to be cremated,” Nova managed to say softly. That was all she knew about his wishes. He had believed he wouldn’t live long enough to really have a funeral plan. Nor one that would have so many attendees.

“And after?” The assistant had warm, hazel eyes. Her dark hair was in a neat knot at the nape of her neck.

And after didn’t matter, Nova wanted to say. And after and everything is over. But she couldn’t say that. Couldn’t do that. Because the truth was Nova didn’t want to let him go. She couldn’t bear the thought of him being somewhere in a wall or the ground.

The assistant nodded at Nova’s stomach. “I hear a congratulations are in order, but I’m sure it doesn’t feel that way now. Perhaps you want something for your child to know him by.”

Henry hugged Nova close as Nova began to cry again. “Could we take some time to think about it? What are our options?”

“Well, of course you can take your time. As for options—“

“Can you make a tree grow from seed quickly?” Nova said, not caring that the woman was in the middle of speaking.

The assistant smiled. “Yes, yes I can.”

“I want him here. At the Haven. We have plenty of space. Could you make a willow grow?”

“Over him? Yes, I can. And I can make it so it will never die. It will grow old, large, and strong, but it will never get sick, never fall, and never die.”

And not only be an undying symbol of her grief, but also of his triumphant victory. “Your child will be able to swing safely from its branches, to climb its boughs, and rest under the cool shade of their father’s tree. I can do that for you, Nova. And for him.”

***

Nova found herself sitting with Henry opposite the glass casket that they had laid Liam in. He was wreathed with hundreds upon hundreds of roses. The fragrance was sickening. She watched as the crowd passed him. Some paused to stare, while others paused to speak a few words. Several tried to touch him, hence the glass casket.

She could barely stomach the affair. These were the same people that had thrown rocks at his body, had spit on him, cursed him, and celebrated his death only days ago. These were the same people that had shunned him for fifteen years. Had blamed him for the evil of the world.

“They’re so fake,” Nova said to Henry.

Henry flexed his newly healed wrist as though it was still sore. “Not all of them. There were the ones he saved. The ones he told to keep quiet to keep safe until it was time. And it is time.”

“But that’s not all of them here now, Henry.” Nova hated this. Hated every moment of this. But she couldn’t bear to part with Liam. Not yet.

“They didn’t know, Nova.”

Nova crinkled her nose. She would never smell another rose again after this. “They don’t deserve him. They don’t deserve to pay respects to him.”

Henry turned and looked at her full on. His face was pinched with his sadness. “But he does. He deserves the respect and so much more. He deserved to live. To be happy. And to live a long happy life with you. With us. But that didn’t happen. Let him have this. Let him have the love and peace he so desperately fought for. That he died for, Nova. Let him have that.”

Nova opened her mouth and closed it. Henry was right. Liam deserved the world. And he didn’t get it. She swiped at her eyes with a tissue. Liam deserved this. She wasn’t going to take this away. No matter how much it hurt her. “They don’t deserve forgiveness. I can’t forgive them.”

“And you don’t have to. He would have, of course,” Henry said with a soft smile. “But he was better than me.” Nova nodded in agreement. “Better than me.” She leaned her head on Henry’s shoulder.

Henry wrapped his arm around her. “He was the best. The world didn’t deserve him, Nova. And now that he’s….gone,” Henry’s voice caught for a moment. “Now that he’s gone, we can only honor him. Honor his memory. His legacy.”

Henry nodded to Nova’s stomach. She put her hand on her stomach, wishing she could feel the baby. She scanned her body, feeling the baby’s heart pulsing, feeling its peacefulness as it grew within her.

“I won’t let his death be in vain. I will fight to maintain this peace he created. Until my dying breath. I will keep the two of you safe, Nova. For as long as I live.” Henry squeezed Nova’s shoulder as they watched more civilians trickle by.

***

Three days later, he held her as the funeral director’s assistant planted a seed above the compostable urn containing Liam’s earthly remains. Nova had planted the urn, despite her hands shaking uncontrollably. This was it.

“It will take a few moments to grow, but it will be full grown within the hour.”

Henry guided Nova back to a safe distance as they watched the seed take root and grow. By the time the tree’s leaves kissed the ground, the branches towering high above them, Nova was a sobbing mess on the grass, shaded by the tree. Because Liam was really gone.

Tags: @dutifullykrispyland@jesssmolfur@parad0xical2@st0rmm@keeper-of-all-the-random-things

@pigeonwhumps@gala1981@allylovessweets@whumpitywhumpwhump @giggly-evil-puppy

@cravesunconditionallove @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @ay5ksal @celestialsoyeon

@hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @knightinbatteredarmor @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@whump-me-harder

[your-neighbourhood-antisocial]

Wizarding world has a solution for regrowing bones but, none for poor vision?? Acne?? Like it could've stopped bullying, where's your sense wizards n witches? Right, you don't possess it

[ravenzeppeli]

🩸Twisted Fate |Yandere Ghiaccio x Reader Angst|

Warning: strong/violent language, threats, kidnapping, murder [random men], physical abuse, dark thoughts [thoughts of - noncon, abuse, torture], verbal abuse, torture [broken bones, choking, beating]. Extremely dark - MA.

Comission

Ghiaccio's POV

Ghiaccio could clearly remember the day that you vanished away from him eight years ago, your entire family, as well as you moving away. For years, he's tried to track you down, searching for you, for any signs of your existence so he could return you back to himself. You belonged to him, and one day, he felt as if you would return to him.

As the years passed, he started to lose hope, his mafia affiliations being no help in tracking you down either. How could someone just up and vanish? The pain of losing you was hard for him, his sadness turning into a permanent, icy rage that he could no longer control. How dare you just up and leave him after he promised to marry you once the two of you turned 18. You've wasted so much of his life with you, and now he's going to be all alone forever. All alone because you fucking left him.

Months had finally passed since he'd last continued his long search for you. Despite him thinking of you every single day, he tried his best to distract himself heavily with work. At night when he got home he would pull out an old picture of you, staring at it until his eyes were fucking blurry and watering. You were permanently burned into the back of his mind. All he was left with was one single fucking picture of you as a reminder of what he lost forever. A reminder of a perfect love that he thought that he lost forever.

As a folder with your picture appeared on the mission table, Ghiaccio's heart nearly jumped out of his chest as he snatched up the folder. Instead of lying to his capo Risotto he explained who you were and how much you meant to him, how you were his high school sweetheart that he lost once the two of you hit adulthood due to you vanishing. Lying to his capo was something that he never did, Risotto was understanding when it came to his men. He was a great captain and someone he trusted deeply.

The man who placed a hit on your head was a random male, a male having no ties to the mafia, but it seemed that you had ties to a completely different mafia organization, a new organization that was trying to rise above the rulings of Passione. The group was small, only five men and you in total, and he planned to fucking kill all five of those bastards. In fact, Risotto gave him permission to kill not only those five men but the man who placed a hit on you as well. As fate would have it, you would be returning to him after all. He would be allowed to keep you. To have you as his again.

Risotto made it clear to Ghiaccio that he would have to complete this on his own, and that if he messed up he may just lose his life, but it was a risk that he was willing to take. It was a risk that he was always willing to take, especially now, considering the stakes were so high. The stakes of you being all his again, rather you fucking liked it or not. You didn't have a choice. You belonged to him, and he would make sure that you would never leave his side again.

It only took him one day to take out the pathetic hitman team that you were a part of. Smaller mafia families always disgust him, and the fact that his beautiful beloved was a part of that? It pissed him off, and it pissed him off even more when he realized that you actively were living 30 minutes away from him. Right under his nose.. for years you've been fucking right here, right under his fucking nose, purposefully avoiding him. How dare you. Why would you not want to be with him?

Tracking you down now that you had no protection wasn't hard. In fact, it seemed as if you were waiting for him. He entered a cheap apartment complex, the dim lights flickering as he pushed into the apartment complex where you lived. One of your fucking teammates ratted out where you were in exchange for his own life. After the man disclosed your location, Ghiaccio blew his fucking cock off with three quick shots, watched him bleed out, enjoying every second of it. That's how he killed all five of your teammates as well as the man that placed a hit on you, feeling enraged with the fact that those men were around you while he was stuck without you for the past eight years.

Sitting right on a worn-out dark leather couch was you, your head raising slowly, body immediately going stiff once you saw him. You looked so much older, so much more beautiful than he remembered.. that pissed him off, his hands balling into fists as he slammed your apartment door shut as he stepped in, locking it with a swift motion.

The tension was so thick that it could be cut with a knife, a knife that he wanted to slice across your soft skin as punishment for leaving him. Your soft, beautiful flesh.. he wanted to fucking tear into you for leaving him. He wanted to beat you bloody, bruise up your pretty little face and break your nose. He wanted to make sweet love to you, filling your cunt with his seed. So many things.. he wanted to do so many beautiful things to you.

"You fucking cunt," Ghiaccio growled, his heart skipping a rapid beat as he approached you. With no hesitation, he pulled out his gun, pointing it straight at you. "Eight fucking years.. I've been waiting eight long years to see you again. Where the fuck did you go!?" He pressed the barrel of the gun to your forehead as you raised your head to look up at him. You couldn't fucking run away from him now, he would blow your goddamn brains out if you tried anything stupid. Or he would crack your head open with the gun, whichever he was feeling.

A tad bit of fear washed over your cute little face, your eyes slightly widening as he pressed the barrel of the gun deeper into your forehead, forcing you to look up at him further. "Ghiaccio," you whispered, venom dripping from your voice. How dare you not speak to him with love. "I didn't want to marry you so I left. We were graduating in a week so I panicked and left, I left you a note behind." The disrespect.. he couldn't believe the disrespect that he had endured for so long.

A dry laugh escaped his lips as he dropped the gun from your forehead, a small circle imprint being on the center of your forehead due to how hard he pressed the gun against your forehead. His free hand balled into a tight fist, crashing into the side of your head with force, your body limply falling to the side. "NO!" He screamed, rage filling his body. "Your shitty note only said bye and nothing else, you dumb cunt!"

Anger completely took over his body in this moment as he climbed on top of you, his fist raising, crashing into the side of your face, making a low pop sound, a pained cry escaping your lips. "Cry, fucking cry you unloyal whore! I know you let those men fuck you, they said you didn't but I know they're lying! You're mine, you're fucking mine!" He raised his body slighly, his fist raising again.

A sharp sting across Ghiaccio's cheek caused him to freeze up, his glasses flying off of his face, making a light thump sound as they hit the ground. In the past, when he beat you up, you would cry and beg for mercy. Never did you hit him back in the past. These eight years have changed you. They've made you unclean. He didn't like the feeling of not having control over you. He expected to slip into immediate control.

"Fuck you," you spat up at him, your blood coating his face. "I hate you, I never loved you!" Tears were rolling down your face, that causing a grin to appear on his lips, despite your words and you slapping him, your tears meant that he was breaking you again. What he was about to do to you, he would take much joy in it. He would enjoy this so fucking much, because as beautiful as you are, as much as he wanted to marry and impregnate you, you needed to be hurt. If he hurt you badly, he would just fix you up. It was fine, he could fix you up and buy you things later on once he finished destroying you mentally as he did oh so long ago.

Your entire face was bloody, blood pouring from the side of your head, your entire left side of your face sporting a large purple bruise that had blood seeping from a small cut the middle of the large bruise. Your bottom lip was slightly rolled out, swollen with little bite marks from where you bit down on your lip. You must have done that to muffle your pain. How fucking pathetic.

He grabbed the hand that dared to slap him, bending three of your fingers back until he heard three snaps. "Dumb cunt, think I care about your love!?" He snapped, low sobs escaping your mouth, your body finally trembling beneath him as he held up your hand, your three broken fingers starting to swell and turn purple. "I will rip your fucking fingers off and shove them down your throat if you ever slap me again! Now apologize before your entire arm gets broken, you brainless bitch!"

"S-sorry," you gasped out, his other hand quickly wrapping around your throat, beginning to squeeze.

Killing you would be so easy, so easily he could squeeze your fragile little throat until your body went limp. He could leave you here to rot, leave your body in this dump of a place for the rats to pick at you. No.. he's waited this long. He's waited for you to come home with him and marry him. You belonged with him, he couldn't just end your life. Ending your life would mean that you would be gone forever. He wanted to kiss and fuck you, he wanted you to be his property again.

He continued to squeeze, watching the life slowly drain from your eyes as you weakly wiggled beneath him. "Come back with me or die." His hand squeezed harder as your mouth muttered 'die', his other hand raising, beginning to repeatedly punch you in your stomach, not using his full strength so that you could still answer him. "Come back with me! Marry me! I'll beat you to death, I'll strip you naked and beat you for weeks until you die! I know how to keep someone alive for a long time, I've tortured countless men to death!"

Pained moans escaped your lips, your tears mixing with your blood, staining your neck red. "Fine!" You cried out, blood spilling from your mouth. "S-stop, I'll do it!"

He let go of your throat, leaving a dark bruise behind, the blood that coated your neck caked onto the side of his hand. He didn't mind. After all, you deserved this beating. You deserved to have your throat fucking slit for leaving him those many years ago, but he would push that from his mind. After all, he loved you. He didn't want to kill you, he only wanted to beat you so that you would love him and be submissive. He would beat all of the ignorance out of you, beating his love into you.

"I love you baby," he muttered, his throat sore from all of the yelling that he's done all day. He's yelled more today than he's ever has in his entire life, and that was saying a lot. "I've searched for you these past years, I'm so happy that you'll be returning to me." He let himself lean down, his body leaning over you as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling your limp body into a tight hug. "My sweet girl, did you think I wouldn't find you? It was fate, we are meant to be!" That folder showed up for a reason. Fate wanted you to be his. The universe had brought you back into his arms, and he was so grateful.

"P-please," you sobbed, but he didn't know why you were sobbing. Shouldn't you be happy that he found you again? "I don't wa -"

"I don't give a fuck!" He snapped, raising his hand, roughly smacking the back of your head. "Now hug me back. I'm your fiancé now, and soon I'll be your husband. You'll be beaten and fucked until you are perfect."

Weaky, your arms wrapped around him, sobs escaping your mouth as you clung to him. You said nothing, and he liked that you weren't saying anything. You just needed to shut the fuck up and accept his anger. You being submissive and kind will get you treats, fighting back and being mouthy would get your teeth knocked down your throat. Either way, he would get what he wanted. All he wanted was you, he found you beautiful with or without a fucked up face and missing teeth. The choice was up to you.

"Good girl," he muttered, sitting up as he pulled you into his lap, placing a kiss on your forehead. "I'm so glad to finally have you back. Isn't fate perfect?" He got no reply, a satisfied hum escaping your lips as your head weakly rested on his chest, your low sobs providing him with comfort, a smile appearing on his lips as he listened to you sob and shake in his arms. He was so happy to have you back, so relieved. Relieved because now you were his again, and he wouldn't ever let you slip away from his grasp again.

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

What kind of things did eclipse go through when being bought and sold?

Unspeakable things. Abuse of all forms. Torture, broken bones, manipulation, gaslighting, beatings, ect. Basically the only thing that his owners wouldn't do was cut dismemberment, since him being in one piece was in the agency's selling clause.

[sysmedsaresexist]

I snapped today

(Well, yesterday, but I made a point of sitting on this to make sure it was what I wanted to do)

I'll be making a post at some point to address some of the drama that I'm sure many of you have been seeing over the last couple months, but before I do, I want to just talk about something personal.

Edit: this is the post. This is the only post I'm going to make addressing the drama. This will be my response.

A vent, rant, I don't know under the cut.

The TL;dr I broke my leg in a way that fucked it up for life and I'm depressed and struggling and being dragged into drama. I want to talk about it, because I never talk about this stuff, and I'm so tired of all of it.

I'm too old for this kind of drama.

A deep dive into my mental health, physical status, my side of the story, and a message for anyone still struggling with the problemaddtic situation.

Earlier this year, I slipped.

I was telling one of my clients about it at work, he's an older gentleman, very sweet, and his reaction still makes me smile.

He asked how I fell, and I said it was black ice.

His eyes went wide. "Black ice? That's dangerous and invisible!"

It sure is, friendo... it sure is.

It was really bad. Both sides of my ankle were crushed to dust. I was in a cast for nearly 8 months. I got an infection around the metal pins and was ill. The pins had to be pulled early, which extended my recovery.

I still dream about the feeling of them trying to pry the pins out of me. You're awake when they do it.

11 months later, I'm still in physio, I've had to add chiro and ortho to my weekly appointments. Most days, I walk with a very heavy limp. I don't have full rotation of my ankle, and I hurt myself a lot by turning too quickly. I still struggle to stand for long periods-- like cooking dinner or showering.

It's becoming increasingly apparent that because of the amount of "hardware" in my leg that I won't get full rotation back. I already have arthritis, so this is wonderful.

I hurt. A lot.

It's not the pain of a broken ankle or leg.

It's this constant, dull throb in my bones. It's the constant "full" feeling as I walk, like my ankle is surrounded by a thick gel that slows its movement. It's sharp, breathtaking stabs when I turn wrong or too quickly. It's the pain that's spread to my already damaged and arthritic hips that keeps me up at night. It's never being able to get comfortable.

Mentally, I'm a wreck.

I already hated this body, and now my leg is scarred and deformed. I'm constantly terrified I'm going to fall again. I'm incredibly self conscious about whether people can tell and if they're judging me. I can't walk fast enough to keep up with crowds, and people are cruel about it. My balance is horrible. I'm realizing all the things I won't be able to do.

I love hiking so goddamn much, and my dream of hiking the orcas island is dashed.

In 2012, after the assault that nearly killed us, it was where we were sent to heal. Elevation 2,500ft. See that little tiny thing at the top?

It's an old observation tower. The end of the hike. I was only able to hike half at the time, but I was driven to the top.

I'll never hike that now. I'll never finish my goal after the assault.

My relationships have taken a massive hit.

I'm angry.

I'm so fucking angry.

He was just a kid, that was just a bit late to his job. The lot should have been salted twenty minutes earlier. As I was lifted into the ambulance, I saw him standing at the front entrance, with his little shovel and bucket of salt. The nephew of the owners, and I could see the fear in his expression. A way to save money over hiring an outside crew.

And now my life will never be the same.

I'm angry for everything that was taken from me.

I'm angry because it doesn't feel fair.

I'm angry because I'm scared all the time now. It won't be much longer before the first snow. I cry every time I think about it.

I'm struggling to come to terms with things.

Today, I had to be in the office, and it was really rough. Normally, I can work from home, but I need to be on site every couple of days. I'm really struggling with forward movement the last few days, and I'm just in a lot of pain after that much walking.

And something snapped in us today.

"Good forbid I mentally NEED to maintain my own sense of peace for a few months so I don't fucking off myself at the idea of my new depressing life as a goddamn cripple"

I have a lot of feelings about this message that I sent to the person posting about me.

I don't like the message. I want to know which one of us is responsible-- who has such deeply negative feelings about disability. I know we're struggling, but maybe I didn't realize how much.

It's terrifying when you have a CDD and your alters talk like that. Looking around in your own head like, "okay, raise your hand if you want... to die..." and everyone is like

"Does anyone want to claim that message?"

In the screenshots below, you'll see me say the above. I guess I just want to provide context and get out thoughts that have been trapped in my head.

I just want this person to leave me alone.

Between my injury, the drama with AEV and our change in stance from anti to pro--

Finally putting an end to my petty drama with Sophie, and ongoing drama with another system that we were casually flirty with for a hot minute (fucking try me, seriously, I don't care anymore, always threatening to publicly post our fucked up relationship drama, GO AWAY, YOU WILL ALSO LOOK BAD IF YOU DO THAT, YOU WILL ONLY SUCCEED IN HUMILIATING US BOTH AND ACTUALLY DOXXING ME), we refused to take part in the release of the most recent sophie doc.

All of this was happening at once.

Now don't get me wrong here-- I've already explained this in another post. It was mostly my content being used in the doc, and that of one of my friends, and I agreed to help go through my posts. I ATTEMPTED to participate in the creation of the doc, though eventually I admitted defeat and said that I would not be able to help. Every time I opened my old posts I hated myself more. I don't like that person. I hated the way I behaved.

And I was struggling so much with finally seeing Sophie as a real person with real feelings and Reasons™️ for doing things. Just like I have reasons for doing things. Just like you have reasons for doing things.

I told them I was struggling, and how and why.

I told them in my very first message that I would not publicly participate, for all the reasons mentioned.

I was not well.

And the posts being made about me are in anger that I didn't stand up for the doc or them.

The one I specifically said I would not get publicly involved with.

And while I wanted to support you in the aftermath, your final messages made me feel as though I shouldn't reach out to check on you. There are several people that will tell you that I worry about you, that I have nothing but positives to say about you, that I stress that you're Going Through It™️ and should be left alone.

People ask me about your posts, whether they're true, what's going on. You have me blocked, but I know you're going to see this. I don't need to look at your blog to know what you're saying, complete strangers fill me in.

It's fantastic, I feel great.

Every time I start to relax, someone new reaches out and it starts all over again. I'm so tired of drama.

Despite everything, despite the fact that you hurt me too, despite the fact that you're actively traumatizing me right now, I still apologized to you.

You'll get your post, but it'll be the truth.

You sent a LOT of messages, at the time I couldn't read them, I mentally could not handle it after our last conversation, but I got the impression you wanted me to post something. I was right.

Today I learned about a new post, and a new blog, and I snapped. I finally managed to bring myself to read your messages in full. And I responded, prompting ANOTHER post about how I'm trying to silence you.

I'm not doing this anymore.

Here are the messages. People can decide for themselves.

But let's actually talk about what you're blaming me for.

While I posted several times about you on my blog, these are the posts in question, where I supposedly started this "rumor", almost two years ago.

TW, SA, ending after the next set of images

When I first read your post, my first thought was, "that's what he said to me."

For survivors, "the only thing you're good for," often brings their assault or abuse to mind. Is the problem that I tagged it as SA? Is that how you think the "rumor" started?

Whether you intended to trigger people or not, you did.

I'm sorry that you're still receiving harassment, and I ask that whoever is reaching out to blue's mutuals to leave them alone. That entire situation was a mess and everyone played a part.

Chances are, though, you're not sending those messages because of me or on behalf of me. It's far more likely that you're sending them because you, yourself, were triggered by blue's words and behaviour.

I don't really have a right to tell you to stop, if that's the case, but as much as I've changed, so has blue.

Everyone deserves a second chance.

People gave me one.

Blue, I meant it, you're brilliant and funny, you deserve better, and I'm so sorry this is happening to you. I wanted to be friends, I'm so sorry that I hurt you. I never wanted to. I'm sorry that I wasn't well enough to help you. I thought I had been clear.

Now everyone leave me alone.