#tw suicidal adjacent thinking

[toxicanonymity]

The Worst 

1.3k, Tom “Redfly” Davis x DARK f!Reader 

SUMMARY: You make Tom pay for Frankie's death.

WARNINGS: I8+ DARK FIC, DEAD DOVE noncon or very dubcon p in v, implied murder, roofie, forced gun sucking, restraints, degradation, praise kink?, Dom reader. Tom survives / Frankie dies AU.

Dedicated to @romanarose who is hosting a write a thon for the @triplefrontier-anniversary.

Happy 5 years to Tom ruining everything. He's the worst, but I'm sorry to say he's also packing.

-------------

You pretended to take comfort in him during your grief. Your flirtations over the past weeks had all been a ruse, as were your advances tonight. You always had one goal – to get Tom tied up in your basement.

Finally, you had him sitting at your kitchen table drinking a night cap. You rubbed his thigh and he looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive, if only he could muster the energy.  His eyelids were heavy with lust and a roofie.

“Maybe we could, uh, get more comfortable,” Tom slurred, nodding toward the living room. 

You downed the rest of your drink, set the glass down, and lowered yourself onto his lap, side saddle. 

“Ohh,” he muttered with his mouth barely open. “Hello.” 

“I was thinking we could go downstairs,” you purred. 

He swallowed, raised his eyebrows, and nodded, “Sure.” 

“Frankie ever tell ya ‘bout our hobbies? Lotta fun stuff down there.”

His face gave him away. “Uhh,” he stalled, “Sounds-” You ran your hand through his hair. “-Sounds good,” Tom muttered at a horny pitch. His eyes lingered on your lips, then he cleared his throat. 

“I'm gonna need ya to trust me though, Tom. Can ya do that?” 

Tom nodded. 

“Yes ma’am,” you whispered. 

“Yes ma’am,” he confirmed, clearly enjoying this. Your dominance was a perfect fit for his being a lazy sack of shit. 

“Good.”

—----------

In the basement–more of a sex dungeon, as it were–you sat Tom down in a metal chair. He let you tie him up and barely objected when you zip tied his hands behind his back. 

“Mmm,” he hummed as you did it. 

“Good boy,” you told him, making him blush. His eyes lazily danced across your face in bemusement.  “Now I'm gonna go change,”  you said. 

-

You returned in a black lingerie set – a lacy top over a strappy, crotchless bottom. You had tucked Frankie’s old pistol into the back of the bottom piece. The cool metal made your skin tighten with goosebumps all over. 

You slowly approached Tom and watched his eyes consume you. Without sitting down, you straddled him so you were standing with your tits in his face. You let him play. He nuzzled his head into your breasts, then nosed at a nipple. 

“Fuck me,” he whispered, then took one into his mouth, through the lace. 

“God, you worthless shit,” you laughed with faux affection. 

“Heh,” Tom chuckled sadly against your tit.

He didn’t notice you reach for the gun. You used the barrel to massage yourself through your underwear. He glanced down, then his eyes snapped back up to you. “Whoa, careful with that,” he laughed nervously with the barrel pointing right at his dick as you slid the cool metal against the lace covering your mound. 

“This is Frankie’s,” you said wistfully and raised the gun to admire it. You used the barrel to nudge his chin so he looked at you. He froze. “You’re gonna suck Frankie’s dick now,” you nodded and slid the barrel up his jaw, then nudged his lips with the muzzle. 

His breathing was heavier and faster. His eyes were less sleepy. 

He maneuvered to dodge the barrel. “Listen, sweetie,” he started. “Are you okay? Maybe we’ll just  — maybe. . .  watch a movie tonight,” his voice trailed off as your face made it clear you were not fucking around. 

“Open.” You grabbed his jaw. “It’s the least you can do, Tom.” 

Tom swallowed. “Okay,” he whispered. “You’re right.” He let the muzzle into his mouth. 

“Good,” you whispered. “Go on.”

You pushed the barrel further into his mouth. “Suck it, Tom. Suck Frankie’s cock.” 

His face whitened as he began to hesitantly bob his head. 

“If it weren’t for you, I’d be sucking Frankie’s real cock right now,” you reminded him and watched dread fall over his face. He hardly moved at all. 

“You can do better than that.” You pushed the gun further into his mouth and his teeth hit the metal. “Good,” you whispered as he took as much of the pistol as he could. You held the back of his head and fucked his mouth with the gun. He looked up at you pleadingly and whined incoherently. You mercifully let the barrel out of his mouth, a string of drool falling down his chin. 

“Look,” his face was serious and his tone was more sober. “I know you’re devastated. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. We can–” 

“Shut up.” You crossed your wrists behind his head and lowered yourself onto his lap. Your most sensitive area met his semi-hard bulge and you let out a moan. 

“Oh, Tom,” you sighed, impressed. 

As it turned out, there was one area where Tom didn't fall short, and your body wouldn't let you ignore it.  “Fuck,” you whispered as he hardened beneath you. You were throbbing against him. The adrenaline already had your blood flowing, and now it was flowing south. His cock twitched against you. His breath was shallow.

He watched your face carefully. He was as quiet and still as a mouse. 

“Got him killed, and now you wanna fuck his girl, don’t ya?”

Tom nodded hesitantly. 

You scoffed. “With friends like you,” you started. “Pathetic.”  A subtle lift of his hips took all your thoughts away as his warm, hard package rubbed against your front. You had never hate fucked someone before. . . With the gun still behind his head, you nudged the nape of his neck with the muzzle and he flinched. “You’re not gonna say a word,” you warned. Then you reached down between you and feverishly unbuttoned his cargo pants. 

You reached into his boxers and gasped at the smooth heat of his naked girth against your palm. “Jesus,” you whispered as you took it out. A hint of cockiness tugged at the corner of his mouth before he appeared to remember his imminent doom.

With your gun hand, you braced yourself using the back of his neck for leverage. You took your thong to the side, then spit on  your hand and wiped it on his dick. God how you hated this man. You lined yourself up, then sank down with a rush of pleasure to your chest as your cunt slowly swallowed his thick length. You closed your eyes and thought of Frankie as you began to roll your hips. Your heart was racing. 

He moaned nearly silently as you fucked yourself on his massive cock. You got wetter and wetter. You could feel Frankie’s presence. You could practically smell his scent wafting off of Tom. You could feel the ghost of Frankie’s hands on your ass and practically hear his whispers in your ear. Should’ve ridden his face, he said in your head and you breathed out a laugh as you rode him.

You let out a sigh and Tom shuddered. You imagined Frankie’s brown eyes looking deep into yours, and your walls twitched around Tom’s cock. You whimpered as you came. 

“Fuck,” Tom murmured through gritted teeth as you choked his cock.Then he erupted inside you. You groaned as his warm spend flooded your core. 

-

When you were finished, you sat there on his cock and you both read each other’s faces. He knew his time was up. You took the safety off the gun. 

“What a way to go,” Tom muttered in resignation. He winced as you squeezed him with an aftershock.

“You took him from me, Tom.” 

“I know, honey,” he agreed. “It’s okay. Kid's better off with the life insurance.” 

The next few seconds felt like minutes. Your heart raced and you could see Tom’s heartbeat in his neck. 

Tom took a deep breath. “Just put it in my mouth.” He nodded. “And pull the trigger,” he whispered. 

His gaze was apologetic as the muzzle once again nudged his lips. He closed his eyes with his softening cock still sheathed in your warmth.  You didn’t feel a thing as the hammer clicked under your thumb.

-----

-----

Thank you for reading!

my main masterlist

[dykedvonte]

Curly not immediately punishing Jimmy for assaulting Anya is something I don’t think a lot of people are viewing in the complex context for Curly as the superior to both of them and closest confidante they had.

Like I am in no way saying he didn’t under react or fail Anya by not being harsh or direct with Jimmy but it really is the case that he really couldn’t. Imagine being stuck in such a confined space with very little areas to genuinely hold someone if they commit a crime. It’s not like this was an event that occurred before they departed or that they have easy communication with The Pony Express to ask for how to proceed when something like this arises. Not to mention, Jimmy’s relative power in relation to Anya as the co-pilot and second in command, he has the knowledge and access to do something to her had Curly directly punished him in this setting.

They were also Curly’s friends. It’s not just the case of him mediating something between his subordinates but people he is personally invested in don’t want to see spiral further in Anya’s case while also not wanting believe his friend go that bad in Jimmy’s actions. They were both suicidal and Curly putting Jimmy’s stability first is both out of bias but also the fact he’s aware at some level Jimmy is a danger to himself and others if not constantly placated. Combined with the fact he was in denial or just not piecing together what Anya said it’s hard to say what he buying time for and what he had treat as urgent. This isn’t even saying he doesn’t care about Anya but he’s not going jump to the worst conclusions about his friends even if part of him acknowledges the evidence saying so. It’s a complicated thing but he’s still human and needed to process it on top of trying to keep a ship that already took on a lot of water from further sinking, metaphorically.

I just personally think that while Curly failed Anya, it was a scenario where there wasn’t much he could do to the best thing by her safely and like Jimmy, we are underestimating what a good leader would do in a very fragile and tense situation like he was in. By the time he may have been ready and had a plan, things were much too late.

[blessthosewhocurseyou]

Ah it always throws me when a show narrative gets to be about suicide

Man

[lewkwoodnco]

the tortured poets department - george karim x reader

George stiffened and shut his eyes regretfully as if he couldn’t bear to see that look on her face. A faint flush started creeping up his throat, peeking out from behind his starchy collar. “Don’t,” he whispered.

“Tell me,” she pressed, taking yet another step closer until their noses were barely an inch apart, “who else is going to know me? Truly know me?”

He let go of the breath he was holding and it fluttered across her cheek like the ghost of a kiss. They were venturing into intolerably intimate territory, and she could feel her pulse racing under the distracted brush of his thumb on her wrist.

a/n - HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH thats it thats the a/n also happy birthday to ali hadji-hesmati ia m NOT late shut up

tropes/warnings - slight nsfw towards the end (idk tho??), angst (what else is new lmao), tw slight mention of suicide, ft locklyle wedding (a bit) happy ending tho, i am very sick wrote this entirely on my phone and cannot be held accountable for any of this

word count - 3.7k!

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST

Who uses typewriters anyway?

That was what she had mouthed at her friend from across the Fittes office. They were brand new hires; scribes assigned to different researchers under an apprenticeship programme. Things were off to a rougher start than she had expected. From what she could see, her friend had been assigned to a perfectly normal-looking researcher who, now that introductions were complete, was explaining his filing system to her.

On the other hand, the first thing her oddly intense researcher had asked was if she knew how to use a typewriter. She had laughed, thinking it was a joke, before very quickly realising that he was being perfectly serious. He started explaining how the contraption worked far too quickly for her to catch anything, and she had taken the chance to shoot her friend a look.

“L/N?”

She whipped her head back around, immediately apologetic. “Sorry. I think I get how it works now.” Really, it was just bad luck that she had gotten the short end of the stick.

The next thing she learnt, over many months, was how to pick up on and decrypt George’s nonverbal cues. Namely, knowing what his every sigh, muttering or frown meant. While it had felt frustrating similar to banging her head against a wall in the beginning, he started to grow on her. Learning how George Karim ticked was like figuring out an intriguing puzzle all on her own. Besides, he wasn’t unkind. He could be understanding, so long as he had the patience for it on that particular day.

But there were times when she decided that no, he wasn’t all that compassionate of a coworker. Particularly on nights when he’d have her write up chapters worth of research summarised from his scrawled notes. And woe betide her should she make one too many mistakes.

Who the hell uses typewriters anyway?

"Do you ever think about leaving Fittes?"

Her typing stopped abruptly, her flickering train of thought completely demolished by George's appalling suggestion. They were sitting at their adjacent desks at the Fittes office, her typing up the previous night's case report while George twiddled his thumbs and fiddled with a pen in increasingly creative ways.

"Leave? And go where?"

She followed the line of his hateful stare towards one of the thick metal doors along the corridor which led to a more restricted part of the offices. Like most others, she felt no pressing inclination to snoop around and stumble upon information she would rather not find. But for someone like George, she could practically see how it gnawed at him - libraries of secrets just begging to be known.

Her gaze flitted anxiously between his face and the door. It was both a frightening and thrilling thing when George decided to put his mind to something, using his brain at its full capacity in some sincerely earnest hunt for knowledge. It was also the thing that was going to get him killed sooner or later, mesmerising as he was. It. Mesmerising as it was.

"Start our own agency. Play by our rules."

She laughed nervously, too artificial even for her own ears as she wrung her stiff hands. George's voice had a distant quality to it that told her he was on the way to making some very bad decisions if she didn't step in soon. "Oh, George, you say the…the darnedest things. You're no Tom Rotwell, you know."

"You're not Marissa Fittes yourself, either."

"Rude."

His gaze flickered to her at that, the barest hint of a smile ghosting his lips as the tension in his shoulders dissolved. She visibly relaxed as well, satisfied that it would be a decent while before he once again latched onto this bizarre notion.

Which was why his abrupt switch in employment to some small, crumbling agency had left her more than shell-shocked. Coming into work on a normal, gloomy Monday and seeing George's desk cleared out and painfully sterile of the ideas and theories he buzzed with left her feeling lost at sea in the worst way. And he didn't bother to reach out to her either - not a call, not a letter, not a visit.

That is, not a visit until he turned up at her door in the middle of the night, pale as the Visitors that skulked outside her door.

"Sorry.”

For one stupidly miraculous moment, she thought he might be apologising for a month’s worth of grey days and sleepless nights.

“I know it’s late, but I think I left my typewriter here."

She felt stupidly disappointed.

"You're making a mess of my - what are you doing?"

George had located his otherwise untouched typewriter positioned at one corner of her dining table and was now furiously typing away, a sickly, pallid sheen to his forehead.

"Don't worry, I'll be qui -"

"Karim."

His typing faltered, and for once he had the decency to look marginally embarrassed.

“Sit down. Start from the beginning.”

So he did. He told her everything about some Type Two case at 62 Sheen Road, short of coming out and saying that he had put his associates' lives in danger, but she could hear it in his voice. It was an almost welcome return to the old days of picking out the relevant parts while his mind ran ahead at the speed of light; so much to think and agonise over. When his voice finally started to run thin, she fetched him a cup of tea, taking a moment to process it all.

"Okay, so, if I have this right, none of this is your fault. No - don't argue with me. Drink your tea. You told him to wait, that you needed more time.“

He mumbled something incoherent as he pulled off his glasses, dragging a hand across his eyes, looking far too young and worn. He glanced up to meet her gaze, the look on his face as much of a wreck as the rest of him. He looked down again, staring at his hands splayed on her dining table. George never was one for letting his feelings show, let alone hysterics, and it rubbed at something raw to see him spiralling this badly.

“They’d be better off with a researcher who could actually do his job.”

She suppressed the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes.

“Oh, please, this has nothing to do with being altruistic. This is just you trying to punish yourself over something that isn’t even your fault.”

He showed no sign of having heard her. She sighed and slid into the seat next to his, her fingers nearly brushing his.

“Look - what's done is done. Possibly the worst thing you could do now is leave them in the lurch like this. Of course, it's not going to be smooth sailing throughout, but you made a commitment, so for the love of God keep your head up and stick it through.” She reached out to loosely cover his wrist. “Okay?”

George stayed silent but glanced up at her. Okay. She pulled her hand away. He finished the last of his tea and stood.

“I should get going, I suppose.”

She looked out the window, eyeing the eerie green glow of the ghost lamps critically. “It’s a bit late, don’t you think? Not very safe.”

“I have my rapier on me.”

The corners of her mouth tightened.

“I’d feel better if you left in the morning.”

And so they ended up in her living room, him sitting on the floor and her sitting on the couch, dragging her fingers through his soft curls. They talked about everything and nothing, like the recent layoffs at Rotwell’s and what George’s new associates were like. He made them sound marvellous. It was obvious why he’d leave Fittes. Why he’d leave her.

“The three of us…we live at 35 Portland Row.”

“Mhm.”

“And there’s this doughnut shop down the street from there.”

She lightly scraped his scalp teasingly.

“So that’s why you left.”

She could feel him smile despite himself.

“We should go, someday. You’d love it.”

A vision trickled into her imagination - she and George standing at the end of some empty cobblestoned road with soft, pillowy doughnuts dripping sugar down their knuckles, sprinkles melting into their fingerprints. It’s evening, and the sun is almost painfully intense, beating down a lovely glow over the scene. She’s distantly aware of the impending danger of the rapidly approaching nighttime, but for now, George is standing in front of her in a soft shirt, the edges of his face kind and blunt, the almost permanent furrow of his brow melted away in the liquid sun, reaching out to swipe a thumb at the corner of her mouth -

“Get some rest.” Her voice was thick with a longing for such golden yet treacherously illusory days. George leaned back, resting his head on the couch with half-lidded eyes, his breathing evening out as he drifted off. She gently slipped her fingers out of his hair. She gently pulled his glasses off but before she could put them someplace safe, she was out like a light herself.

She had a fitful sleep and blearily woke up a few hours later, George’s head an oddly comforting weight against her knee. She groggily pulled herself up and tossed a blanket at the figure slumped against her couch before fetching a glass of water and some paracetamol.

Shortly after, George lurched awake like he was sweating out a fever, heart thudding and eyes restless. He groaned, no doubt wincing at the pounding behind his eyes. He caught sight of the water and medicine placed next to him but looked away after a moment of consideration. She raised her eyebrows pointedly, knowing only too well the kind of hell his overactive mind was capable of putting him through.

“How’s your head?”

She hadn’t meant to sound that sarcastic, but it was enough for him to get the hint. He relented, taking a sip of water and then one of the pills just for good measure.

"Good. Now go home and get some proper rest, you moron."

She watched him stumble down the road till he turned the corner, trying to hide how shaken she was by his panic. She sighed wearily. Only a month at Lockwood & Co. and already he would be a desperate wreck without them. She turned back inside, trying to ignore how empty her dining table looked without his typewriter and how vacant she felt without that flimsy excuse for him to see her again.

Years passed. She and George somewhat kept in touch, but it had still been extremely startling when Lockwood & Co. reached out to her with plans to expose her employer, Marissa Fittes. Amongst the tragedy of Portland Row being reduced to rubble, Kipps nearly dying and the Skull almost moving on, unemployment was the least of her concerns.

Still, it wasn’t all sad once Lucy had proposed to Lockwood after one too many failed attempts by the latter party. They had planned a relatively intimate affair, only inviting some old friends of the ex-Fittes employees of the group.  

They held it at an inexpensive banquet hall just a few minutes away from Portland Row. Lucy looked gorgeous and glowing with happiness under the gentle warm lighting, and Lockwood looked dashing in a suit not much more formal than his regular one. He spent the majority of the reception denying that he had teared up at the first glimpse of Lucy at the end of the aisle, insisting that his best man was a pathological liar.

After the main event, the guests milled around, having drinks, and occasionally congratulating the happy couple. As expected, Lockwood became very drunk very quickly, enough to pull out some terribly nonsensical yet oddly stirring comment.

“Here’s to the first day of the rest of our lives.”

She glanced across at George. He met her eye. They immediately looked away. She could have sworn she felt a hitch of some breath between them. She felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes. Lucy was desperately trying to shut up an overly emotional and hence overly talkative Lockwood who looked ready to launch into a speech no one asked for.

“That’s enough now, or we’ll have Kipps bawling all through dinner.”

It wasn’t exactly a sit-down dinner, though there was appropriate seating. Half of the guests were eating and the other half were having fun with some party games. She was watching Holly struggle at Twister when she felt someone slide into the seat next to hers - namely, the best man, George.

“Hey.”

She grinned, flushed from the champagne she had been sipping all evening. “Hey.”

“Having fun?”

“Lots.”

He couldn’t help but return her smile, looking a little tipsy himself. “I can tell.”

They ate in silence for a while, only the tinny sound of the radio’s strain and cheers from the party games filling the space between them.

“I think I missed you at the bouquet toss earlier.”

She nearly swallowed her spoon. He had noticed? He noticed her? She didn't know how to tell him that she couldn't see herself marrying anyone that wasn't him. How could she wake up every day knowing her better half was somewhere out there miles away, wondering if he wished for someone as moron-shaped as her?

“Oh, well, that’s not really my thing. More of a bridesmaid than a bride.”

She resumed eating, presuming that line of conversation to be over until she noticed he was still looking at her strangely, his cutlery stationary in his hands. Her chewing slowed in an attempt at dignity.

“…what?”

He lifted her right hand off her knife, making her heart thud dangerously. Wordlessly, he pulled off the sapphire ring on her middle finger and oh-so-delicately slid it onto her ring finger instead.

“I think you’d make a wonderful bride.”

She stared at the ring, speechless. It wasn’t a proposal, but it wasn’t nothing either. Maybe…maybe this was a second chance at something. Maybe he wouldn’t screw this up this time.

He almost reluctantly relinquished his grip on her hand. She didn’t dare meet his eye. Even his voice, quiet yet slightly rough, felt unbearable to hear.

“Were you mad? When I left without telling you?”

She had waited months to hear those words.

“I wished you'd talked to me about it first. Just...just to make sure your head was screwed on straight.”

He nodded, and they returned to their food, the silence a lot less giddily amicable now.

“So, would you have - “

“Absolutely not. God, no. I would have told you to stay ten feet away from Anthony Lockwood at all times.”

They looked over to where Lucy was helping Lockwood sit down, having unfortunately thrown his back out at Limbo. She winced. “He’s such a wild card.”

“I suppose I am too.”

She turned, curious, and he looked as though he regretted letting that slip out. Her voice dropped, taking on a softer edge.

“Not to me. Not when it’s you.”

He stared at her like there was something bloodied and hungry behind his eyes. She felt this twinge of something in her chest. Oh, how could she bear this? How could she bear him?

Sometimes, part of her wished she were a book - one completely enthralling and riveting, chock-full of secrets eager to slip out and lose themselves in thin air. Perhaps that was just a manifestation of her paralysing desire to be known and to be known by him.

“I should go,” George was saying as he finished up the last of his food. He stood, wiping his mouth, wandering off to find his coat. Maybe it was the liquor or the unfamiliar buzz of hope in the air tonight, but there was some odd tone of finality to his voice. She watched him leave, chewing her food thoughtfully, not feeling very hungry anymore.

As the minutes trickled by, it began to feel exhausting to be surrounded by so many happy couples, happy people, all that revolting joy and merriment. Only a short while after George had left, she located her own coat and weeded Lucy out of a throng of people doing the Macarena.

“I think I might head out now. Congratulations once again, Luce.”

“You too? Aww, thanks. Have you decided about the job offer from Madison?”

“I haven’t written back yet, but I think I’m going to turn them down. I was thinking about talking to Lockwood someday to see if he could take on one more employee. Plus, Madison’s a bit far out, and I’m pretty comfortable where I am.”

“Good. George might have just offed himself if it weren’t for his course at Edinburgh. I mean,” Lucy tripped over her words over the stunned look on her face, “I’m sure he was just kidding.”

“Hang on. Edinburgh?”

“Yeah. For his supervisor training. Did he not tell you? I thought for sure he…”

Lucy’s words muffled into oblivion and bled into some horrible ringing sound. Her mouth felt painfully dry. No. This couldn’t be happening.

“…he wanted to wait till after the wedding to tell Lockwood. Didn’t want to put a damper on things. Don’t get me wrong - I’m just as cut up about it, but…” They looked over to where Lockwood was watching the limbo game from afar with a forlorn expression. “…you know Lockwood.”

“What the hell, George.”

He jumped, freezing with his hand buried deep in his pocket, tediously hunting for his keys. She had managed to catch him at the front porch of Portland Row, looking especially guilty under the tepid glow of the ghost lamps.

“You’re training to become a supervisor?”

His face briefly twisted in annoyance. The audacity. “I told Lucy in confidence -“

“When were you going to tell me, Karim? Or were you just going to let me find out all on my own, like last time?” She wanted to laugh cruelly. There was nothing merciful about this knife in her chest. “I mean, why do this? Why lead me on and make me feel things and give me hope?”

“When have I ever led you on?”

“Then what was all that with my ring? Huh?” Tears sprang to her eyes once again, hot and shameful, stinging like a caustic disinfectant to an open wound. She felt so, so stupid.

“You said you didn’t care.”

“I did care!” she snapped. “Of course I fucking cared. I don’t think I could have stopped myself from caring, not when I know you like the back of my hand.”

“But you don’t care. No - tomorrow you’re going to board a train and move out of my reach and meet someone new to soothe the turmoil in your head and you won’t feel my heart bleeding for you. And if you’re very, very lucky, you might find some semblance of happiness -“

“I weigh you down!” The tirade died at her lips. Fury lined every shadow, every crevice of George’s face. He spat his words out with such venom, utter distaste. “I weigh you down…like a child. You pick me up when I fall down and kiss it better because that’s the kind of person you are. I can’t sentence you to a lifetime of running around trying to save me. I won’t do it. I’ll find someone else.”

A burden. He looked through her eyes and all he saw was a shrivelled excuse of a companion, dragging her into his depths of despair. She’d be lying if she said she never felt suffocated by his baggage. But there were some burdens you didn’t mind shouldering, not when you loved them so tenderly.

After all, who was going to unravel his every pause, stutter, sigh, and ache as she did?

“But who else is going to decode you like I do?”

George stiffened and shut his eyes regretfully as if he couldn’t bear to see that look on her face. A faint flush started creeping up his throat, peeking out from behind his starchy collar. “Don’t,” he whispered.

“Tell me,” she pressed, taking yet another step closer until their noses were barely an inch apart, “who else is going to know me? Truly know me?”

He let go of the breath he was holding and it fluttered across her cheek like the ghost of a kiss. They were venturing into intolerably intimate territory, and she could feel her pulse racing under the distracted brush of his thumb on her wrist.

There was a brooding, resigned look in his eye as if whatever he had been running from had finally caught up to him. He bowed his head and their foreheads touched. Her arms nervously reached around his neck, his hands on her waist steadying her as if to keep their balance on whatever strand of peace the moment had proffered them.

Her lips hovered over his shoulder, clavicle and jaw. She felt him reflexively tighten and loosen his grip, restless fingers fiddling with the folds of her dress and how they wrapped around her body. She brushed against the shell of his ear and felt a shiver run up his spine.

“Who else is going to hold you…like me?”

He turned a fraction and she briefly registered the lack of hesitation in his dark eyes before he finally closed the last of the gap between them. He pressed his lips to hers, soft yet intentional. He tasted like champagne and smoke and promises long-forgotten yet unbroken. It was a dizzying sort of relief to feel that years-old desperate want coiled inside finally melt through arms and fingertips buzzing with curiosity.

After that first touch, it felt as though they couldn’t get close enough, let alone pull themselves apart and have the brisk evening air rush in and nip at sensitive skin. She heard the doorknob rattle as George fumbled with it. After a short struggle, they stumbled into a nearly pitch-dark Portland Row, urgently shucking off each other’s coats and scarves. Her mind was running a mile a minute, her scalp tingling with electricity; white noise over the scrape of his teeth against her skittering pulse.

Her thoughts fragmented. At Fittes. In his room. In her apartment. His typewriter sitting glossy, polished, untouched, maddening -

George Karim was the most affected prick she had the misfortune of knowing. It was bad, bad luck that she was so irrevocably tied to him.

TAGLIST: @cielooci @mohinithoughts @neewtmas @snoopyluver20 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @ahead-fullofdreams @elenianag080 @avdiobliss @mischivana @mitskiswift99

[desire-mona]

realising none of u have seen my writing before which is. a good thing probably. anyway i thrive best in letter writing format so here's a letter todd wrote to neil after he took a gun induced nap

(obvious tw for death and suicide and general grief adjacent feelings)

-

December 20th, 1959

Neil,

I’ve tried to write this about 7 separate times now, but I feel like I can never get the right combination of words to properly describe how I’m feeling. I don't really know why I’m writing this in the first place, I know you won't be able to read it. I guess I don't need a reason. I don't think I’ll be able to get it right no matter how many times I try, so forgive me if this doesn't make sense.

It's been about 5 days since you killed yourself passed and I still can't confidently say that it feels real. Mr. Keating got fired, Charlie got expelled, Cameron was behind all of it, and I can’t even bring myself to hate him for it. I'm angry, obviously, I’ve never been more furious with anyone in my life, but something in me knows that you wouldn't have hated him either. Things like that have been running through my mind a lot, I find myself operating under what I think you would’ve done, or at least wanted me to do. I hope I’m getting it right. I yelled at Cameron after he ratted us out, and it wasn't like those times before, nobody expected it of me. I like to think you would’ve been proud of me for that.

It's really quiet without you here, in ways that I didn't think I’d notice. You were never all that loud, which I appreciated, but even the small things being gone make me feel like I'm going insane. It's hard getting to sleep without hearing your breathing from across the room. Is that creepy? Sorry. Sometimes I open the window just so I can hear anything but silence. I usually just end up wondering how people can go about their days when someone so important is dead. How are people laughing and enjoying themselves when it feels like my entire world came to a screeching halt? How dare they continue with their lives without even acknowledging how much has changed? That’s about when I close the window, our the room starts to get cold after a while.

I'm trying to stay that more confident version of myself that you were helping me become, I could tell you liked a more outgoing Todd. I think he was buried with you, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to dig him back up. I hope that’s okay, I know how patient you were with me. Thank you for that by the way, you were the first person to give me the time of day when it came to that. It was really special, I wish I had the chance to tell you. There are a lot of things I wish I had the chance to tell you, you were the only person I ever wanted to say things like that to. I'm really sorry that I never did, I realize now that it probably would’ve done you some good to hear it. God only knows how little kindness your father gave you, if I had known how bad it was then I would’ve you deserved better than that. You deserved a lot more than what the world gave you, I think we all do. No amount of sorry’s can fix that.

I miss being near you.

I miss you.

I miss having you around. I’d forgive you if you came back and told us it was all a joke. I wouldn’t be mad at all, I promise.

- Todd Anderson

[heartfullofleeches]

This is such a silly and stupid idea but I am desperate for a Yandere x Reader where the Yandere is this extremely paranoid/depressed fuck who thinks the world is diseased and the only way for it to get clean is to get rid of all human life on it, they are willing to kill for a "better cause" and have absolutely no mercy...and then there is Reader (the only person they don't hate entirely), who is into Eurodance, is extremely positive and is a complete fashion disaster who believes it is good in everything and everyone.

This is very much based on my recent obsession with Planet of the Bass but let's not talk about it lol.

I just want these two completely opposite bitches to try and teach each other their points of view while one slowly falls in love with the other

[Here's a blurbo I had in limbo with a similar plot. Yan is indeed depressed/hates the world and Reader's moreso into rave because I dunno anything about Eurodance. Tw: themes of suicide]

This is it. Their final night alive.

They'd done all they needed. Returned a book collecting dust on their desk. Disposed of the tools used on corpses in some other lake to keep their name from more attention. It's crazy how in their last moments all that mattered was the thoughts and options of those who lead them to this fate. How disgusting. They did their victims a favor by leaving them nameless. The murky waters below reflect a dread known long before the plunge. There is nothing waiting for them. Not here. Not on the other side.

Their final night alive. Or so it would have been.

Right as they climbed on the bridge's ledge, back facing the sky, small beads of light rose from the hill adjacent. The tiny orbs merge into separate distinct figures on the horizon. Wheeling onto the scene, the group ride with vehicles unusual for the terrain. Rollerskates, skateboards, electric scooters. They wear some matter of bright clothing with glowsticks and lights dangling from their person in flashy jewelry and attached to headphones they wore. They all seemed to be equipped with some type of earwear and dancing to their own beat while still moving as one.

The group stop at the other side of the road, all oblivious to the shadow lurking across the way. They glared - climbing down from the ledge and sitting upon it, seething. The group may not notice them now, but they'd surely catch on at most inconvenient time. It would seem their presence wasn't completely ignored as one head turns their way. One of the figures wearing skates waves, pointing to one of the many necklaces around their neck. The shadow avoids their smile, praying they get the message.

They don't.

Sparkling wheels crunch over gravel. "Hey."

Silence.

They remove their headphones. "Hey!"

Nothing. Persisting, the person wheels over to the railing, leaning against it as they breath in the salty air. "Long drop down. Won't be quick."

As if that would deter them.

"I won't get on your case. We've all been there at some point. Life sucks, and then you did. Feels like your taking control by going out on your own terms, but you won't and may never will. That's why it's important to enjoy the little things. It's why I hang out with those guys. We get together every once and a while. Party on wheels as some of us call it. Lots of fun."

The party-goer takes off their headphones and places their music player on the railing. "This is what I listen to when I'm down. Maybe it can help you. Maybe not - but I'd like you to return it some day. My name is Y/n, by the way. Just so you know when we meet again."

You take off your necklace and offer it to them. They take it - just to get you to leave them alone. You solemnly wave again, returning to your group and taking over the mantle of carrying the portable speaker another brought with them. You take their arm, balancing skillfully on your wheels as you dance the fleeting night away with no care of the coming dawn.

Your type were the worse of all. Giving them more tasks to complete before they departed from this miserable world. They hated carrying the duties given by others on their shoulders so much they couldn't pass on, but looking at your smiling face, sorting through the music that got you through the toughest - they couldn't see themselves from fulfilling their end of the deal you set anywhere in the near future.

For once in their life living in someone's else's shadow didn't seem so bad.

[autism-autobot]

LMK Angst Fic Part 5

Author's note: I think there need to be more platonic and friendship cuddling in media and in the world, so here we are. (Definitely not touch starved nope not me!)

Part 4:

It was around three in the morning in the celestial realm. Nezha had become accustomed to sleeping beside Sun Wukong every night and had even begun to enjoy it despite the reason why they started doing it. He had always thought of Wukong as a good friend and companion, which he didn't have very many of thanks to his workaholic attitude. Him and Wukong had even become quite comfortable with each other.

Nezha was aroace and Wukong still considered himself spoken for since his previous marriage had ended in death and not divorce. So it was as platonic as could be. However, they were both touch-starved and emotionally neglected as children, so there's that.

Wukong and Nezha had grown used to falling asleep snuggled up next to each other, with limbs tangled in weird form around each other. But neither of them were exactly still while they slept, so Nezha wasn't immediately concerned when he couldn't feel Wukong next to him when he flopped his arm around beside him to try and find the monkey he'd grown so close to.

Until he heard the whimpering.

That can't be good.

Nezha bolted upright in the bed. He searched the dark room for his friend's ginger-colored fur. He found it at the edge of the bed.

After clambering over to Wukong's side he gently and quietly asked:

Nezha: Wukong, are you awake? What's the matter?

SWK: *sobbing* I-it's my head! It's hurting! It hurts so bad! Please-

Nezha: Shhhhh, Wukong. It's alright. I'm here, it's okay. You'll be okay.

Nezha had become accustomed to Wukong's post-circlet migraines and various other symptoms of Wukong's traumas. It seemed as though even after Wukong had learned to cope with the physical damage done to him, his body had not, and was therefore having it's own posttraumatic episodes.

Nezha had found ways to sooth him luckily.

Nezha laid Wukong in his original position on his side of their shared bed and put an ice pack on his forehead. He then lit some incense and lightly wafted the fumes in Wukong's direction so he could smell it. That was more to soothe the monkey's panic than anything.

After laying back down beside Wukong, Nezha wrapped an arm around his chest.

Nezha: Are you comfortable enough?

SWK: I think so.....*gasps*

Nezha: Wukong what-

SWK: Hot flash. Don't worry, it's already over. Gosh, that felt bad.

Nezha: It will be alright my friend. I am here.

SWK: Thank you. For everything.

Nezha: No problem, I quite enjoy your company. I just wish you weren't in pain as often as you are.

SWK: You and me both.

~~~

They slept for a few more hours before getting up. Sun Wukong tended to be very weak during and after a migraine, as was the design of the circlet he once wore. Nezha helped him to the downstairs living room and set him up on the couch.

SWK: Ow.

Nezha: Sorry.

SWK: Nah, it's fine. I should be the one saying sorry to you.

Nezha: Whatever do you mean by that?

SWK: You're always having to help me out with stuff and getting me out of trouble.

Nezha: That is only half true. Besides, I do not mind taking care of you.

SWK: But don't you think of me as weak for needing help like this?

Nezha: No, not really. If I did, however, I'd be the world's biggest hypocrite.

SWK: What? How so?

Nezha went into the adjacent closet and pulled out a wheelchair, it was the active kind too, unlike the bulky ones you'd find in the hospital.

Nezha: I haven't told you this before, I probably should've by now but, I guess I share similar insecurities.

Nezha: I am disabled. I'm an ambulatory wheelchair user, meaning I can walk about easily at times, while others I cannot.

Nezha: That is also why I have my fire wheels, sash, and staff. They are mobility devices. Albeit they are a bit atypical.

SWK: Cool!

Nezha: Really? You think they're cool?

SWK: Well, yeah! I think that type of stuff is pretty interesting. I get why you wouldn't exactly want to show it off though.

Nezha: Thank you. Perhaps if you are ever needing some help after a migraine or other health complication, you can use one of my many wheelchairs! I hardly use most of them anymore, it's nice to have backups. Just in case.

SWK: Thanks for the offer. Maybe I'll give one a spin after I feel a little bit better. I still feel like my head will explode if I sit up.

Nezha: Alright then. I'll park this one next to you so you can have an easy transition when you are ready.

SWK: Thanks again.

Nezha: You are quite welcome.

Part 6:

Masterpost

[aftgficrec]

It open!

Is there any new Nicky and or/twinyard centred fics or any Kevin wymack bonding ones?

Or wymack parenting the other foxes?

Thank you in Advance

There is a lot here, so we split this up.  You can find fics about Nicky and the twinyards here, both canon compliant (or at least adjacent) and AUs.  Find Kevin & Wymack bonding here and Wymack parenting the Foxes here. - S

Previous recs:

Nicky with both or one twin here - see the extensive list on previous recs in this post

Nicky parenting the twins here 

new twinyards bonding here - also features many previous recs

Nicky & depression here

Nicky-centric fics here

big brother Nicky here

bad days-andreil & nerik here

angst w/comfort for andreil and nerik here

Nicky after thanksgiving here

Nicky in germany 2 here

long distance soft nerik here

‘AFTG/TFC minifics… ch 84’ here

‘Afterthoughts ch 90’ here

‘A two-man team’, ‘Something Good’, ‘Love is Patient, Love is Kind’ here

‘It’s a love story, baby’ here

Nicky-centric:

All We Got Was Bruised by Rose_vine [Rated M, 48214 words, complete, 2024]

They sent people to Camp Full Point to change them. Nicky was a boy made of secrets and lies, and he had broken a long time ago. Camp Full Point might just be the thing that kills him. Or, Nicky's parents send him to Conversion Camp. This is that story.

tw: violence, tw: blood, tw: conversion therapy, tw: electroconvulsive therapy, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: religious guilt, tw: implied/referenced homophobia, tw: internalized homophobia, tw: restricted eating

Struggling in Silence by Ciara_Westford [Rated M, 34487 words, incomplete, last updated July 2024]

Nicky has been struggling with his mental health for a while. He tries to hide it from the others, but after a more or less public meltdown, he can't hide it any longer. The other foxes, as well as Wymack, Abby and Betsy want to help him, but Nicky doesn't know how to accept help from others.

tw: depression, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: conversion therapy, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks, tw: nightmares, tw: vomit, tw: implied/referenced self harm

Holy and free by sapphosgaycousin [Rated M, 2871 words, complete, 2024]

„Will you come to mass with us for Easter?“ That’s how it all started to go south. When Erik’s mother had asked him to attend church with them on Easter Sunday, Nicky had said yes without thinking twice. What bad could happen, right?

tw: ptsd, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: religious trauma, tw: vomit

Nicky is the sun that shines even through the clouds series by ThePureMonster [Rated E/G, 21452 words, 2 complete works, 2024]

Part 1: We'll pray for you, honey (E, 15038 words)

"Homosexuality is a sin. Homosexuals are doomed to burn in hell forever, if they want to change, they can be healed. By rejecting temptation, they will become normal again. They must try and make more efforts if it doesn't work." That's what Nicky had been hearing all his life. And he really tried his best until one day he stopped. Nicky's difficult path to himself.

tw: violence, tw: child abuse, tw: rape/noncon, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: homophobia, tw: conversion therapy, tw: depression, tw: religious trauma

Part 2: We love you, Nicky (G, 6414 words)

Five times when the Foxes learn a little more about Nicky's terrible past. And one time Nicky feels confident enough to open his heart and tell them the truth.

tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon

Du bist der Einzige für mich by Anonymous [Rated G, 772 words, complete, 2024]

Nicky gets jealous, Erik reassures him.

A little crush turned into a like by HereBeChickens [Rated T, 3814 words, complete, Aftg Mixtape Exchange 2024]

In the end, it’s his German teacher that works everything out. Or, Nicky's year in Germany with his host brother that he totally does not have a crush on and his feelings that he totally has under control.

tw: implied/referenced homophobia, tw: implied/referenced conversion therapy, tw: implied/referenced suicidal thoughts

I'm never gonna not dance again by Acetober (allfortheBoyds) [Rated T, 7023 words, complete, 2023]

Pole dancing, as it turns out, is fucking hard. Even the simplest swing requires a type of body control Nicky doesn‘t think he‘ll ever be able to possess. He tries anyway and with a few tries and tips from Dan he manages a decent performance. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Kevin - looking as grumpy as ever - strap into a pair of hot pink heels. He wobbles around like an oversized newborn fawn. or 5 times Nicky danced in front of other people +1 time he danced only for himself (and Erik)

Twinyards-focussed:

Come across the universe between you and I by bInTheMoon [Rated M, 4258 words, complete, 2024]

“Aaron! Wake!” “Hey,” Aaron answered his twin, who was crouched at his side and staring at him. “I bought ice cream, it’s on the bag.” “What the fuck, Aaron!” Andrew hissed, his cold eyes not leaving him for a second. “What happened?” “Accident.” ---- Or: Only they would need an accident to take another step to healing.

tw: car accidents, tw: injuries

I‘d die to be somebody you could love by moonlightboyz [Rated M, 39860 words, incomplete, last updated June 2024]

"For a medicine student you're really dense sometimes." It was quiet for a while before Andrew spoke up again. "I don't know, how to be your brother, Aaron. Not the one you want, but I'm trying." "And I'm trying too." OR This fanfic explores Aaron Minyard’s complicated feelings regarding Andrew Minyard and how he learns how to love and be loved by his brother.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: drug abuse, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: panic attacks, tw: disordered eating, tw: self harm, tw: negative self image

Don’t go where I can’t follow by moonlightboyz [Rated M, 8579 words, complete, 2024]

Andrew held out his hand between them and Aaron intertwined their pinkies. “I promise to never leave your side.” He muttered. “I promise to protect you and never leave your side.” Andrew echoed. OR an AU where Nicky kills Tilda and Drake and the twins live with a foster parent while they wait for Nicky to be released from prison and everything else that happens while they wait.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: implied/referenced murder

Slings and Arrows by This_Witch_Writes [Rated T, 5935 words, complete, 2022, locked]

Andrew Minyard had spent quite a lot of his admittedly short life wanting to die. It wasn’t really a secret though he didn’t talk about it. The evidence was right there on his arms, in every cigarette, in the way he stood between those he’d chosen to protect and a world that wouldn’t hesitate to leave Andrew in a cold ditch. So he was a little surprised that now that he was going to die he was so pissed off about it. His only thought as the gunshot rang in his ears was a pathetic ‘this isn’t supposed to happen’ like life had ever cared what he thought. - As he faces down what could be the end, Andrew considers his complicated relationship with his own survival.

tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: past suicide attempt, tw: gun violence

Nicky & the twinyards:

Mom by high_lady_kate [Rated M, 1941 words, incomplete, last updated April 2024]

"“Are you sure about this?” Nicky wanted to shout no! and then several insults regarding Tilda Minyard. Instead he grinned at Erik and finished zipping his suitcase." Or: Nicky Hemmick is 19 when he gets custody of the Minyard Twins.

Eat Your Young by Rose_vine [Rated M, 1947 words, complete, 2024]

Any hopeful feelings vanished the second he sat down on the medical chair in the doctor’s office. There weren’t any straps on it, but Nicky felt like he was constricted anyway. He remembered viscerally the sensation of thrashing without being allowed to move, the buckles that had wrapped around his arms, legs, and chest. The bite guard they’d shoved in his mouth, tasting like vomit. “Nicky,” Andrew said. Nicky looked up with wild eyes. “I can’t,” he gasped.

tw: ptsd, tw: anxiety

The secrets we keep by DrowningStrawberry [Rated T, 5067 words, complete, 2024]

Andrew never kills Tilda, he never had too. A certain cousin had gotten there first. or Nicky Hemmick has a murder problem.

tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: implied/referenced conversion therapy, tw: implied/referenced abuse

And I Fall by DrowningStrawberry [Rated M, 3193 words, complete, 2024]

“Maybe Eric is glad you stayed away longer because he doesn't want to have to see you.” And on and on and on in a rotation in his mind. Before he realizes he is moving, he's grabbed a knife and locked himself in the bathroom. Or Nicky's depression gets the best of him.

tw: depression, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: suicide attempt

Nicky thinks the twins don’t love him by @hmmm-shesucks [tumblr, 2023]

Nicky thinks the twins don’t love him, but then they both get ejected from a game for beating the shit out of a guy who illegally hits Nicky hard enough Nicky breaks his wrist.

Nicky & Andrew by @bisexualchaosdemon [tumblr, 2024]

I think Nicky does piss Andrew off, but not because he's loud and dramatic; because he cares.

Art

Twinyards by @eeriethacus

twinyards by @art-foxx

Happy Birthday to the Minyard twins by @midgart

I dont smoke by Mitski and the Minyard brothers by @eeriethacus

Nicky after taking this picture: 🏃🏃🏃 by @prince-peachie

A little candy by @neroholik

Nicky Hemmick by @neroholik

I heard someone had a birthday some days ago😏 by @yarn_garn (Twitter)

[grim-echoes]

Any thoughts on what's up with the Accelerated Dynamics nightmare dungeon? The obvious surface is about corporate greed, but how does that relate directly to Jimmy's life like the other nightmare dungeons do?

i've been slacking on the analysis posts a hell of a lot but this is one of the dungeons i've been looking for an opportunity to talk about because it's another one of those inclusions in jatpm that i think gets overlooked because it doesn't have an immediately obvious interpretation like some others do (or, as obvious as is possible for your average jimmy fan). i've done a lot of thinking about it, and a while back had this realization (slight tw for very very brief suicide mention, also obvious spoilers ahead):

kasey definitely put a lot of his own personal grievances with capitalism into accelerated dynamics, but in my opinion it's an incomplete picture without taking megatropolis as a whole into consideration. terminal illness is extremely costly to treat and particularly in the US, it's (in my experience) much more terrifying to imagine being unable to afford the cost of healthcare than it is to actually fall ill and require treatment. even with insurance covering the cost of medical supplies and bills most people continue to struggle to feed, clothe, and house themselves, and that's assuming they do have health insurance that covers the right necessities to begin with.

i say this because i doubt jimmy's cancer treatment was at all affordable given that he's already been through chemotherapy once before, and has spent the entirety of his second battle comatose while his family continues to work not just to support themselves, but to try and save his life. this isn't to argue that money troubles were absolutely a factor in his family's life because of his illness because we don't know much at all about their financial situation--more that this is a terrifying reality for many, many families fighting illnesses, and megatropolis is representative of something that jimmy and his family don't have the luxury of anymore: leisure.

accelerated dynamics is set in a sprawling city landmarked by arcades, shopping malls, theaters, toy company headquarters, and a massive school campus, all adjacent to a high-class beach resort. it's a stark contrast in atmosphere that was likely very intentional--accelerated dynamics is devoid of personality and wonder in comparison to bonita vista or even shinryu and features workplace ambience as its area theme and visuals of skeletal employees hanged outside the office windows. i think a lot of people were incredibly disappointed in mr grouse as a character to see that his humble beginnings had led him to this point, but i think the commentary runs a lot deeper and touches on this incredibly grave aspect of illness and thus jimmy's personal life that can be easy to miss for the trees; mr grouse tells jimmy before the fight that he used to dream of his banking business growing bigger and bigger and that now, with the advent of it having grown so big that it's now expanded into an entire enterprise, he understands the power and influence that money can buy him, but more than anything he now conceptualizes how terrifying it is to lose that wealth.

his dialogue after the fight is an admission that wealth completely and utterly eroded his morals and that jimmy should enjoy his innocence while he can--this is the incomprehensible, horrifying world of adulthood that he couldn't possibly understand at this age--and it's very clear that this is (one of) the intended angle(s) of this dungeon's theme where jimmy will never live long enough to understand the complications of growing older and losing his innocence to concepts like late stage capitalism, but mr grouse phrases his dialogue like an earnest request for reflection, something for jimmy to consider in a way that his brain can more easily deconstruct--think of all the things you could do if you had practically infinite wealth, and the only thing you had to worry about was not having money.

if jimmy and his family had infinite wealth, then maybe they'd be able to afford luxury resorts and theme parks and theaters and shopping trips again. if jimmy and his family had infinite wealth, maybe they wouldn't need to work themselves into an early grave over their child's deathbed.

[emeowwww-blog]

I performed a social experiment today, and the results kinda lowkey shocked me:

TW for topics relating to violence, self harm and suicide, bullying/harassment, threats against personal safety, and adjacent topics.

Note: I refer to myself as a “good person��� a few times here. I am not in any way suggesting that I am a model for people to follow. I refer to myself as such to show what I think a good person would do.

Idk why it continues to surprise me, but I did a social experiment today and I still find it so weird how outright fucking MEAN people are.

I was simply talking about my likes and dislikes, and I say a few things about a game I like (that gets a lot of hate for no reason). I expected backlash for liking the game, that’s normal and I get that no matter where I say it. Suddenly, I am getting death threats and suicide guilt trips for liking said game. I am told that i should kill myself, I should die, I should never have been born, my parents were right for starving and neglecting me.

Over a game.

The social experiment I performed was to create an overemphasized version of my current life, and to slip up and create loopholes to see if people would find out I was lying. I joked around and tried to copy the behavior of other people, while also subtly attention seeking and dropping hints that I was faking my life. I also did my best to get peoples social media for later purposes.

I was being serious when I was talking about liking the game, and THATS when people snapped. Suddenly they brought up all the evidence of why I was lying and how, which I found odd that they hadn’t before. I played up my argument and pretended to be one of the people that guilt trips and gaslighted others to win the argument to make them react more.

I did expect “kys” jokes and other mean comments. That is what I set out to find. I did NOT expect to be sent death threats, doxxing threats, threats to harm my irl family, etc.

I eventually revealed that it was an experiment, and that I had screen recordings and screenshots of the hate messages and messages proving whose social media belonged to who.

Now, I don’t have social media besides Pinterest, Tumblr, Ao3, and Discord. I purposefully did not ask for or share these things. I made burner Tiktok, Twitter, Snapchat, Facebook, and Instagram accounts, and followed the members with those.

After I revealed the information, I thought it would be a good idea to tell them (jokingly) that I was going to leak the screenshots to their family and friends that followed their socials.

And guess what, they IMMEDIATELY started apologizing and begging me not to. People were even advocating to ban me and erase all message data relating to me (as though that would do anything).

My experiment set out to show how humans, especially younger people ( <22), act when they are behind their online identity. And how they change immediately when they realize that someone they know in real life will find out.

I am not going to send screenshots to their IRLs, nor on and of my socials, as I am not petty and I respect their privacy as minors (and humans) like a good person would and should.

My complaint is just asking why people are so mean? What do they gain? Absolutely nothing. I keep being disappointed for being surprised, over and over again.

Please be a nice person, to anybody who read this long post. I have made huge mistakes in the past, in the same way that this experiment shows.

You do not have to like someone. You do not have to agree with their opinions. But imagine if this wasn’t an experiment. Imagine if a younger person with a little out of the ordinary life joined this group, and got treated this way.

They wouldn’t be prepared for this. This could harm people. This DOES harm people. There are countless, and I mean COUNTLESS news stories about cyber harassment and bullying leading to teen suicide.

Be a good person, both IRL and online. You can and will harm people by your negative actions. I don’t expect you to like everyone. I expect you to be kind and respectful. If they become angry or mean, that does not indicate that you can react harshly.

Cut off your connection. Block them. Report them. We have measures on the internet to essentially get a restraining order on people you don’t like.

Be a good fucking person.

Have a wonderful day/night. I am sorry for the rant.

[mumpsetc]

i've been meaning to watch more movies, do you have any reccs? i'm bad with horror but still open to suggestions 👍

Ingrid Goes West: A Comedy Drama About a Woman Who Moves to California to Become Friends With an Instagram Model She's Obsessed With. Very Funny and Ahead of the Game in Terms of Art About Parasocial Relationships. TW For Drug Use, Sexual Content, and Suicide. The Truman Show: A Classic for Getting Into Movies, the Truman Show is About a Man Who's Entire Life Has Been Broadcast on TV. It Lives Up to the Hype and I'm a Fan. TW For Gaslighting and Possibly Encouraging Delusion Night is Short, Walk on Girl: A VERY Charming Animated Film About a Young Womam's First Night Out On the Town Drinking. Absolutely a Delight TW For Alcohol and Mild Sexual Content.

Wasteland: This is the One I'm Recommending the Most. An Animated Anthology About Various People Living in a Run Down Miserable Town. TW For Disassociation, Cults, and Suicide

Attack the Block: KIND Of Horror But More Adjacent to Action So Its a Good Starter for That Stuff I Think. It's an Alien Invasion Movie About a Bunch of Teens Protecting Their Apartment From an Alien Invasion. TW For Gore, Drugs, Death, and Violence. SORRY THIS IS SHORT Ill Be Real I Usually Watch Stuff Thats Atleast Horror Adjacent So It Was a Fun Challenge Picking Out Stuff Thats More General in Nature

[toxicanonymity]

Rock Bottom Ch 1 - In the Womb of God

Words: 2.2k chapter, 22k+ overall.

Chapter Pairing: Corey Cunningham x Corey Cunningham; Corey Cunningham x Michael Myers (unconsummated)

Summary: Corey wakes up in the sewer and gets choked by Michael, which arouses something in him, in more than one way. He jerks off. This fic is from Corey's POV and he's obsessed with Michael, including sexually, but he is very into women as well (so is Michael).

Yeah, the chapter is named after a bible study book that came up in a reverse-image search looking for that gif of Corey's silhouette leaving the sewer

18+ Choking, jacking off, fantasizing TW: Brief reference to suicide-adjacent thinking

After leaving the Halloween Party and storming off from Allyson, Corey Cunningham was in a very bad place.  The party was the first time Corey got up the courage to go out in public and really let loose since before Jeremy Allen's accident.  For a moment on the dance floor, he wondered why he had waited so long to try living again.  Seconds later, he came face to face with Jeremy's mom, who cruelly reminded him he had no future worth living for, especially not in Haddonfield.  The light at the end of the tunnel had been a mirage.  Corey wouldn't be one to kill himself, but he was at the lowest of lows and didn't care if he lived or died.   

When Terry and his crew pulled over, Corey had nothing to lose and only knew he couldn't keep being the Haddonfield punching bag. When he plummeted off the bridge, he was already a shell of a man, worn down and hollowed out.  If evil was infectious, Corey's immune system was severely compromised as he lay unconscious and empty on the ground.

-

Corey had the kind of night where you wake up the next morning and just want to crawl in a hole, but when he woke up, he was already in one.   As he stirred and opened his eyes, he felt grime on his clothes and air on his skin where his jeans had torn.  He was damp from head to toe. Even his cotton underwear was slimy.  Corey reached in his pants and adjusted himself. 

Judging by the size of his member, he must have been freezing, yet he didn't feel cold.   He didn't feel anything.  Corey blinked for at least a minute, but nothing came into focus.  His mind flashed to his glasses, crushed by Terry on the side of the road.   Visually, Corey could only make out that he was surrounded by rock or concrete.  There were other clues though, like rats, and the plink of dripping water. He was underground. 

Despite the nasty circumstances, Corey felt sheltered and unseen, which was a best case scenario.  For Corey, to be seen was to be shamed or pitied.   Wherever he found himself now, there was a comfort to this void.  He felt unborn. Corey lay there on the ground until a dusty beam of light assaulted his eyes and stirred him back to reality. 

On one hand, the obvious thing to do would be to follow the light and climb out of the hole, but that would mean facing Haddonfield, which had already chewed him up and spit him out.  Instead, he felt drawn in the opposite direction, deeper into the dark.  It might hold rabid animals, jagged debris, or even a crackhead, but nothing that compared to the emotional hazards on the other side of the drain.  Corey would welcome whatever hazard lurked in the shadows.  If evil was infectious, his immune system was severely compromised. 

Corey struggled to his feet and surveyed the space.  Behind him, there was a perfect circle of light.  The plinking of water drops told him it was a metal drainage pipe.  The circle had opened into a rougher space where Corey woke up.  It felt like a cave.  Corey started hobbling toward the darker end of the space, holding his injured palm in his good hand and squinting in a fruitless effort to adjust his eyes. 

Still nothing came into focus, but there appeared to be crevasses in the walls, with an even darker void beyond them. There seemed to be no end in sight.  Corey tripped over something that made a hollow-sounding clatter.  He looked down, and his eyes betrayed him - it appeared to be a human jaw.   There was a similar clatter as he stepped forward.  Corey shuffled closer to the wall to help keep his bearings. 

As Corey inched close enough to hug the cool stone wall, out of nowhere, part of the wall seemed to lunge out, and a leathery human hand was firm around his throat.  Corey gagged as his whole body was yanked upward and toward the wall.    Corey’s lungs gasped for air and the soles of his shoes scraped the ground in search of footing. 

He reflexively wrapped his hand around the arm that held him, trying to tug it looser in search of room to breathe, but the grip only tightened.  With impossible strength, the leathered hand forced Corey close enough to the crevasse to see he was face to face with Michael Myers.  Corey continued to struggle for air, and now he couldn’t blink.  He felt penetrated by the eyes he could not see behind the mask. He stared into the mask and saw warm black holes with flickers of his own reflection.  He stopped struggling.   

Corey was dwarfed and consumed by Michael's presence.  It was a rush to yield control to something so powerful.  With Michael’s hand around Corey’s neck, and Corey’s face inches from Michael’s mask, his body was flooded with adrenaline and something he didn't yet understand.  Corey let himself change shape in Michael's hand, and his blood began to rush with new warmth and pleasure.  He was electrified.  His nipples and balls began to tingle, and his cock twitched.

The blurred mask sharpened into scratched, chiseled features.  Almost as soon as Corey had given in, Michael released him with a gentle shove.  Corey gasped, refilling his lungs with oxygen as Michael faded into the wall.  Regaining his balance and his breath, Corey expected to collapse from the exertion of his initial struggle, but instead his muscles surged with new life and his loins swelled with heat.   He braced himself there for a moment, hands on his knees, chest heaving, soaking up the energy that continued to vibrate through him.  

Part of Corey longed to stay underground, even back in Michael's grip, but a stronger part of him compelled him back toward the outside world.   Corey crawled through the round pipe and it expelled him into the homeless encampment yard where he was swiftly attacked by a hobo and fatally stabbed him in self defense.  

As Corey watched the life drain from the man, he felt the exact opposite of how he felt watching Jeremy’s blood leave his body a few years earlier.   He felt invigorated and empowered.  His transformation wasn’t just psychological - Miraculously, Corey could now see without his glasses, but even more surprising, he wasn’t afraid of being seen.  He didn't think about the past. He didn't want to disappear.  He wanted to take control.  

As he left the scene, Corey felt the ghost of that leathered hand on his throat and felt pangs of desire in his gut, chest, and taint.   His cock twitched again.  He remembered the way Allyson had looked at him hungrily the night before.  Corey had to have her, and his damp briefs began to strain, begging him to get on with it.  His hormones told him to go straight to Allyson but he was still coherent enough to know he'd have to shower first if he had any hope of bedding her.   Corey reluctantly started the walk home to Joan and Ronald's house instead.  

On the walk home, he tried to distract himself with efforts to piece together what happened the night before after Terry ran him off the road.   The back of his jeans and sweater were caked in mud, so he must have landed on his back, but he wasn't sore. The gash on his hand was ripped open too, and seeping something black - it didn’t hurt either. 

From the height of the bridge, he was lucky he was alive. Corey found himself hoping that Michael had brought him into his lair deliberately.  Michael Myers was a predator.  That would make Corey prey – a curious thing to want for oneself.  It was a foregone conclusion that Corey would return to the sewer, it was just a matter of when.  First, he wanted to make up with Allyson and fuck her brains out.  Another reason for going to Allyson? Conveniently, no one knew Michael better than her family.  

***

Joan was hysterical that Corey hadn't come home the night before, but Corey pushed past her on the stairs and ignored her completely for once, locking himself in the restroom.   For a moment, he could hear the muffled drone of Joan's crying outside the door, but it faded as he looked in the mirror. 

The man staring back at him was not the boy who got bullied by band kids.  Wilder curls framed darker eyes.   A gash adorned his hardened jaw.  His nostrils flared.  For all his efforts to calm himself on the walk home, his hard-on had returned and his need was surging.  

Corey resolved to take a cold shower and get to Allyson.  He would give her the best fuck of her life.  He hurriedly pulled his dark cranberry sweater up and over his curly hair, and in the mirror he was surprised to see the muscles of his broad chest and shoulders straining his filthy white undershirt as his chest heaved. 

Either he was physically pumped up from the action or he was finally seeing himself with clear eyes.  He was filthy and banged up, but the only thing that hurt was his throbbing erection.   Corey palmed his arousal through his jeans and peeled off the soiled undershirt.  His hard pecs were relatively unscathed aside from his excited nipples being slightly raw from the chafing of his wet shirt.  

Corey kicked off his shoes as he frantically unbuckled his jeans and slid them down over the bulge in his briefs and his muscular thighs.  He wanted to save his arousal for Allyson, but the friction was too much. He left his jeans half on and yanked down his briefs to free his cock. 

A swollen pink head slapped against his stomach, catapulted by a girthy shaft. He doubled over, bracing himself with one hand on the wall, and winced as he gripped his shaft with his cold and filthy hand. His balls shrank into him slightly but the erection swelled on.  He admired it in his hand. 

He was the same familiar length, but the girth took his breath away.  Normally, he could close his fingers around his shaft with ease, considering his large hands. Today, it was more of a reach.   Corey desperately kicked off his jeans and briefs and turned on the hot water instead of the cold.  

Corey tried to slow his breathing as he waited for the water to warm up.  He used a thumb to caress the head of his manhood, which was already weeping.  Pleasure shot through his lower back.  As he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, he felt it pulse against his fingers like it had its own heartbeat.   His mind flashed back to the sewer with Michael's hand around his throat, his jugular vein pulsing rapidly against Michael's callous fingers. 

Corey began stroking himself.  He thought about kissing Allyson in the photo booth the night before, dancing with her, feeling her lace sleeves on his skin and admiring her fishnet tights.   He ran his hand up and down his length in rhythm as hot water wet his curly hair and the filth began to roll off him, gray water trickling toward the drain.  

Corey tried to imagine what it would feel like fucking Allyson, but in between images of her milky breasts and spread legs, Corey's mind kept drifting back to the mask.  Corey resisted this at first.  He replaced the image of the mask with a vision of Allyson touching herself.  He saw the mask again and tried to conjure the sensation of Allyson's lips around his cock.   When that failed, he tried to access what little spank bank he had - losing his virginity in a green station wagon, hard nipples grazing his chest as the windows fogged, a soft ass bouncing on his upper thighs as she slid up and down his cock.  

Despite his efforts, the only tactile fantasy Corey could conjure as he stroked himself was the large hand around his throat, a thought that made his member spasm, followed by intrusive thoughts of the hand gripping him elsewhere.  Corey groaned.  Desperate for relief, he succumbed to his vision of the mask, letting it once again stare into his soul as he jerked faster.   The water got hotter, nearly scalding his skin.  Corey tightened his grip, hastened his stroke, and closed his eyes. 

He could feel the hand tightening around him.  He could hear Michael’s breath loud in the mask.  Corey's breath quickened and his knees felt weak.  His body remembered the electricity it felt in Michael's grip.  His ass clenched and his cock erupted.  He unleashed one rope after another of hot, thick come.  Three…….four….… five…….. He had to steady himself on the shower bar.  

Corey let a breathy groan escape the back of his throat as the last of his cum was spent.  He had never come that hard in his life.   He watched his spend circle the drain, then closed his eyes.   He stood there breathing for a moment, cradling his deflating member, grateful for the relief that washed over him. 

When he was finished showering, he turned off the water and stepped out of the tub and into the steam that had filled the bathroom.  He wrapped himself in a towel and wiped the fog off the mirror.  He leaned his head back and inspected his thick neck, caressing the red marks gently, which sent a pang of pleasure to his ass.  His brow furrowed and his eyes began to well up.  

--------

Notes: did anyone else notice the giant penis graffiti when Corey comes out of the sewer IN CANON?

Rock Bottom Chapters

[slingtv]

super excited for longlegs coming out this week so here’s a theory i have about the real killer

*TW spoilers for promotional materials and mentions of self harm*

we all know the basic plot of the movie is that the fbi is trying to hunt down a serial killer. however, through looking at the promotional materials such as the thebirthdaymurders.net and the downloadable files, we find out that the killings all have the commonalities of looking like murder-suicides perpetrated by the fathers of suburban families. the only thing connecting them is the notes the “killer” left behind.

the part of all this that is the most interesting to me however is the references to the bible and hell that have been seen in the trailers, codes, and files. the whole thing goes deeper than just a simple serial killer.

this brings me to my theory about the reality of the longlegs killer: i think that it is not really a “serial killer,” but some sort of demon or adjacent that is possessing the daughters of the families and perpetrating the murders. as seen on the website, all of the families had at least one young girl. the biggest piece of evidence for this theory is the first video ever released for the movie on the neon youtube channel, which featured a 911 call where a man said “that’s not my daughter.” i think that this “longlegs demon” or whatever it is is possessing the daughters (potentially mutilating their bodies as seen from the crime scene photos of the children’s bodies) and slaughtering the families, with the father either being staged as a suicide, or him actually taking himself out after witnessing the act or even having to stop his daughter himself. the demon then goes on to possess another child and continue the cycle.

the only part of the promotional stuff that doesn’t connect for me is all of the pictures from books and such, but i think it might just be more evidence for demonic presence.

mayhaps i will update after seeing it to talk about how close i was?

[konig-is-bbygrl]

Look for me In the Moon (SoapGhost fic) TW: suicidal thoughts, thoughts of alcoholism, major character death, depressive thoughts, descriptions of injury, canon typical violence

WC: 2.5k

A/N: This is a very sad, dark, gritty fic. This borders on Dead Dove content. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THE TW MENTIONED. The advice given by the therapist in this fic is NOT REAL ADVICE. If you are having a mental health crisis, please call the hotline in your country.

The mission nearly killed him. No, no it did kill him. But not in the traditional sense. Not in the death of the body, but in the death of the soul. Death of the spirit. The mission had gone sideways quickly. 

One missed sniper, hidden in the moonlit evening. The glint of an M13’s barrel was the only indication of anyone on the roof adjacent to them. It was all his fault. It truly was. He was supposed to clear the rooftops and he had missed one. 

He had gotten distracted by Ghost. By Simon. By those deep, chocolate-brown eyes. Those eyes, framed by blonde lashes and contrasted by the black balaclava he always wore. His mind was elsewhere, focused on a conversation they had had nearly a year ago. 

“Ya know, LT, they say when you die, you come back in the sunsets. I like to think my gran is in the purple ones,” Johnny said to his Lieutenant. 

The pair were dressed in nice clothing, watching a sunset together and sharing a beer. Johnny had just received word that his grandmother had passed after a long, painful with cancer. Due to the current mission, there was no way for him to get home for her funeral. In a bid to comfort his comrade, Ghost, or rather, Simon at this moment, had snuck two beers from Price’s stash for them to enjoy while the sunset.

“When I die,” Simon began slowly, pausing to take a long drink of his beer, “don’t look for me in the sunsets. Look for me in the moon. In the way, the moonlight turns everything white. And in the way the moon lights up the sky at night,”

The alcohol had loosened Simon’s lips just enough to let him speak his mind freely.

Johnny smiled fondly at his Lieutenant, finally taking a moment to truly appreciate how beautiful he was. The way the light of the dying sun turned his eyes the color of melted chocolate in a candy shop window, his eyelashes glowing like snow under December sunlight, and the delicate curve of his Cupid’s bow. 

“Simon,” Johnny spoke softly.

Simon’s head turned and a light smile played along his lips. It made Johnny’s heart soar. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought it would burst forth from him, right into Simon’s lap. Before he could stop himself, his hand drifted to the nape of Simon’s neck, up under the balaclava, slowly slipping it from his head. 

Simon. Simon. Oh gods, Simon. Johnny could now admire him in all his glory. Not just his eyes, not just the gentle curve of his smile and the flash of white teeth behind his lips. No, all of him. Johnny’s hand remained on the nape of Simon’s neck, feeling the warmth of his skin. The other man’s hand covered his own.

Slowly, as if connected by an invisible string, the pair leaned in. Their lips and it felt like an atomic bomb had gone off between the pair. It wasn’t just sparks. It was a flame that anyone within a five-mile radius could feel. Pulling away, Johnny got another glimpse of that beautiful smile that rarely graced Simon’s face. 

A gun report broke the delicate silence that had blanketed the sticky night. The gunshot itself wasn’t scary. Those were normal. The silence that had followed, true silence, no birds or bugs calling to each other in the night. Most importantly– no shots fired back. 

“LT, how copy?” Johnny said on the radio.

Silence. Not even a crackle of a radio turning on.

“LT. How copy?” The Scot demanded firmly.

Jumping on the main channel, he called to the others, telling them he was going to investigate Ghost’s position on the edge of the thicket that surrounded the town. After an affirmative from their captain, he moved silently through the city streets to the position. He saw a mass laying on the ground.

“Jaysus, LT, when someone calls for you over the radio, answer ‘em,” Johnny scolded in a hushed tone.

Once again, silence. His heart was in his throat, why hadn’t he answered? He always answered. Coming within three steps of the mass on the ground, the realization slammed into Johnny like a Humvee. 

A black balaclava with a skull design, half slipped from the face of the dead soldier now laying on the ground. The light eyelashes of the deceased seemed to glow in the light of the full moon. The most horrifying detail? The one that would stay with Johnny until he too joined the sunsets? The hole in the side of the soldier’s head, viscera turning the blonde hair a sticky, dark red shade.

Johnny felt vomit rise in his throat as he approached even closer, leaning to inspect the dog tags, now laying in the pool of blood slowly engulfing the body. The words embossed into the metal washed over the Scotsman like a bucket of ice water.

“Riley, Simon, BT: O-, NKA”

The next few hours of Johnny’s life were a blur of radio calls and gunfire. Calling out to his team to tell them that Ghost had been KIA. Finding and killing the sniper. Evac’ing out with the body. When he finally came back to reality, he found himself showering on base, scrubbing the blood from under his fingernails. Oh, how did he wish the blood that crusted over his fingertips was his own. 

Retreating from the porcelain sanctuary that was the shower, he donned his regs and exited. He numbly walked to his room and sat on his bed. The time passed, unconscious to him. A knock rang out in the small room, startling Johnny nearly out of his skin. 

“Come in,” he called out, his own voice sounding foreign to him.

The door creaked open and in walked his captain, the hat that usually sat upon his head now absent. It had been since the heli landed back on base. 

“How’re you holding up, son?” The elder man asked, taking a seat next to him on the bed. 

“I… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel real. I can’t believe it,” Johnny sighed, hanging his head.

Price’s hand rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a glinting piece of metal. The dog tags that had previously adorned the neck of Johnny’s lover. They had been buffed and shined to perfection, with all the blood from that night scrubbed away. While the blood and viscera were gone, the memories that were contained in the raised lettering on the tags still remained. The image of Simon’s body was still burned on the inside of Johnny’s eyelids. 

“He uh, didn’t have any surviving family we could find so they gave them to me to do with as I pleased. I think you could use them,” he placed them in Johnny’s hand, “for closure,”

His hand wound itself tightly around the dog tags, feeling the cool metal against his palm. In the back of his mind, he knew Simon was dead. He knew it was the end. But his heart wouldn’t believe it. The hope in his heart that the blond would walk through the door at any minute and speak to him in that Manchester accent just wouldn’t die. 

That hope didn’t die until the funeral. It wouldn’t die until he watched the casket be lowered into the ground. Then, as the dirt was shoveled on top of the ornately decorated casket, the hope of Simon returning to his arms would finally die. The reality set in. Simon was dead. Johnny finally cried that day.

It was like the tears wouldn’t stop after the funeral. They hadn’t stopped for three days. Johnny hid himself away in his room, sobbing into his pillow, begging whatever god might be listening to either give him Simon back or take him too.

The sadness of the loss was choking him. Clogging his lungs and suffocating him. He cried and cried. He cried until he had run out of tears to cry. The ever-consuming sadness soon replaced itself with anger. Burning anger. Anger that threatened to burn up Johnny and everyone else around him. 

Hours were spent in the gym, training, sparring, getting better. He needed to be better. He had already lost Simon, he wouldn’t lose anyone else. He spent time on the range as well, sighting every gun he could, tweaking them, making them perfect. His skills got better and better, his cleanliness on missions getting better and better. The anger fueled his need for revenge. When the rage had quelled, the fire had been put out, he moved to praying.

He prayed every night, for hours. His knees ached in the morning from kneeling on concrete and his hands cramped from squeezing the dog tags between them as he murmured wishes to any god who would hear him. Through tears, he would stare at the ceiling, hoping for answers. Hoping for a divine hand to reach down and soothe the pain that resided in his heart. He was lucky he couldn’t drink while on base, or alcohol would have become his god. Anything to soothe the pain. When anger had subsided, and prayers went unanswered, the dark veil of a depressive state had settled over Johnny’s mind.

Suddenly, nothing was worth it. No mission gave him a thrill. No conversation could spark a smile or joy within his chest. No friendly touch could move away the dark cloud that hung over his head. There were nights when the thought of walking into the armory under the cover of night had crossed his mind and stayed there. A plan. Walking there, finding what he needed, going to the rooftop where he and Simon had watched the sunset together, and ending it. Ending the pain he faced in his heart.

It was as if Price had read his mind and seen every dark, twisted, demented thought of revenge and suicide. He approached him one evening with an order.

“Johnny, you’re being put on indefinite leave. And you aren’t coming back until a psychiatrist has cleared you. I’m sorry, son, but you need help. More help than you can get on base.”

He packed his things that night, leaving without a word to his team. He was sent back to his home in Scotland where he had weekly meetings with a lovely woman named Cheyanne. In their sessions, they talked about how he was dealing with the loss. He was told to get a hobby. Something to distract him while he was home alone. He was given a list of ways to deal with the grief when it crept up on him like a prowling beast at night. 

“Okay, Mr. MacTavish, how have we been?” Cheyanne asked, sitting back in a plush leather chair in her office.

“I uh, had a bad week this week. It wasn’t good. Nothing I could do, no amount of painting or sketching could get the image out of my head. I’ll admit, I wanted a drink. God, did I want a drink. But I didn’t. I did what you said. I processed it. I worked through it all. I sat with the thoughts for a while.”

A smile danced across Cheyanne’s lips. “That’s good, Johnny, that is really good. You’ve made big strides. I think you’re almost ready to go back. That is if you’d like to go back.”

Did he want to go back? If he did, would he be the black sheep of the team? Would they judge him for needing help? After thanking Cheyanne and leaving the office, Johnny’s mind continued to race. He loved and missed his team dearly, every one of them. However, would they accept him back into the fold after a stint away?

Lying in his bed, staring at his ceiling, he made his decision. He would return for the rest of his deployment, and when reenlistment time came, he would make his final decision. Whether his stint in the military is done or not. If he left his 141 family. After the appointment with Cheyanne, she put the order through that he was ready to return to base.

The next Monday, Johnny drove himself back to the base, anxiety settling in his chest. Worry about the opinions of his found family. Before entering the base, he took a moment to steady his breathing and lower his heart rate. 

“It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” 

This became his mantra, repeated over and over again in his head. Entering the barracks, he found his room and put his stuff down. His room at the barracks was much more familiar than his pay-by-month apartment. He had spent much more time in the barracks room than he had in that dull apartment with off-white walls and cream carpeting. While he put his belongings away, a knock on the door echoed through the small room.

“Come in,” Johnny called, his back to the door as he unpacked his duffle bag. 

Footsteps followed by the door shutting perked Johnny’s ears. “Good to have you back,” Gaz’s voice rumbled.

Johnny turned to his friend and smiled. “Good to be back, it was dull without you guys.”

The man before him chuckled. “You left a Soap shaped hole in the team. Should’ve seen us in training. We were a mess!”

Gaz filled Johnny in on everything he had missed, every stupid joke, every bar night, every good sparring match. The friendly conversation between them helped ease the anxiety that bubbled in Johnny’s stomach. It was like he had never left. The team treated him no differently than before he’d left.

There were no changes until the next mission. Johnny would be lying if he said he felt no anxiety going into the next mission. His mind was flooded with a thousand different thoughts. What if he missed another sniper? What if the comms went down? What exit points would exist if it goes sideways?

Price seemed to have noticed this, once again seeming to hear the thoughts in Johnny’s head. “You’ll be alright, lad. You’ve got a team behind you,”

The baritone voice of the captain comforted Johnny’s overworking mind. It slowed his thoughts and brought him back to the mission at hand. Get a USB drive out of a building and get out. Quick. Simple. Easy. The ease of the mission filled Johnny’s chest with pride. He could do this.

Upon entering the battle zone, Johnny’s mind went blank. His focus remained only on the mission. Any joke that came through the comms from Gaz or Price was swiftly ignored. He remained silent over the comms unless calling out positions or getting input from his teammates. It was different than before. He couldn’t bring himself to laugh when facing the gunfire of the enemy. With the lives of his teammates in his hands. This was the most glaring difference after Simon’s death.

Not only did Simon “Ghost” Riley die that night, but so did Johnny “Soap” MacTavish.

Tags: @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @sinclairbrosbathmat​

[zoeywhumps]

contents: villain x hero, intense hurt/minimal comfort, villain is mad scientist adjacent and has necromancy powers and hero has healing and flight powers

TWS: overdose suicide attempt, suicidal whumpee, severe depression. this gets heavy, please don't read if you think it'll trigger you! i am writing it midbreakdown so it's... sure something.

villain was tired. they were so, so tired. all they had ever wanted was to help others. but life had... ruined that. life had beaten them until they had screamed out, 'okay! i'll be the bad guy if you want me to so badly!'

and now? they were hated. despised, vilified, abhorred, loathed.

after reading the news that day, reading the eyewitness testimony of those who had been traumatized when the villain had burnt down the capital building last week, they were... finished. they couldn't go on anymore. they were rotten to their core, incapable of change.

they wanted out.

villain sat on the bathroom counter, their eyes full of tears, their expression broken as they held the bottle of pills. their own creation, they knew deep down, would be the thing to kill them. the pills would render them paralyzed fully within minutes, while attacking their nerves and causing agonizing pain. just one would put someone in the worst pain of their life- but that wasn't good enough after what villain had done. no, villain desired a death so shockingly horrible that when their body was found, the silent scream on their frozen face would terrify others. villain wanted to suffer for what they had done.

they tilted their head back. they opened the bottle. and they swallowed every last damn pill.

the pain shocked them to their core. they were falling into an active volcano, they were bleeding out, they were shot in the gut, they were stabbed through the throat, their body covered in burns, their fingernails torn off-

was this hell? the agony beyond words, beyond description, beyond measure?

villain couldn't even scream.

all they were conscious of was torture, eternal, never ending. the lava was eating at their bones, their flesh was being flayed out and their guts spilled.

they could feel the moment when their heart stopped.

they could feel the moment when it restarted.

when their limbs unfroze and they immediately thrashed wildly, screams coming from them in waves, their eyes wild.

"VILLAIN! IT'S OKAY- IT'S ME!"

they couldn't comprehend hero's words. rocking back and forth, screaming hoarsely, their mouth not closing.

the hero's palms pressed roughly against the sides of their face, and a chill swept through their entire body, evaporating the pain like it had never been there.

their face streaming with tears, blood trickling from their mouth, nose and eyes, they looked up at the hero who had just healed them with a touch.

"oh gods... villain, what did you do?" hero stammered.

"nothing that i don't deserve."

[sunhowler]

readme.txt

hiya :-) username's xenodogz, but you can call me xeno, carrie, sam, or sammy. i'm a 21 year old genderless lesbian. she/they/pup/woof pronouns for me.

i'd prefer that you be 18+ to follow this blog, because i reblog suggestive stuff frequently and speak openly about sex, kink, and fetish. i do not reblog porn, but i may reblog artistic nudity or suggestive content.

all my posts are ok to reblog! if they aren't, then reblogs will simply be turned off. i tag triggers! (starting 3/29/24. if you're concerned about triggering posts, don't scroll past that date!) current list is under the cut.

my website is here. it's got an extensive about-me and commission sheet, if you're interested! :-)

↓ more info below the cut, including what i would like people to tag, if you're into that sort of thing ↓

!!! please tag suicide !!!, including jokes and references, because i will unfollow otherwise. or block, depending on how upset it makes me lol.

(i have all the tags and phrases i could think of blocked, but "#suicide", "#tw suicide", "#suicide tw", or "#suicide mention" are preferred)

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triggers i tag:

(i'll try my best to remember to tag these! if i forget to tag something, feel free to let me know. feel free to ask me to tag other things! in my inbox or my dms, i don't mind. i'll almost certainly agree to tag it.)

my format is "#tw trigger".

suicide [#tw suicide]

self harm [#tw self harm]

rape, sexual assault/harassment [#tw rape]

child sexual abuse and child sexual exploitation material [#tw csa]

child abuse [#tw child abuse]

child death [#tw child death]

incest [#tw incest]

domestic abuse [#tw domestic abuse]

drugs [#tw drugs]

drug and alcohol addiction [#tw addiction]

transphobia [#tw transphobia]

transmisogyny [#tw transmisogyny]

racism [#tw racism]

animal abuse [#tw animal abuse]

animal death [#tw animal death]

gore [#tw gore]

unreality and gaslighting [#tw unreality]

thalassophobia [#tw thalassophobia]

i also tag flashing gifs/videos as "#flash warning" and abnormally loud videos as "#loud warning"! i do not reblog jumpscares.

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other blogs:

@xenodogartz - my art

@imagelover420 - art inspo

@doggirlhole - furry and furry adjacent

@butchbenrey - hlvrai

@nastyaliendogz - my nsfw art

less active blogs include: @romancerepulsed, @evil-fuck-posts, @critterposting, @wormicide, @puppynose, @moorbid, @frenreyhater, @davekatofficial

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frequent tags:

#thank queue - queued posts

#fave - favorite posts

#ultimate fave - favoriter posts

#barking - original text posts

#vidz - videos

#little guys - animals

#feathered friends- birds

#awuff - dogs

#glub glub - fish and cephalopods

#wifeposting - posts that remind me of my girlfriend

i block very liberally. if you or someone you know is blocked, it could be for any number of reasons ranging from "you're a bigot" to "you don't tag my triggers" to "you made a post that kinda annoyed me one time" to "you post about a show i don't care about sometimes." don't take it personally and don't message me about it. thank you!

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last updated 1:20 pm cst on march 29th, 2024.