#please heed the tws

[tothefiniteyou]

Blind Sight - A Retrospective

Includes spoilers for the entirety of Tales of Leonardo: Blind Sight, as well as discussion of suicidal ideation, depression, and other sensitive topics. Some of the panels included might be considered gory as well. I'm also writing this with the assumption that you're familiar with what happens in the story.

I'd like to begin this little think piece of mine with a disclaimer; I'm going to be fairly vulnerable with this, as this is a piece of writing that impacted me greatly for a variety of reasons. Let's get into it.

The beginning to Blind Sight really begins with the 5th issue of the second volume to Tales of the TMNT - Blind Faith. I think it's very bittersweet that the story begins with Leo comforting a small Shadow who's still afraid of the dark, because it's a good way of setting the stage and tone for this story. Phobias and fears are typically irrational, and we're afraid not just of what we can't see, but what can happen because of that. They can control us because we let it fester and grow, losing ourselves to that fear.

When Leo loses his sight in this story, he has to be confronted with the fact that life won't be the same. He doesn't think he can lead or protect his brothers anymore, and he doesn't have control, either. He's very much someone that prefers information to be clear and concise with no punches pulled. He needs facts, and he relies on his senses and logic.

I know Jim Lawson has been praised plenty for making everything monochrome to show how Leo cannot see and no longer remembers what things look like, but his prose doesn't get enough attention, in my opinion.

There's a lot I admire about this entire story, especially the moment in which Leo believes he has taken an innocent life. There's nothing dramatic about it, as Leo isn't the type to have some over-the-top reaction. He freezes, mouth partly agape, as he takes in the fact that this could be permanent and that he has lost the ability to do the only thing he considers himself good at. It's such a subtle display of grief, and I love it.

Really, there's not much I can say about the actual event where he's blinded, and it's not what I want to focus on, either. I want to highlight the aftermath:

This scene really gets to me because we, as the viewer, only have Leo's perspective. There's nothing to see, just a black and white landscape of shapes. I think it's a good display of the dissonance between the brothers here. Mikey's trying his hardest to find some positives, or to at least not make his brother feel different. Leo, however, wants none of it; his grief is narratively blinding him in this story, and this scene is meant to show that. He's saying he still enjoys it up here, but it's a lie. It's a lie because instantly when he's alone, Leo begins to have Thoughts.

With these pages, it's clear that Leo considers himself to be his swords, in a sense. He's a weapon - his whole life has revolved around defending and protecting. After all, Splinter raised them with a single purpose; revenge. But revenge is what led to him losing his sense of purpose to begin with, so even then, what good is he? What purpose does he serve now that he can't fight like he used to? If something is broken, you throw it away; nobody has use for something that can't even do the thing you have it for. At least, this is the idea he's subscribed to here.

Now, Leo is definitely no stranger to depression in the original Mirage series. Hell, I'd argue that Mirage Leo was really the blueprint for IDW Leo, who has a similar goofiness contrasted with these types of melancholic monologue to him. He's so fixated on what he no longer has that he can't even get past it. To him, he's as good as dead. It's harsh to say, but I think he's having such a huge identity crisis that a part of him doesn't even want to try. He's just... So tired.

Of course, I'm sure he'd give everything to be able to fight again, but that's for his brothers. When it comes to people that need control, sometimes the scariest thing is realizing that your control wasn't actually ever needed. He fights for his brothers, but what if they don't need him protecting them? He could fight again, but he wouldn't forgive himself if it hurt and endangered them. He'd also be hurt if they did well without him, though.

After the incident in which they are forced to go to Northampton, Leo isn't in a coma at all. He becomes testy and goes out into the woods to hunt and be alone, scarcely seen by anyone else. He's more closed off here than in 2003 & 2012 and never seems to really talk. He sort of gets past it when Raph ends up being nearly killed by the Shredder, but my point here is that Leo seems to have a lot of identity problems.

He couldn't protect his brothers or April then, so he hunts. What's interesting about that is the fact animals are good at sensing enemies and tracking their prey, similar to how the Shredder herded Leo to where he needed him for the ambush (I wrote a little fic about this too teehee).

Anyway, it's clear that Leo prides himself on maintaining order. Any setback can cause him to spiral because of his need for control.

I think that's why this conversation scares Mikey so much, basically insinuating to their other brothers that he's genuinely afraid of Leo killing himself, directly or passively it doesn't matter. His fears aren't unwarranted, either.

Now, it's revealed that this ^^^ is just an intrusive daydream of Leo's, but still. Up on the radio tower, he imagines what it would be like to fall off, his own weapon piercing through him. This, to me, is very deliberate. He's the weapon, defending his family, but also ruining the lives of others, bad or not. His sword blinded the one that retaliated and blinded him back, which may as well have sealed his fate and killed him. Also, doesn't this seem a tad bit similar to seppuku? In that he's killed by his own blade? Seppuku is seen as the only way to regain honor in the afterlife...

The resemblance is meant to be there, I think, because what are the odds his katana is able to break through the concrete with the force of its fall and be blade side up long enough for him to be impaled by it? I suppose it can happen, but I think it just shows how Leo isn't his usual, rational self right now.

(I think it's also interesting in his little daydream that he doesn't imagine himself jumping off. He can't quite bring himself to do it, so instead of stepping off himself, he goes out of his way to picture one of the rungs snapping, leading him to fall. Now, on a meta level this could be a bit of a diversion tactic to scare you and make it feel real, but ehh. I think it can go both ways).

Anyways, he imagines his death in gruesome, visceral detail, to the point he wonders if his death would cause the death of his family as well. His leaps in logic are irrational. Because really, what are the chances there's a special mineral from the sewers embedded in his feet, leading to government agents finding the lair and killing his family?

This is the scene I really wanted to talk about, as I find it to be one of the most brutal and realistic depictions of depression. Later on in this series, Leo basically implies that there's plenty of ways he can die, and they're all preventable. All he needs is a reason to do so (keep them from happening), but he currently doesn't have one.

I think it's the same thing here.

He's looking for a reason to step off the tower - either to jump, or to walk away and go back home. He doesn't need some grand sign, he just needs a reason. So, he considers what it would be like, to die. But he can't even go through with it all the way because then he imagines Raph dying because of his decision. This is what finally causes him to snap out of it, choosing to abandon his katana.

Even when contemplating death, his family is still the reason he keeps going. He needed a reason to live, and imagining his brother(s) dying is what did it. He weaponized his own intrusive thoughts to live. His own death didn't scare him, but his family did.

Yet, a piece of him still clearly dies, as depicted by him throwing away his sword. He doesn't want to be the weapon anymore, but he's not too sure what he is without it. He wants to make a point that he's more than the weapon. However, you can read him dropping his katana as him giving up, thinking he only kills and is no longer worthy of trying to protect. Not after killing an innocent man.

He doesn't directly kill his brother, but I don't think that matters to Leo. Not when he internalizes mistakes.

Never before have I seen intrusive thoughts depicted this way, or even suicidal ideation, really. It's....not quite comforting, but makes me feel seen, you know? Sometimes it's not really the happy thoughts that keep you going, but your own fear twisted in a way that fits your narrative.

The fact the first issue just ends with this ^ page is also so.... We don't get to see him actually step off, because a part of him never leaves. It's still there, not sure which direction to go.

Self-blame is both a canon and widely fanon aspect to Leo's character. By that I mean the portrayal feels a bit fanon, as I don't think Leo's perfectionist personality is really explored until Vol. 2 of the original series (although there is the Northampton arc...) It's definitely there, don't get me wrong, but it's more like his self-blame comes from a place of grief and fear. I think this panel might make it clear what I mean?

These deaths were because he lost his autonomy, blindly killing without being able to do a thing to stop it. He blames himself for everything, but I don't think he trains relentlessly to be perfect or to necessarily protect people the best he can. I think he's scared of doing the opposite. It takes more control to not kill a person than it does to do so, in a way. Anyone can kill another, but having the skill to pull back and merely disarm an enemy whilst protecting yourself and others is marginally harder.

But he's having a hard time knowing if it was worth it, pulling his punches. If he had killed the Foot soldier that blinded him, he wouldn't be feeling like this now. He wouldn't be unable to help his family (as he has been blind for months by this point I believe?) like he currently feels like he is. He was trained since birth to kill the Shredder, just to suddenly have to save people. That's a very different thing!

Splinter literally started their ninja training the second they began walking and copying his movements. He trained them for revenge, just for them to have to be vigilantes as the time calls for it.

I think what I'm really getting at here is that he's more than just angst; he can be silly and bossy just because, too (Leo is such a bossy older brother). But his fear manifests in the urge to do his best, and really a lot of his angst is self-made.

It's not just "I have to be perfect", or "I'm trying to keep you safe." It's something more, though I lack the proper words to describe it... It's almost like he wants to bear the burden in the case a scenario just like this one happens. If being the best means facing the worst, so be it. Hopefully that makes sense...

I want to get more into how IDW Leo and Mirage Leo feel very one-in-the-same to me, but I think that's an essay for another time. It's just very important to me for you to know that Leo often questions his devotion to Splinter in the original comics.

Not only does he say things like this, but in this story, when Splinter pushes him down the hill in the woods and forces him to find his way back home while blind, all Leo says is: "I knew it." He didn't expect his father to outright help him or to offer sympathies. He just accepted that he was going to have to look inside himself and solve this psychosomatic matter. Just another example of Leo internalizing the idea that hurt is all in his head...

He stated "You think I'm crazy." when Splinter suggested he was keeping himself blind, as well. It wasn't a question, and that, to me, really showcases that all Leo's have daddy issues /hj.

Anyways, sorry that this was mostly incoherent and didn't serve too much of a purpose. I really just wanted an excuse to get people to read Blind Sight... well, and to talk about the scene in which Leo imagines endangering his family because of his actions.

[cocoabats]

Deer Hunting Season better known as that one comic that made all our readers yell at us! I had the absolute pleasure of collabing on this comic with @theminecraftbee (writing), @otselotus (art) and @definitelynotshouting (editing) (with a gorgeous cover by @ingapotejtoo and some additional help from @kunehokki). And of course if youd like to know where HG and CG end up after this check out @hotguycomiczine!

Had a blast working on this comic, this whole team was absolutely lovely and I was super happy I could jump in to help out :DD

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[ MERCH | MISC ]

[uninformedartist]

So I'm genuinely disturbed. Had someone follow me on twitter & they were following & interacting with.. this person.

A massive TW for r*pe, zp*ophillia, inc*st I mean it.

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I got to watch my followings cos that person was sitting in my following for a while.

I hate this fandom, I do I really do. How tf do you think of such vile things. Ya'll on twitter, its not all hazbin fans because a lot of them are chill and nice people just scope them a bit out cos my soul.

[timmydraker]

CW: drugs

When Tim is seventeen, Bruce gets a call from his principal asking for a private meeting to discuss Tim’s education. It’s not abnormal, but the parent teacher meetings weren’t due for another month and something about the tone of Professor Wilcot’s voice leaves Bruce concerned.

He organises it for the next afternoon and politely tells the timid looking man to please get to the point.

Wilcot answers with a tight lipped frown, “I recently discovered that Tim has a few nicknames. Now, that in itself isn’t a probably but the names themself are… concerning.”

Bruce immediately thinks of Red Robin and worries his son has been caught, but that makes little sense when Tim has shown to be the best at contingencies and secret keeping.

“Such as?”

With a deep sigh the man continues, “Well, there’s ‘Benzo’ and ‘Opi’. As well as ‘27’, which is recently learned references a so called ‘club’ of celebrities who die at that age for-for drug abuse.”

Even if he wasn’t a detective, Bruce could easily put it all together. Benzodiazepines and opioids, both drugs and a number well tied to such a thing all regarding a famed person.

It’s like he’s just gotten inside from being drenched in snow and had hot water dunked on him as dozens of different moments come to mind. He remembers Tim going from being down and low, tired and drained to suddenly being extra alert and chatty. He assumed it was coffee, but Tim often had a red nose and sniffled like mad.

He also got shakes, was made fun of by his brothers for being a sweaty person, and irritable at the best of times. He was jumpy and easily spooked, which everyone connected to him growing up safe and getting no sleep.

Tim also had forgotten basic case information a few times but usually managed to cover it up.

Bruce had noticed and responded by trying to lessen his work load, only for Tim to scream at him, storm off and come back looking drowsy a couple of hours later.

Wilcot doesn’t speak for a while, seemingly giving Bruce the chance to process his words but when he does it’s just to put forward the last bit of evidence Bruce needs.

“I admit it isn’t exactly ethical, but I check Mister Drake-Wayne’s locker and… I thought it would be best if I let you chose how to proceed lest I harm his reputation.”

A bottle, almost empty, of Oxycodone and a half full bottle of Oxymorphone.

Bruce looks away when the last bottle lands on the table, it’s a benzodiazepines called Dalmane and there are no pills because they’ve all been crushed into a powder.

Bruce doesn’t even want to think about how those drugs interact.

Wilcot says one last thing before he leaves the room, quit clearly giving Bruce a moment as the reveal settles in his mind, “Tim is a good kid. He’s kind to everyone and I truely hope he can get help. Please, if there is anything I can do, contact me. Other than that, I will keep this quiet. Please take care of him.”

Let it be said that Bruce Wayne loves his children, he genuinely cares for them and most importantly, he likes who each of them are.

But he’s not always the best father to them, not when he’s too far in his head and his head is too far up his arse.

He tries to confront Tim calmly and with compassion at first but it becomes clear he isn’t qualified to deal with it and he should have gotten Alfred or even Dick. When Batman deals with addicts all he has to do is get them to a hospital and show he isn’t judging them, but with his own son and when he’s not being Batman…

Tim instantly locks up when Bruce shows him the bottles and his defences go straight into overdrive, “Bruce, don’t. That’s not fair! Did you go through my fucking stuff?! That’s fucked up!”

Bruce looses his composure quickly, “Don’t you dare curse at me, Timothy. You are a goddamn hero and you’re doing this? Why did you tell me?! I could have helped you! Why, Tim?! You e seen what people who abuse drugs end up like-“

Tim screams so loud Bruce can practically hear how it hurts his throat, “WHAT FUCKING DRUGGIES?! IS THAT WHAT THEY END UP LIKE?! TOO FUCKING LATE BRUCE, YOU’RE TOO LATE! I GAVE YOU EVERY FUCKING SIGN AND YOU DID NOTHING SO FUCK OFF! I. AN HANDLE IT ON MY OWN!”

“This ain’t handling it, Tim. You’re addicted. You’re erratic, you’re bouncing from mood to mood and, have you seen how skinny you are? I’m worried, Tim.”

Maybe Tim would have been able to handle it better if he hadn’t been a few hours into withdrawal, but all he does is swing. He manages to catch Bruce of guard and hit him square in the jaw, only to realise what he’s done and start hitting himself the same way.

Bruce breaks as he watches his son who is usually so calm and controlled break down in a fit of aggression and pent up energy.

When Tim manages to hit himself hard enough Bruce. An hear a crack from his hand.

As he speaks again he dooms himself to a life time of regret, forever wishing he had gotten Alfred’s advice first.

“I’m sorry son, but until you’re clean, you will no longer be Red Robin.”

There’s a silence before Tim releases a wheezing laugh of disbelief.

It’s soon followed by the most enraged, harrowing scream Bruce has ever heard. It feels as if it shakes the walls before Tim kicks at his father’s stomach and bolts.

Bruce is too stunned to follow and foolishly assumes he can track his son anywhere.

Tim, even after he manages to shakily pull out the Dalmane he had in his pocket just as he passes the gate and take a big inhale, manages to put his mind together enough to remove his watch and key.

Bruce is forced to shamefully admit what happened a few hours later when he can’t find him and realises that Tim isn’t coming back.

Alfred for the first time in Bruce’s entire life actually glares at him.

Dick shouts at Bruce about how unbelievably stupid he is.

Jason just scoffs and says the kid will come back while Damian makes a comment about Tim being weak.

Maybe they would have reacted better if Bruce told them why Tim left, but he shamefully doesn’t want to admit he didn’t notice that Tim was a dealing with addiction under his own nose.

But Bruce has never been good with honesty.

[simplepotatofarmer]

tw: death threats, self-harm, rape threats, suicide baiting, racism, slurs, antisemitism, transphobia, and homophobia

i'm making this post because the fact that people don't believe there's harassment happening is wild. it's been happening since the usmp was announced. it got worse when the racism issue on the qsmp happened, which i felt very strongly about speaking out on, and has honestly not stopped. so i want to give a breakdown of what's happened and what i've seen.

i had to leave for a few days to avoid the harassment. people threatened me with acts of violence, threatened my kids and my pets, people were spamming qrts with images of self-harm hidden in fancams. they called me slurs or demanded to see my tribal enrollment. even someone here on tumblr said they believed people were probably faking being indigenous. there was a ton of 'oh so now dream stans care about racism'. because they see us as dream 'stans' first and foremost. this has been a long running issue for poc in the fandom.

people have been doxxed and at least one person got the police involved because someone showed up to their house. this was one of the admins of the usmp update account, an account that was hacked and whose admins have been endlessly harassed and threatened.

i have never seen this level of harassment before and this fandom once drove me to be hospitalized.

it's bad. and it's real. the fact that people are saying things like it's fake or 'dream stans always have to be the victim' is just awful. people on here have made jokes about the very real threats of violence, doxxing, and rape threats that are being directed not just at dream and his family, including his minor sister, but his fans as well. people are being harassed and threatened with the most vile shit. there are legitimate threats. people are scared. it isn't okay.

there's no doubt that people on both sides have been cruel. none of that is okay. i've seen stuff that i absolutely do not approve of. it's never okay to harass people. point blank. there's no 'but' to that.

right now, the fact is that people are being harassed and badly. whatever you may feel about dream and his fans, these things are real and unacceptable.

under the cut is examples of what i'm talking about. not all of them as a lot of people immediately blocked people (that's what i did until i began keeping what i could):

[serymn31]

shadow and dust | helaegon, 2.6k words, M + dd:dne Aegon is with Helaena during their son’s funeral procession instead of their mother. He learns to use the people's grief for him to his advantage.

He pulls Helaena close with her face to his shoulder, so she cannot see the crowds now surrounding them, hundreds of hands reaching out to them. Some reach for his face as they pass by, to wipe his tears away. He lets them. All of them here to witness the grief of their king. Never had he felt more loved and adored. My grief is theirs and theirs is mine. We will all take revenge together. They will hate my enemies as much as I hate them.

read on ao3

[whumpcereal]

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

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

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

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

will's rescue, he's coming home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He misses Annie even more. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His jaw’s bolted–”

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

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

“I brush them every now and again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The mutt can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

Ruined, Derringer’s mind supplies. 

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

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

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

He hardens his face again and looks back at DeAngelis. 

“I’ll take him.”

“At the price we agreed on?”

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

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

“I can see that,” Derringer says. 

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

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

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

DeAngelis’ eyes narrow. “How much?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little bit longer, I promise. 

*

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

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

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

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

Okay, poor choice of words. 

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

It’s more than he can bear. 

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

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

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

Except–

“Twenty five,” the man shoots back. 

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck is he doing?” 

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“7500.” 

“Six.”

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

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

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

“Fine. Seven and thirty.”

“Done,” Derringer says quickly. 

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

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

Derringer starts forward. “Hey—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, thanks.”

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck?!”

“On the ground! ON THE GROUND!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will? You’re safe now.” 

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

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

*

The boy loses consciousness before the paramedics get there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[teruthecreator]

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

yeah idk why y'all read this

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

have a good day :-)

[battle-subway-ghost]

[There's an article being posted around online. Click it?]

Down The Buneary Hole Of The Team Fauna Cult

—

Team fauna is a proclaimed religious group, founded and formed by a man under the name of Wolf Fauna and located in a cavern outside of Olivine City, Johto. This group claims that the world depicted in the hit franchise Animals is real, and that ours is a false reality.

Seemingly innocent on the surface, Team fauna claims to wish to bring people towards enlightenment, all all while they "simply wish to live the way Fauna intended," specifically out of their way to state "We commit no crimes, harm nothing and no one."

Despite these claims to innocence, a further look into the actions and practices of this organization reveals a twisted world of kidnapping, abuse, brainwashing, and manipulation. This work hopes to shine light on the inner workings of Team Fauna and the recent events surrounding it.

Team Fauna pushed itself into the public eye on January 30th, as a strange invitation spread itself to many users of the website Rotumblr, reading as follows:

"Are you a seeker of the truth?

If you're receiving this message we believe you are.

Have you ever truly considered the convinces of this world, or are you still asleep

What if you had a change to escape it all, to live a real life, instead of the one you have taken.

You could reach fulfilment. Happiness. Many have.

With us you will know the truth.

To continue living in the dark is a common choice, but you may be one of the few who deviate.

We await your response with anticipation

Team Fauna"

February 1st, Team Fauna made their own blog on Rotumblr. Following this decision, many allegations arose soon after, many noticing hidden cries for help in the anonymous moderator's replies to inquiries, and eventually, a photo of a Galvantula in highly abusive conditions was uploaded, which was quickly connected to Team Fauna.

These incidents are what sparked a deeper investigation of the group; starting at Olivine City, the closest city to their alleged location. Many missing persons, primarily those reported to have gone hiking in the nearby routes, were reported, their missing posters strewn around the city.

Team Fauna itself resided in a cave and its surrounding woods far off the beaten path near Olivine City. Upon joining their group, it appears that many, if not all new members are asked to leave any partner Pokemon they may have behind prior to joining. This leaves new members far less likely to be able to confront any of the designated "guards" of the team, who are granted access to far more powerful Pokemon than other members.

Furthermore, upon initiation into this group, your name will be replaced, as you're instead given the name of one of the creatures from Animals. This makes it difficult to identify most members, as their names cannot be connected to any legal records.

Connection to the outside world is limited, if not entirely restricted. Many children are born into the cult, isolated from any sort of opposition to Team Fauna's ideals. It is unlikely that these children have legal documentation such as birth certificates.

However, the investigation goes deeper yet.

February 5th, A 17-year old named Sprite Chroma is incapacitated and kidnapped by members of Team Fauna. A bonfire is lit by Wolf Fauna, a celebration begins, and after the so-called festivities, a meeting is called.

During this meeting, Team Fauna's leader announced plans to open a cross-dimensional portal to their desired reality. Sprite Chroma is dragged in front of the crowd, and Wolf announces that he would be the first to cross through to the new world they all desired.

Over the next 15 hours, preparations were made for the ritual that would be performed soon. A member of Team Fauna took custody of the victim's phone in order to impersonate it to its friends and family.

Hour 15. 11 AM. "The last day in this world," as it was put by many in the cult. The ritual is prepared, Sprite dragged out of their cell for a second time. Wolf Fauna exits his cabin, bringing along a covered cage. As the ritual is set into action, the cloth is pulled, revealing that Team Fauna had not only found, but captured a Celebi, an elusive Mythical pokemon revered across Johto.

Celebi is forced to open a portal, but the plan goes awry. not long after the victim is forced inside, they are seemingly rejected, being spat back out, and destabilizing the portal, causing it to disappear.

Minutes after, the meeting is invaded. Many of Team Fauna's members escaped in the chaos, although it appears that the majority of the hostages and stolen Pokemon have been recovered.

As of now, the whereabouts of Wolf Fauna and other prominent members of Team Fauna are unknown. It is more than likely that they will regroup if given the time. Evidence strongly suggests that if left unchecked, the Team Fauna cult could very likely reach levels of danger comparable to that of Team Plasma or Team Galactic. We cannot let history repeat itself once again.

The author of the article appears to be remaining anonymous, save for the name "Lotus I."

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Home Sweet Home AU: Shepherd's Tone

(TW: Religious Trauma, blood/gore/injury, animal death, body/face horror, unhealthy friendships/familial issues.)

"I can't make myself look at it. but She needs me to see what I have done.

Like a deer in headlights, I can see what is coming for me."

Word count: 10'586

Notes: Not much to say for this one. just heed the warnings and enjoy :)

Mark had been staring at his bedroom ceiling for around an hour. His blanket had fallen off of his messy bed a while ago, leaving him exposed to the cool air of the room around him, though he didn’t once attempt to lean over and pick it back up. His eyes blankly stared upward as he laid in the dark, seeing the dim light from downstairs shining from the stairs and barely illuminating the cracked open door leading out of his room. He remained still, taking in a deep breath as he continued to hear the words from the living room underneath him.

He couldn’t make out any proper words of course, considering the floor between him and his parents’ conversation dampened the noise enough to make what they were saying sound muffled and barely decipherable, though Mark couldn’t help but feel his heart wrench whenever he made out the few words his brain was able to process. “Mark,” “help,” “therapy,” and “Wrong” were among them, though Mark could tell by the aggravated and worried tones of their voices that there was more to it than just that. Were they aware Mark could hear them? Or were they just oblivious, hoping the son they were talking about wouldn’t notice and they could simply go back to pretending nothing bad is going on in the morning. Either option made Mark feel sick in his stomach, and he wasn’t sure if tears would come out first, or if the urge to scream and shout at them about how he felt would beat it.

Mark chose to cry.

August 12th, 1992. 2:13 AM

Mark was quiet as he walked out of his room, carefully approaching the stairway as he clutched the single remaining strap of his worn out backpack. He quietly walked down the stairs, soon finding himself in the living room as he looked around, pointing his flashlight around the room as an attempt not to use the main light and blow his cover. He let out a soft breath when he saw nothing there before he quickly approached the front door, opening it before leaving the house, locking the door with his spare key before he ran towards his car.

It had been nearly an hour since he heard his parents stop talking and go to bed, yet he could still feel tears trying to fall down his cheeks as he swung open the car door and hopped inside, tossing his bag into the passenger seat. He took in a deep, shaky breath before he started the car, wincing at the sound of the engine starting up and the lights flicking on and shining brightly on the front of the house. As soon as he heard the loud sound and saw the bright lights, he muttered curses to himself, all before he backed out of the driveway as quickly as he could and drove down the road.

He had done this before; multiple times in fact, though his heart still pounded with something he figured was his anxiety creeping up on him, or the frustration he felt deep inside. They didn’t understand, and Mark doubted they would ever understand him, with his father especially feeling as though he didn’t believe a single word Mark said. Mark glanced at his radio, turning up the volume as he drove down the road, his headlights illuminating the nearby forest that ran down both sides of the asphalt. As he listened to the music, he tried nervously humming along, grasping his steering wheel even tighter.

He prayed for a sign that night, just a single sign from God himself to let him know he wasn’t going out of his fucking mind. However, all of his prayers remained unanswered, making his increasing dread in his chest all the worse as the days turned into months. He didn’t even notice that tears were forming in his eyes, nor did he understand why that was the case as they ran down his acne-ridden cheeks. Why? Why him? Why did he of all people have to have this happen to him? He can’t handle this kind of stress, with the fact that no one believed him making everything feel like an unbearable weight on his shoulders. No, he wasn’t losing touch with God, like Arthur seemed to think; if anything, it felt like God was losing touch with him.

Mark felt his knuckles ache with the amount of force he was applying to the worn leather steering wheel, jaw clenched and shoulders tight. Why did Cesar’s House have to be so far away? Why did his parents choose a house outside of town? His drive to school was 45 minutes long, maybe even longer if it’s icy out. God fucking damn it, was it always this fucking cold in the car? Was the shirt he was wearing always that scratchy? Oh God, he couldn’t just hold himself together for five minutes? Why was he crying so damn much? Why was the music louder than he set it at? Why was everything SO FUCKING LOUD-?

A deer was in the road in front of him.

Mark snapped out of his thinking to grab the wheel, swinging it to the side the best he could, though it appeared to be a tad too late. His car slammed against the deer, his wheels screeching against the asphalt as he skidded to a stop in the middle of the road. He froze, his breathing frantic and his mind blank as he shut off his radio and leaned back in his seat, muttering various curses under his breath as he tried to process what just happened. He took in a few deep, shaky breaths before he hesitantly reached for the door’s handle, stepping outside and into the dark road.

“Don’t be alive, don’t be alive, please don’t be alive…” Mark muttered under his breath, clasping his necklace in his hand as he walked In front of his car, seeing the smear of blood and chunks of fur stuck in the grill. “O-Oh…God…” He could only hope the deer died on impact, with the thought he was going to see a half maimed, yet still living animal In front of him making him feel nauseous. He walked through the headlights beams, looking behind the car to see the deer on the side of the road, somewhat lit up by the taillights of the vehicle. Mark took in a deep breath, hesitating before walking towards what looked like a corpse. As he got closer, he fought off the urge to gag at the sight of the large gash on the side of the deer, with its ribs buckled in. Mark was at least glad to see that it appeared to be dead, with its one remaining right antler dug in the dirt by the road and its eyes glazed over. Mark stepped back, staring at the animal as his body shook, still recovering from the shock of the accident. He forced himself to take in a breath, preparing to turn back and continue his drive.

He froze, however, when he began to hear the deer making noise.

He turned back, seeing the deer’s head tilting upward, its vocalizations sounding close to an elk, though choked and gurgling. It groaned and let out bellows as Mark stared at it with horror, with its sounds becoming less natural as the seconds ticked by. It sounded as if it was attempting to speak with vocal chords it didn’t have, sounding out certain parts of words Mark couldn’t identify. M’s, O’s, and Ah sounds came from it; a horrid cascade of animal sounds that were attempting so hard to speak like a human, as if it was so desperate to tell Mark something, but was physically incapable of doing so. It screeched and bellowed, Mark stepping back with every single vocalization until it abruptly stopped. Its head slammed against the dirt as it puked up what appeared to be veins, blood running out of its mouth and onto the cool grass as it became still and silent.

The sounds of the crickets from the woods, along with the sound of the engine running were all the sounds he could hear, with the horrid “speaking” ceasing. Mark stared at the deer, stumbling back as he grasped his necklace, muttering a small prayer under his breath before he ran back to his car and hopped inside, driving away as soon as he shut the door behind him and not looking back.

3:12 AM

Cesar was lying in bed asleep when he heard the knock at his front door. He stirred awake, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to process whether the sound was even real before he heard a more rapid set of knocking, causing him to groan and force himself up. He sat up, rubbing his face as he placed his feet onto the carpet and walked out of his room. “I’m coming, I’m coming…” He stated before hearing more knocks. “Dude, just wait a single minute, jeez…”

He walked into the living room, stepping onto the cold tile in front of the door, wincing slightly at how cold it was before opening the door. He tiredly looked through the doorway before his eyes widened slightly. “…Mark?”

“…H-Hey—”

“Do you know what fucking time it is?”

“Yeah, I…I do.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Cesar questioned. “We have school tomorrow—”

“I…Look I just…n…need to talk.”

Cesar glared at Mark with a tired, blank expression. “…Talk over the phone.” Cesar went to shut the door, being stopped by Mark, who grabbed the door with his hand.

“Wait, please, I…” Mark paused for a second, feeling Cesar’s irritated stare even as he looked away. “…I need to stay here tonight, okay? I…I promise I won’t be trouble.”

Cesar remained silent for a second, seemingly thinking before he let out a deep sigh. He relented, stepping out of the way and opening the door. “…You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“That’s fine.” Mark walked into the home, grasping onto his torn backpack tightly before throwing it onto the couch as Cesar sighed and shut the front door.

“Mama’s gonna ask why you’re here,” Cesar said as he approached the archway that led into the kitchen. “And when she does, just…tell her…”

“I will.”

Cesar turned back before pausing, standing still before muttering something, sounding as though the words got caught in his throat for a second. “Y…You can’t…we can’t keep doing this.”

“…What did you say?” Mark asked, not catching what Cesar said.

Cesar appeared to hesitate before responding. “…I said goodnight, we’ll…talk tomorrow.” With that, Cesar left to go to bed, leaving Mark by himself, not even giving him a blanket or pillow. Mark sat in the dark living room in silence, sitting on the couch as he attempted to stop his hands from shaking so much. He clasped his knees, rubbing the denim of his pants as he stared at the ground in front of him, attempting to think of anything aside from the haunting image of the deer splayed out with gore dripping from its mouth. He laid down on the couch, crossing his arms and resting his head on the arm rest, hoping his sweatshirt and jeans would be enough to keep him warm for the night, not even bothering to take off his shoes before he stared forward, lightly rubbing his metal cross before closing his eyes, deciding to try and get some sleep.

??:??

Mark found himself walking down a damp road, looking up at the starless sky to see that it was completely black; past midnight. He stumbled down the asphalt road, barely able to see much of anything through the darkness around him, only able to make out a faint set of red lights in the distance that slowly got closer as he walked towards it. The closer he got the more he made out the vehicle, with the red lights being its taillights. It looked like his car, though its wheels seemed to have melded to the asphalt, throwing out the option of using the car to drive wherever Mark was going, the answer of which he wasn’t even sure of. He walked around the car, seeing that its headlights were shining forward onto something on the road, being something that made Mark’s stomach churn; the body of a deer.

It writhed on the ground, veins hanging from its rapidly salivating mouth, its ribs broken and legs bent. Its oddly human looking eye stared up at Mark as he approached, its mouth opening and jaw twitching as it let out unholy sounds once again. It sounded closer to human speech than before, it “speaking” urgently through its bellows of pain, though once again the words never reached Mark’s ears.

Mark stepped back away from the deer, listening to its vague “words” before he turned back towards the road, wondering if he could manage to hitchhike home. However, he only walked a few feet before he paused abruptly, and covering his mouth as nausea hit him like a freight train. He hunched over in the middle of the road, attempting to throw up something but being unable to get it out, choking and gagging as he clawed at his throat. Blood began to pour out of his nose and the corners of his mouth as he struggled. He felt something clogging up his throat, making it hard to breathe or even choke out a single yell for help before he finally coughed up whatever was stuck into his hands.

Veins; he could feel their pulse still.

He coughed up blood and viscera onto the asphalt below him, eyes watering and staring in horror as he tried to get it out, but being unsuccessful with every attempt. He stepped back further, hearing a loud pulsing in his head as he did so, panicking as he began to hear faint screams, both from the deer and from other things he couldn’t identify. His breaths were becoming nothing more but pained gurgling and gasps, his throat burning and his insides aching. His sweatshirt was stained a deep crimson from the veins hanging from his agape mouth, and his confusion, deep pain and nausea only grew in intensity before he froze. A loud honk of a horn sounded beside him, with him looking to his left, only to see a set of headlights speeding towards him, hitting his bloodied, trembling form.

He awoke abruptly on the couch, splayed out across it as he took in a breath. Blood had streamed down his face from his nose, staining his face and dripping onto his clothes. He couldn’t even process that he was awake before he covered his mouth, sitting up before scrambling out of the living room, down the hallway, and into the bathroom, promptly puking into the toilet. He threw up what appeared to be deep-red bile, with him being too disoriented to even process it before he leaned away from the toilet, resting his back against the bathroom counter as he stared forward blankly, holding his hand on his chest as he felt around for his necklace, feeling his heart pound when he realized it was no longer there.

He stood up, flushing the toilet before rushing out of the bathroom, looking at the floor to try and find the missing necklace. He reached the living room before he threw around his things in an attempt to find it, only failing to do so and feeling his chest tighten. “No, no no no no no NO—” He muttered frantically before stopping abruptly, staring forward when he finally saw the necklace, seeing that it was dangling off of the top of one of the clock’s carved in “wings”.

Mark paused, staring at the necklace that was slightly swaying from its spot on the edge of the wooden wing as he approached it. He looked up at it, holding his arm up, with it just barely out of reach as he tried to retrieve the golden cross—

GONG.

GONG.

GONG.

GONG.

GONG.

The sound of the clock made Mark yell and fall backwards, staring up at the clock’s face, holding onto his necklace tightly before he scrambled to his feet, running out of the room and swinging open the front door of the House, not even remembering to grab his backpack as he slammed the door shut and ran to his car, driving away as soon as he started it. As he drove away, he attempted to ignore how he could’ve sworn the “wing” the necklace was hanging off of twitched and shook the necklace off of itself. It was just his imagination, right? He hoped so, anyway.

7:15 AM

Cesar stared at the drops of blood he found on the bathroom floor in silence. He wasn’t sure why they were there, or why they seemed to trail into the hallway as well, though the sight was unnerving enough for him to back out of the room and gently close the door most of the way. Cesar had thrown on a simple black T-shirt with a faded design on it, along with blue jeans, all before opening his bedroom closet and grabbing a plain gray hoodie and his backpack. He walked out of his bedroom, feeling his exhaustion creeping up on him despite him getting a decent night’s sleep, aside from the interruption that made him stay up for 30 more minutes. He walked into the living room, sitting down on the couch with a sigh, attempting to rub the tiredness from his eyes as he waited. He continued to sit in silence for a bit until his mind finally clicked something together: Where was Mark?

Cesar had realized that he hadn’t seen Mark since he woke up, or even heard his mother mention him when they ate breakfast. If nothing else, he should’ve been on the couch, yet he wasn’t. He must’ve gone home early, Cesar supposed, sighing with a tinge of annoyance with the realization that him coming over that early in the morning was therefore pointless. However, as he thought to himself, he glanced down at the ground, pausing as his eyes hit something; Mark’s worn out backpack.

The bag itself was hanging on by a single remaining strap, of which was held by a few frayed threads and some pieces of duct tape. It looked as if Mark hadn’t gotten a new one since he was in middle school, or was simply extremely reckless with it. Either way, Cesar reached towards it, grabbing its strap and, against his better judgment and worry of being caught looking through another’s things, he unzipped it to see its contents.

The first thing he saw was, of course, a pair of clothes, being a worn out shirt and blue jeans, but after pushing them to the side, he saw what was buried underneath them; a bible, a notebook, and a couple pencils. Cesar grabbed the notebook, pulling it out and staring at it for a second. Was he really going to look through someone’s personal journal? His curiosity was killing him, and as his hand absentmindedly reached for the cover, he glanced up at the clock, seeing it was only 7:21. He had time.

9:35 AM

The bells rang in the school’s halls, Mark flinching at the noise as he opened his locker, dumping his books into the rest of the mess in there, stopping things from falling out with his arms before slamming the door shut. He stood still for a moment, looking around at the rest of the students talking and walking to their lockers to get ready for the next class, catching the eye of a couple of them. The eye contact never lasted long it seemed, with the other person looking away as soon as they realized who they’re looking at. Mark didn’t blame them; he knew he wasn’t looking the greatest, and his glare was hard enough to cut glass, though at that point, with how exhausted he was, he couldn’t care less. He just needed to get this school day done with—

“Hey.”

Mark looked to his right, seeing Cesar standing close by, staring at him. Mark sighed, figuring he was going to ask where he went last night, or why he was there to begin with, so preparing to have that conversation, Mark responded, “Hey, look I…I need to stop over again after school, I forgot to grab my b…” Mark’s voice trailed off as he looked down, seeing what was hanging from Cesar’s hand; his backpack. “…bag.”

“Just take it.” Cesar held the bag up to Mark, who hesitantly grasped it and held it close before opening his locker once again.

“…Th…Thanks.” Mark said quietly, coughing before quickly shifting his leg to block off the opening of the locker as a pile of loose papers and books nearly spilled out as he placed the bag on the hook over them.

“Look, do you hate me or not?”

Mark paused at the question, turning towards Cesar with a confused look on his face. He wasn’t sure if he even heard the question right before responding. “…I d…what do you mean?”

“…I…” Cesar appeared to pause for a moment, gesturing vaguely at the backpack before looking up at Mark. “…I read your journal and saw what…you were saying about me.”

Mark stared at Cesar, stepping away from his locker and letting everything fall out onto the ground. “What?”

“I was curious, alright? I shouldn’t have done it but I really just needed to kno—”

“Why did you do that?”

“Look, I—”

Mark stepped forward, staring down at Cesar with a look that could kill. “Why the FUCK did you look in there?” Mark questioned as he grew closer, ignoring the bell that was ringing behind him.

“Dude, calm down!” Cesar said. “…I just don’t get why you can’t just say this shit to my face.”

“What kind of fucking friend are you?”

“What kind of friend are you?” Cesar snapped back. “You talk about me like I’m a piece of shit that doesn’t care about anything but myself!”

Mark stared at Cesar with a rising fury as he continued. “‘He just doesn’t listen to me, he’s ignoring everything I say,’ As if I haven’t been listening to you since we met.” Cesar spat. “If anything, I’m probably the only person that does listen to you.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Mark fists clenched.

“Do you hear what you’re saying half of the time?!” Cesar questioned. “You keep saying weird shit then acting like you didn’t say anything right after! I can only handle so much Mark, I can’t keep listening to your ramblings otherwise I’d go insane too—”

Mark clasped onto Cesar’s shoulders and swung him around, slamming him against the lockers as he stared into Cesar’s eyes. Cesar’s half angry, half concerned look turned to fright as Mark’s hands clasped onto his shoulders hard enough to make them sting, thumbs digging into his collar bones and fingernails digging into his skin. Mark stared at Cesar in silence, jaw clenched and nose beginning to bleed before his furious gaze suddenly vanished, with Mark grasp lessening before they both heard something down the hall:

“HEATHCLIFF!”

Mark’s head snapped around, seeing one of the teachers staring at the two as Mark backed away. The teacher appeared furious before she continued; “I expect you to be in the principal’s office by the end of the day.”

Cesar rubbed his sore shoulder before looking at Mark, who was staring at the teacher like a deer in headlights, his hands tense and fingers twitching. Mark glared at Cesar from the side of his eye, clasping his hands together as if he just needed to squeeze something very hard. However, the fury was gone from his stare, replaced with a look of fear, for a reason Cesar was unsure of. Either way, Cesar couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if the teacher didn’t step in, and wondered how close Mark’s hands would’ve gotten to his neck before he stopped.

All Cesar knew was that he could barely even recognize who he was staring at when they made eye contact.

Mark sat outside of the principal’s office, his leg bouncing and his elbows planted on his knees as he stared at the linoleum floor. Every other student had already left, leaving him by himself in a silent hall. He could hear his mother and the principal speaking through the door, only barely muffled by the wall and door itself, allowing him to make out a part of their conversation:

“These outbursts appear to be…getting more common, Mrs. Heathcliff, and I’m simply worried of them getting only more violent if something isn’t done soon.”

“I…I understand that.” Leah stated, her voice soft as usual. “He’s…he’s a good young man, I-I don’t…I don’t know why he would react like that towards a friend, I mean…Cesar and Mark have been joined at the hip since they were children, I don’t understand why he’d suddenly become so…aggressive.”

“I understand your concern. However, if these behaviors continue, then I’m…afraid action will have to be taken.”

“What kind of action?”

“Suspension, to…possible expulsion from the Mandela County school system.”

“…You can’t be serious.” Leah’s voice quivered as she spoke.

“Of course, expulsion is only for extreme measures, and at this point, I don’t believe it will be necessary, though I’m only warning you that behaviors like these can lead to only more problems later on. Have you…spoken to him about this before?”

“…I…suppose not.”

“I’d recommend you start. Your child appears troubled, Ma’am, and I feel the best course of action is consulting his councilor and speaking to him personally. I understand now is…a hard time for everyone, and I’ve seen my fair share of students being put under extreme stress due to these unprecedented events, and I believe Mark is a similar case.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you for coming in today, ma’am. I’m…hoping this will be the last time we have a conversation like this.”

“…I do too.”

Mark waited a little while longer, no longer paying attention as he blankly stared at the ground, all before the door opened beside him and he looked up, only to see his mother’s face staring back at him.

“You alright?” Leah asked softly.

Mark remained silent, the guilty look in his eyes answering for him.

“…I have work in a little while, do you want to come with me?”

Mark looked away for a moment; did he really want to spend the rest of the day at the library? He thought about it before looking back up at his mother’s face, the sad gaze she was giving him making him decide before he nodded in silence. If it made his mom happy, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to spend some time finding books to read. If nothing else, it was a quiet environment he could stay in as he recovered from how overwhelmed he felt. Leah smiled softly before Mark stood up, with her standing by Mark’s side as they left the school, finally putting an end to Mark’s horrid school day.

The drive to the library was a silent one, Leah occasionally pointing out things, like stores already putting things up for Halloween despite it being a couple months away, or waving to someone she recognized from church. She talked to Mark, not expecting or needing a response from him, just making sure he was listening by glancing at him every once in a while. Mark simply looked out the window, seeing it was a cloudy, gray day outside, looking as if it was about to rain. It was dreary outside, though Mark didn’t mind that much; just gave him an excuse to stay inside.

Leah led Mark into the large library in the middle of downtown when they arrived there, Mark looking around the expansive, two-floored library with a neutral look on his face. He had been there a few times before, learning that it had been constructed a long time ago from Leah, though the old architecture was somewhat obvious when he saw how worn out some things were. He looked around and saw that there was barely anyone there aside from a couple of people at the computers or walking around, browsing the books on the shelves.

“Alright, if you need anything you can just come get me at the front desk,” Leah said quietly, turning to face Mark. “If I’m not there, I went to go tend to something and won’t be gone long, alright? You’re free to do anything here, just…please don’t get into trouble.”

Mark nodded quietly, with Leah smiling softly before turning and walking away, leaving Mark by himself to figure out a way to entertain himself. He put his hands into his sweatshirt pocket, beginning to look around, his tired eyes looking over the books as he tried to find anything of interest to him. He read title, after title, after another title, seeing none that piqued his interest whatsoever. In fact, most of the ones that he recognized were because he had read them in class before, made to write a book report on them despite most of them being boring and predictable. That or he had already read most of them on his own time, like most of the books from Stephen King. He couldn’t even remember the amount of times he’s read “The Shining”, or watched the movie of the same name, basically able to recite everything that happens in both by heart. 

He sighed, walking out of the aisle and towards a small table he saw against one of the walls, one that had a printer on it, available for anyone to use. He walked towards it, opening the printer and grabbing a few pieces of paper from it before shutting it once again, all before grabbing a pencil that was on the desk and walking towards one of the tables in the middle of the room. However, he paused, glancing at something on the wall before he stopped walking, staring at it for a while. On the wall was a public cork board, one that anyone could paste whatever they wanted onto it to promote an event or anything of the sort. One of the papers on it drew his attention however, seemingly pasted over a pile of similar papers.

It was a missing poster for a young man, who seemed to be named “Michael Richards.” The picture was of a man with a short, low ponytail, and an open hoodie with colored sleeves, the color of which Mark was unsure of due to the photo being in black and white. He couldn’t see anything below the mid-torso area, though Mark was more focused on the face of him. The face nor the name rang a bell in Mark’s mind, though the sight of him smiling widely, seeming to be having fun despite his face being plastered on a missing poster made a pit form in Mark’s gut. A face of happiness on something that was basically a public death certificate for the Mandela area.

Mark shook off the sudden chill up his spine before continuing his walk to the tables, sitting down and placing the blank papers in front of him, staring at them with his pencil in hand as he thought of something to draw. He rested his head on his free hand, staring at the blank page in silence as he absentmindedly scratched his head. He felt as though he was being watched, hunching over his papers as if he was scared someone was watching him doodle from right behind him. Mark glanced around, seeing that no one was even close to him, nor paying him any attention, so he let out a sigh and began to draw.

A few hours had passed, and Mark threw yet another crumpled up paper ball into the trash, with his left hand stained with graphite. He sighed deeply, walking towards the front desk to see Leah speaking with someone on the other side of it. Mark waited for their conversation to be over, resting his arms on the tall desk as he looked around. He was starting to feel hungry, most likely due to him skipping breakfast that morning, despite his mother cooking for them. He looked out of the front doors of the building, seeing that the sky was already beginning to turn orange as evening approached. He stared outside blankly, looking at nothing in particular before Leah spoke.

“You alright?”

Mark looked back to see Leah was looking at him with a slightly concerned look on her face. He nodded before Leah spoke again. “You want to go home?” she asked softly.

Mark nodded again.

“Alright, I’m going to be here for another few hours, but I’ll call home and see if your father can come pick you up,” Leah reached towards  one of the phones on the desk before looking back up at Mark, who had a look of disappointment on his face. “…you know what? How about I see if I…can get off a little early tonight. Maybe we can do something like…play a board game or something. Does that sound alright to you?”

Mark glanced to the side, thinking to himself for a while. His true plan was to go home, get some quick dinner then go to bed, even if he wasn’t necessarily looking forward to yet another night of night terrors. He looked back to Leah, nodding slightly once again, causing a faint smile to form on her face. “Alright. I’ll go ahead and call Arthur then.” She stated. Mark started to walk away, though Leah stopped him by speaking once again. “One more thing…” Mark turned to face her, seeing she was smiling, though it was a sort of sad smile. “…Thank you for staying here with me. I think it’s good for you to get out and around like this, you know?”

Mark didn’t respond, looking at the ground and nodding slightly before walking away. He wasn’t necessarily looking forward to the ride home that would most certainly involve his father berating him for his school mishap, though at least he had a couple hours of peace and hopefully more when he got home.

9:15 PM

Mark stared blankly into the living room from the kitchen, leaning against the wall as he watched Leah and Sarah playing with building blocks on the carpet. He could feel his exhaustion creeping up on him, judging by the heavy eyelids and the foggy mind. He would’ve gone up to his room by then, sleeping the night away until morning came, but something was keeping him up, whether it was his fear of nightmares or his insomnia. He supposed it didn’t matter either way; if he was going to stay up, he might as well accept it.

He opened the fridge door, digging through everything in there before grabbing an energy drink he had hidden in there. He looked at it, standing up straight before closing the fridge door. He jumped, startled by the sight of his father standing there, staring at him before looking down and seeing the can in Mark’s hand.

“…You know those aren’t good for you.” He stated. “They’re bad for your heart.”

“…Y…Yeah, I know.”

“Just…don’t get in the habit of drinking those.” Arthur sighed.

“I won’t.” Mark turned to go upstairs, Arthur watching him before speaking again.

“Oh, before you go,” Arthur called. “The trash needs to be taken out, could you do that? I need to get some bills paid.”

Mark looked at Arthur, one step on the first stair before he sighed and stepped back down. “…Yeah I…can do that.”

“Good. Though don’t be out there for too long,” Arthur stated. “People have been hearing what sounds like a bear around here.”

“There aren’t bears around here…” Leah said. “It’s probably one of the neighbor’s dogs.”

“Either way, just get it done, alright?”

“Mm-hm.” Mark placed the can on the kitchen table before brushing past Arthur and towards the trash can. He tied up the trash bag, pulling it out and lugging it over his shoulder, hoping nothing spilled out or broke as he approached the back door.

It was already getting dark, with the sky being a deep blue, near fully black. He couldn’t see much past the back porch light as he stepped out onto the concrete, looking around before spotting the trashcan right to the side of the porch, on the other side of the wooden railing. He sighed, taking one last quick glance around his dark backyard before opening the small gate and stepping onto the damp grass. He whistled to himself as he opened the garbage can’s lid and threw the bag into it, hearing it thump against the bottom of the plastic bin.

He wiped his hands on his pants as he walked around the porch, placing his hand on the gate to open it before he paused, feeling a more intense feeling of being watched than he felt in the library, making his blood run cold. He looked behind him, into the trees, but saw nothing but darkness and whatever overgrown plants were there past the yard line. He turned to his right, seeing the empty road, also seeing nothing. He turned to his left and—

There was a face staring back at him from the tree line.

Mark couldn’t move as he stared at the Figure in his yard; a monochrome man in a jacket with colored sleeves and a black shirt, with its dark hair tied back. Its face however was what made Mark’s heart pound, seeing two large, near completely black eyes aside from the small hints of white staring back at him from the dark. Its gaping maw was impossibly wide open, its eerily white teeth the only thing visible in the blackness. It was only the top half of the body, and Mark could see its organs hanging from the bottom half of its torso, and its arm bones and veins hanging from torn arm stumps, bloodying its clothes and bleeding onto the grass below it, hovering as if it still had legs to stand on.

Mark stared at it with wide eyes, unable to look away as if he was trapped in some kind of trance. It didn’t seem to be moving, or at least on a passing glance, though Mark could tell the longer he stared that it was ever so slowly approaching, its face unchanging. Mark finally shook off his sudden paralysis, swinging open the gate and scrambling onto the porch, locking the gate behind him before lunging towards the back door. He fumbled with the doorknob, finding that it was locked, as if it was jammed. He slammed his hand against the door, screaming for someone to open it before turning back towards where he saw the Figure, only to find that the yard was empty once again. He froze, silently searching for the Figure before he turned around fully.

Its two beady eyes stared back at Mark from the other side of the porch, its head twitching ever so slightly as its gaze never once moved away from Mark’s cowering form. Mark backed away, staring at the Figure as he tried to do anything aside from stand in one place, despite his legs turning into jelly. He stared into the thing’s eyes; its unblinking, unmoving eyes. Mark’s eyes watered and his throat was too tight to even let out a sob before his eyelids suddenly felt as heavy as elephants.

Then he fell asleep.

Mark couldn’t process what his parents were saying when he woke up, hearing them somewhere in the room with him, with them speaking in hushed, worried tones to each other. Mark hadn’t yet opened his eyes, but he could gather that he was lying on the living room couch, with what felt like an ice pack on his head. Perhaps the ice pack was a good call, considering the throbbing pain he felt in his skull. He overheard his mother talking to his father, seemingly contemplating taking Mark to the hospital; as if he hadn’t gone there enough already. Mark winced slightly at yet another sharp pain in his head before he finally opened his eyes, being greeted by Arthur standing at the end of the couch, one hand on the back of it as he looked at Leah, who was in a chair to the side of said couch.

“Mark!” Leah all but jumped out of her seat when she finally saw Mark’s eyes were open, kneeling by the couch and lightly caressing Mark’s head. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Mark couldn’t even get an answer out, with any words he could say becoming lodged in his throat. Instead, he let out a groggy “I don’t know”, not even attempting to make his voice loud enough to hear it clearly.

“W-We found you on the porch, just passed out I-I thought something happened to you—” Leah covered her mouth, taking in a deep breath as she suppressed her urge to cry. “Do you remember anything?”

Mark stared blankly at Leah, thinking hard as he slowly sat up, wincing when he felt his headache come back. After a few moments, he began speaking: “I was…taking out the trash ‘nd…” Mark said quietly. “I…I w…”

The Figure’s gaze pierced his soul when he remembered it.

“…I don’t know, I…think I just…passed out.”

“Leah…” Arthur said softly. “I think you should…go get some rest.”

“I…I’m fine.” Leah said, her voice wavering slightly. “Just a…a little…I…”

“Sarah needs to be taken to bed anyway.” Arthur said. “I think you need some time to…calm down.”

Leah sighed, looking at Mark before kissing his forehead and walking away, grabbing Sarah’s arm as she led her upstairs, Mark seeing Sarah was looking at him as they walked away. Mark stared at the stairway for a few moments as Arthur sat on the chair by the couch, sighing deeply as he did so.

“…What did you see out there?”

Mark looked at Arthur with furrowed brows and a confused look on his face.

“You’ve…mentioned seeing things lately, but you never said what.” Arthur continued. “What have you been seeing?”

Mark’s stare alone questioned why Arthur needed to know that.

“…You know, sometimes people are given visions.” Arthur stated. “Many of God’s prophets were given these visions or…messages to give to the people of this world. Sometimes they seem…vague, or confusing or…even frightening to some, but they have to…mean something. So I just want to know…what you have been experiencing. Because…it’s possible God’s trying to…speak through you.”

“…I d…I don’t think it’s God, Dad.” Mark muttered, lightly rubbing his necklace with his thumb.

“There’s a possibility it could be.” Arthur said, leaning forward. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Mark looked at the ground blankly, thinking of what he could say or do before he closed his eyes for a moment. “…I was driving t…to Cesar’s house last night.” Mark started. “I just…w…wanted to…to stay the night, but when I was driving I…I hit a…deer.”

“…I see.” Arthur figured that explained the stains and fur on the front of the car. “…What about this?”

“…I checked on the deer and…” Mark paused, thinking carefully, staring at the floor with an unblinking stare. “…It wasn’t dead.”

Arthur simply nodded, his brows somewhat furrowing.

“…It tried speaking to me.” Mark said in a monotone voice. “…Vomiting out its organs and veins. Attempting to talk to me with vocal chords it didn’t have. It wanted to speak to me. It needed to give me a message, but was incapable of doing so.”

Arthur sat up and leaned back in his seat, mouth open slightly as Mark continued.

“I saw it in a dream the same night. Its words were clearer but they still never reached my ears.” Mark droned. “I felt them…crawling under my skin. Veins pushing themselves out of my body; choking me. All-encompassing agony. A mind running with thoughts that didn’t belong to me. My misery was only ended by the sight of two headlights coming towards me.”

Mark shook his head slightly, finally blinking and rubbing his dried out eyes. “…And then I…woke up. I had t…to vomit after that dream, and I just f-felt so…sick. I went home right after.”

Mark looked up to see Arthur staring at him with widened eyes, stuck in a stunned silence before he gestured towards his nose. Mark stared at Arthur with confusion before he began to taste blood, feeling something warm running out of one of his nostrils. “O-Oh…shit.” Mark stood up, immediately heading to the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Arthur watched him leave, unable to speak as his hands trembled slightly. He could barely put his own thoughts together, only recognizing a deep feeling of dread within him that he hasn’t felt before.

Maybe Mark was right; it didn’t sound like God was the one speaking to his son.

August 13th, 1992. 2:12 AM

Mark laid on his side, curled up in the middle of it in the fetal position as he held his necklace in his hand, using his other arm to lightly rub his opposite shoulder. His family had fallen asleep hours ago, seemingly without much effort, though Mark appeared to not have been blessed with such a thing. He stared forward, not at anything in particular, his green eyes staring into the darkness visible through the cracked open bedroom door, not once looking away. He shook slightly, both from the lack of a blanket over him and the discomfort in his body, feeling as if his insides itched and couldn’t be scratched.

He realized it was silly to be afraid of the dark, especially as a near legal adult that ditched his nightlight when he was 10, though his mind didn’t seem to think so. Flashes of that thing’s face appeared in his mind, imagining it staring back at him from the hallway, waiting for him to fall asleep. Mark’s bloodshot eyes were beginning to become dried out from his unblinking stare, stinging enough to make him tear up before he finally closed them for a moment, opening them back up right after, seeing that the door was open further than it was. Mark let out a panicked gasp, sitting up and scrambling for his flashlight on his nightstand, turning it on to see that nothing was in the hallway, yet the door creaked open slowly before stopping entirely. His breathing was harsh before he managed to calm himself down, deciding it was best to go then instead of later.

Mark stood up, shambling around his room, kicking away trash and piles of clothes before standing in the doorway, looking down the dark hall before sneaking towards the stairway. He quietly walked down the carpeted stairs, into the living room, and towards the front door, looking back at his house as he reached for the doorknob, pausing for a moment before opening the door and leaving the house without a word and without a thought.

The drive to Cesar’s house was a quiet one, with Mark not even bothering to turn on the radio, with only his thoughts keeping him company along with the gentle sound of the AC. He stared forward blankly, unmoving and silent, eyes darting around the dark woods to the sides of the road, searching for the reflected lights of an animal’s eyes. Yet, that night appeared more silent and empty than it was before, with no surprise buck there to hit. However, he half expected to see the slowly decaying corpse of the deer he hit the previous night, though he never saw one, even as he passed by the spot he hit it at; another animal must have gotten to it. The food chain was still in effect despite the rest of the world falling apart, it appeared.

The town was as empty as usual when Mark finally drove through its border, blankly staring through his windshield as he drove through the large gateway leading into Wisteria Avenue. Cesar’s house was completely dark, with both him and his mother presumably asleep when Mark parked on the side of the road, staring at the house with dull eyes before he hesitantly opened up his car door, stepping onto the curb before approaching the front door. To his surprise however, the door appeared to be slightly opened; almost inviting to anyone who wanted to come in. The worry of a possible intruder lingered in Mark’s mind as he reached for the strangely warm door knob, though was quickly snuffed out when he heard the sound of an all too familiar ticking noise coming from inside.

There it was; the clock Mark had seen in dreams, nightmares, and hallucinations alike. He walked into the living room, staring at the clock’s face, its hands moving with every beat. Mark turned towards the archway leading into the kitchen, carefully walking towards it, before moving through the kitchen, and towards the back hallway, eyes somewhat glistening in the dark as he approached one of the doors. He grabbed the handle, slowly opening it part way, its hinges creaking as he looked inside, seeing a bedroom. Cesar was sleeping in his bed, completely still and not even reacting to Mark’s presence whatsoever.

Vulnerable.

Mark slowly shut the door after only a few seconds of blank staring, all before he heard them once again; the bells ringing three times. Mark walked out of the hallway, back through the kitchen, passing by a set of glass sliding doors, partially cloaked by curtains. He glanced outside, seeing nothing of interest in the backyard aside from the faint orange light from a nearby streetlight, though the darkness made him turn his head away, imagining widened eyes staring back at him from the dark if he didn’t look away first.

When he made it back into the living room, he saw the clock once again, but noticed two things when he approached it: There was an odd, sweet smell coming from it, almost like vanilla. Secondly, the door was opened, the compartment with the pendulum being exposed somewhat through the partially opened glass door. Mark didn’t even know that the door could be opened, assuming it was completely stuck shut for a reason he didn’t know. However, there it was, open, almost like it wanted him to take a closer look at its inner workings. However, when Mark lightly pressed his cool hand on the door to look closer, he was interrupted by the sound of a loud thud against something on the other side of the House.

Mark backed away from the clock, peeking from behind the kitchen archway to see the glass doors had a new red smear on the outside of them, dripping down onto the small patio below it. Mark stared at the stain, stumbling towards the doors, pushing the curtains out of the way as he looked outside, seeing nothing but grass and trees past the backyard once again. His eyes glanced from side to side, all before he heard a loud deer call just out of view. He flinched, backing away as he placed his hand on his chest and over his necklace, all before sighing, feeling embarrassed that he was scared by the local wildlife. He unlocked and slid open the glass door, looking to the right, expecting to see a doe or even a buck standing there munching on grass or something, only to find that his blood ran cold when he finally saw it. 

“You.”

The deer hobbled along on only its front legs, with its two back legs appearing lame and unusable. Its left antler was hanging on by a single bit of broken bone and nerves, and its side appeared bloody and broken. How the deer made it all the way here from the road to Cesar’s house with only two working legs astounded and frightened Mark to no end, making him nearly want to vomit. It leaned down and began gnawing at a rotten apple on the ground, from the tree that was right behind it. Mark couldn’t look away as it chewed and ate the rotten fruit as if it would kill it if it didn’t. After a few moments of horrified silence, Mark watched it raise its head, facing Mark and staring at him with constricted pupils. Veins and sinew were hanging from its agape mouth as its head twitched and legs trembled. Mark took a step towards the glass doors behind him, preparing to go back insi—

The deer was pounced on by a tall, pale figure that leaped out from the tree line. Mark yelled, stumbling back and falling into the kitchen as he heard loud, staticy yells and screeches, along with pained bellows from the deer just outside. Mark scrambled to his feet, slamming the door shut and closing the curtains, backing away until he was against the opposite wall. He could hear flesh tearing and bones crunching as Mark shuffled towards the archway, all before Mark ran towards the front door, ignoring the clock and swinging open the door, slamming it shut behind him before he booked it to his car. He had never started a vehicle that quickly in his life, backing away from the House and speeding down the road, not once bothering to check if he was under the speed limit. He felt as though he was missing something as he drove away, despite not bringing anything there, but it didn’t matter. Mark wasn’t lingering long enough to see what that large humanoid wanted.

6:10 AM

Mark audibly groaned when he heard the sound of his alarm clock that morning. He knocked the alarm clock over, it hitting the ground with a soft thud, thankfully hitting a pile of clothes on the ground next to the nightstand. Mark stared at the ceiling, still wearing the clothes he wore to Cesar’s House; in fact, he hadn’t slept at all during that time, only staring at the ceiling blankly with dried out eyes, only blinking every couple minutes at least. Another night of fearing nightmares and swearing he heard sounds outside his window, his heart beating hard enough to keep waking him up whenever he dared to doze off. He pondered whether he wanted to stay at home and pretend he was sick, or go to school and get another boring and overwhelming day done with, and knowing the amount of missing days he’s already taken, he reluctantly decided on the latter.

He groggily sat up, sitting in place for a few moments before standing up on two shaky legs, shambling towards his bedroom door, grabbing his backpack on the way then moving through the hallway. When he made it downstairs, he saw Leah in the kitchen, cooking breakfast for him and Sarah, with Sarah already at the kitchen table. The smell of food alone, even if it smelled good, made Mark feel nauseous, getting rid of any appetite he had left. Mark stared at Leah and Sarah for a moment before speaking.

“Is Sarah done eating?”

“…Oh she hasn’t eaten yet, I’m still making everything.” Leah explained. “Though, she’s going to stay home today anyway, if…you’re ready to go.”

“…Why isn’t she going?”

“She’s getting a cold, it seems…” Leah sighed. “Got it from her classmates I reckon.”

“Hm.” Mark looked towards the front door with a tired, half-lidded glare.

“…Oh, by the way…did you…leave last night?” Leah asked. “I-I’m not mad, I just don’t think it’s safe to—”

Leah turned to see the front door open, only to close soon after, with Mark completely missing from the living room. Leah sighed softly, looking back at the stove and pan of eggs with a worried look in her eyes, lightly rubbing her thumb on her sapphire necklace.

11:23 AM

Mark was losing it in that fucking school.

Mark stared at his desk, scratching the wood of it with his chipped nails, leaving small lines in its surface. He stared at the math worksheet he had been given, with only a few scratched out answers in the spots given and the rest covered in what must have been hundreds of small, messy doodles. He couldn’t even think of the rest of the answers, his brain moving as slow as molasses yet as quickly as a racecar. He looked around, seeing the rest of his classmates staring at their worksheets in complete silence, with not even music blotting out the thoughts (or lack thereof) in his head. Nothing and everything all at once.

Mark glanced towards the other side of the room, seeing Cesar sitting at his own desk. Mark was surprised he hadn’t chewed out Mark about what happened the previous day, yelling at him about how they weren’t friends anymore and how he wished that Mark was dead. Perhaps a cruel thought, and maybe misplaced, but Mark would’ve rather had Cesar be the one to yell at him about how unstable he was than his own mind. At the very least, he could choke out the words of someone else, but not his own mind.

The clock in that room was starting to sound like a jackhammer in Mark’s ears. It felt as grating as nails on a chalkboard, all the while the feeling of being watched didn’t once subside. Mark couldn’t concentrate on whatever work he was meant to be doing, only staring blankly downwards, and waiting for the bell to ring once again. He felt as though his own thoughts were overrun by something else, making him unable to even think of a single thing on his own clearly. Mark glanced up at the board at the front of the room, seeing that the words on it were warped in his vision, nearly completely unreadable. Mark began to regret going to school; he would’ve rather risked getting suspended for absence than deal with the horrible feelings he had while at that school.

Mark took in a deep breath, attempting to gather his thoughts as he looked around, rubbing his necklace to try and ground himself as he attempted to not panic in the middle of the classroom. He looked at the teacher, who was sitting at his desk, staring at a few papers on it in silence. Everything was silent aside from the damned clock hung up on the wall, one whose ticks and tocks made Mark want to rip his hair out. As every second went by, he felt more and more exhausted, with his mind foggy and thoughts unclear. He felt as though something else’s hands were wrapping against his head, making him move at its will and not his own.

BANG.

The first loud bang caused everyone in the class to flinch, with Cesar even dropping his pencil.

BANG.

The second one, albeit not as loud as the previous one, was enough to make everyone turn around, Cesar turning to see what was going on. Mark on the other end of the classroom, face down on the desk, blood gushing out of his now broken nose when Cesar all but leapt out of his seat and ran towards Mark, with even the teacher standing up and making his way to Mark’s desk.

“Mark?!” Cesar questioned, making Mark look up, blood pouring out of his nose, and his bloodshot eyes looking up at his “friend”. “Mark what the fuck happened?!”

“I’ll call the nurse and take him down th—” The teacher offered, but was interrupted by Cesar.

“N-No, I’ll just take him there—get up—” Cesar grabbed Mark’s arm, hoisting it over his shoulders before stumbling towards the door, trying his best to ignore the stares of his fellow concerned and frightened classmates as he left the room.

Cesar and Mark limped down the hallway towards the office, Cesar struggling to hold Mark’s weight due to Mark barely holding himself up. Cesar glanced up at Mark’s face, seeing two, dead, yet scared eyes staring back at him from under his messy hair. “W…What the FUCK was that?!" Cesar questioned. “…Why?!”

“I…d…I-I d…don’t…” Mark muttered so quietly Cesar could barely hear him. “I d…didn..t…sh…she…I-I…”

“Look man just…fuck, just hang in there, alright? We’re almost there,” Cesar said quickly, spotting the office at the end of the hall. “We’ll figure out how to fi—”

“Why.”

“…What?” Cesar paused for a second, seeing Mark was staring down at him with widened eyes.

“…I th…thought y-you…y…you hated…me.”

Cesar thought for a moment, looking at the ground before shaking his head. “We’ll talk about it later, just…” Cesar glanced down at the floor below Mark’s feet, seeing the growing puddle of blood under his shoes. “…Fuck, okay just…keep moving.”

Cesar continued to all but drag Mark to the office, trying to ignore how dread-inducing Mark’s dead-eyed stare was so he could walk the final distance there.

7:33 PM.

Silence.

For once Mark was staring at the ceiling in silence, but now finally feeling as though his brain was clearing up, enough for him to think for himself. The tight bandages on his nose hurt like hell, as well did the cross in his clenched fist that made his palm bleed, though the pain didn’t matter to him anymore. He stared at the bathroom ceiling, the water in the bath around him long since cooling down, to the point where it was barely lukewarm.

For once he felt…calm. Or at least as calm as the looming sense of dread that never left him would allow. As he laid in the water, fully clothed but not caring of how drenched his clothes would be afterwards, he let his mind become completely blank. Perhaps his emotions and thoughts had become so numb due to how overwhelming everything had become, stripping him of every ounce of energy he had and leaving nothing more than a husk. Either way, he didn’t even flinch at the sound of the knock on the bathroom door, only turning his head towards it before hearing a familiar, yet friendly voice.

“…Mark?”

Mom.

Mark sat up straight, letting out a quiet “yes?”, only really audible to him and him alone.

“…Are you alright?” Leah asked from the other side of the door, her voice soft and comforting. She heard movement and water splashing on the other side of the door before it was opened, Leah letting out a small gasp when she saw Mark standing there, with clothes that were dripping water onto the tiled floor and a hand that was covered in his own blood. Leah stared at Mark, letting out a saddened, soft, wavering smile before brushing Mark’s hair away from his left eye, seeing his green eyes in full. “…Y…You know I love you…don’t you?” She asked with a slight squeak in her voice.

Mark’s intense, blank stare was fixated at his mother’s face, eyes beginning to water before he wrapped his arms around Leah, sobbing into her shoulder as Leah returned the hug. Leah herself felt tears swelling up in her eyes, and began crying quietly as she embraced her son, not wanting to let go no matter what.

“I love you…don’t you ever forget that…ever.” She squeaked past her tears. “…God…please…” She choked on her own words before muttering one last thing:

“I just want my son back.”

[frownyalfred]

Chapters: 22/? Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor & Bruce Wayne Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Jason Todd, Lex Luthor, Leslie Thompkins Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pack Dynamics, Pack Bonding, Pack Feels, Lex Luthor Being an Asshole, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Mpreg, Omega Bruce Wayne, Alpha Clark Kent, Omega Jason Todd, Omega Lex Luthor, Beta Alfred Pennyworth, Referenced past suppressant abuse, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Presentation heat, Lazarus Pit (DCU), Lazarus Pit Side Effects (DCU), Alpha Jason Todd, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Pheromone abuse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Kryptonian Biology (DCU), no beta we die like jason todd, and come back to terrorize bruce (our readers) Series: Part 2 of a room full of coral Summary:

Sequel to a coral room.

Bruce builds a pack, piece by piece.

[ethantheannus]

NEW FIC WHO CHEERED

[agerefandom]

Baby Steps

Fandom: Twilight

Characters: regressor!Bella Swan, caregiver!Charlie Swan

Words: 2,900

Summary: After Edward leaves, Bella is left in a shattered, dissociative state. Her father doesn’t know what to do, but eventually he starts to put the pieces together and discovers that age regression might be a way to get through to his daughter again. 

Warnings: Detailed descriptions of depression: lethargy, dissociation, disordered sleep and eating. Hurt/comfort with a lot of angst. A lot of feelings about mental health and helplessness. 

for @little-biscuit2​

It had been almost three months.

Three months, and Charlie didn’t know what to do.

It had never felt more like he lived alone. Bella spent most of her time in her room, and when Charlie coaxed her down for food or to watch TV, she didn’t seem to process any of it. He had even tried putting on reality TV instead of sports, but her blank expression didn’t change, her eyes reflecting the glare of the television.

She didn’t eat if Charlie didn’t feed her, and even then her appetite was small: she was losing weight and she was already too thin to begin with, in Charlie’s opinion. She swung between oversleeping and sleeping far too little, with Charlie coming in and finding her sitting in her chair, gazing out the window well past midnight.

He had just been getting to know his daughter: independent, clumsy, smart as hell, always taking care of the people around her. And now she was gone, retreated somewhere deep inside herself, and he had no idea how to get her back.

It was killing him. It was killing both of them.

Charlie had Renee fly in for a weekend, just to see if that would shake Bella out of her fog. Bella had smiled, and hugged her mother, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and she still wouldn’t speak more than a few sentences. Renee wouldn’t stop holding her, and Bella just laid in her arms, her expression as still as the lake in the morning, and revealing just as little.

Renee had cried, and Charlie had given her an awkward hug, and made food for everyone. Renee stayed for two nights, and left in tears. Bella hadn’t moved to comfort her, had hardly seemed to register Renee’s presence.

‘Desperate’ didn’t begin to cover the way that Charlie was feeling.

Bella’s grades were dropping, though she seemed willing to be driven to school and to walk through her classes in that same disconnected haze. She didn’t participate, and only occasionally finished her homework. Charlie had met with her teachers and they were willing to give her some leeway, but their worried expressions left Charlie feeling sick. He was her father, he should have been able to help.

He should know what to do.

--

“Bella! Time for dinner,” Charlie announced, opening Bella’s door. He never would have entered her room without verbal permission before all this started, but now he knew that she wouldn’t come downstairs to eat unless he came to fetch her.

She sat in her chair, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes fixed on the trees outside her window. This was how Charlie usually found her.

“C’mon, Bells, we got homemade mac and cheese tonight. Very fancy.”

Bella didn’t respond. Charlie came closer and squatted beside the chair, trying to catch her gaze. Her eyes didn’t move from the window.

“Sweetheart, will you look at me? It’s dinnertime.”

Still nothing.

At this point, Charlie usually had two choices: he could let Bella be, or he could bring up the food to see if she would take it and start eating once it was in front of her. But today, he was tired and worried and couldn’t bring himself to leave his daughter’s side.

“You’re scaring me, Bells. If you don’t come down with me, I’m going to have to carry you down.” From Bella’s blank expression, she either didn’t hear him, or had no opinion on this proposal. Charlie clapped his hands on his knees and rose to his feet. “Alright, let’s go.”

She was already curled up, and Charlie took a moment to judge the best way to pick her up. He was getting on in years, but his job demanded that he stay in some kind of shape, and he was confident he could get her downstairs.

“Here I come,” he warned her, and then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her up out of the chair.

Finally, Bella’s expression changed: she looked surprised, eyes flashing wide and then moving over to Charlie’s face. Then a furrow appeared between her eyebrows, like she hadn’t expected to see him.

“Hey Bells, we’re taking you down for dinner. Do you want to walk?”

Bella shook her head and even shifted slightly in Charlie’s arms, getting comfortable. She was far too light for a girl of her age, and Charlie was even more determined to get a decent dinner into her. Still, he couldn’t hold her for too long, so he headed for the stairs.

He carried Bella all the way to the little table in the kitchen, pushed out one of the chairs with his foot, and settled Bella down on the seat. She looked more aware than before, and her eyes followed Charlie to the other seat.

Their food was already on the table, and Charlie pushed Bella’s bowl towards her with the spoon beside it. “You gotta eat. Mac and cheese, right? It’s still hot.” Bella’s gaze flicked down to the food in front of her, then back to Charlie. “It’ll be good,” Charlie added.

Seeing that Bella was making no motion to pick up the spoon, Charlie sighed.

“Do you want me to feed you? I will, so help me.”

To his surprise, Bella opened her mouth like a little baby bird. It was such an unexpected gesture that it startled a laugh from Charlie. How long had it been since he’d laughed?

“Okay, you got it.” Charlie got up from his chair and came to stand beside Bella’s, scooping up a spoonful of cheese and noodles. “Here it comes.”

Bella accepted the food and chewed, then opened her mouth again. Charlie laughed a second time, still overtaken by the ridiculous scene of feeding his newly-eighteen-year-old daughter like she was two years old again, but also relieved that she was eating at all.

The second and third scoop were similarly accepted, but then Bella didn’t open her mouth again.

“Well, you can’t be full already,” Charlie said. “Come on, kiddo, two more spoonfuls.”

No response. Charlie poked the spoon into Bella’s lip, which got some cheese on her face, but didn’t change her expression.

“Alright, we’re getting silly then. If you don’t want your dad to get silly, you better eat the pasta.” After giving Bella a few moments with that statement, Charlie nodded and got the spoon ready. “Here comes the airplane, Bella.” He dutifully flew the spoon around with some airplane noises, and watched Bella’s eyes start to follow it. “It’s coming in for a landing, open wide.”

Finally, Bella opened her mouth and accepted the food.

Charlie pulled out all the stops for the rest of the meal: airplane, train, very important delivery: he wiggled the spoon and made the kind of sound effects he hadn’t made for sixteen years.

But at the end of it all, the bowl was empty. He’d gotten a fair amount of cheese on Bella’s face, but she’d eaten every last spoonful.

“Good job, honey. Thank you for eating,” Charlie said, somewhat exhausted by the ordeal. His own food was cold, but he was satisfied with the situation. “Do you want me to get you cleaned up, or would you like to do it yourself?”

Bella blinked at him, and Charlie nodded. That would be his job, then.

“Can you drink this water while I’m gone?” He pushed the glass towards her. “Both hands, sweetheart.”

To his surprise and delight, Bella wrapped her hands around the glass and raised it up, beginning to drink.

Charlie retreated to run a cloth under warm water. Returning, he saw Bella had drank half the cup before setting it down.

“Still want dad to do the honours?” he asked, offering Bella the cloth.

When she made no move to accept it, Charlie leaned over and started wiping the cheese off Bella’s face, finishing with a flourish.

“There you go. All clean.” He couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to the top of her head on the way back to the sink. “Should we go and watch some TV, then?” Charlie dropped off the cloth and returned to Bella’s side, offering a hand to hold on the way.

Bella put up both hands, stretched towards him.

“Fair enough,” Charlie shrugged, and scooped his daughter back up into his arms, carrying her over to the couch. He held her the same way Renee had on her visit, with her chest and head cradled in his arms, her legs laid out on the couch. “Do you want to watch the game, or do some scrolling?”

Bella was already staring at the screen in faux attentiveness, as if she hadn’t processed that Charlie hadn’t yet turned on the screen. She didn’t seem to have an opinion, so Charlie turned on the television and started flipping through channels.

He could feel Bella perk up when he flipped onto some kind of kid’s cartoon, so he left that playing. It was mind numbing wash of colours and songs, but Bella was leaning forward and her eyes were actually tracking the characters, so Charlie let it play for a whole hour before turning it off and carrying Bella upstairs to bed.

Charlie left her on top of the covers, with her pyjamas laid out beside her. Whether she would change and get under the sheets or just sleep in her clothes, he wasn’t sure, but he made sure to keep the temperature turned up in case she didn’t make it under the covers.

Then he pulled out his laptop, and pulled up the search engine.

-

Charlie learned a lot that night, about trauma and depression and age regression. He booked Bella an appointment with a doctor in Seattle, which he probably should have done a long time ago. He also ordered a few things online, curious and cautiously hopeful.

It was possible this evening had been a fluke, but he was willing to do anything to help Bella back to being herself again.

-

It took over a week for the supplies to reach Forks, and Charlie was doing everything he could to help Bella in the meantime. He didn’t want to cross any of his daughter’s boundaries, so he never helped her get dressed, but he started tucking her in at nights, singing lullabies until he saw her eyes close. He woke her up in the morning with breakfast in bed, and changed the sheets after dropping her off at school, to get the crumbs out.

In the evenings he would feed Bella her supper: sometimes she would lift the fork herself and he would sit back and let her eat, but when she looked at him with unseeing eyes, he would pick up her fork and start with the airplane noises. Every empty plate was a victory.

When the package arrived on his doorstep, Charlie picked it up and took it to his room, then unpacked it. He had gotten some bath toys, and a pacifier, and a soft blanket with ducks on it. He’d also picked up a couple of Bella’s favourite books from her childhood: Anne of Green Gables and The Chronicles of Narnia, new copies with beautiful embossed covers.

But the last thing he found himself holding in his hands, unable to let go of, was a brown stuffed dog: the exact same style as one of Bella’s first stuffed animals. She’d gotten it as a gift from one of her mother’s relatives, and they hadn’t been able to pull her away from it. Bella had chewed the ears bald and eventually pulled off one of the legs, and they’d gotten rid of it when she was ten. But here it was, soft and shiny as the first time Bella ripped it out of the tissue paper with her chubby little hands.

Charlie wasn’t sure that Bella would even remember the toy, but he thought it might be nice to have something to hold.

So he tucked away the books and the toys and the pacifier and the blanket, and he went to Bella holding the little dog.

Bella was sitting in her chair, staring out the window in the same direction as always. It hadn’t escaped Charlie’s attention that she was looking into the woods, towards the spot where Charlie had found her collapsed on the night after the Cullens left. Towards the last place she had seen Edward.

“Bells, honey, I got you a present.”

No reaction. That wasn’t unusual.

“It’s a silly little thing, but I thought you might like it.” Charlie shifted from foot to foot, already feeling uncomfortable with the build-up. “Here you go.”

Without further hesitation, he presented Bella with the stuffed animal, holding it out in front of her. Bella slowly looked at Charlie’s hands, and then at the dog. Her forehead creased in that same little mark of confusion that Charlie had become familiar with, when she was brought back from wherever she went in her absence.

With one hand, she slowly reached out and ran a finger down the nose of the plush puppy. Charlie put the stuffed animal onto her chest, half-cradled by the arm that was still in her lap. Bella blinked and looked down fully at the stuffed animal. She curled her arms all the way around it, and held it to her chest.

Then she looked up at Charlie and burst into tears.

Charlie panicked for a moment, retreating several steps from the sudden distress. But then it occurred to him that this was the first time he’d seen Bella cry since the day he found her in the woods. There had been no break to her blank unresponsiveness, and this was just as shocking as if she’d burst out laughing. Was this a step backwards, or was this progress?

Either way, Charlie steeled himself and went over to pat Bella on the back. She reached out for him with both hands, in a gesture that was becoming familiar. The dog fell to her lap and she stopped to pick it up, then tried to reach out for Charlie again.

Charlie scooped her up into his arms, stuffed dog and all, and made his way over to her bed so that he could sit down with his daughter in his arms. She was sobbing and gasping and there were tears running down her face, and Charlie didn’t know what to do except hold her. He cradled her on his lap, rocking vaguely back and forth, and just held on as her body shook.

“It’s okay Bells, it’s gonna be okay,” he murmured, over and over again.

The crying lasted for longer than Charlie thought was possible. His back was starting to hurt from all of the rocking back and forth, but he kept it up. Eventually, led by memories of long nights taking care of Bella as an infant, he started humming a Bon Jovi song. As though in response, Bella’s sobs slowly started to subside. Before long, she was lying heavy in his arms, and he wasn’t sure if he’d managed to put her to sleep. That cry had seemed exhausting, but the atmosphere in the room felt a little bit lighter, somehow.

Charlie gently guided Bella back from where her face was pressed into his shoulder, lying her down on her pillow.

Her eyes blinked open, still shiny with tears, and Charlie grabbed a Kleenex from the bedside table and started cleaning her up. There was snot and tears everywhere and his shirt desperately needed a wash, but he dutifully wiped off his daughter’s face, then held a new Kleenex up to her nose and said “blow your nose.”

Bella obliged, and Charlie got her to do the other side as well, then tucked away the tissues.

“Good job, kiddo.” Bella looked at him, her eyes clear in the dim light of evening coming through the window. “Hi, Bells.” Charlie touched her nose gently, and smiled.

Bella smiled back, a sudden dawning of happiness across her face. Her hands curled around the new stuffed animal, and Charlie could finally believe that everything was going to be okay.

-

Epilogue:

Alice liked to check on Bella every once in a while.

She didn’t believe that Edward had done the right thing in leaving Bella, and had worried over the months that Bella had been unresponsive: Alice’s visions of Bella’s future were changeable, and there were some futures in which she saw that Bella never emotionally recovered from the abandonment.

But then, something changed.

Suddenly, Bella’s future settled into a more secure form, something that Alice hadn’t expected. She saw Bella cradled in her family’s arms, first her father and then the flickering of possible future friends. She saw Bella crying, and laughing, and smiling. She saw Bella drinking from bottles full of milk, having her hair brushed by gentle hands, playing with dolls.

Alice went to Jasper and folded herself into his arms, hiding her smile against his chest. It was the kind of smile that would be accompanied by tears, if she had still been human enough to cry: a bittersweet loss and relief at the same time.

She had loved Bella, had wanted to be her sister one day. Even this side of Bella made Alice want to be there for her, to hold her and cradle her. But now that she was certain Bella could be happy without Edward, without the dangerous world of the supernatural, and Alice could let her go.

“Are you alright?” Jasper asked, soothing her with a hand on her back and a touch of his powers, washing over her.

“Bella is feeling better,” Alice said, still not letting go of her mate. “She’s going to be okay.”

Jasper hummed and held Alice close, tucking her head under his chin. He didn’t say anything, but Alice knew he understood.

They held each other, and wished the best for Bella Swan.

[pineapplesaresweet]

Pov; you are the cop sent to investigate that supposedly empty mall

[outterridge]

Starving Faithful [NOLA, Part I]

Hunger, pain, tiredness, fear, want. They were such mortal, human desires. By the time the Ascension was imminent, she ought to have rid herself of them. 

Mirlande (not Dona, not anymore, Dona would not manage this) wished she could be better, do better. None of her Sisters had trouble with it. They had to banish her to a more isolated stilted cabin on the bayou for her own benefit. She had tasks to do, preparations to make. She couldn’t be distracted by her desires.

Mirlande’s knees were dented and scraped, from the hours upon hours she’d spent plucking petals from flowers, and legs from beetles, and scales from snakes. The pain was long past registering, and now, her fingers worked on autopilot as fingernails scraped between the snake’s cooling body and its scales. Her frame shifted from side to side, hazy. The opium helped. It didn’t prevent the pain, but it elevated her consciousness to the level it ought to be. Beyond pain. Past it. Her fickle, human body could function as it needed, if her spirit could ascend.

But she was hungry. Merlin she was hungry. Her human mind hadn’t understood, had gone through her rations when she was first banished to the cabin. And now it had been days, and she couldn’t wait for her slow, too slow, fingers to pick the snake apart piece by piece, so she could finally relieve the ache in her belly. 

Mirlande’s hands stilled (no, no, get back to scaling, you stupid-) and she laid back, her eyes shuttering despite her protests. She whimpered, desperate to embrace the pull of sleep that beckoned her, but when she curled up to finally succumb, her legs shifted, and she groaned-

Her body was her power, her energy, and by releasing its energy needlessly, she was releasing her power needlessly. When she allowed another to penetrate her, she gave them her power. But just one month without it, and her body was betraying her. Every splash of water, every shift of fabric, and Mirlande was squirming, was wanting. 

Mirlande’s hand curled into a fist, and she punched the wooden floor of her cabin with a grunt, before pushing herself back to her knees. Numb fingers reached for the snake again. She would overcome. She had to.

[pearl-blue-musings]

Hi

Before I get into this I need to lay some warnings and where this came from. This piece is incredibly personal and therapeutic for me. It’s also incredibly self indulgent and directly takes from my life currently. I’m 30, struggling with finding steady income, lots of sexual trauma, relationship trauma, PTSD, PCOS, depression, anxiety, and just a slew of other things. I’ve been questioning why I’m struggling to date and why I have a hard time with intimacy. And it is because I have been SA’d and r*p*ed. Opening up is very difficult and it’s something I’ve been coming to terms with. I’ve been really having a hard time just being alive so please read this carefully. I definitely have this for the 25+ crowd but if you relate to this at all please know you’re not alone. I love you and I’m here for you and hope you get the help you need.

Pairing: Tsukishima Kei x fem!reader

Warnings: post time skip, female reader, implied mention of previous SA, struggle with trauma, very self indulgent, depression, anxiety, mental health problems

Word count: 1.3K

The credits roll on the screen in front of you, the music becoming less exciting as the font and names get smaller. Your eyes are glued to the jumble of letters in front of you, trying your hardest to avoid the jumble of words stuck in your throat. You twiddle your thumbs as the man next to you sighs again and lowers the volume.

“I know you didn’t invite me over to watch “Clue” in revered silence.”

You mumble and circle in on yourself. “I said some of my favorite quotes when they happened…”

Your best friend rolls his eyes before turning you around gently to face him. He runs a hand through his blond tufts before attempting to get up. “Well pipsqueak, I’m glad I got to watch this movie but I have practice tomorrow morning so-“

You feel your stomach drop and you instinctively reach out for his wrist. Your eyebrows furrow in worry as your mouth dries up as the words flutter away. “I… please don’t go.”

Tsukishima eases his stance and sits back down on the couch with you and rests his chin in his hand. A call knowing yet gentle smirk adorns his face as he relaxes again. “Again I ask, why did you invite me over? I know it wasn’t to just watch this movie with me. You’ve got plenty of other options.” He sits back with another sigh, resting his head against the top of the sofa. With a slight disgruntled scoff, he softly asks, “what about that guy who gave you his number? I’m sure he’d wanna spend time with you.” You miss the way his body language shifts beside you, his arms crossed tighter than usual as your mind floods with racing thoughts.

You rub at your shoulders before resting your feet back on the cold floor. “I, I can’t do it. I can’t go out with him.”

Tsukishima tilts his head toward you, maneuvering to face you. “He wasn’t a creep was he? I always thought your taste in men was disturbing.”

“It’s not that!”

The words roar out of your mouth faster than your brain can catch up. Your hands grip the fabric of the couch, your fingers digging into it as a means to stabilize yourself. “It’s, it’s me okay? I’m the problem!” You find yourself standing up with all the energy bubbling through you. “I want intimacy, I crave it! But the minute it’s brought up to me as an option…I panic!” Your voice raises in volume and pitch as you begin to pace back and forth in front of the television. Tsukishima watches you with bated breath as he watches your expression change as your thoughts run amuck.

“I can’t,” you huff, “I can’t open up all those wounds of m-my past, a-and the trauma I’ve endured! I have to reintroduce myself all over again! And so what if they’re nice? I don’t know them, I don’t trust them. They could hurt me and I wouldn’t know because I don’t know them!

“What if they’re just like every other guy I’ve been with or loved, huh? What if, what if they just tell me all of these things to get to my body. What then, Kei?” Your shoulders begin to shake as sobs rack your form. Warm tears cascade down your cheeks as you haphazardly rub at them. Your best friend watches you carefully, his hands molded together to hold in his own feelings. As much as he enjoys being the one you vent to, he’s unsure how to care for you. All he wants to do at this moment is hug you and take away your fears and anxieties. But he knows too well that you don’t need someone to fix things for you. He quickly blinks away tears that threaten to leave the corner of his eyes.

“How am I supposed to put myself out there when I’ve done that and have been hurt, and rejected, and lied to at every turn? They’ll say everything I want to hear and then say I just wanna fuck you. Is that all I’m good for? A good fuck and no commitments? I’m not good enough to be committed to.”

Tsukishima grinds his teeth and digs his nails into his knees.

“And then! And then, the idea that I have to constantly keep working on myself to be ready to date…but how long will that take? And I can’t say I want to fall in love because I’m seen as desperate. It’s worse cause I’m over 25 and you know that. If no one wants me now then who will? I just wanna fall in love and be taken care of and take care of someone. Am I too traumatized for that? Am I-“

“Enough!”

You’re interrupted from your tirade as your stomach drops. You hear flesh slap against the couch and the sound of your best friend stomping over to you. He takes your hands in his, lifting them over your head and walks you back to an empty patch of wall and presses you against it. His breathing is ragged as he stares down at you, his golden hues dilated as he takes in all of you.

“If they do that to you, then fuck those guys. They don’t deserve you.” He takes a second to catch his breath as his grip on you loosens for him to fix his glasses. “I know you’re scared. And it’s okay to be scared. Your feelings,” a free hand traces your face before cupping it gently, “are valid. How long have you known me?” He waits for your response and finds you struggling with your words. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

You finally look up at him teary-eyed and find yourself getting butterflies in your stomach. “If you don’t want to open up and go on a date then don’t. Don’t force yourself to do something just because you think you should. You’re as bad as Tadashi.”

You pout at his accusation that shockingly lifts your spirits a bit. You don’t let go of his hand and continue to gaze into his eyes. “But I’m a hypocrite,” you whine, “how can I crave intimacy but be scared of it?”

“Because assholes decided to take advantage of you and violated you. That has nothing to do with you. That’s all on them. What happened to you, what those guys did:

“It’s not your fault.”

You start to cry again, understanding the deeper meaning behind his words as your back relaxes against the wall. You feel his rough yet gentle finger wipe away your tears. Tsukishima then brings you into a comforting hug, rubbing at your back to calm your crying. “I wish,” he starts, “I wish I could have done something to help. I’m here now, but pipsqueak,” his voice shakes with a tremor, “fuck I’m here, okay?”

You nod against his chest as your breathing has calmed down a bit more. “I,” you say muffled, “I don’t wanna…”

“You don’t have to, alright?”

You look up from the hug at his unsaid confession and are met with his flushed cheeks. “Kei, what do you…?”

Tsukishima bites his lip as he releases you from his embrace. “Stupid, I’m saying you don’t have to open up to anyone else. Because you have me. And no more going on dates, that’s what I’m here for.” You hurriedly wipe away at your face as your jaw remains open. Is he saying what you think he’s saying?

You cough a bit at his unsaid confession and you suddenly feel way more nervous. “Can we,” you shyly begin, “keep cuddling? I, uh, like when you hug me…”

Tsukishima calmly kisses your cheek before leading you to the couch.

“Anything my girlfriend wants, she gets.”