#tw: manslaughter

[3minsover]

more murder boyfriends for the dash:

Rich kid Steve Harrington gets into an altercation out back at a party - it’s some nobody who thought Steve was flirting with his girl. Steve kindly puts him in his place, tells him that; “Honestly, I’m not even sure I’d call it flirting. I was just bored and she looked like she wanted a good time. Clearly she hasn’t been getting it elsewhere.” And sure, it’s a little unnecessary, but this chump is asking for it, all bravado and posturing. The guy pushes at Steve’s shoulder, tries to knock him off-balance, and Steve, well, he just laughs. Then he pushes back, two handed. Only, Steve accidentally shoves the guy a little too hard, and he cracks his head on the corner of a table. goes limp, a pool of red spilling from beneath his head.

No one sees it happen; Steve thinks he’s gotten away with it, that he can just walk away and not look back, maybe find that girl again, until a voice comes from across the patio. And a dark haired guy in a leather jacket steps out from where he’d been leaning against a tree. He drops a cigarette butt to the ground, steps over it as he moves towards a frozen, trembling Steve.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” the guy says casually, crossing the space to crouch down and place two fingers to the guys throat. “Or not,” he corrects, righting himself to look at Steve with a loosely impressed, smug smirk on his lips. “You make it a habit to commit manslaughter at parties?”

“I didn’t- he fell,” Steve starts, eyes flicking from the body on the floor to the heavy gaze of the man in front of him.

“Suuure he did, buddy. I’m sure that’s what the cops’ll decide happened. But not if you’re still standing here with that dumb look on your face. So right now, we gotta go.”

Steve’s still vibrating with adrenaline, with terror and…triumph? And this stranger just said ‘we’.

“We? I’m not going anywhere with you. i don’t even know you.” The guy smiles, all teeth, and offers his hand.

“Well, let me fix that: Eddie Munson, key witness. And your alibi.”

“Steve. Harrington.” Steve forces the words out, taking Eddie’s hand in a form grip and shaking it once, hard. “What kind of alibi?”

(The alibi, as it turns out, is that they were fucking at the time of the incident. Of course, they have to make it convincing - the pool house seems a good place for an illicit hookup, and that is indeed where the two of them are when the police come knocking. And if Eddie suggested that they ought to ‘make it believable’, well then that explains why Steve’s tongue is down Eddie’s throat, and Eddie’s hand is down the front of Steve’s pants.)

[songandflame-archived]

just thinking about how if f.antine ever killed someone it would be by accident and definitely in self defense. a shove that causes someone to fall back and hit their head or similar. it would most likely be a customer who is purposely being violent and intimidating, but the guilt would absolutely crush her.

[crowsfeathersandbones]

hot pink ferrari

[i-like-her-like-that]

Hey remember when we didn't tell people to kill themselves

[3-2-whump]

Out of the Corner of My Eye 

<prev next>

TW/CW: whumper former whumpee, military whump, nightmare/flashback, PTSD, murder (technically manslaughter?) of a character that's there for all of two seconds, scars, noncon stripping, doing stuff to unconscious whumpee (not inherently sexual stuff though), creepy/intimate whumper, whumper with baggage

NOTE: The inner thoughts and opinions expressed within do not align with those of the author, who themself has never and would never condone such thoughts and opinions in real life. Reader Discretion is advised.

Thomas jolted awake from his bed, pulse thrumming like a jackrabbit and his breaths coming in shallow and rapid like he had just run a marathon. Everything was dark –why was it so dark? He quickly got his breathing under control and took in his surroundings. I’m home, he realized gradually, I’m in my apartment, in my room, in my bed. He sighed in exhaustion, dragging his hands over his face.

The nightmare had taken him to Afghanistan again, to a flash of light followed by the loudest sound he had heard in his life, to Young Tony –his little brother– lying dead in the dust and debris-

No, don’t dwell there, Thomas told himself. He pushed himself out of bed and blearily shuffled to the bathroom. Taking out the familiar bottle of pills, he shook out two tablets for himself and filled up a glass of water to wash them down. No amount of water would wash away the bitterness those pills imprinted on his tongue. He wandered back into the bedroom.

It isn’t even dawn yet, Thomas thought. Shouldn’t I try to go back to sleep? It took one look at the tangled, sweaty sheets for him to realize he didn’t want to try. He didn’t want to go back there.

He opened the bedroom door and quietly stepped out to the living room. His eyes were instantly drawn to a human-shaped form passed out over his couch. He approached the unconscious person carefully to get a closer look, all tiredness quickly forgotten as his senses sparked to life in the face of this unknown danger.

Thomas breathed an audible sigh of relief when he realized it was only Khaled. The boy had been sneaking out and staying out later and later, much to his annoyance. (They really should talk about that at some point, he reminded himself.) He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes; it looked like he had just enough energy to take his shoes off at the entrance and wander over to the couch before passing out on top of it. A silvery puddle of saliva was forming under his parted mouth and onto the couch cushion. It might’ve just been the darkness, but his face looked unusually pale.

Thomas leaned over the boy to get a pulse. He found it, thrumming slowly and steadily under warm skin, unlike…

In life, he and his little brother seldom got along, both being born of different fathers and a neglectful mother. Grandpa Tony, the one that truly raised them, only served to drive the wedge between the brothers further as he pitted each grandson against each other, forcing them to compete for their grandpa’s approval and eventually his title. Thomas saw through the bullshit much earlier than Young Tony ever did, which was part of the reason he ran away from the family in the first place. He never would have guessed his straight-laced little brother would track him down in his self-imposed exile, nor would he have expected his brother to follow him into the USMC and eventually to his death. Yet he did, and he died, and the motherfucker that took him would pay.

“Just let me talk to the suspect, just ten minutes, please, just ten minutes,” a younger Thomas begged. He still had fractured ribs that made every breath he took a living hell, and a concussion that made his head swim if he so much as moved too quick. But they had finally caught the bastard that blew up his squad –his comrades, his friends, his little brother.

The suspect was just a kid, no older than his brother was, with the baby fat barely shed from his cheeks and scarcely a hint of facial hair on his chin. Thomas began to cycle through all five stages of grief as he stared at the teen in front of him, though his mind hinged onto the denial, anger, and bargaining part of the cycle. Regardless of age or fine features, this kid was responsible in some way for Young Tony’s death, and damn him if he didn’t make the little bastard answer for it.

The suspect’s tear-filled dark eyes widened in fear as he backed further away until he was up against the wall. Thomas pushed his way into the boy’s cell and hauled him up by the shirt collar.

“You son of a bitch!” The boy made a satisfying little gasping sound, jerking in his restraints as the man’s fist met his stomach. “How could you?! You’re just a kid!” Thomas hit him again, this time in the face. “I don’t believe it, could someone like you really kill my squad?!” The boy was begging through bloodied lips in a language Thomas didn’t understand. “There’s no way, there’s no way! How could you?!”

Somebody should have stopped him. Somebody should have stopped him before he went so far. To this day, they never could be sure whether the boy in the cell was responsible for the bombing or not, but at that moment, to Thomas, he might as well have killed Young Tony with his bare hands. He hit him until his knuckles were warm and tacky with his blood. He slammed his head against the wall of the cell as he threw him around like a rag doll. And then, with both hands on that slender throat and a bit too much pressure-

Someone finally stopped him. It was too late by then. The suspect was dead.

In the darkness of the early morning, it was uncanny how closely his Khaled resembled that poor kid he murdered. Maybethat was why he got him.

“I’m sorry. I never thought I would take it this far,” Thomas whispered. He was partially addressing the sleeping boy, and partially pleading with the spirit of the boy from his past. He gathered Khaled in his arms and carried him to his room. It was reassuring to feel how warm he was, because warmth meant life. He laid Khaled out on the bed and debated whether to change him out of his clothes or leave him be. Khaled’s usually a sound sleeper, he reasoned, and nobody likes to sleep in jeans. Besides, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, right? Not that Thomas intended to ask for either as he began the careful work of stripping him.

Khaled unconsciously leaned into the touch as he gingerly peeled the clothes off him. He exposed the jagged scars across Khaled’s back as he pulled the hem of his shirt up. It was so easy to inflict those scars onto him if he just imagined Khaled was that boy. His eyes traced over every line, counting them in his head and naming them for every man he’d lost. That one’s for Callahan, that one’s for Trémeaux, that one’s for Martinez, that one’s for Tony-

A small, breathy moan came out when Thomas accidentally grazed his nipples trying to get his shirt off. It made his heart melt a little, while at the same time sending a familiar trickle of heat down below. “Not now,” he murmured, “but fuck, you make it sound tempting.” Thinking about the dead boy while committing acts of somnophilia on his living one was not high on the man’s ‘kinks to try’ list. He covered the now-exposed Khaled with a thick blanket and tucked it snugly around him.

“You were supposed to be my penitence, you know.” His index finger traced along Khaled’s cheekbone, just under his dark eyelashes. “You were supposed to absolve me of the sins I committed,” he sighed, “but here I am, sinning against you in the process.” He laid himself down next to the sleeping figure, spooning him like a lover. “So much for atonement, huh?” His lips lightly grazed the shell of the boy’s ear, right above where his own initials were inked in blackish blue. “But, now that I’ve had a bite, I can’t seem to stop consuming you. Look what you do to me,” he murmured, “How could I stop, now that I know what you taste like, feel like? I’m obsessed.” 

“But no amount of fucking you is going to bring that boy back to life,” he sighed, as if realizing this truth for the first time. “It’s not going to undo the fact that I killed him, is it?” Understandably, Khaled did not respond. He leaned over to press a light kiss on his temple. “I’ll let you sleep now,” he promised, raising himself from the bed to leave. He glanced back one more time before he exited the bedroom.

“I’m sorry.”The sleeping beauty didn’t respond. Thomas closed the door.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344

[mvshortcut]

[cjbolan]

we didn't even see alicent's reaction to learning that aemond got luce killed

I’m guessing Alicent was pretty upset when she found out. Because she blames Aemond for the upcoming war with Luce’s mom Rhaenyra.

I’m surprised Otto wasn’t more upset. He instead says “Aemond…erred”. In a very uncaring and euphemistic tone. Like Otto thinks mauling your cousin to death is just a small error. I know Otto hates Team Black, but he also cares a lot about upholding his own family’s reputation. And his grandson committing manslaughter would absolutely tarnish that reputation.

[florida3exclamationpoints]

I didn't realize Alec Baldwin was on trial already but if he doesn't get found guilty .........

[3minsover]

AUgust Day 22:

the great gatsby au (tw: manslaughter + murder)

old money socialite edward munson had a passionate summer fling with a bright-eyed, hopeful, romantic young soldier named steven. he promised edward the world, if only he would wait for him to return from war.

steven never returned.

when professional polo player jason carver asks for edward’s hand in marriage, he says yes. his heart is still broken, will remain so, but pressure from his family to make an advantageous match is too powerful. years pass, and edward’s life is rose-colored. he drifts through dinners and sunrooms like a ghost, keeps his steps light so that others do not notice him, do not look too close and see the gaping hole in his chest where his heart once was, a heart that he gave away to a soldier with no prospects, no property or land to his name.

at night, when all is quiet, he looks out over the water that laps at the shore of his extravagant home and sees the distant glimmer and glint of lights, hears the muted thrum of music, and sees a grand mansion illuminated by luxury and excess.

he hears of parties, almost every night, that take place at this mansion, and wonders whether one day he might know the origin of such conviviality. however, trapped in his loveless marriage and bound by duty to remain a beautiful artefact in his husband’s collection, edward simply turns away, ignoring the siren call of an emerald green light that blooms on the end of the opposite dock.

when edward’s cousin robin moves into the groundskeeper’s cottage across the bay, she attempts to strike up the old friendship they had had as children, becoming instantly fascinated by edward’s dearest friend nancy.

one night, robin invites edward, and by extension, jason and nancy, to a party. a party at the house across the bay. she insists that they must meet the host, that he’s simply a marvel, and grudgingly, jason agrees.

the festivities are in full swing by the time they arrive, strangers streaming through every hallway, drinking from fountains of champagne, splashing in shallow pools and dancing to the yellow cocktail music that pours from every corner of every room. edward is overwhelmed, overcome by the eccentricity of it all, longs to return to where it’s quiet and calm, where he may disappear to the safety of his own imaginings, where a sweet soldier offers his hand and his heart without reservation.

edward slips away from the group with nancy’s help; she guides him to a small room in which there is only one man, standing with his back to the entrance. his suit is tailored neatly, his hair slicked back with careful precision, and when he turns, edward’s breath is stolen from his lungs.

“steve?” he gasps, feet carrying him closer, lest this be simply an overwrought imagination playing him for a fool.

“eddie. eddie, darling,” the man exclaims softly, meeting him stride for stride, until eddie’s hands can clutch at the lapels of his suit. “you came. you’re here. you saw- it doesn’t matter. you’re here.”

“you never came back for me,” eddie whispers, gaze fluttering over steve’s face, because it is steve. older, broader, fashioned into something gilded in gold and sculpted from ivory, but it is him.

“i know, my darling. i wanted to, god how i wanted to. but i’m here now. is that enough?” steve’s eyes are wide, imploring as he cups eddie’s cheeks as though he were the fragile, delicate thing he feels himself to be.

and it’s not enough, eddie will come to realize. too much time has passed, too many bridges crossed and set ablaze, too much mess to be cleared away, but for now, for tonight, they might pretend. under steve’s gentle touch, eddie wills himself to forget jason’s harsh one, at the sound of steve’s sweet voice, eddie pushes away that of poor chrissy, the girl who calls and calls their home asking to speak to jason. he allows himself to be swept by the tidal pull of his steve, here and alive and everything he needed him to be all those years ago. and for a while, it brings him joy. for weeks after that night, eddie steals across the bay with the help of nancy and robin, plays make believe in the life they might have had.

until a dinner in the city ends with smashed glass and jason’s stern glare and steve’s cries that ‘he doesn’t love you!’. until eddie begs for steve to come home with him, dragging him back to jason’s car and curling his fingers around the steering wheel until they flash white. until eddie’s flooring the gas and he can’t see for tears, and steve’s carefully imploring for him to slow down. until the screeching of tires and smashing of bones, a shock of strawberry blonde hair streaked with red.

until a gunshot rings through the bay, a widowed husband standing on the edge of a pool with a gun in his hand and chrissy’s name on his lips.

until steve harrington floats face down in the water, and eddie can’t bear to even look at the funeral invitation.

in the end it’s not enough, and it never was.

[odieclipse]

had a crazy dream where i was in a creator clash with Markiplier and i said "well you cant hit me, im mist". and he punched me and his fist phased right through me because i was, in fact, made of mist. but because he punched me i dissipated and died and he was arrested on charges of manslaughter

[songandflame-archived]

modern au background - part I;

Fantine had a turbulent upbringing. From the start, it was chaotic; a result of unprotected sex between two teenagers, Fantine found herself as a child of two children, both unprepared and struggling with societal pressures.

Since Fantine's grandmother had kicked her daughter out of home, Fantine's mother moved in with her boyfriend in a small, one bedroom flat that wasn't really big enough for the both of them, let alone a baby. The most affordable place they could find was in the poorest part of the city. Landlords didn't care about tennants; black mould could be found everywhere, unsuitable living conditions were normal, and Fantine's parents found themselves surrounded by crime.

Her dad worked as a delivery driver for the local pizza place, but lost his job after his moped got stolen causing more strain on her parents' relationship. To get by while looking for another job, he started dealing drugs and simply never stopped once he realised he could make better money this way than through "honest" means.

By the time Fantine was two, her dad had started dealing harder stuff and, in the process, had gotten addicted himself. Fantine's mum tried her best to help him, but he became increasingly violent the more his addiction grew. Not soon afterwards his clients had abandoned him due to unreliability and the fact he was using the drugs he sold for personal use. What money he earned from dealing disappeared and the family shortly found their energy and electric cut off due to missed payments.

Fantine's mum got a job as a waitress in the local café down the road, but unable to find child care, Fantine was often left alone in the flat by herself. If her dad was there (which was uncommon), he was usually high and unable to help meet his daughter's needs, often getting irritated and annoyed with her which saw him locking himself in the bedroom so she couldn't get to him.

When Fantine's mum found out what was happening, she was beyond angry. An argument broke out, quickly becoming violent, and Fantine's dad struck his partner hard. Causing her to fall, Fantine's mum hit her head as she fell and as a result, the impact killed her. Panicking, Fantine's dad fled from the seen leaving Fantine alone until a neighbour called the police to perform a welfare check, thus finding Fantine and her deceased mum.

A manhunt was launched for Fantine's dad, and Fantine found herself in the care of social services. Her father in prison and grandparents unwilling to take over the care of their grandaughter, Fantine soon found herself passed between multiple foster families. She was unable to settle in her various foster homes which soon had her labelled as "difficult".

Fantine grew up, always ready to pack up and move at the drop of a hat. She struggled to make friends as she never stayed in one place for very long, but she soon discovered she preferred her own company anyway. She didn't do too well in school, but it wasn't a lack of intelligence, more so due to a lack support and time.

[itchose]

finding her like this brought him back to a place he's tried to forget for the last decade, with no real progress  —-   his baby brother dead,  a haunting image that anything can trigger,   especially something like this.    this is someone he’s come to see as a sister—   though he’s never had any real confidence in saying the title out loud,  nor has he ever felt like he deserved her calling him anything similar,   but whenever their relationship changed and turned into something familial,   he made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t lose her the way he lost his brother.   he would do better this time,   he would protect her in ways he failed to do for him,    he would be the kind of brother she could rely on for anything,  even her darkest thoughts,   ones he’s gotten used to from her and from himself,  a harsh similarity they share.

what’s different between finding her like this and his brother the way he did back then is that there’s so much more blood here,   too much that he’s not even sure how to go about cleaning it up just yet—   but their home is far from his concern,   his only real thoughts now focused entirely on her and figuring out how the hell she got like this.

@manslaught said, "i might just die, it would make no difference."

he’s been close to death more times than he could count—  close enough to feel something other than agony,   a relief of some sort that he was desperate to hold onto,  but it never lasted.   he and nat made a promise to each other long ago that they would never let themselves go that far—  but he’s never been certain that mikayla was in on the same deal, too,  and the more she struggled to cope with everything that was taken from her,  the more worried travis got that she would never find any peace   (   he could accept that peace wasn’t for him—-   but she deserved it,  more than anyone he knew.  )   it’s instinct to jump to the worst conclusion— to believe that she did this on purpose,  finally hitting a breaking point he always feared she might,  and her words do nothing to soothe him,  forcing tears from his own eyes as he frantically tries to care to her wounds. 

❝  it would.   it would make a fucking difference,   ❞    he blurts out,  ignoring the blood on his hand that isn’t his as he brings it up to her shoulder,   forcing her to look back at him.   he’s not one for eye contact usually,   but he doesn’t shy away from it now,  locking his eyes with hers in hopes that she can hear him.   ❝  it would make a difference to me.   i can’t—  ❞    he starts,  his jaw clenching as he sniffles,  trying to force his tears away,  because he’s worked so hard for years not to let himself fall apart like this,   but seeing her like this,  remembering the way he’s failed to protect his family before,   he can’t do it.   

❝  no.  okay?  just—  tell me what happened.   tell me what happened,  mikayla,  and we can figure it out together.  ❞    he’s never really been good at that,  but it’s all he can offer—   a chance for her to not be alone,  because she never is,  not when he’s around,   another promise he’s made to himself and to her.   he doesn’t know about her phone call,  doesn’t know about her ex-girlfriend planting roots to her new life;   all he knows is that mikayla could have died if he didn’t walk in when he did,   and it sounds like she’s okay with that.   he can’t blame her— not when he’s had the same thought before,  one he refused to voice,   because it made him feel sick with guilt.

❝  i'm sorry, mikayla, but i'm not letting you fucking die, ❞ he pleads.

[killed-by-choice]

Janet Foster, 18 (USA 1971)

California legalized abortion a few years before Roe v Wade. Many pregnant people were killed by legal abortion in California, including 18-year-old Janet Foster.

Janet was told by abortionist Richard Neal that she was about 12 weeks pregnant. He performed an aspiration/suction abortion on the teenage girl and reported the abortion as uneventful. The date was September 11, 1971.

When Janet’s brother-in-law came to pick her up, he noticed that she was tired and weak. Janet suffered from abdominal pain and called the abortionist on September 14, who allegedly told her that he would see her the next day. She went to bed early because she was in so much pain and feeling terrible.

Early the next morning, the teenage girl went into convulsions and rapidly died. The paramedics were unable to revive her when they arrived. She was declared dead on September 15, 1971.

Janet’s autopsy results were horrific. She died of septicemia. Her lungs and heart contained serous fluid. Frothy tan fluid was in her respiratory tract. The autopsy also showed that her uterus contained “approximately 20 cc. of red-brown purulent and foul-smelling liquid with similar odor and color to an exudate on the endometrial surface.” Most horrifying of all, the uterus not only contained putrid fluid but Janet’s dead and mutilated son: “macerated, lacerated and purulent male fetus of about 19 weeks gestation. This fetus measures 14.5 cm. in crown-rump length, shows lacerations in the shoulder area, evisceration of the bowel through an abdominal laceration, and destruction of the skull and facial structures.”

Not only had Richard Neal given Janet wildly incorrect information on the age of her son, he had left the rotting corpse inside of her.

An LA County grand jury indicted Neal on a felony manlsaughter charge in Janet's death. The trial ended with a hung jury in 1976.

California’s early legalization of abortion caused many deaths, including Janet and her son. There was no reason that either of them had to die.

LA County Coroner Case No. 71-9846, LA County Superior Court Case No A310874 and Case No C34424

[andytheaspec]

To the jackass who almost hit me because he just had to be on the freeway and then waved as if that would erase the fact that if I hadn't looked I'd be dead: This is why a yellow light is not a challenge. It is a warning. It is up to you to heed that warning. Unless you want to be on trial for vehicular manslaughter, I would recommend you heed that warning.

[sukone-tei-official]

Do you want to steal a forklift and commit vehicular homicide together

Sure! Just don't let the cops see me, I already have a huge criminal record

@utatane-piko-official wanna join us?!

(ooc: so Tei has committed vehicular homicide before, R. I. P. Whoever it was)