Whumptober Days 2 & 3

IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY || MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY

“Pick who dies” | Collars | Kidnapped || Manhandled | Forced to Their Knees | Held at Gunpoint

The butt of the blaster connected with the back of his head once again, and Luke tasted blood. Not for the first time, he found his thoughts struggling against the fog that had settled over his mind, panic forcing his heart into overdrive. He was on the ground, kneeling before his captors, and the impact caused him to keel over and land in the dirt. Bound hands had barely stopped him from falling face first into the ground below, but he could feel the sharp bite of the gravel dig into his palms as he braced himself with weak arms.

“Are you an idiot? Answer the question.”

Question? He wasn’t sure he understood much, right now, the drugs still working their way out of his system. He remembered being captured. He remembered being dragged here. He remembered his friends being dragged along as well, screams and shouts and chaos. But he didn’t remember a question.

“I – I’m sorry, I don’t – what question?”

A different sort of pain shot through him this time, a pain that danced across his skin, radiating from his neck down towards the rest of his body. He was convulsing, now, unable to continue supporting his weight and tumbling forward into the dirt after all. The same gravel that had bit into his hands was now grinding against his cheeks. A ragged cry rung through the air, and Luke found himself sympathizing, dimly, with whoever was screaming like that, not realizing it was his own voice that was echoing so loud.

Rough hands grasped at Luke’s hair, tearing his body upwards and his head backwards so his bleary eyes could take in the scene before him. Kneeling, all in a row, was an assortment of beings, some he recognized, some he didn’t. All appeared filthy and pitiful, a sorry sight much like he imagined he looked himself. There was desperation in the eyes of most, defeat in many, and in some… Some bore a defiance that was far more familiar than it had any right to be. The ones wearing defiance were the people he knew best, he was sure, even through the haze that hung heavy over his awareness.

Seeing them – recognizing them – sent a surge through him, and Luke found his awareness perk up just a touch.

“Deafand an idiot,” another voice scoffed, gruffer and higher pitched than the first. “Really is a good thing we’re here to teach this whelp a lesson before trying to fetch any sort of price for him.”

No… the word price echoed in his head, and he felt a pool of dread gather in his gut. As delirious as he was, there was no doubt who his captors were: slavers. And the people before him were set to be sold off as well.

Gritting his teeth, Luke gathered up as much strength as he could and glared up at his captors, placing as much heat as possible into his expression. All this accomplished was to earn him a condescending smirk and another smack across his cheek.

“Yes, yes, he really is a sorry case,” cooed the first voice. They’d begun circling Luke, clearly not the one still gripping his hair, and he could only catch vague glimpses as they passed in front of him. “I have no idea how someone like this could’ve earned such a significant bounty, but here we are…”

After a few moments of pacing, this particular captor knelt before Luke and offered a toothy grin. They were humanoid, but there was something off about them. Cybernetic enhancements? A different species? He couldn’t quite focus on their specific features, no matter how much of that heat he harnessed, but he knew that, whoever this was, they were not someone he wanted to spend an abundance of time near.

“But perhaps that is not entirely your fault, at the moment.” The gleam in their eyes told Luke that they were fully aware of how dazed and confused he was. “True, you were rather… underwhelming even before we subdued you. But I suppose we should be patient, considering just how addled your mind must be. That particular cocktail we gave you is potent enough to take down a rancor, let alone a wretch like you.”

Harnessing that heat once again, Luke worked to meet the eyes of his captor. They were predominantly green, with a yellowish hue. The pupils were not fully slitted, but neither were they perfectly round. Their features were ambiguous, and he found it hard to get a clear picture of who they could possibly be, but all he knew was that he felt pure, unadulterated anger towards them.

“Go to hell,” he croaked. With all the defiance he had within him, he spit in their face. Feeling satisfied and with his resolve bolstered somewhat, he found a few more words. “What do you want?”

A flash of anger passed through those yellow-green eyes, but it was quickly replaced with a self-satisfied smirk. With a casual swipe, his captor removed the saliva from their face with their sleeve and stepped to the side.

“Y’see the pathetic excuses for people laid out in front of ya?” Anger flared in Luke, but he simply gritted his teeth and bit back his response, nodding stiffly against the grip on his hair. “All folk you wanted to save.” His gaze flickered across them all again, concentrating more on their features, and the pool of dread in the pit of his stomach only grew deeper and heavier. “Too bad you can’t save them all. Cause, see, our transport simply does not have the room for you all. We still get paid for proof of capture, dead or alive, but the journey will end sooner for some of you than for others.”

Panic was beginning to etch itself across the more unfamiliar faces before him. Luke could feel the sentiment reflected in his heart.

“Please…” The word spilled forth unbidden from Luke’s lips. “None of them deserve to die. Or to be captured. Just let them all go. It’s me you want, isn’t it? Just let them go, just take me, and I won’t fight, I promise…”

The pain bloomed once again, briefer this time, but more intense. His head was jerked backwards, and Luke found himself looking up at a very human face, silvery-blue eyes cold as durasteel, bearing an intense dislike for the creature they gazed upon. “He still doesn’t get it, does he, boss?” Long, slender fingers reached to trace across Luke’s neck. “This piece of scum is gonna have to make a decision one way or another, and ain’t nobody getting out of here alive.” Though he felt pressure on his neck, he did not register any sensation on his skin as those fingers continued to drag. And that’s when it hit him – the source of his pain, before, was a collar, set to administer electric shocks, should he disobey.

It took a great deal of self-control to keep from emptying the contents of his stomach right then and there.

What did they want with him? With the others? These didn’t seem like typical bounty hunters or even slavers. There was something far more… sadistic to them that set Luke on edge.

The leader, whoever or whateverthey were, met Luke’s gaze again with a sharp-toothed grin. “Ye’ll be comin’ with us regardless, wretch, don’t you worry. And you’re far too valuable to take in dead, so don’t ya go tryin’ to sacrifice yerself. I know that’s how you hero-types operate. But I need yer opinion. See, I just can’t decide who’s gonna be dead weight. One o’ yer Rebellion buddies? Could be a bit more defiant than they’re worth, even if they are skilled. Or maybe one o’ these peasant-type folks. Much more docile, but lacking in skills. So whaddya think… little Jedi?”

His blood turned to ice in his veins, and his eyes flew wide as he gained full awareness of his situation. They knew. Somehow, they knew he had the Force. No wonder they’d called him valuable. (That was stomach churning on its own; comparing his life to others and knowing it was only because he had been born with some talent they lacked made him feel even queasier.) He still didn’t know, fully, how he’d landed himself in this situation, but Luke absolutely didn’t know how he was supposed to get himself out.

Without a miracle – or some very quick thinking he was not capable of summoning at the moment – someone was going to have to suffer because of him.

This realization prominent in his mind, he scanned the faces one last time, eyes finally landing on the familiar features of one of his wingmates, Wedge Antilles. He wore fire in his eyes, a righteous rage against what they were being subjected to, and the heat in that expression was almost enough to make Luke sweat. Wedge’s face slackened when his eyes found Luke, revealing sympathy and care as they exchanged heavy, mournful glances.

In an instant, the fire reignited as Wedge’s gaze flickered from his friend to his captor, and he began to struggle. “Don’t say anything, Luke, they’re just trying to get to you!” He gritted his teeth, a significant look exchanged between them and then – “The bird of prey has already left her nest. You know she always flies true, given the time.”

Bird of prey? Bird of prey… Luke considered that for a moment that felt like an eternity before finally realizing – The Falcon! Of course they’d sent out a distress signal. Han and Chewie (and, maybe, Leia) would know where to find them. There was hope for the lot of them yet. He just had to keep stalling.

Turning his eyes towards the leader, Luke narrowed his eyes. “How do I know,” he croaked, “that you’re telling the truth? About not having enough room? About someone having to die?” He felt the gears in his mind turning so fast he could scarcely keep up, and his mouth seemed to act before his brain could finish processing. “You get more out of taking people alive, you have to, so why wouldn’t you make it work? What is this about? Why are you – ”

The sound of blasterfire cut his words short, and the eyes that had been filled with flames just moments before now stared at him blankly, shock and defiance blending with the unmistakable emptiness that accompanied death.

Wedge was dead.

And…

And it was Luke’s fault.

Perhaps not directly. He hadn’t given the word. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. But they had both been defiant, and now his friend was dead.

The others were crying out in shock, those who dimly registered as fellow Rebels shrieking in outrage, the innocents wailing in horror. Luke was silent. He was in shock. Through everything, he hadn’t expected… this.

“Foolish little Jedi. You have no idea who we are or what we want. Don’t presume to guess. Just know that your fate holds a particular interest to us, and we will see it through. Now, it is time for you to sleep again, and face your new life on the other side. Rest well, little Jedi.”

He didn’t. A bite in his neck pumped him full of drugs once more, and a fitful, restless unconsciousness overtook him. The lifeless expression of his former friend haunted him, the dull eyes still filled with raw emotion burned into his vision, even through his faded awareness. He had no idea what was in store for him, but Luke was certain that this anguish was only the beginning…

TITLE OF STORY: Dropping the Formalities

CHAPTER NUMBER/TITLE/ONE SHOT: One Shot

AUTHOR:pledgetoyoumyundyingfidelity

WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Captain James Nicholls

STORY GENRE: Romance, Fluff, Erotica

STORY SUMMARY:

“I promise you, man to man, that I’ll look after him as closely as you’ve done. I’ll respect him and all the care that you’ve taken with him. And if I can, I’ll return him to your care.”

Captain James Nicholls survives the war and comes back to Devon to return Joey to Albert, who never enlisted to fight and stayed in the farm. What could a promise made years ago lead to?

STORY RATING: Explicit

STORY WARNINGS/TRIGGERS/AUTHORS NOTES: I’ve been craving some canon divergence story where James doesn’t die in the war and gets to keep his promise to return Joey to Albert for years, and even more so since the last time I rewatched the movie recently. A story where they meet again after those four years of war… but I just could never find something that was exactly what I wanted. So I figured, why not take matters into my own hands?

This story includes light dom/sub elements (sub!James), frottage, barebacking, butter being used as lube, orgasm delay, orgasm control, and implied or referenced character death (not Albert or James).

FEEDBACK/COMMENTS: I honestly hope you guys like this story, and kudos/comments are love!

—

“I made you a promise,” Nicholls says in response to his comment, the tone firm and leaving no room for questions. “I promised that I would return him to your care if I could.” With those words, he reaches over and pets Joey’s nose with what looks to be a sad smile. “Such a brave horse you’ve got, Albert. He was the finest in our unit, and the best companion a man could have asked for in the field.”

“Captain Nicholls?” Albert starts, but is quickly interrupted.

“James.” Captain Nicholls turns to look at him just in time to see Albert quirk an eyebrow. “I’m sorry for the interruption. I just meant to say you can call me James. Please drop the formalities. I’m here as a friend.”

Continue reading…

pineapplefishh:

So today I (~3300M) and my friend T (22M) broke this guy D (22M) out of jail. T owed him a favor and I consider myself pretty loyal so I went along with the plan. It went pretty well aside from our friend who died but he’s a ghost now and he seems fine. We didn’t owe D anything past the prison break, so we pretty much just sent him on our way.

Anyway, later I was back at my house and my son’s friend TO (17M) showed up. He seemed pretty distressed and was saying that D was chasing him and saying he was gonna kill him. He told me about how D had been harassing him and treating him pretty badly before his imprisonment. I told him I’d keep him safe and sent him inside.

Now, I’ve had some misgivings about D for a while. I helped him blow up a country with T a couple months ago, but I’ve never really trusted him and I don’t consider him a friend. I helped T break him out to repay the favor, but I haven’t helped him at all other than that. So I know he’s hurt TO and stuff but I don’t really feel bad about letting him out? Like obviously he’s a bad person and stuff but I haven’t associated with him much more than what he asked of me, and I’m protecting TO now so it’s not like D can hurt him anymore.

So, reddit: AITA?

Some stuff to note before reading: 

- This mini-fiction is a work of fan literature. There is no connection to the Canon story line. There is also no MC in this fiction earlier. So please don’t comment about MC not being there. 

- This fiction will bring up the concepts of Lack of Self-Care, Terminal/Critical Illnesses  (Made up ones, but still) , Family Drama and Angst, and other smaller things that commonly may make people feel at least a little uncomfortable. 

- I am not always the best at depicting a character’s personality. I get told that a lot. If you do not like how I have depitcted one of the brothers, feel free to let me know- but don’t be salty about it.

- Share your thoughts. I like seeing them. This is only a request, though. 

“Tell yourself that you are okay, and yet the words are only carrying you on by a thread. You dance a line between life and death everyday- the silence is too loud and yet you endure it.”

“…”

“No one will see you- no one will hear you- and upon the last step- you will be consumed by my cold, welcoming hands. I promise you will be safe.. I will take care of you. Return to death- sweet child. I will always be waiting.”

-

Waking up in a cold sweat had not been something new to Mammon. He had often found himself shaking to awareness with droplets of melted ice on his brow- the discomfort of his twisting stomach, and clammy skin. It was a norm- and one he wish he had not come to be familiar to.

The white haired demon rought a shaking hand, glossing it over his saturated forehead. This only rallied a grunt of disapproval from the man upon the feeling of dampness. 

Breathing, and sitting up was a struggle. He turned over to his side, attempting to balance his wavering stomach’s fight in defiance. 

Tired eyes blinked away what little light peered in through his curtains. The darkness of the space he occupied was unfamiliar, for most of his time here in the Devildom, until the last couple of months. The shade was overwhelming at first- but it since then had become a blessing in disguise. 

It was easy to contemplate the meaning of his own presence down in this hellscape. He had found himself running back and forth trying to establish a way of life. Trying to find a use, a purpose.

Tired eyes found themselves drooping as he remembered the many times he had tried and failed. Maybe even the times he had tried and failed- desperate and stubborn. His stubbornness was both a blessing, and a curse. Perhaps it was just mockery; he knew well that it was probably the only reason he had survived for so long. 

A buzzing was starting to overtake his head- throbbing in both of his temples as odd colors rippled across the darkness that consumed his vision. It was nearly mesmerizing. Enchanting, even. 

Many a day and night was spent hiding in his room, without the concern of his brothers, or the care of others he could have considered friends and family. 

The only serenity he could find was his dreams. The feeling of floating in a comfortable abyss- and just forgetting about everything else. He enjoyed it sincerely, it helped him feel not as alone. It helped him feel free. 

Conscious thought and constant gripes with himself. Pools and pools of self doubt and anger. Loathing and regret- it all blurred together and made a murky mess. 

Mammon tried to remember why he was here all alone, in his pain, and confusion. Reminding himself that he was the one that shut his own siblings out in the first place. It wasn’t all that hard- really- all he needed to do was anger them enough and they did the other half of the work. 

The Demon of Greed was sure that they were all at RAD, at the time being. He had been scraping himself by for so long, doing his work for RAD from his own computer. He may have been getting bad scores- but that was nothing that Lucifer would be concerned about. 

Avoiding meetings, and getting away with not being present for important events was surprisingly easy. More than likely this was because they were simply glad that he was not stealing anything from them. 

Resigned, and in pain, the demon of greed leans back, before feeling his head getting heavier. He thought back to the events that had transpired, the day everything went downhill. 

As per usual, Mammon had been committing himself to his actions of scamming, and getting himself into problems he could not get out of. Though, at the time, he had gotten his brothers into the same mess- and that lead to an obvious explanation of annoyance or anger. 

During these thoughts, another flood of pain started to pummel the Avatar of Greed, forcing him to curl his legs closer to his body as he clasped at his eyes in an futule attempt to get the upcoming headache to subside. 

Due to all the physical stress, he didn’t have the energy to move more, to try and get medication, or go to the bathroom. He started to recall the long stent of time he had spent crawling himself from the foot of his bed to the trash-can or the bathroom. Too determined to keep it from his siblings that he would not dare ask for help. 

It wasn’t worth it. He might as well let them have their peace, right? What was one more, or one lesss in a world such as this one? Mammon was a mere grain of sand. he didn’t have value on his own. He would always need help from others. 

He felt his breath, and heart slowing down, calm. The ringing in his ears was getting lower and lower- and the humming of one of his favorite tunes started to play somewhere deep within his mind. 

Closing hie eyes, the avatar of greed let himself try to feel at peace- he allowed himself to rest, and drop the weight of struggles and self doubt, even in a time such as this. Because- in the end- he would be his own judge, jury, and executioner. 

He was the cause behind this illness, tearing him apart from the inside out. He allowed himself to remain this way, because of that fact. 

This was going to be the way that he had died, wasn’t it?

Alone? Still in severe pain. Questioning his actions and settling with what he was given- because he couldn’t do anything else at this point.

Closing his eyes, the white haired demon felt his body temperature rising again, it burned, but he was too tired to respond to it. He simply took in a couple deep breathes, and exhaled-

A harsh heartbeat lurched forward in his chest. Slow, and purposeful. Powerful, if he really considered it. 

He didn’t take in another breath. He tried, and felt like he had- but no air entered his burning lungs. 

A second attempt, third and fourth- nothing changed. He couldn’t bring anymore air into his body, no matter how much he pitifully beckoned for the remembrance to draw air into hhis aching system. In sight of this, he was still calm. He wasn’t afraid- somehow. 

His consciousness eventually faded, and his body fell limp, the need or want to struggle finishing abandoning his form. The silence grew even more eerie, and the light recessed back from the window- giving the comfort of obscurity to one of life’s many victims. 

Nobody was there to see him. No one would have heard him, or been there to try and talk to him. It was all silence. 

Perhaps it was better this way.

For everone.

He can finally rest, and and hopefully be at peace with himself- if he ignored his own neglegence. He can be free. 

-

A burst of colors flooded his vision, and Mammon sat up with a start- surprised by his sudden strength. He looks around where he had woken up- barely processing what was in front of himself for a good minute. 

After calming his nerves he reobserved the area, and took note of the flower-beds of soft, golden dahlia flowers under his form- as well as everywhere else within the general location. a firm tug at his abdomen from cloth made him look down- 

It appeared that he was dressed in formal black and yellow attire- elegant and fit for someone of his personal taste. 

The area around him was truly stunning. If sight was something that could generate treasure, this would be a trove. Serene- and isolated. Glimmering flowers crawl up marbled pillars as twinkling stars glimmer in an endless sea that was far beyong the reach of any sailor. 

An ambiance of trickling water, and the sound of chiming bells was in the wake, birds let out soft calls from the trees and the glow of golden candles made everything feel so warm and welcoming. Almost like a hug. 

It seemed his astonishment could only last so long. Glancing to his left, mammon spotted a figure in a suit, devoid of skin, and muscles- the form resembled a skeleton. 

“May I have this dance?” the figure asked, extending out a white-gloved hand with confidence. The movement was slow, and questioning, though it seemed that it was not afraid of the answer. 

The white haired avatar of greed nearly couldn’t help himself. He looked down at the hand- a feeling of comfort, and even happiness rung throughout his system- convinvincing his hand to move forward. 

The Avatar of Greed didn’t need to say anything. He didn’t need to be afraid. He just existed. He simply felt at peace. he grabbed the hand of the fine-dressed skeleton, and was pulled to his feet gently. Spun into a gentle waltz, he danced with the charmingly macabre figure- without a care in the world. 

“Come and dance with me. Accompany me in a Waltz among the Golden Dahlia Flowers.”

Even though I am a big fan of the anime ending, I kinda liked the way Light died in the manga as well….?

Now don’t get me wrong, I love him, but to me it was interesting to see a new side of him in the manga, the one that was always there but skillfully hidden. That madness and desperation in him that came to surface in his final moments.

But the anime ending left another impression. Yes we did see him snap, but now we saw that scared, hopeless part of him. The saddest moment was when flashes of his previous self appeared. It is sad to think that the Death Note ruined his life completely when he had so much potential, so much to live for.

But in the end I am glad that he died in peace, unlike in the manga… ^^;

( but still a beautiful contrast between the two scenes )

ashintheairlikesnow:

CW: Ableism, abusive relative, abuse of a minor, pet whump references, BBU, some brief vague noncon references, blood, drowning kinda, death threats, just general ‘it’s gonna get bloody’ below the cut…

Sean Malley previously appeared in the the pieces Sean Malley,Learn to Fly, and Paul Higgs: Baby Daze.

-

“What’s wrong with him?” 

Jo looked over at her older sister, eyebrows raised in perfect arches. She’d lined them herself this morning - the whole eyebrow plucking thing had been a fucking disaster, and now she had to draw them on every day. 

“What?” Ronnie looked up. Her sister, not even quite twenty yet, was hovering over a pot of water that would hopefully eventually boil for pasta. She looked older, and tired, and Jo picked at her own fingernails every time she visited to avoid bringing it up.

Two years ago, Ronnie had been seventeen and beautiful - now she was nineteen, nearly twenty, and she hadn’t slept well since before Paul’s stupid baby was even born, and it showed. Ronnie did smile more, Jo thought, a little grudgingly. Since she’d been kicked out of their parents’ house for refusing to give up Paul’s baby, she’d moved in with his parents during the pregnancy and now the two of them had an apartment and a stupid marriage, and Jo had to admit Ronnie smiled so much more.

Their parents hadn’t gone to Ronnie’s high school graduation, but Jo did. Ronnie had hugged her so tightly it hurt, having to sort of awkwardly shift her hips back so her huge pregnant belly could fit between them.

He wasn’t even born yet and the stupid shit was already ruining things. 

There had been photos, a million of them. Jo had gone home that night and told her parents, “Ronnie looks amazing,” and they had turned to each other and kept talking like Ronnie - and anything Jo said about her - didn’t exist.

Because of Paul’s stupid. fucking. baby.

But now, two years later, the stupid fucking baby was a stupid fucking toddler, and Ronnie and Jo together watched him - wispy red hair floating like feathers around his head - as he made a low hum, again and again, holding a small plastic dinosaur and repeatedly opening and closing its mouth, staring fixedly at the sharply-formed plastic teeth inside. 

“Oh,” Ronnie said, as if it was totally normal, nothing to worry about. “I don’t know, exactly.”

“You don’t know? I’ve never seen a baby just stare at something that long. Aren’t they supposed to have, like, no attention span? Or pretend it’s biting him or something? I don’t think I have ever seen that kid play pretend.”

Ronnie took in a deep breath. “They are,” She said, hesitantly. “Supposed to. But Tris… I don’t know. He does pretend play sometimes, he really does. Not when-… when it’s just us, or just the three of us, he does, he just… doesn’t, so much, when other people are around. His doctor says it’s nothing to worry about yet.”

“… yet?”

Ronnie dumped the pasta from the box into the water, and they talked about something else. 

Joanne Botham comes home - to her sweet little bungalow, snapped up for a pretty penny in a good neighborhood around the outskirts of Berras, perfect for commuting into work at WRU - and dumps her purse on the floor, exhaling in a rush. She kicks off her sensible work heels into the little shoe tray she bought at some home goods store where everything cost about fifty dollars more than it should, but she’s got money to burn, these days.

Or she used to.

In any case, it could be worse. 

Luckily, this is more or less a WRU company town, and things aren’t so bad here. The Olympics had aired while she was relaxing in the pool at a hotel in Sao Paulo, and she honestly hadn’t paid them any attention. She’d been vaguely aware of a commotion, a sudden rush of Portuguese from the staff and just about every language on earth from the hotel guests, but when someone said it was a press conference at the Olympics, she’d lost interest.

It wasn’t a terrorist attack or anything important - so she didn’t care. She was on vacation, and nothing was going to ruin her visit to Brazil. She had been taking a guided tour while some pet libbers tried to torch the WRU daycare and “free” the workers, leaving the poor things terrified and clinging to each other, running to the handlers who came to help them. 

One of them was still missing, and probably had wandered off and died somewhere, and wouldn’t that be just what those fucking libbers deserved. To be responsible for that.

A handler had gone missing, too. There were rumors the daycare worker had offed him and he just hadn’t been found, but Joanne found that hard to believe. She’s worked on the copy for commercials with those placid little cow-people for years. None of them have a single brain cell not dedicated to childcare. None of them could swat a fly, let alone murder the handlers who keep them safe.

In any case, all of that had happened while she was still gone, had her work phone off, and ignored anything and everything sent her way.

When her plane touched down, though… that’s when Joanne realized the absolute pile of epic shit WRU had just been thrown into. 

Two former pets - two people who should be current pets, actually - had spoken at a surprise press conference, and more than twenty Olympics athletes from fifteen countries had shown photos of people they claimed had been coerced, abducted, or otherwise forced into the pet system.

It was all fucking bullshit, but… 

Well, it wasn’t allbullshit.

One of the speakers, turns out, had been none other than Paul’s stupid fucking baby, all grown up. He’d given out his real name, which the dumbass wasn’t even supposed to remember any longer, and it had been enough information for journalists to dig up who he was, what had happened to him, and most importantly, who his living relatives are.

There was an article in TIME magazine. Unlikely Voices - how two runaway human pets from WRU became the face of a movement and the cry for justice from a lost generation. 

They’d done their research, all right. Tristan’s entire life had been laid bare in that article, in excruciating detail, up until… until he’d disappeared into WRU. 

Which meant there had been a mini-profile in a little sidebar. Who is Joanne Botham? A shadowy figure from Tristan Higgs’ past… There’d been a photo of her, taken without her consent, but her attempt to sue had been dismissed. 

His little stunt had been making Joanne’s job - and life - hell. She can’t even go into work in her own car any longer, there are reporters camped out who know her make, model, and license plate. She has to catch rides with different coworkers. She can’t go out to a simple restaurant without someone yelling at her, without discovering protesters at her car when she tries to go home. She can’t get her haircut without her stylist - someone she’s been going to for years! - suddenly refusing to cut her hair any longer.

Mysonis autistic, her stylist had said, voice cold. You’ve listened to me talk about Gabe all this time, how could you do that when you did what you did?

It’s not the same-

It’s exactly the same! Get out of my salon!

No one cares about Joanne’s side of the story. 

Not that anyone ever has. Everyone’s always blindsided by Ronnie being obsessed with her kid or Tristan being pretty adorable when he wasn’t being terrible. Everyone’s always got wool pulled over their eyes, and only Jo has ever seen it for what it really is.

Tonight didn’t go any better than the last few weeks had. She’d been recognized while picking up takeout Thai food for dinner. The pet lib assholes had to be breeding like fucking bunnies, they seemed to be everywhere now. One of them had followed her from the restaurant to her car, asking her if she had any regrets.

“Yeah,” She’d said, her voice rough and harsh. “Talking to you, that’s my biggest regret.”

He was probably recording that. They’re always recording her, now. 

At least her house is paid off, this little bungalow bought with cash from her finder’s fee after Tristan’s application had been accepted by WRU. Her car’s paid off, her house is paid off, her 401k looks amazing…

Maybe she should just retire now, and disappear.

How long would it take the pet libbers to pick some new target, if Joanne Botham wasn’t an easy enemy to find?

She drops the takeout container on the kitchen counter, the smell of cilantro, fish sauce, and chicken rising through the air, making her mouth water. She can’t even remember what she ordered, but it doesn’t really matter. She’ll barely taste it, anyway. 

She grabs the remote and turns on the TV, checking the news channels with a nervous new habit. Nothing new, though, it looks like. Nothing too big. 

Nothing to worry about.

She pulls down a bowl, dumping the takeout into it, looking at the chicken and shrimp swimming in noodles, sauce, and sauteed vegetables. They left the mushrooms in, she realizes. She had specificallyasked for no mushrooms-

“What a lovely little home you have, Miss Joanne,” says an older man’s voice from behind her, slightly creaky with age.

Continuar lendo

“No one cares about Joanne’s side of the story.”

No, you bitch, no one fucking does!

“Correction,” Sean Malley says, that twinkle back in his eyes. “You worked for WRU. As of five o’clock, Miss Joanne, you are no longer employed by that illustrious institution.”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

How is it that you always make me hate Joanne more?! I never think it’s possible but then there you go…

“The man holding her slaps a wet washcloth over her nose and taped-up mouth and the one with the bucket starts to pour.”

Remember when you wrote the piece of Oliver dying and I commented that only your writing could possibly make me feel bad for that scumbag even for a second? Well, guess nothing can make me feel bad for Joanne, I am delighted by this

“It took longer to shake the knowledge that Tristan was down there with him.”

She fucking knew… Not that it made it any better if she didn’t, but the bitch has been acting like she didn’t know this whole time and she did!

“Give Tristan Higgs the last ten years of his life back. Undo what you’ve done, all you’ve taken, all the money you stole.“

Ooooooooohohoho. Can’t do that, can you, Joanne?!

"She breaks down into sobs, realizing that the photos could have made the difference.”

Elation is what I feel

“What is wrong with me?”

Right now, it’s the fact that you’re dead. Sayonara, bitch.

Whumptober, Day 19 - Kakashi, Tenzo, Genma

Prompt:Just a scratch (bitten, bleeding, stabbing)
Fandom:Naruto
Characters:Kakashi, Tenzo, and Genma
Rating:M (maybe T)
Words:1135
Notes:Character death, angst

————————–

The world stuttered to a halt in a rain of crimson droplets. Tenzo spun in a full circle as a wind jutsu ripped through armor and flesh. He hit the ground hard while their target and guards fled higher into the hideout. In Genma’s peripheral vision, Yugao crouched in a corner with a dazed expression on her face, tanto dripping on the ground. Reality lost connection to time as Genma watched the scene before him play out in slow motion.

“Damn it,” Kakashi growled, panic edging his voice as he reached Tenzo’s side. The man dropped to his knees on the rough stone. “What were you thinking?”

Even when Kakashi shook him, Tenzo didn’t answer. A pool of crimson spread beneath his body, soaking into the knee of Kakashi’s pants. The jonin pressed against the gaping wound in Tenzo’s chest, seeking to staunch the blood flow. There was no point; it had already slowed. Brown eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling as Kakashi pushed his fingers against the man’s pulse point. “Come on,” he urged, voice starting to shake.

Genma didn’t move for several long moments, providing Kakashi the space he needed. Yugao slid her blade back into its sheath and glanced at Genma for confirmation. He offered a tight nod, then took a step forward. Genma rested three fingertips on Kakashi’s bare shoulder. He ignored the shudder that passed under his hand and pretended not to hear the almost sob in the back of Kakashi’s throat. “Now isn’t the time,” Genma reminded his captain.

When nothing happened for several seconds. Genma made his voice gentle, but firm. “Get up Hatake, we have a mission complete.”

The snarl that left Kakashi’s throat made Genma take an instinctual step backward. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet in case the man decided to swing for him. Grief made people do strange things, but he’d never thought that Kakashi would abandon his duty so easily. Kakashi lowered Tenzo’s body back to the ground. The man’s ashen face spoke of their failures, but Genma couldn’t focus on that now. He watched Kakashi’s fingers leave a bloody streak over Tenzo’s cheek before closing his eyes forever. Kakashi bowed his head then placed the porcelain cat mask over Tenzo’s face.

Standing, Kakashi pulled his Anbu mask back into place. He didn’t look at Genma or Yugao as he drew a kunai from the pouch on his hip. Genma’s throat constricted at the pain that rolled over him. His grief felt like a candle beside the inferno of Kakashi’s. Over the past year, Genma had teased Tenzo about having a crush on Kakashi, but he hadn’t been sure that the feelings were returned. Genma knew better now. He also knew that emotions like that were only good for one thing: getting more people killed.

Kakashi moved toward the step without bothering to look at his teammates. Genma lunged forward and grabbed Kakashi’s arm. “You can’t just charge in there and—”

“Will you stop me?” Kakashi’s voice made the air’s damp chill feel like a summer breeze. His right eye blended into the shadows of his mask, but the crimson sharingan spun wildly in the left. Lightning flickered along his fingers, glowing in the space between them. “Can you stop me?”

Genma released Kakashi’s arm and took a step back. Yugao stalked closer on silent feet, stopping at Genma’s side. At least she had enough sense to let Kakashi go. “What do we do? He’s not thinking—”

Wood splintered overhead, followed by a quickly aborted scream. Wind whistled across the stones, shattering glass before being drowned out by the chitter of birds. A feral growl swallowed a second, louder scream. Genma nodded back toward the room where Tenzo lay. “Stay with him. I’ll get Kakashi.”

There wasn’t time to make sure that Yugao followed orders. The begging had started above. “Please, I didn’t know—”

Genma pounded up the stairs behind Kakashi and stepped into carnage. The door had been blown inward off its hinges; scraps of wood littering the floor like kindling. Both guards were on the ground, chests blown open by chidori and their faces locked in a grimace. Eerie blue light flooded the space. Kakashi towered over their target. Lightning paled the man’s face more than fear as he raised both hands in surrender, weaponless and trembling. Kakashi held death steady in one palm.

“Where are your orders?” Kakashi bit off each word, sharp as razor wire.

The man reached inside his vest and offered a thin, leather book. Kakashi jerked the volume from his grasp and tossed it toward Genma. “It’s there,” the man said,as he stumbled toward his feet. “Everything you need is in there. I surrender, I’ll go willingly—”

Kakashi spun, burying his chidori in the man’s chest. Blood sprayed against the wall behind him, dripping in meaningless patterns. The man’s body slumped to the ground, dragging Kakashi with it, and the light went out. Near darkness bathed the room, and it took Genma’s eyes a minute to adjust. Kakashi slumped over the dead man, chest heaving with a noise that sounded too much like a sob for Genma’s comfort.

Metal clattered as the kunai fell from Kakashi’s grasp, followed by the dull impact of fist on flesh. Kakashi slammed his hands against their dead target’s chest again and again. His breath sped toward panic with every punch, curses and half-sobs breaking the wheeze of pain. Genma reached out.

Kakashi spun, fist sailing through the space that Genma’s head had occupied moments before. The second punch caught Genma in the ribs and his armor softened the blow. He caught Kakashi’s wrist and spun, trapping it between them. “Stop,” Genma hissed, struggling to contain the fury as an elbow slammed into his ribs. He tightened his hold. “Dammit, Kakashi, stop. it’s over.”

The words had an instant effect. The fight bled out of Kakashi’s body, and he shoved Genma away. “You think I don’t know that? He’s gone, and none of this matters. None of it will bring him back.”

For a moment, Genma recalled a younger Kakashi, standing in the cemetery with tears streaming down his cheeks. He’d lost the final pieces of his family when Minato and Kushina died. Genma saw the same bone-deep despair in the man’s eyes now. Kakashi shook his head. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save any of them.”

“I know,” Genma answered, wishing he could offer something besides acknowledgement. Grey and red eyes rose with a question that Genma ignored. He caught Kakashi by the shoulders in a rough hug, felt the sob that ripped through his friend’s chest, and stayed there until it steadied. When they moved apart, he squeezed Kakashi’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s take him home. We can do that much for him.”

Was für ein grausames Leben (What a Cruel Life) [From “Mozart!”]

Wolfgang Mozart: Thomas Hohler

Written by Michael Kunze and Sylvester Levay.

What a cruel life! What a strange world.

Everyone chances their luck and everyone gets screwed!

What’s the point of asking, when an answer never comes?

You think love must exist somewhere.

At first you cry out in despair.

Then you try believing lies.

But in the end you’re all alone.

So damnably alone. So damnably alone!