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twilightangel83 · 8 months

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October Prompts

There are all sorts of fun prompt lists bouncing around October this year. So I'm gonna, just, pick and choose from all of them. This post is just a combined list for my brain. Feel free to use it if you want. (Alternate Prompts will be listed at the bottom) W-Whumptober AW-AI-Less Whumptober F-Flufftober L-Linktober LS-Linktober Shadow LQ-Linktober Quest

Day: Prompt(List); Prompt(List); etc.

1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.” | Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”(W); Drugging/Sick/Poisoned(AW); "I've Got You"(F); Merchant(L); Gibdo(LS); Master of Ceremony Zelda(LQ);

3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” | Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”(W); Sensory Deprivation | Overstimulation | Isolation(AW); "Wait you love me?" "I always have"(F); Friend/Helper/Companion(L); Twilight(LS); Monster Motif(LQ);

6: “Do or die, you’ll never make me; Because the world will never take my heart.” | Recording | Made to Watch | “It should have been me.”(W); Conditioning | Mind Control | Forced to Hurt Somone Else(AW); Corn Maze(F); Mask(L); Shadow Beast(LS); Cultural Tool(LQ);

9: “Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days.” | Polaroid | Mistaken Identity | “You're a liar.”(W); Scar Reveal | Interrogation | Presumed Dead(AW); (...) at First Sight(F); Deity(L); Wall/Floor Master(LS); Scientific Host(LQ);

19: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.” | Floral Bouquet | Psychological | “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”(W); Taken For Granted | Left Behind | "Why wasn't I enough?"(AW); Keeping Someone Safe(F); Zonai(L); Gohma(LS); Potion Vendor(LQ);

24: “I’ve got a head full of chemicals; mouth full of ridicule.” | Goodbye Note | Neglect | “I thought they were with you.”(W); Failed Escape | Hunted Down | Too Tired to Keep Running(AW); (Melting Face Emoji)(F); Korok/Kikwi/Kokiri(L); Lizalfos(LS); Link Joins In(LQ);

28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.” | Bloody Knife | Sacrifice | “You'll have to go through me.”(W); Whumpee Hair Pulling | Oxygen Deprivation | Sweating(AW); Soothing Touch(F); Light/Sparkle/Bright(L); Gloom/Malice(LS); Clash(LQ);

Alternate Prompts:

Betrayal(W) Aftermath of Failure(W) Brass Knuckles(W) Decoy(W) Body Modification(W) Playing Cards(W) Examination(W) Hunting(W) Drugging(W) Shaking(W) Panic(W) Broken(W) Miscommunication(W) Lab Rat(W) Reluctant Whumper(W)

Bloody Knuckles(AW) Gunshot Wound(AW) Separated from Loved Ones(AW) Drowning(AW) Blackmail(AW) Crying to Sleep(AW) Disowned by Family(AW) Electrocution(AW) Forced Feeding(AW) Bullied(AW) Suffocation(AW) Abandoned(AW) Grief(AW) Human Shield(AW) Self-Defense(AW) Lab Rat(AW) Memory Loss(AW) Misunderstanding(AW) Hypnosis(AW) Mutilation(AW) Mouth Stitched Shut(AW) Nerve Damage(AW) Nervous Breakdown(AW) Words Carved Into Skin(AW) Stalked(AW) Non-Consensual Touching(AW) Paranoia(AW) Peer Pressure(AW) Prison(AW) Silent Treatment(AW) Truth Serum(AW)

Hot Chocolate(F) “You told your parents?”(F) Wearing Each Other's Clothes(F) Candles, Lanterns, Fairy Lights(F) “Oh no, you’re a morning person!”(F) Reverse all the Roles(F) Fairytale Retelling(F) Give your Character a new Occupation(F) Crossover of Two or More Fandoms(F) Have your Characters Share the Last Table at a Cafe(F)

#whumtober #flufftober #linktober #AI-less Whumptober #lists #october prompts

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gali-la · 8 months

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-Tober Events! 🎃🕸️🎉

alrighty folks here is the deal-io

i've seen a whole bunch of hype for kink/kiss/whump/etc.-tober lately, and while I'm super excited to see what everyone comes up with, I don't have the time to dedicate to picking between prompts, coming up with an idea, and writing a solid fic for it. so instead, I've decided to do something different! I'd like y'all on tumblr, twitter, and wherever else i end up posting this to pick for me!

Here's the idea:

I'll have the prompts down at the bottom ⬇️, from whichever official -tober events I find, and if you'd like to see a fic/drabble from me about it, send over an ask (or message or literally any other way you find to communicate with me works, I'll be checking everything) with the day, prompt, and a general little plot/request! Or check out the form below!! ⬇️ ⬇️

For example:

"Day 5, [prompt], [req ex]" Super simple! The more details given the easier it is for me, but you can gimme as little or as much as you'd like ❤️ I'll be posting 'em on the day of, so you'll know exactly when to expect a reply!

Now, I don't anticipate getting too many requests, since I'm well aware my posts/stories don't garner quite as much interest as others', but if I do happen to get more than one request for one day, if, say, one prompt in particular is extra-popular, I'll do my best to get around to each request, but which one comes first will be based solely on luck. I'll set up a little wheel and have it choose for me! Good news is, since this is extremely unlikely, I'll have plenty of days without requests to try to get to as many as I can! I'll do my best to make no request end the month alone :(

I don't think I've got any extreme no-gos to be aware of, but pretty please don't go intentionally looking for a limit. Just send me what you'd like to see! what's the fun in anything other than that? 💖

Here's my carrd if you'd like to check out my works/see what fandoms I've written for or contact me! And, finally, here's

➡️ The Form!! 🎉🔥

Fill out to your heart's content, as many requests as you please~

And here's the lists of prompts + links to their original posts! ⬇️

Prompts are also available in the form itself~

1. Whumptober: 😞

2. AI-Less Whumptober: 😢

3. Kinktober: 😈

4. KinktoberMadness: 🔥

(one piece-specific)

5. Kisstober: 😘

6. Flufftober: 🥰

7. Angstober: 😭

8. Goretober: 🔪

9. Fictober: ✍️

#one piece #fanfic #kinktober #kisstober #october events #october 2023 #whumptober #flufftober #kinktober madness #ai-less whumptober #goretober #fictober #fanfiction #one piece fanfiction #october

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ijustreallylovedaredevil · 6 months

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2023 Whumptober + Bad Things Happen Bingo

Link to the AO3 series here

Includes 137k words of things like:

Obi Wan gets Maul'd

idiots in love

surprise bonus organs

medical accuracy!!!!!!

order 66 fix its

palpatine dying a Bunch of times

Obi Wan living, sometimes against all odds

happy endings abound, even if things are different

hand holding, hugs, and softness

lots of clone OCs

at least two (2) kisses

#bthb #i write things #whumptober #ai-less whumptober #completion #star wars fanfic #star wars #the stimematic universe

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rileyspork · 2 months

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This one ai-less october prompt ate my brain. Btw this has a main character using AAC. I know it isn't exactly perfect. I tried to err on the side of showing assisted speech as equally as possible with spoken speech but I know there are limitations especially with access and program capabilities that this doesn't reflect. Very glad to listen to any feedback!

#white collar #white collar fanfic #white collar usa #neal caffrey #fanfiction #peter burke #whump #neal caffrey whump #white collar prompts #ai-less whumptober #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #extremely late #aac

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baby-come-bach · 7 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XIII Series (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Lightning (Final Fantasy XIII), Hope Estheim Series: Part 2 of AI-less Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Lightning can't rest. Not with PSICOM hot on her and Hope's trail in the Vile Hills.

Whumptober Day 2!

Buy me a ko-fi! https://ko-fi.com/keyblader41996

#ai-less whumptober #whumptober2023 #exhaustion #exhaustion whump #final fantasy xiii #ffxiii #lightning farron #hope estheim #my post #baby-come-bach

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whisperthelocalcrypticbastard · 7 months

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day 9

take this the wrong way (2306 words) by Pugrii_writes_2453 Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: In Space With Markiplier (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Celcionna "CC" F. Kelvina & Y/N | The Captain, Celcionna "CC" F. Kelvina & Head Engineer Mark, Head Engineer Mark & Y/N | The Captain (In Space With Markiplier) Characters: Head Engineer Mark (In Space with Markiplier), Celcionna "CC" F. Kelvina, Y/N | The Captain (In Space with Markiplier) Additional Tags: Scars, Scar reveal, Whump, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Guilt, Guilt Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Time Loop, Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Friendship, Team as Family Series: Part 9 of Pug's Whumptober 2023, Part 11 of …with Mark Summary: prompt: scar reveal

@ailesswhumptober

#angst #fanfiction #whump #iswm #in space with markiplier #ai-less whumptober #head engineer mark #markiplier

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celestial-alignment · 7 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Highlander: The Series Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Joe Dawson & Methos (Highlander) Characters: Joe Dawson, Methos Additional Tags: Whumptober 2023, Whump, Four Horsemen (Highlander), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Betrayal Summary:

An angry Joe confronts Methos after the Four Horsemen arc.

For the AI-less Whumptober Day 4: Hiding an injury / betrayal / lying

#whumptober 2023 #ai-less whumptober #no.4 #no. 4 betrayal #betrayal #day 4 #highlander the series #highlander #fic #fanfic #the four horsemen #methos #joe dawson #my writing #rape mention #rape tw #rape

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lifblogs · 8 months

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I have just completed planning every single AI-less Whumptober prompt, and there is a document for each story. If things go right, get excited for October! I'm coming out with works in multiple fandoms, and some original. There'll be:

Good Omens

Rebels

Avatar: The Last Airbender

The Dragon Prince

Trollhunters

The Hunger Games

Original Celtic-based grimdark/high fantasy story

Supernatural

The Clone Wars

Original Avatar/Asian-based high fantasy story, and

Doctor Who

#ai-less whumptober #whump #writing #planning #plotting

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hurryupsnufkin · 7 months

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I forgot to tell you guys that I'm into Red Robin now (the comic book character not the american food place) 🥰

And I am doing Whumptober with my new blorbo so if you like him to check it out!! <3

#fanfic #Red Robin #Tim Drake #Whumptober #AI-less Whumptober

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hyperfixat · 7 months

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day 14 of ai less whumptober: No Anesthesia

supporting these posts helps encourage my writing and creating, thanks!

(@ailesswhumptober)

The sound of one of your joints popping and the breaking of a bone are terribly similar. Too similar, in fact. The brothers have broken many bones in their infinite time.

The first snap, crackle, pop of your joints had made everyone in the room freeze. Leviathan, in the middle of talking about some new limited Ruri-chan figure, stopped. All seven pairs of eyes stare at you in horror.

Did the human die? Are they broken? Fragile thing, what would Lord Diavolo say?

You freeze as well, hands intertwined and held above your head.

Lucifer seems to have gotten even paler than his usual pale-ness. Mammon’s gaze catches yours and is filled with absolute horror, and Asmo. Asmodeus looks on the verge of illness, eyes wide and face sickly gray.

“Ohmygod,” Levi breathes out in absolute shock.

“What’s wrong?” You’re a little nervous at their odd behavior, and as to what happened to make their moods flip so suddenly.

“Are you okay?” Satan is on his feet, walking over to you, attempting to inspect you for any injuries. Mammon flies to his feet as well.

“Hey, hey hands to yourself! The Great Mammon can do that.” He pushes Satan aside without any real force. Together their hands and eyes cover you, like a TSA pat down.

“Does anything hurt?” Lucifer asks while you’re nearly being groped.

“No?” Confusion fills your voice.

A worried whimper comes out of Beel and he turns to Belphie, “so bad it’s numb.” You think you hear him say.

“Nothing seems broken,” Satan says, he’s squatting down to check your legs and feet. He lifts himself to standing. His eyes are somber as he gently takes hold of your shoulders. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Mammon shifts on his feet behind you, hand brushing over your shoulder blades, where you popped.

“Yeah? I was just stretching…”

Asmo inches over to you, crawling on the floor slowly like you’re a landmine that could detonate at any second.

“You cracked.” It’s an accusation. Lucifer near glowers at you.

“It happens.” You shrug.

“No it doesn’t,” Lucifer glares this time.

“Maybe not to you, but it’s normal,” you side eye him.

A hand on the hem of your pants. Asmo looks up at you, horror still plastered on his face.

Dramatic.

You pat his head and some color returns to his face.

“What happened then?” Belphegor challenges you.

“I cracked my back.”

“How?” Mammon’s jaw drops. “That’s horrible.”

“It feels good.” You defend. “You guys can’t crack things?”

“No!” Asmo cries out. “That sounded horrendous.”

“Oh.”

It’s confusing, demons and angels don’t make sounds like that. No one hasn’t let themself grow used to the noise, they’ll never let themselves. Because the haunting what if? will never leave.

Eyes always fly to you the second one of your bones shift; it’s sweet they care, but they’re worried over nothing! You’ve never broken a bone, ever.

You jinxed yourself.

Today you broke a bone. Well, you’re pretty sure you’ve at least done something you shouldn’t have to your bone. The splintered edge of the bone sticks out gruesomely from your forearm. Yeah, that’s not normal.

Blood drips onto the bathroom floor and you don’t know why you aren’t crying right now. The demon had handled you too roughly. Shoved you out of the way too hard and you hit the air dryer bolted into the wall then this happened.

They had looked at you with a mixture of shock and fear as the sickening crunch of your arm registered, and the coppery scent of blood began filling the air. Panic took over the stranger and they ran out of the bathroom, leaving you to sit on the floor and stare in shock at your horrible looking arm.

Your stomach churns and you look towards the ceiling and blink to try and clear your mind.

The demon fled the second his actions dawned upon them, fleeing the scene of the crime. Smart fella.

The scent of blood permeates the air and you know you won’t be alone for long. A hungry demon is bound to find you the way you are just bleeding.

And just as the thought hits you, the bathroom door flies open and Asmo is rushing towards you. Concern and panic lace his features as he places a gentle hand on your injured arm. You wince.

“Sorry, dear, but I need to get this tied off.” His voice is sweet and your head rolls to the side as you relax, because your Asmo is here. Things’ll be alright now. Mammon stands anxiously behind him, avoiding looking at your wound.

The bathroom door has swung closed again and you relish in the privacy of having you Asmo and Mammon take care of you.

“Oh, who did this, MC?” Asmo keeps the lilt in his voice, although it is strained. “Hmm? Who would hurt you?” Golden eyes attempting to meet yours.

You crane your head further back to avoid the lure of Asmodeus’ eyes, “it was an accident.”

There’s a tug at the junction of your elbow.

He makes a displeased hum, “Mammon, fetch Satan for me, he’ll know how to fix this better than me. Oh, Barbatos too if you happen across him.”

Mammon gives your uninjured arm a pat and follows orders.

“Alright sweetheart,” Asmo kisses your cheek, “this might hurt a bit. I’m gonna have a little bit of help to fix your arm up. You’re in good hands, doll.”

You hear ripping fabric then have to hold back a scream as Asmo begins to wrap the exposed gore.

“I know,” he sighs sympathetically. “I know.” He keeps it tight on your arm and you take some deep breaths.

The door swings back open and Satan and Mammon come in, Barbatos in tow. Satan’s face twists into a grimace as the scent registers. The two that Mammon fetched kneel at your sides adjacent to Asmo, Barbatos tears his white gloves off and takes hold of your upper arm, applying firm pressure.

“Fuck,” Satan hisses out, fidiling with his pockets. He pulls out something silver and metallic and you wince and turn away.

When you do so you bump your face into Mammon’s chest, where he’d taken to holding you steady.

You do your best to keep quiet when you feel them begin to work on your arm, but you can’t help a pained, breathless moan.

“Sorry, your pain cannot be helped,” Barbatos puts his bare hand on your knee and attempts to give it a comforting squeeze. It doesn’t do much, but you're grateful.

You feel sharpness cutting away at flesh and muscle. Your eyes bulge and you grip Mammon’s forearm with all the strength you can muster.

Fuck, it hurts so bad, it’s all you can do not to scream or passout.

“Shh,” Asmo soothes, you peek an eye open and glare at him.

“I can’t,” you stutter out.

“Yes you can, I’m almost done.” Satan says, voice plain.

You feel Barbatos stand and walk to the dryer you were shoved into. Peeking out the corner of your eye you see him crouch and investigate. His bloodied white glove runs through the half dried viscera painting the floor. You’re torn away from watching him when a new pain rocks through your nerves.

A sharp crunch resonates through your body as Asmodeus and Satan shove your bone back into place. You let out a hoarse squeal and there’s a fresh round of hushing from Asmo and Mammon. Your breaths come in wheezing bursts and Barbatos comes to kneel a bit in front of you.

“I trust these three with fixing you up for now. I must report this to the Young Master.” Barbatos gives a sympathetic smile and stands to leave. “I will tend to you at a later point, MC.”

A sharp, pointed pain in, and a sharp pain out. Steeling your nerves you peek at your newly shoved back inside arm to see Asmo sewing your flesh shut as Satan holds it closed.

It takes an excruciatingly long three minutes for them to finish and tie off the stitches.

“Now, darling,” Asmo’s stained hand reaches to cup your jaw, “when we get home, we’ll talk about finding whoever did this to you.”

“Don’t be too harsh now, Asmodeus.” Satan chides, holding your injured arm soothingly. “They’re sure to be in a lot of pain right now. Save that conversation for when they’re feeling better, okay?” When he finishes the sentence, he nuzzles into the side of your head affectionately.

“Let’s get you home now,” Asmo says, blatantly ignoring his older brother.

As Mammon helps you to your feet he speaks, “we should probably stop by the student council office and let Lucifer know that they’ll be missing from classes. And,” Mammon turns his attention to you. “Don’t you worry, the Great Mammon will be with you the whole time you’re healin’ up!”

#obey me #verified hyperfixat post #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer x mc #obey me mammon #leviathan x mc #satan x y/n #beel x reader #belphegor x reader #demon brothers x reader #ailesswhumptober2023 #ai less whumptober #ailesswhumptoberday14

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topguncortez · 7 months

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Sleep When You're Dead || Whumptober Day 2 - B. Floyd

Whumptober Masterlist || Whumptober Taglist Form

synopsis: Bob has had a hard time adjusting to life after a tragic accident. Every time he closes his eyes, the nightmares come flooding back.

@ailesswhumptober prompt: insomnia

warnings: mercy killing, graphic details of injury, physical violence, nightmares, choking, panic attack, character death, insomnia.

word count: 5.2k

Bob Floyd didn’t let a lot of things bother him. He prided himself on being the cool, calm, and collected WSO in the box. Yes, he was one of the younger ones in his squadron, but he had the intellect of someone who had been flying for all their life. He was able to direct his pilot through the most successful situations and get them both back on the carrier in one piece.

But that had all changed in the blink of an eye.

The 4th gen had come out of nowhere. Bob would’ve certainly seen it on the radar and would’ve directed his pilot on how to get out from under the missile lock.

Bob could remember the burning scent of flesh as their jet went spinning down to the ground. He could remember the pain that shot through his whole body as he ejected from his seat, and crash-landed on the side of the mountain. He could remember running through the rough terrain trying to get to his pilot but finding nothing but mangled plane parts mixed with human body parts. He could remember trying to pull his pilot out of the damaged cockpit, but his brunt skin slid off in Bob’s hands. He could remember trying to keep the wildlife away from the crash, yelling and clanging against the side of the destroyed jet to make the vultures run away.

Bob had managed for two days to keep the wolves away from his pilot’s decaying body, until one night when he finally closed his eyes. He woke up to the harsh growls and snarls of the wild animals tearing the man’s body apart and having a feast. Bob could do nothing but sit from afar and watch and pray that someone was on their way to get him.

— — —

The sun had just risen above the clouds, bathing the whole house in a warm glow. Bob used to love the early mornings. It was one of the few fleeting moments that he got to truly spend with you. As soon as the two of you would roll out of bed, everything became a blur of trying to get out the door on time to get to work. And nights were always filled with long, tired sighs of just trying to keep your eyes open long enough to make dinner and take a shower. But mornings, you two felt like you had all the time in the world to hold each other in the warm light.

That all changed after Bob’s accident.

He no longer was there beside you when you opened your eyes as the sun poked through your white blinds. You stretched your limbs out, missing the warmth from your partner on the other side of the bed. A frown crawled on your face as you gently placed your hand on his pillow, seeing as it was cold and looked untouched. Just like how it had been the morning before, and the one before that, and the one before that.

You didn’t know much about Bob’s accident, and you were kind of happy that you didn’t know the true horrors that he went through. You knew the basics; he and his pilot crashed into the middle of the mountains, they were there for five days due to their location beacons being crushed, his pilot was badly injured, and Bob had some burns and minor injuries. Bob had tried to save his pilot, but all attempts were futile. Bob had also been diagnosed with PTSD.

“He’s going to be different from the man you once knew.”

His psychologist had sent you home with a folder full of information about how to handle someone with PTSD. How one minute, they could be the person you’ve always known and the next they are someone completely different. Truthfully, it worried you to have Bob home. Of course, you had begged and wished for the day he came home when he was missing in god only knows where. But having him home, in the house that you shared, you were scared. You could tell something was different about him.

Slowly, you made your way downstairs of your two-story home, wrapping your robe around your body. You found Bob in the place you found him most mornings and throughout the day, sitting on the front porch step, looking out at the bird feeder. His blue eyes were locked on the squirrels that were trying to figure out how to get into the feeder. You could remember when Bob bought the “squirrel-proof” bird feeder and how happy he had been to put it up in front of the large bay window.

“Baby! Look! My birds don’t have to fight with the squirrels anymore!”

You wanted to cry at the memory. At how light and bright his eyes had been holding the box in his hands. How that night the two of you sat on the porch swing until it was dark, watching the sunset and the birds. Bob held you so tight that night, right against his beating chest. He took you inside when it had gotten cold, and made slow, sweet, passionate love to you in bed. Keeping his eyes locked on yours, as he intertwined your fingers and held your hands above your head. You closed your eyes, putting your hand on your neck as if you could still feel the feeling of his hot breath on your neck.

But when you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of a man who hadn’t even hugged you since he came back.

Oh, how you ached to be held by him again.

Pushing those thoughts out of your head, you walked towards him, gently calling out his name. You had quickly learned that you couldn’t walk up behind him anymore. You had done that once and it sent him into a full-fledged panic attack and he locked himself in the bathroom for three hours.

“Bobby,” You called out. It took a moment, but Bob turned his head and looked at you over his shoulder. You smiled softly as you took a seat in the spot next to him on the stoop, “Gorgeous morning.”

“Squirrels are in the feeder,” He said bluntly, ignoring your comment.

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, “Yeah. Damn, squirrels.”

Bob just nodded, his blue eyes not looking from the bird feeder.

You weren’t sure how long you had sat by Bob’s side this morning, but eventually, you had to get up and start your day. You were working from home, taking time off so you could stay with Bob until he could be trusted to be home alone. The psychiatrist had told you that Bob was still in a fragile state of mind and that being home alone might be a trigger for him. Bob usually sat on the couch all day, watching the birds outside the window, or sat in your office, on the loveseat that you could remember cuddling on, with a book. As much as you loved having Bob back home, having him sit in your office made you so nervous, that you started to tell him that you had important meetings that you needed to be alone for.

“Are you still hiding from him?” Natasha asked over the phone.

You frowned at her words, “I am not hiding, Nat. I just. . .He’s just not the same. He just sits and stares at the birds all day. I wish he would talk to me. Hell, I wish he would fucking hug me! It has been so long since I’ve had any sort of human contact.”

“Awe babe,” Natasha cooed, “Have you told him that?”

You shook your head, even though she couldn’t see you, “I’m scared too. Doctor Sam said I need to let him have control over what happens. I just need to wait for him to talk to me, to hug me, to. . .” Your voice broke as tears welled in your eyes, “To love me.”

“Stop that,” Natasha commanded, “You know he loves you. There is nothing on this earth that Bob loves more than you.”

“He doesn’t even lay in the same bed as me anymore,” You said barely above a whisper. “I just want my old Bobby back.”

Natasha had been your closest confidant after Bob’s accident. She had blamed herself for everything that happened, telling you that if she had just been with him. If she hadn’t been on leave to help her ailing mother. If she had told Bob to sit this mission out and wait for her. If she had been the one to be out there for five days instead of him. But you told her she couldn’t dwell on all the “what ifs”, that wasn’t going to change anything that happened. You feared that maybe if she had been with Bob, it would’ve been her funeral they had to attend.

“He will come back,” Natasha assured you, “He is still somewhere in there. He just needs to heal a little more.”

You agreed with her, even though you didn’t want to. You wanted to yell and say that the man you once knew is completely gone, replaced by the cold-hearted barely functioning robot in your living room.

You parted ways with Natasha, telling her that you want to get together for a girls’ night soon, and made your way downstairs to check on Bob. He was sitting on the couch, with a quizzical expression on his face, staring at the wedding photo on the wall. You wanted to say something, to ask him anything, but you decided against it, going to the kitchen and making lunch for the two of you.

— — —

Bob hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on your conversation.

He had planned on coming to actually talk to you, to have a real conversation. He felt like he was making good progress in therapy with Doctor Sam. He no longer saw the lifeless, half-eaten body of his pilot every time he closed his eyes. The blades of the ceiling fan no longer represented the helicopter that came to rescue him. The birds outside in the bird feeder no longer looked like the vultures that came to pick over what was left of his pilot. And the recurring dream of you being the one he had to fight wolves off and bury.

But Bob had always been raised to be respectful and wait until someone was off the phone to enter a room. So he waited and heard every single word you had said.

“I just need to wait for him to talk to me, to hug me, to. . . love me.”

“He doesn’t even lay in the same bed as me anymore.”

“I just want my old Bobby back.”

Bob knew this couldn’t have been easy on you. He knew the type of person you are. All sunshine, and rainbows, and bright smiles. You were his sun, the light that shined so bright. The infectious warmth that you couldn’t help but be drawn to. But he knew that you couldn’t shine on your own, you needed the people around you to shine. Which was why the two of you fit so well together. Bob was like the moon, quiet and mysterious and you helped illuminate him.

Now, it was like a cloud had covered the both of you. Not letting either of you shine.

After a painstaking lunch, where neither of you said a single word, Bob had retreated back to the couch, as you went back to your office to finish up a couple of things for work. The words you had spoken over the phone still danced around in his head.

“I just want my old Bobby back.”

Bob bit his lip, closing his eyes and thinking of the things he used to do when he noticed your light starting to dim. Images of him cooking, you sitting on the kitchen counter next to him rambling about whatever had upset you filled his mind. The scent of rose petals filled his nose as he could remember bubble baths, filled with entirely too much water and bubbles. Then he could feel the imaginary touch of hands, running down his back, and your legs locking around his waist as he could remember making love to you until your mind had completely gone blank.

Bob wasn’t sure if he could fulfill all of those memories, but he could at least help with one.

Easily, Bob found his way around the kitchen, pulling out the skillet and various items needed to make your favorite dish; spaghetti with bow tie noodles. He worked in silence, letting the kitchen fill with the scents of oregano and garlic. It wasn’t long after Bob started to stir the pasta around the pot that you came walking into the kitchen, a look of surprise on your face.

“You’re cooking?” You asked.

Bob nodded his head, mustering up the smallest smile he could give, “You’ve been making all the meals. It’s not fair.”

“I-it’s fine, Bobby,” You said, pulling at the sleeves of your sweatshirt, “I don’t mind.”

You were nervous. Bob hadn’t noticed it before, so locked away in his own mind, but you were nervous to be around him. He could see the fleeting glance in your eye as you fiddled with your sweatshirt sleeve. Bob sucked in a breath and walked over to you, gently touching your hand.

“It’s the least I can do,” Bob said softly, “Please. Come sit.”

You looked up at him, your eyes soft and teary. You licked your lips, and nodded, letting Bob gently pull you over to the island. His hands gently rested on your hips as he helped you up, sitting you on top of the island, just as he had a hundred times before. It was silent for just a moment as Bob turned back around to the pots and pans he had on the stove. You weren’t sure what to say, but then Bob looked over his shoulder.

“Tell me about your day.”

You smiled at him and nodded your head, “So, I started working on this work project, and let me tell ya this. . .”

The rest of the night was filled with you telling Bob about your day, and him listening intently as he made dinner. He plated the delicious meal and set the dining room table as you rambled on about this work project and how your jerk of a boss wasn’t pulling his weight and putting it all on you. Bob didn’t say much, but his eyes said everything, which was enough for you. You truly missed nights like these, where he just listened, giving you a safe outlet to release all the tension you had been carrying. The meal he had made was utterly delicious, with homemade tomato sauce and meatballs. If there was one thing about Bob, he knew how to cook.

The two of you finished up dinner like you always did, doing the dishes together. You washing, and him drying. However, as the night dwindled down, the dread came rising back in your body. What was going to happen next? Were the two of you going to retreat back to the silent corners of the house and pretend like you hardly existed? Were you going to go back to just surviving instead of truly living?

When the last dish was put away, you turned around, leaning against the sink as you watched Bob. He gently shut the cupboards and then heaved in a breath, his shoulders rising and falling sharply. You rolled your lips together, waiting for him to silently walk out of the kitchen, and out the front door to go look at his birds. But instead, he turned around to face you, blue eyes looking more lively than they had in weeks.

“I would like to join you in bed tonight,” He said and then reached a shaky hand out to you. You didn’t even hesitate a moment, rushing over to him and taking his hand. Bob flinched at the contact but held your hand tightly. He leads you down the hall to your once-shared bedroom, pushing the door open softly.

He had dreams of this room, most of them nightmares now, of finding your body on the white comforter, contorted and twisted in the metal of a jet. Bob closed his eyes as you let go over his hand, and quickly started your nighttime routine. He sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the soft cotton of the comforter under his hands as you danced around the room and got ready for bed. The mattress felt a lot softer than the couch he had been sleeping on.

You quickly changed into some sleep shorts and a large T-shirt which Bob quickly realized was his. You piled your hair up on your head, tying it into a bun with a velvet scrunchy. Bob still sat on the edge of the bed, stoic, as you pulled the blankets back on your side, ready to climb into the awaiting warmth.

“Bobby,” You called softly, making him jump a bit. Guilt filled your heart as you looked at his stiff frame. You suddenly felt bad for how excited you had been to have him sleep next to you. He looked like the scared boy that you found lying in the hospital bed after being assumed dead for five days.

“You don’t have to-”

Bob stood up abruptly and turned towards you, “I need to.” He bit his lip and hesitated for a moment before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head revealing his toned stomach. You tore your eyes away from a sight that made you weak in the knees. You cursed yourself for getting turned on at this moment. Bob rid himself of his pants, leaving him just in boxers, and then climbed in bed next to you.

The two of you lay with a palpable distance between you. You had never been so close but felt so far away from him in your life. However, you didn’t want to make the first move. You knew that you needed to let Bob control the scene. So, you just laid there, with your arms down at your side, staring straight at the ceiling, with the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“Can I turn the light off?” You asked. You knew that when Bob did sleep, he slept with at least one light on in the living room.

Bob swallowed and then nodded his head, “Yes.”

Sighing, you reached over and flicked the light off, letting the darkness of the night swallow you both. The tension seemed to rise even more as you two laid with at least a body’s width in between the two of you. Your nose started to burn as tears welled up in your eyes. You felt so selfish, but all you wanted was for Bob to hold you. Laying next to you was such a milestone in itself, but you wanted his strong arms wrapped around you, fighting off the imaginary monsters of the dark.

Your lips trembled as Bob shifted closer to you and whispered, “C’mere,” Holding his arm out and letting you curl into his side. You sobbed as you placed your head on his chest and wrapped an arm around his warm body. Oh, how you have missed this. You sucked in a breath of his scent, pine mixed with the faint smell of jet fuel. Your ear was pressed against his chest, feeling his beating heart and the warmth of his blood, lulling you to a long-awaited rest.

— — —

“We’re going down, Floyd! We’re going down!”

“Jackson! We need altitude! Pull up! Pull up!”

“I-I can’t! I can’t! We’re gonna die!”

“Jesus Christ, help us!”

The impact of the crash hurt worse than the time he had to eject from the bird strike. He had barely been able to get out on time, pulling his ejection handle and punching out. His blue eyes searched the terrain for any sight of his pilot and an extra parachute.

“Jackson!” Bob yelled, running through the snow-covered woods. There was a trail of burnt-out plane parts that led him to the mangled piece of metal sitting in the middle of the woods. Bob felt sick as the scent of burning flesh and jet fuel mixed in the air. He didn’t hesitate and ran straight towards the jet.

The sight was even worse up close. Bob couldn’t see the lower half of Jackson’s body, but he knew that he was pinned under the 13,000 kilograms of metal. His face had been burned, the white snow around his head bleeding. His chest heaved up and down, as he tried to catch his breath from his lungs being crushed. Bob fell to his knees at his side, looking over the wreckage, trying to decide what he could do.

“Okay, okay,” Bob shook his head. His mind was running a mile a minute. He gripped his hair tightly, “Fuck! I’m going to try and slide you out.” Bob shifted so he was kneeling at Jackson’s head, his hands going under his armpits. But even the slightest movement made the pilot cry out in pain, “I’m sorry. Take a deep breath. . . ready, on 3, I’m going to try and move you.”

“Please, Floyd, I don’t want to die,” Jackson cried, tears mixing with the blood and dirt on his face.

Bob nodded, moving so he could get a better grip on the pilot, “One, two. . .three.” Bob tried to shuffle backward with his pilot’s body in his hands, but the thing that happened was the sickening sound of the jet bending and moaning, and Jackson’s screams of agony.

“Fuck! Fuck! You’re ripping me apart!” Jackson yelled. Bob immediately set him down, tears in his eyes as he looked at the scene.

Bob had always believed that he could do something in every situation. He never felt like he was truly and utterly helpless.

Until now.

Bob felt helpless. There was nothing he could possibly do to save his pilot. He knew it and Jackson knew it as he turned his head to look at the quiet WSO. Bob sat down in the snow, leaning up against the jet, holding his head in his hands.

“H-hey,” Jackson called out, “It’s okay, Floyd. You tried.”

Bob shook his head, “N-no. I can get you out there. I know I can,” Bob quickly moved to his feet, his hands going to a part of the jet, “I-I just need to l-lift it, and I-”

“Floyd.”

“I’m going to lift it. Ready? One, two-”

“Floyd!” Jackson yelled, which was followed by coughing. Bob’s jaw clenched, the adrenaline starting to wear off and his body becoming heavy as he sunk back down in the snow. It was quiet for a moment, as the two of them let the gravity of the situation fall around them. They were in the middle of nowhere. No location beacons. No landmarks that could possibly giveaway to where they are.

“Floyd,” Jackson whispered out, “I-I need you to do something.” Bob nodded, getting to his knees, “I. . . I’m gonna suffer. There are wolves out here. . . I don’t want to die by being a wolf’s last meal.” Bob felt like he had gotten hit straight in his heart. His eyes grew wide at the gravity of what Jackson was asking of him, “I need you to-”

“I can’t,” Bob shook his head, “I can’t do that. I can’t- I won’t!”

“Please, Bob,” Jackson sobbed, “I don’t want to suffer. I don’t want to lay here and wait for-”

“I’ll be here. I’ll protect you!”

Jackson shook his head, “You need to get out of here.”

Bob looked at the man who was entrusted with his whole life. There was a special bond between the pilot and WSO. The pilot was ultimately the one responsible for the WSO’s life. Every decision a pilot had to make was not only to ensure their survival but also their backseater’s survival. And now, Bob was being challenged to take the life of the person who was supposed to get him back home safely.

“Please,” Jackson reached his hand out. And for the first time, Bob noticed the black wedding band on his finger. Guilt filled his body, realizing that Bob hardly got to know the man before climbing in the plane behind him and setting off on this mission. Bob didn’t know if he had kids, how long he had been married, or what his favorite color was. But there was one thing that Bob did know, and that was he could grant him his last rights.

Bob grabbed Jackson’s hand, holding it in his own for a moment and squeezing it.

“You’re a good man, Bob Floyd.”

Bob clenched his jaw, as he positioned his body so he was straddling Jackson’s. His foot planted on the ground and kneeling on his other knee. Jackson’s brown eyes trained on the sky, as one of Bob’s hands clasped down on his mouth and nose, the other going to his throat.

— — —

You jolted awake, feeling the pressure of another body on top of you. You gasped as Bob’s hand tightened on your throat, your eyes wide in panic. Your arms and legs failed as you tried to push him off, slapping at his skin. But the look in Bob’s eyes told you that he was anywhere but here in this dark bedroom.

Your lungs burned as you tried to keep fighting for air. Bob’s large hand pressed down on your windpipe, his hand held tightly over your nose and mouth. Tears were running down your face as your vision became blurry. Bob’s cold blue eyes bore into yours as if he were looking right through you.

This was not the man you loved.

Your body began to feel heavy, as your head started to swim from the lack of oxygen flowing to your brain. You struggled less and less as your brain had come to the conclusion that you were going to die. Right here, in the same bed, you were sharing with your husband, at his own hand.

“Bobby. . . “ You somehow, managed to squeak out Bob’s name, hoping that maybe, just maybe you could reach to him, get him to wake up. Hoping that maybe, he would be able to save you. But the blank look on his face told you that your greatest fear was coming true.

And the moment before you could give up, the door came crashing open. Bob’s body was tackled off of you, and you felt air rush into your lungs. You sucked in a deep breath, which was followed by a series of coughs as someone sat on the bed next to you, wrapping you up in their arms. You covered your mouth as sobs racked your body, your heart rate beating erratically in your chest. You looked over to the side of the bed, where Jake was tackling a screaming Bob on the floor.

“Don’t,” Your voice was hoarse as you tried calling out to Jake to stop hurting Bob.

“Shh,” You looked up to see Bradley, holding you tightly against his chest, “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

“He wanted me to! He said to! He said to kill him! I had to!” Bob yelled, his body flailing against Jake’s stronghold, “He told me-” Bob’s voice was cut off by the sickening smack of Jake’s backhand hitting him across the face. You flinched at the sound as Bradley led you down the hall towards the living room.

“It’ll be okay,” Bradley whispered in your ear, running his hand up and down your back.

Hours had passed, and you were still sitting on the couch, now holding an icepack to your swelling throat. Jake was still in the bedroom with Bob, and you had guessed by now, that Bob had finally calmed down. For a while, you heard yelling as Jake and Bob argued, and then what sounded like Bob sobbing how he didn’t know what he was doing. You sat motionless on the couch, as Bradley had turned on some late-night rerun of the Phillies game. He had encouraged you to go to the emergency room, but the idea of having to explain what happened made you nauseous. Besides, it was an accident. You knew it. But you knew others would think so.

Bradley looked over at you, for probably the tenth time in the last twenty minutes, “Your eyes might take some time to heal.”

“I don’t,” Your throat killed you to speak. You took a swallow, “Plan on going anywhere,” You whispered out.

Bradley frowned, “I think you should. I know someone who won’t say-” You shook your head, shutting down the conversation that had come up several times already. Bradley gave you a court nod before turning back to the game. The silence stretched over you again, until you shifted on the couch and patted Bradley’s arm.

“How did you know?” You asked softly.

Bradley sighed, “Jake and I were watching a movie, you must’ve accidentally called him,” He looked down at his fingers, picking at the callouses on his hand, “We could hear some struggling, coughing and all that. Jake didn’t even think twice when you didn’t respond to him calling your name. He got up and ran right over.”

You were suddenly very thankful to have Jake “Hangman” Seresin as your next-door neighbor. You don’t even remember clearing off your bedside table in a fit of panic, reaching for your phone to call someone. Anyone who could come save you. You felt an immense debt of gratitude towards Jake for saving your life.

The door to your bedroom opened and sucked the air right out of the living room. Bob had looked like he had been to hell and back. His cheeks were red, his eyes bloodshot, and his knuckles bloodied. Jake looked pissed as he stood behind him, his jaw clenched shut tightly. Bob walked with his head down towards you, standing in front of you, his body visibly trembling.

“Y/N, I. . .” Bob opened his mouth, but sobs escaped. All you wanted to do was wrap him up in your arms, but something in your conscious told you to stay put. Bob cried and rubbed at his eyes as if he were a child. He looked so small and fragile as he stood in front of you, “I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t have to go to bed with me, tonight,” You spoke, “Why did you?”

Bob shook his head, his hands fisting his hair, “You said you wanted the old me back and I-I thought I was doing the right thing.”

You stood from the couch, “Look at me,” Bob shook his head like a petulant child. You grabbed his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. His blue eyes took in the sight of the handprint on your throat, already starting to turn purple. The blood vessels around your eyes had popped, leaving them looking red and angry.

“God, I’m so sorry,” Bob sobbed out.

“You don’t get to place the blame on me because I said I wanted the old you back. I know I am never going to get him back. We can both learn to move forward,” Bob nodded, “But you need help, Bobby. You can’t get better on your own.”

“I don’t like how-”

“Then I will leave,” You silenced him, “I will leave and never come back.”

Bob looked into your eyes, tears blurring his vision. He sucked in a breath and nodded his head.

whumptober taglist: @els-marvelvsp @sarahsmi13s @topgun-imagines @xoxabs88xox @cassiemitchell @seitmai @a-reader-and-a-writer @bradleybeachbabe @kmc1989 @senawashere @beautifulandvoid

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tsubaki94 · 7 months

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2 Overworked/ Insomnia/ Exhausted

Ai-less Whumptober23

#danny phantom #Jazz fenton #ai less whumptober #ailesswhumptober2023 #day 2 #overworked #exhausted #insomnia #art #fanart #syblings #Danny fenton #carrying brother #ink #promarkers

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shywhumpauthor · 7 months

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Didn’t Mind It

Cw: isolation, starvation, restraints, dehydration, vague implications of drugging

Whumpee didn’t actually mind the first few days alone.

The first eighty-something hours were quiet. Still. Not necessarily peaceful, but almost serene, in the same sense one might strike as they are faced with an inescapable death. The foreboding of tranquility during the fall as the ground rushes closer.

Eventually the gnarling twists of hunger in their gut turned to soft, occasional aches. The throbbing behind their eyes eased into a slow pulse. There was a point where they became so used to the dryness in their throat, the metallic taste that coated their tongue like sandpaper where they stopped noticing it. At some time they had gotten so used to the cold, the damp air that they stopped shivering. Grown used to the heavy weights of cuffs shackles around each wrist, ankle, they were almost able to lift their arms.

They’d gotten used to it. To the quiet so thick the only thing they could hear was the occasional creak of a pipe in the ceiling above, the frigid air that leaked slowly from the vent in the corner, the sound of their own thoughts spiraling until eventually falling silent. They had never heard the quiet so loud. It pressed against them, a weight draped around their entire body, once that once had made their skin crawl in its confining suffocation, but now was almost comforting. In a sense.

For a while they’d begged to be let out. Maybe the first hour or two. They had longed for freedom for the first day, tugged at the shackles until their wrists were raw and bleeding. Then they had settled down, soothed into a stupor of silence by the low whispers of the vent and the faint hints of sweetness in the air. It made their thoughts heavy, lulling them until they slipped away.

They didn’t mind it so much anymore.

#whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #its me coal #coal wrote something #whumpee #whump challenge #ailess whumptober #ailesswhumptober2023 #ailesswhumptoberday3 #ai less whumptober #ailess whumptober day 3 #isolation #solitary confinement #implied drugging #whump scene #whumptober

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honeylashofficial · 1 month

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I never imagined these silly little one shots would go anywhere. We’re in March for crying out loud! This is whumptober stuff. Regardless, thank you guys. I really appreciate it. /:)

~~~~~

Ao3

A Plateful of Hermits with a Side of Whump and Angst

~~~~~

Tumblr

MASTERPOST (under construction)

#mcyt #hermitcraft #life series #life series smp #hermittober #whumptober 2023 #ai less whumptober #alternate universe #hermitblr

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mania-sama · 3 months

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rule #13 - waterfall

Rule #13 - Waterfall - Fish in a Birdcage

Jujutsu Kaisen Pairing - Fushiguro Megumi/Itadori Yuuji Tags - coma, japanese literature, character study, references to depression, survivor guilt, angst, post-culling games, gross overuse of italics Summary - Sukuna is successfully exorcised without killing his vessel, but Fushiguro Megumi is left in a comatose state. His soul has a decision to make. Word Count - 2,022 Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own Whumptober 2023 - Day 30: Coma See my full Whumptober 2023 Challenge on Tumblr or Ao3

"The boy has not a suggestion of a smile. No human can smile with his fists doubled like that,” Itadori reads, his index finger carefully underlining the words on the page. “It is a monkey. A grinning monkey-face. The smile is nothing more than a puckering of ugly wrinkles.”

Megumi listens intently and waits patiently for Itadori to arrive at the end of the paragraph, where he is sure to take a pause and regather his breath and thoughts. He’ll steal a glance at Megumi, then continue on.

Except this time Itadori does not continue when his finger falls off the page after reading: “ I have never seen a child with such an unaccountable expression.” The blue bookmark, tasseled with intertwining crimson and gold, slides into the crook between the pages, bumping into the inner spine. The light pink and coral book gently collapses to hold the bookmark in place, saving Yuuji’s spot for when he would like to return to it next.

It’s not like him to stop reading so abruptly unless there’s an emergency of some kind. Megumi thinks it's unlikely considering his phone hadn’t gone off, nor had a staff member or fellow sorcerer barged in to alert him of an impending situation.

Itadori rests the book on his lap and methodically runs his thumbs on the edge of the paperback cover. Without looking up at Megumi, he says, “I really hate this author.”

This doesn’t surprise Megumi. Dazai Osamu isn’t known for theatrical and fun yet thought-provoking books like many other authors are famous for. His works are depressive and nihilistic, showcasing the cruel underbelly of human nature. In the months Megumi has gotten to know Itadori, he has always been one to keep his nose facing the sun.

“I don’t want to read this,” Itadori continues. “Just that one paragraph, and I—” He breaks off, his thumb pausing at the base of a flower bud on the cover. “Did you expect to find yourself in these pages?”

Megumi startles, and Itadori swallows thickly.

Did you expect to find yourself in these pages?

It has something to do with the way Megumi never smiled right, always full of anger and resentment and apathy for the man who raised him and the man who didn’t. He rarely attempted to express happiness, and when he did, it looked unnatural and foreign.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits. His voice echoes as a snowflake falling in a powdered tundra.

Finally, Itadori tears his gaze from No Longer Human. He settles on Megumi, whose chest rises and falls in line with the beeping monitor tracking his heart. Megumi watches the exchange from the edge of the bed. Close to Yuuji, where if he shifted an inch or two over, he would contact Itadori’s knee with his own. Far enough from Yuuji, where they would never accidentally meet in the middle.

“Some of these books are hard to read. Not just because I don’t like them, but I have this feeling that… if you’re listening, and you’re hearing what some of these guys have to say, you won’t want to wake up.” His brown eyes are sincere and solemn, a combination that only he could earnestly achieve. Most people attempt to conceal a part of themselves; it’s a natural part of the human equation. Yet somehow, Itadori bypasses it entirely as if he was made using a different formula altogether.

Sometimes, it feels like Megumi will never fully understand Itadori. Their compositions are too fundamentally opposed.

On his left, his body breathes silently. Occasionally he can hear it as the state of his nostril and throat changes, like mucus build-up or tonsil irritation. Today he suffers from no ailment to cause sound. If he could somehow turn off the heart monitor, he could pretend that the only people in the room are Itadori Yuuji with the light pink and coral book and himself sitting on the edge of a normal bed in a normal room. Yuuji reads to him, tracking the words with his index finger and occasionally stealing warm glances at Megumi. He smiles despite the depressing contents of the book, like being in the same vicinity as Megumi is enough to bring him holistic happiness.

The heart monitor breaks his wistful daydream by beeping at a minimally quicker pace. Itadori turns his head to look at it, tracking the spiking red line like it’s worth anything more than the shitty, noisy machine that it is. His hand had jumped close to the red ‘CALL’ button on the side of the hospital bed. His finger hovers over it uselessly as the monitor slows down to his regular BPM.

Itadori uses the same hand to reach for Megumi, holding his pale, gauntly thin hand that resembles the rest of his atrophying body. Megumi can faintly feel the fingers intertwining with his own, and it simultaneously burns and freezes his skin in a frigid hellfire. When there’s nothing he can do but sit and experience it, he finds himself stuck between enjoying and cursing the sensation.

However, this is the better option for obtaining touch. The incorporeal form he possesses simply passes through living people. Contact dissembles his skin in a flurry of dust and scattered light while sending the other person deep, bone-chilling shivers.

“Wake up,” Itadori says. Their hands are lying together on the bedsheet, one sickly white from lack of a severe lack of natural Vitamin D and the other bone-white from how tightly he’s holding on. “Wake up so I don’t have to read this to you. I’ll read you something else if you like. Anything. But you have to be awake. I want to see you listening to me.”

Megumi wants to do that; listen to Itadori read any book of his choosing — not Dazai Osamu, certainly not his most depressing suicide note of a book — all day long. By itself, it would have been enough to wake him with the first sentence Itadori read of Norwegian Wood.

The book itself, as Itadori explained when he sat down to explain his plans to Megumi, was chosen because of its inspirational message. The exact opposite of Dazai, really; it’s clear that Itadori was hoping to avoid this point.

“I did research,” Itadori had said, opening to the first page of what will become a stack of read books piled on the other side of Megumi’s hospital bed. “By that, I mean I read a Wikipedia page. Its message is to keep on living, which I think is better than some of the other ones you have on your list. I really hope this works.”

Then it began: “I was thirty-seven then, strapped in my seat as the huge seven-four-seven plunged through dense cloud cover on approach to Hamburg airport.”

If it were so simple, it would have worked.

Megumi doesn’t want to wake up.

It started from the moment he killed his sister. He gave up fighting Sukuna, knowing it would be useless. His power to manipulate the Ten Shadows technique alongside his given techniques and domain overshadowed any restraint he applied to his body’s cursed energy. Nineteen fingers eventually accumulated in his body. Mahoraga gave way to the world-shattering cleave. Tsumiki and Gojo died because of his abilities.

“It wasn’t you who killed them,” Itadori had explained early on, “it was Sukuna.” But Itadori didn’t understand that his words were null from the amount of hypocrisy poisoning them.

If waking up meant he could sit in one place for the rest of his life with Itadori’s voice reading him his favorite books, he’d do it. But being awake means facing the world again. It means confronting the shikigami that took his sister’s and Gojo’s life, as well as the countless others that Sukuna killed along the way. He’d have to return to Jujutsu society and continue this thankless, worthless life of exorcism, or abandon it all and live with the guilt of negligence.

But dying — dying meant losing this. Itadori would be alone, and Megumi would never hear the end of No Longer Human or The Setting Sun. He would never get to The Boy of the Winds which Megumi assumes Itadori is saving for last. He won’t get updates on Itadori’s trials and tribulations with schoolwork and exorcism. Maki comes to visit; he likes to hear her talk and interact with his comatose body. If he dies, there will be no family members left for her to relate to.

That’s the problem, the dichotomy of his situation where he is seemingly stuck between life and whatever comes after. If he could figure out how to die or wake up, he wouldn’t be here, stuck in his hospital room and watching one of only two people alive he cares about come to his room day after day to read him a book from Megumi’s to-be-read list.

What Megumi does want, and it goes entirely unattested as embarrassing as it is, is to talk to Gojo.

He doesn’t know what Gojo would do in this situation, because he is certain that Gojo would never be in the same position. That man has always been one extreme to the next — to imagine his soul wandering the planes of the living is to ignore him altogether. If he were allowed just one conversation, he knows that Gojo would have him alive or dead before Itadori can finish one more paragraph of No Longer Human.

Then there is the quieter part of him that just wants to see him again. To see Gojo in whatever form he’s taken after death. And he recognizes that Gojo, the person he has modeled his every decision after when Tsumiki could no longer guide him, is the only person he will listen to. Anyone can tell him to live or to die, but Gojo is the only one Megumi knows he won’t fight.

It’s not that Gojo has made every correct decision in his life, but he is the closest thing Megumi has ever gotten to a father.

There is a saying: like father, like son. For the longest time, he had been unable to comprehend that phrase. He and Gojo aren’t blood-related. During his living days, Megumi didn’t have the time or motivation to reflect on the man who raised him. He understood that Gojo was the one around, his benefactor, and his teacher. His emotional capacity was unable to handle much more than that.

One year and three months and a stack of books have given Megumi plenty of time to reflect, and he is now intimately familiar with what it means when someone says like father, like son.

Not one person knows him better than Gojo Satoru.

“Okay,” Itadori relinquishes, letting go of Megumi’s hand. “Okay. Another day. I’ll let you have another day.”

Megumi doesn’t know how many more days either of them have left in them. It’s been a year and three months, and so far, Gojo Satoru has not come to visit to guide his soul as he once guided his life. It could be retribution for killing his only father-like figure, but he has this feeling that Gojo doesn’t blame him for it, no matter how much Megumi holds it against himself.

Like father, like son. Yet, the father raises the son to be better than himself.

Leaning back in his chair, Itadori reopens the light pink and coral book. In the fold of space between life and death, there are books and there is Itadori Yuuji. He cannot have these individually, nor can he hold them close. It’s a form of torment, a reminder that he is not meant to stay.

He listens from his seat at the edge of the bed as Itadori takes a deep, aching breath. He reads to the end of the prologue. When he’s finished, he looks at Megumi for a long time. His finger traces the inner spine between the thin pages.

Itadori continues with the first chapter: “Mine has been a life of such shame. I can’t even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.”

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