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vampyrsm · 1 year

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⚸ 'Save Your Tears.'

⚸ Synopsis - The End is never truly the End.

⚸ Pairing - Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

⚸ Warnings - MDNI. Reader referred to as a woman. Domestic violence (not between Bakugou & Reader), no quirks, non-canon au, heavy angst, angst with comfort, murder, descriptions of wounds, blood, tending to wounds, alcohol consumption, discussions of grief & death, questioning of morals.

⚸ Word Count - 8.5k

⚸ Author's Note - Not 100% beta read, I apologise for some spelling mistakes. I wrote most of this at 1am & extremely tired. I'm also not going to tag the things that are huge plot spoilers, but everything that may be triggering/needs the proper content warnings has been included above.

I know I'm not giving much away but I really want you to read this for yourself and have your own thoughts on this. Please enjoy and don't forget to tell me what you think! Also posted on AO3.

It was loud here. It was always loud in this house. You never knew peace and quiet, never had the chance to relax. It was foolish to believe this man—this monster could ever know what love is. He was terrifying once the door closed and the curtains were drawn, he was no longer the cheerful smile and caring boyfriend but rather he turned into the volatile, malicious man who was currently digging the heel of his boot into the white wooden door separating the both of you.

It wasn’t meant to go like this. A gentle disagreement that spiralled out of control the second you got home. You were just out for dinner with friends, or rather, his friends. You never saw your friends anymore, he said they weren’t trustworthy and you believed him. You had said you didn’t want to go for more drinks after dinner, that you felt sick from the food — not a total lie, but also not entirely false. You did feel sick and you didn’t want to go for drinks, not because of the food but because when your boyfriend had a few drinks in him … consent didn’t matter to him after that.

Of course, he had to keep up appearances. Gently kissing your knuckles, feeling the temperature of your forehead and cheek, all to live up to the image of being such a good boyfriend. But you knew it was a ruse, a warning for what was to come. You weren’t meant to disagree with him, you were meant to always say yes and follow him everywhere.

You were right, as usual, as soon as the door to the house was closed it was like being bathed in the icy waters of the Antarctic. Your blood was frozen solid, and the air felt charged. You could feel his glare through the back of your head, this wasn’t going to end well for you. At first, he was slow in his approach, methodical with his steps so as to not spook you too quickly and you’re ashamed to say it worked.

His hand was always quick, grabbing at the nape of your neck to slam your head first into the old oak door frame. There was a sickening crunch, your nose felt like it had been stuffed with tissue paper and smashed to pieces with a sledgehammer. His words were violent and angry, they always were. Filled with enough curse words to make a sailor blush, he never held back.

He screamed at you, “How dare you fucking embarrass me in front of our friends?!” but you didn’t understand how it was embarrassing. You simply didn’t want to go drinking, you didn’t want to end up hurt and yet here you were. Nursing your broken nose and staring at the way the blood dripped in thick droplets onto the pristine white carpet. You picked this carpet out, it was the one thing you were allowed to do when he forced you into the new home for the both of you—your new prison.

It was a flash after that, a flurry of punches and kicks until you had managed to slip under his arm when he was winding up for something that would definitely have you unconscious and vulnerable to him. You should’ve made a dash for the door but something in your mind told you that he probably locked the door already, he always knew to cut off your escape routes before he did any real damage.

So the next best bet was his study, it was right next to the open plan kitchen and living room — a place where he could keep an eye on you whilst working. The door had a lock on the inside to keep you out but tonight, it’d be used against him. He wasn’t happy about that, of course, and you could see the anger on his face even through the frosted glass window on the door.

The window behind you was your best next chance of escape, and the sound of his boot kicking into the door was enough to spring you into action. You scamper across the wooden floor, fumbling in the dark for the latch. The windows of the house were old, they were the ones that slid upwards and the latches always got caught. It resisted on the first two tugs but it seemed at least lady luck was on your side tonight as the window creaked before sliding up and up—

“No you fucking don’t.”

A hand in the hair on the back of your head has you yelping, the pain in your head only gets stronger when he starts to drag you backwards on the floor by your hair. Your palms graze through the broken shards of glass, and you get a glimpse of the door that had protected you for a mere moment to see he had shattered the glass window to get to the lock.

He shoves you hard onto the floor, your head rattling from the sudden pressure before he’s straddling your stomach. Both his legs hold you in place for him to do whatever he deems good enough to be your punishment for not only embarrassing him but daring to run away from him. His fists are lethal, punches that could make even a grown man cry from the force behind them.

They’re laid on thick and fast against your face, your cheeks when your head turns, his fingers wrap around your throat when punching simply isn’t enough. You have nowhere to look but his face, he looks calm despite what he’s doing. His eyes are lowered to meet yours, his lips set in a fine line whilst his fingers squeeze and squeeze.

Your fingers grasp uselessly at the floor next to you, trying to grab anything — something to leverage yourself on to throw his weight off, but instead, something slices your fingertips. Glass. You feel along it frantically as your vision starts to blur and darken, it feels like your head is full of water and your lips ache from the pressure he’s putting against your windpipe.

It’s quick. The way his face morphs into one of shock and then agony, the spray of blood is quicker though. It shoots out of his neck like a fountain, your hand still holding the glass in its place deep inside his neck. He jerks back, just as you withdraw the shard of glass and it causes the gash to widen. The glass slices effortlessly down and around the front of his throat, dousing you in the sticky red that turns your once pristine dress into a deep crimson.

His blood is warm, and it’s all you can focus on when he falls to the side still clutching his throat in his final moments.

You had to get out of here. You had to leave. It would only look like you did it when someone inevitably calls the police for all the yelling and screaming. Your feet were wobbly beneath you when you finally got them under you — just what had you done? You killed someone, you killed your boyfriend. It was self-defence but you still did it, you could’ve stabbed him anywhere non-fatal but you didn’t. You wanted him dead, you wanted him to leave you alone forever.

The cold night air sticks to the blood sprayed across your face and body, making it grow tacky where it was the thickest. The street is empty save for the cars that had been parked there all night, you could take his car but they’d only trace it, trace you. No, you couldn’t take his car.

So you run.

You run until your calves ache, until your lungs burn with each heavy air intake. You run until the blood on your skin is dried and cracked, finding a home in your pores. Everything hurts to the point where you feel nothing at all. Your mind spins and it’s nauseating. With each aching breath you take, it becomes harder and harder to breathe. The ache in your throat makes the bruises that had already started to form make their presence known, you can feel the ghost of his fingers squeezing and squeezing until you can’t breathe—... you can’t breathe.

A pair of hands grasp the tops of your upper arms, holding you in place when you scream and squirm to get away–to get away from him.

“Hey!” A voice calls through the fog of your mind, sharp and deep. Those same hands are warm on your skin, they hold you so differently from how you were used to. They were soft, uncertain and yet they weren’t letting go. Reassuring. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

That same fog slowly clears from your eyes with each slow blink, until finally, you can see the person before you. It’s hard to see them in the dim light of the overhead streetlight but you can see the worry in the ruby red of his eyes. An odd colour for eyes, you thought absentmindedly, but they were so captivating to stare into. The yellow hue of the light gives the blonde hair on his head an ethereal glow, like a halo.

Another shake to your shoulders as you once again meet his eyes, and you can see him processing all the bruises and broken skin on your face. The bruises around your throat are barely visible beneath the blood caked into your skin, and still, he doesn’t shy away when he asks again if you’re okay. “Is this your blood?”

“..No.” An answer that would have any sane person running away or perhaps even calling the police, but instead the man just nods as if he understands.

“Alright, let’s get you back to–”

“No!” The man’s eyes widen at your sudden raise in volume, but he doesn’t back down nor does he show if he’s uneasy. “Please. I can’t–...I can’t go back.”

The stranger stares back at you, the silence stretching between you both until a shrill siren makes you jump in your skin. He glances over his own shoulder to see a multitude of police cars and an ambulance speeding down a nearby street until they disappear from view.

“Please.” You whisper this time, and the man nods at you. He rolls his shoulders, shucking the thick green parka off of his shoulders until he drops it over yours. It’s warm and has the faintest smell of coffee and caramel. It’s comforting, it smells like home – your real home, back with your mother who tried her hardest to protect you from the harshness of the world. You wonder how she’d feel today knowing how things turned out for you. Maybe you can tell her one day.

“My place isn’t too far from here, I guess you wanna get cleaned up?” His hands linger on the collar of the coat, holding it in place so that the fuzz of the fur brushes against your battered and bruised cheeks. He waits until you nod before dropping his hands, taking a few steps backwards and you follow without thinking. Always the follower.

The walk isn’t long, but the ache in your thighs makes it seem longer. Every step after the last is tiring, and you know you’re lagging behind but the man says nothing. If anything he slows his natural gait to walk by your side, even offering the crook of his arm when you stumble over your own feet. Whilst your body slows with fatigue, your mind runs at a mile a minute. You know it won’t take long for them to figure out what happened, you were the only person who lived in that house with him, and you were missing from the scene of the crime.

The apartment complex the stranger lives in is small, probably only housing two or three different households. Wordlessly you follow him along the gravel path, the small garden lights bathe you in a white light that feels like you’re under inspection. Every speck of blood practically shimmers in the light, exposing you to the world for your transgressions. Yet there is no one to judge you for your sins, no one who screams in fear at the sight of your battered and bloodied face – no one to ask what had happened other than the blonde stranger who leads you into his apartment.

It’s nice inside, cosy yet also empty at the same time. How was this place something but also nothing at the same time? It had no hints of being lived in other than the small white lily in the now darkened window-sill in a pretty white pot. Its petals even from where you stood in the doorway looked like pure snow, soft as the skin of a babe’s cheek. The ambient light of the warm amber lamps gives it a soft glow, and you yearn to stroke the tips of your fingers against its petals.

“C’mon, let’s get you clean.” The man offers, drawing your eyes away from the white lily and he has a saddened look in his eye when he meets yours. Did you genuinely look that awful? Perhaps you did, the dull ache in your nose stings when you think about it too hard and your lips feel numb. You just nod, following quietly along behind the man who had yet to offer you his name.

You watch him from behind as you traverse closer to the bathroom, his shoulders are broad and well-defined even under the black hoodie he’s wearing. His hands are buried inside the pocket of his hoodie, a relaxed and calm air around him despite leading a total stranger covered head to toe in blood that didn’t even belong to them into his bathroom. He lets you stand in the doorway quietly as he goes about setting up the bathroom ready for you to be cleaned.

He offers you a look that invites you into the white bathroom, it’s almost blinding when he flicks on the overhead light that floods the room. You turn to look in the mirror, to assess just how much damage was truly done to you but the man’s hand wraps around your forearm. It’s enough to make you jump in your skin, your hackles rising with the ghost of your boyfriend's hands wrapping around your throat.

“It’s best if you don’t.” His lips are set in a fine line, eyebrows furrowed – he’s serious. Was it that bad? “Don’t look, I mean, it’ll only upset you more.”

That made sense, you supposed, perhaps your mind hadn’t quite caught up with the events of the evening just yet. So you just nod your head, letting his hands move to help you up onto the counter with your back to the mirror. The blonde set the first aid kit down next to you, unboxing a few items that you know will be unpleasant when the time comes to use them.

“‘M gonna wipe the blood away first, will make it easier for me to get to the open wounds.”

“Why?” You ask quietly, watching how his eyebrows come together in confusion whilst wetting a washcloth in the warm water from the sink just off to your side.

“Why do I need to clean fir–”

“Why are you doing this?” It felt rude to cut him off, but the man shows no anger at how you cut him off, instead his features relax a little in understanding.

“Why not?” He offers you a question to your own. He shrugs his shoulders alongside it. “It’d be pretty fucked up of me to ignore someone who needed help.”

You smile a little at his words before hissing at the ache in your jaw, and his eyebrows knit together again in worry. He forgoes speaking to you any further, opting instead to focus on cleaning you up. The way he strokes the washcloth along your skin is featherlight, careful of the bruising and cuts along your cheekbones and the obvious one on your nose. He strokes it along your cheeks, gently along your lips. The sink next to you is slowly turning a reddish hue each time he rinses the cloth to go back in. He finishes the cleaning with a gentle side-to-side motion along your forehead before bringing the cloth gently down to the bridge of your nose.

“I won’t sugarcoat it, this is gonna hurt a lot.” He finally speaks again, the deepness of his voice is jarring in the tense silence of the bathroom and yet it lulls you into a sense of safety. A certain element to it tells you that this man won’t harm you, and you can trust him to get you through this next part.

“Don’t blame me if I accidentally hit you or pinch you then,” you smile a little easier than before and the man mirrors a slight grin back to you.

“I’d like to see you try, those little hands and feet aren’t gonna do shit to me.” You snort at his words but you can’t stop the pang of guilt in your stomach. Your hands had done something; you held that piece of glass and took someone's life. You did that, just you.

“Hey.” The man nudges your knee, ducking his head down to meet your eyes. “Sorry, shitty joke. I’m not the best with that shit–”

“It’s not you, don’t worry.” And now it’s his turn to snort, his eyes drifting back down to his hands as he opens up the antiseptic wipes.

“Like I haven’t heard that one before.” There’s a twinkle of humour in his eye when you meet his gaze again, and it’s easy to ease back into the comfort of just the two of you being alone in this room. A sanctuary away from the harsh reality of the world that’s awaiting you just beyond the door. “Alright, hold still. G’nna hurt like a bitch.”

The second the wipe comes in contact with your skin, you jolt. It hurts a lot more than you were anticipating and you have to steel yourself for the next time he wipes away at your skin to fully clear out the wounds. He manoeuvres you with gentle fingers, gently set at your jaw to turn you to the left and right to make sure he’s gotten everything before he hooks them beneath your chin to tilt you to look up at him.

He’s absolutely gorgeous, for the lack of a better word to describe this benevolent stranger. His skin is flawless, and the red of his eyes has little flecks of brown in them. The slope of his nose is mesmerising, he was truly made in the image of beauty. It begged the question as to why his house seemed so unlived in, did he have no one to come home to? That just seemed impossible for someone as breathtaking as he was – was there something you were missing?

You hiss again when he presses a butterfly stitch down across the bridge of your nose, his own nose wrinkling at the visible discomfort he’s causing you.

“All done, I’m gonna guess you want to get out of those.” He points at your clothes, and you look down again to see the material stuck to your skin. It’s cold, and wet, the sensation makes your skin crawl in remembrance of just what had transpired. “I’ll go get some of my stuff, you can finish cleaning yourself up right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” You offer a smile when he nods his head, he makes short work of throwing away the dirtied cloth and empty boxes before he’s gone.

You’re left in the eerie silence of his bathroom, you can’t even hear the outside world from here. It leaves you susceptible to your mind. The dreaded thoughts that condemn you for what you had done – telling you over and over that you were going to be found. Punished. Locked away and the key thrown away.

You didn’t want that, you didn’t want to be punished for something he had done. No one would believe you if you said it was in self-defence, if anything it looked like he was the one who was defending himself. No one was there to tell the judge and jury what really happened. You’d be found guilty with no one to save you.

It feels like you’re drowning, choking on the guilt that bubbles up in your throat. Something grabs at your throat, squeezing and squeezing until you feel a similar ache in your lips and a fuzzy feeling behind your eyes. Your hand scrambles to get whatever is off of your throat, nails catching against the raw bruised skin but it’s fruitless. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe. You can’t–

“Hey.”

It’s a deep intake of breath, one that has your lungs inflating until they hurt and your head tilting back to greedily take as much as possible. There’s no pressure around your throat anymore, just the feeling of your own cool fingertips pressing against the bruises that had started to blossom against abused skin.

There’s a knock on the door, some shuffling of socks on wooden floorboards. “You okay in there? Do you need help?”

“N–No.” You clear your throat, coughing to clear the uneasiness in your throat. “Sorry, was getting undressed.”

He’s silent on the other side of the door for a moment, and you wonder if he’s figuring out if you’re lying or not. “Okay, sure. I’m gonna open the door so you can take these clothes, alright?”

He waits for your consent to open the door, and when he does he’s true to his word. He sticks just his arm through with the pile of clothes he has to offer, you take them gratefully and just like before he’s closing the door to leave you alone.

This time you don’t hang around to hear what your mind might have to say about your little freakout, so you start to peel off the sullied clothes from your body. You take extra care to not drag your dress against your face when you change out of it before letting it drop onto the white tiled floor with a wet plop. It looks so wrong on such pristine flooring, an imperfection; a sin.

Though you don’t allow your thoughts to drag you beneath the icy depths once again, you set a simple goal in your mind – to clean yourself and then change into new clothes. It’s easier to remove your ruined underwear when you disassociate yourself from what really happened. Your clothes were simply just wet, not dripping with blood. Your skin was just caked in mud, not cracking with blood. It was just easier to let go.

The sponge is smooth against your skin once you run it beneath some warm water, letting the rivulets of watered-down blood slide along the smooth expanse of your chest until you’re clean. You glance at the clothes that were given to you by the man who took you in, it seems to be a basic combo of grey sweatpants and a nondescript black t-shirt that looks soft. Your fingers brush along it, feeling the fabric beneath dried fingertips before you take it to slip on over your head.

Getting dressed was much quicker now you were clean, but you were presented with another problem; these clothes were far too big for you. They dwarfed you which had both good and bad sides to it. Good being it hid the fact you had no clean underwear beneath. Bad meaning you had to roll the waistband of the sweatpants up three times and cuff the legs to make sure they didn’t slip down.

Now all you had to do was face the man who most definitely would have a million questions for you. He had every right to know just what had happened given he was harbouring a criminal. The thought however doesn’t bring you as much dread as it should. This stranger had taken you in without any second-guessing, he had cleaned your wounds and provided you with new clothes. Perhaps he would see your side of things, maybe he’d even understand and now hand you into the police when you tell him the truth.

The bathroom door creaks when you open it, much to your dismay, your face crumpling a little at the obvious attempt to sneak out without being noticed immediately. Yet there is no voice asking you to come forward, or questioning if you need anything. In fact, it’s quiet, a silence that settles against your chest and melts into your skin. It’s comforting, and slowly it coaxes you out of the bathroom and further into the house.

Each step you take back the way you came confirms that the man isn’t waiting for you to emerge from the bathroom. Instead, you find the living room of his apartment to be completely empty, even the kitchen from what you can see seems to be barren. It’s odd and it should worry you but it doesn’t. You focus your mind on looking around at your surroundings. It definitely confirms what you had thought when you first arrived – it looked unlived in, or just extremely clean. The sofa looks like it had never been sat on and just plucked straight from a showroom.

Even the rug beneath your feet felt new, like it hadn’t gone through the hardships of someone dropping coffee or food on it.

It was strange, to say the least. You venture towards the bookshelves lining one wall, and there doesn’t seem to be a speck of dust on the old oak bookcase and yet the books look old. Older than you, you’d wager. Was this guy a clean freak who liked to collect old literature? You lean in to take a closer look at the titles, some of them rubbed off from years of use you presume but even the ones you read are in a different language. Latin perhaps? You can’t tell. So he was a man who could read—speak?—Latin.

Maybe you should be more scared of the man who was nowhere to be seen.

Something catches your eye on the wall next to the grand bookcase. You have to take a step back to see it in its entirety – it’s a grand oil painting and it may just be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. You’ve seen plenty of knockoff paintings being spoken about on TV shows where they go to auction off old things they find in their attics but this screams authentic to you. Which only begs the question; just how did he manage to get such a thing like this in his house?

“Fall of the Damned.” A voice is behind you, deep and yet quiet so as to not scare you. Yet it fails as you jump out of your skin, clutching at your chest as if to stop your heart from leaping out. The man makes no move to laugh at the fact he scared you. When you look at him, he’s staring up at the grand painting with a strange look on his face. He looks almost wistful, perhaps even reminiscent.

“The original from 1620.”

“But I thought the original was damaged. An acid attack–”

“No, that was a fake. But this is the real one.” He’s certain in the words he speaks, leaving no room to argue with the fact you were very certain that the original had been damaged in the 1950s.

You look back at the painting, and there are certainly no markings of any damage to it. You can see the individual strokes of the paintbrushes the closer you look; it most definitely was authentic. But this thing was priceless, so many people had tried to replicate it or reproduce it in their own image but they could never match the beauty of this. The jumble of bodies tumbling from Heaven merge together the longer you look until it looks like a stream of white meeting the fiery pits of the abyss.

“How do you even have this?” You ask quietly after a spell of silence, turning back to finally meet the burning gaze of the man who towers over you.

“A friend gave it to me.” He offers, and he must see the disappointment in your eyes when he doesn’t provide the full answer. “He told me that it would suit me well.”

Perhaps it’s best to not push for a further answer, whoever he was speaking of didn’t sound like much of a friend with the way he had spat out his words. Maybe an old friend, someone who wanted to gift this as a jab at the blonde.

“Anyway. How you feelin’?” He asks you, his shoulders relaxing a little when he takes you in fully cleaned to the best of your ability.

“Fine. Better now that I have clean clothes, thank you by the way.”

“Don’t mention it, I wouldn’t want to be stuck in bloody clothes, so.” He shrugs before sinking into the untouched sofa, his massive frame takes up a good portion of it and you can’t help but stare a little. He makes no move to speak again, instead, he leans forward to swipe the bottle of wine he must’ve placed there before he caught you staring at his artwork.

He still does not speak when you watch him pour two glasses of red wine, the red liquid swirling and settling in the pristine glass before finally, he meets your gaze, offering up a glass for you to take. A small part of you tells you to not drink in the presence of an unknown man but you can’t find it within you to reject him, something alluring in the way his face is completely relaxed – he poses no threat to you.

When you take the wine glass from him, he leans back into his spot on the sofa with his own glass and swirls it between fingers that seemed to have done such an action over and over.

“So–”

“I don’t know your name.” You blurt, nerves finally bubbling up your throat in a form of a barked question that has his eyebrows raising for a second in wonder if he really hadn’t told your name thus far. You busy yourself with a sip of the dark red liquid.

“Bakugou Katsuki.” He sips his own wine as you do before continuing. “What about you? Only fair I know the name of the woman I saved.”

You supposed he had a point, and you offered him your name. He seems to roll it around in his mind for a moment, a small nod of his head seems to be all you’ll get in return.

“So, Y/N.” Your name slips free from his tongue so easily, the rich timbre of his voice imbues your name with a sense of regality. “I won’t outright ask what you’re running from, but do I have to be worried about the police turning up to my door because I’m harbouring some axe murderer?”

Your lips twitch downwards into a frown, and you move to settle into a spot not too far but also not too close to Bakugou. He wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Not an axe murderer.”

Bakugou hums deep in his chest at your answer, the noise reverberating in the glass of wine as he takes another deep sip.

“Ex?” Your face crumples involuntarily at his easy guess, the ache in your throat returns tenfold when you try to stop yourself from crying. You hadn’t really cried once, had you? It makes your face ache, your eyes sting with confessions of just what you had done and this poor man next to you had no idea.

“Dickhead probably had it comin’, I’m sure he’s out there licking his wounds like the sad fuck–”

“He’s dead.” It feels like ash on your tongue to admit it, but at the same time, it feels like a deep breath on a spring morning. It feels both refreshing and restraining at the same time; to admit to something as ghastly as the murder of someone who had treated you as less than dirt is a perplexing feeling.

“Oh fuck,” Bakugou adjusts himself next to you a little, sitting forward so he can see your face a little clearer. “Did you do it?”

You simply nod your head, expecting Bakugou to leap up from his seat and immediately call the police. But instead, he stays still, contemplating what to say next.

“He hurt me,” you breathe, sucking in a harsh breath like you’d been submerged under water. “He hurt me so much, I couldn’t–... I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to get away, I needed to. I was scared that if I didn’t get away he’d really do it this time. He was going to kill me this time, I’m sure of it. I didn’t want to die by his hands and he got away with it–”

There’s a warmth draped around you, a heaviness that forces you to crumple inwards on yourself when the crying really starts. A hand on your shoulder coaxes you into a clean warm shirt, your face pressed into the fabric doesn’t do much to mute your crying. That same hand rubs up and down against your arm, comforting you in a way no one had in a very long time.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his chin tucked against the top of your head when you find refuge in the safety of his neck. “You deserved so much better, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That’s what you wanted to hear, even if you didn’t realise it. You needed someone to acknowledge your pain, your hurt. It was hard to believe now that you deserved better with how it had all ended up, but you didn’t have it in you to argue with the man who was still gently cradling you into his body. You’re not sure how long you cry into Bakugou’s neck but eventually, the tears stop. It leaves you feeling empty, and your face tacky from the tear marks that stain your face.

“Better?” Bakugou asks finally, clearing his throat of the emotions that were soaking into his words to the point where his voice cracked. His voice rumbled against your body, a deep resonating sound that helps ease you back from the precipice of despair and back into reality.

You have to awkwardly peel yourself away from Bakugou, cringing at the wet patches on his shirt and the slight tinges of blood from where you had buried your face against him. “Yeah, thanks.” You have to look elsewhere, hoping he doesn’t mention how you ruined his shirt.

Thankfully he doesn’t, a simple “Fuck it,” leaving his mouth and instead he leans forward to grab the bottle of wine taking a long swig directly from the bottle before offering it to you.

“Let’s have a toast,” you take the bottle for him slowly, confused at where he could possibly be leading with this. “A toast to a better future. One without assholes, one where you can do whatever the fuck you want and no one will give a shit.”

A part of his small toast felt like he was directing it to himself also – like he wanted to be free of whatever shackles were chaining him to the past. But still, his toast sounded good. Something you could get behind and hope for, maybe the future does hold something better for you. So you raise the wine bottle when he raises his own glass, tapping the two together.

“A toast to a better future.”

Bakugou watches as you drink from the wine bottle, his own lips hovering just by the edge of his own glass before he finishes it all in one go. A deep sigh, of relaxation or vexation you’re unsure, expands his chest before he relaxes back into the sofa to stare at the grand painting that looms over the both of you like a bad omen.

“Bakugou?” He only grunts in response. “Do you believe I’ll really have a better future?”

His head turns on the back of the sofa, staring over the slight fat of his cheeks to catch your own gaze. He’s quiet for a moment, a long moment that has you fidgeting in his gaze. Why was he so silent all of a sudden? Did he simply say that to make you feel better? It would make sense – perhaps that’s the only way he thought he could ease your mind when in reality you’d be spending the rest of your miserable life behind bars.

“Yeah,” Bakugou finally replies, “I do.”

And once again, the conversation comes to a silent end. Your mind wanders for a moment, your gaze set on the small lily on the window ledge. Even from here, you could tell how well-nurtured this flower was, the petals practically glowed in the moonlight that streamed through the window and spilled out across the floor in pale beams. The man next to you didn’t seem quite like the type of person who cared for a plant so well, it was the only thing in this whole place that seemed out of place.

You venture over towards the flower, and all Bakugou does is move his legs to allow you to pass. You can feel his gaze on your back the closer you get to the flower, and now within reach, you can truly see its beauty clearly. The white pot it lays in is pristine, hand-painted from what you can tell when you lean in to take a closer look. The lily itself has the type of smell you’d expect of a flower; green and earthy, yet there’s the oddest subtle spice that lays beneath all of that. It’s baffling.

The purity of its white petals has you envious of a plant, it is without blemishes and yet here you are; stained for all of eternity by the hands of someone who had grown greedy and cruel with your life. It aches the longer you stare at the flower, wishing you could somehow steal its light and store it away in the void that had opened up in your chest. Yet despite its purity, there is a single curled-up petal nestled into the dirt beneath. It’s browned with decay and it’s curious as to why its owner would go to such lengths to care for it but not remove the dead petal.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Bakugou says from his place now over by the door. You hadn’t even heard him get up and move but you’re thankful for the distraction from your petty envy.

“Is that a good idea?”

The question makes him stop midway putting his black leather jacket on. Did he not consider the fact you were most likely a wanted criminal by now?

“You’ll be fine as long as you’re with me, now c’mon. It’s too stuffy in here and I wanna go to the park when there's no extras roaming around.”

He waits patiently by the door when you slip into your previous shoes, they weren’t nearly as bloody as the rest of your old clothing which you were thankful for. Bakugou locks the door behind you both before he extends a hand out for you to take, you look up at him to question why he’s asking to hold your hand when you stop. He has a soft red hue to his cheeks, a blush perhaps or maybe the alcohol is just settling itself beneath his skin.

His palm is soft against your own, much larger, yes, but all the more comforting. He must be thankful for you not saying anything as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze before he’s guiding you back out the way you come. Each step is as nerve-racking as the last, this feeling that someone is waiting for you around the corner to snatch you up and lock you away.

You’re thankful for the fact Bakugou had offered to hold your hand as he encourages you to keep pace with him, to not fall behind as he guides you out into the cold night and down the dim street towards an unknown location. There is no one you encounter on the way to the park, the streets are desolate and quiet as everyone slumbers in their beds unknowing of who is walking by.

The park itself is pitch black save for some street lamps that light the occasional park bench along the winding path that traverses from one side to the other, Bakugou must sense your hesitance to enter as he gives you another gentle squeeze. “It’s fine, no one’s here.”

You somehow doubt that he knows that, there’s no way for him to know that the park is completely barren. There are probably some teenagers messing around late into the night against their parent's wishes, or perhaps a homeless man that seeks a quiet night's sleep on one of the many benches.

Alas, you still follow him through the large iron gate that squeaks when you pass through before it rattles behind you with a jarringly loud noise. Despite that, no one comes out from hiding in the dark shadows and no one shouts at the two of you for being out so late.

Now in the park, Bakugou slows his walk enough to enjoy the cool night air, to tilt his head back as he peers up at the overhanging moon and the clouds that shroud it in a gentle white blanket. He seems at peace here, like his mind can finally unwind and the alcohol in his system helps with sorting through whatever may be troubling him.

“Do you regret it?” He speaks once the two of you come to a standstill in the middle of the path, only the overhead street light illuminating the both of you. “Do you regret what you did?”

It’s a sucker punch of a question, it hurts to think about if you truly regret it or not. Your eyebrows come together in a deep frown, and you turn to face Bakugou who also does the same to you and you’re surprised to see he’s also frowning down at you.

Although, when you think about if you did or did not regret what you did. You’re torn between two minds; part of you regrets the fact you had taken another human's life but at the same time… you ponder the question if he was really a human anymore? Did he deserve to be treated as one if he did not treat you the same? He beat you whenever you defied him or shoved you into the boiler closet when you had accidentally cut the vegetables the wrong way.

He didn’t see you as human, he lost his right to be a human the moment he laid a hand against you.

“No.” You finally reply with the word breathed out with a small white cloud that fills the space between the both of you. Bakugou is silent as he fully takes in your choice, his nose wrinkles a little when he frowns again before he turns his head to look away from you.

“I want to show you something.”

And he’s moving before you can question just why he had frowned at your answer and changed the subject so sharply. Your steps are hurried behind his as he tugs you along, further and further down the path before he’s suddenly diverting into the thicket of trees to your left. It has a shot of fear racing through your veins, your hand squeezes tighter around his own as he continues to traverse through the unknown darkness.

All at once the darkness fades away for a blinding bright light, and you’re forced to shield your eyes away with your spare hand and curl yourself into the arm of the man who had been pulling you through thorns and sharp branches for the best part of two minutes.

You come to realise that Bakugou has also stopped. You peek around his jacket arm, squinting at the bright white light that slowly fades away to reveal … a security light. Confused, you start to take in your surroundings. By the looks of things you’re in a garden, the grass is overgrown and filled with a mixture of weeds and wildflowers, some wilting and others blooming. The birdbath that you assume must’ve been the centrepiece is filled with brown water; neglected for years and unused by any birds since the owners had turned their backs on their garden.

“Where are we?” You finally ask, turning your head back up to look at Bakugou who is staring straight ahead still.

You follow his gaze, and immediately you try to jerk your hand out of his own. You try to tug and pull will all your might to escape the ever-tightening grip he has on you. How dare he! He betrayed you, he pulled you into a false sense of security so he could what?! Take you back to your home?! How did he even know where you lived anyway, how did he know and why did he do it?

“Let go!” You all but scream, tears once again blurring your sight. “Please, let me go! I don’t want to go back!”

“Please,” Bakugou pleads, his word sounds wet – like he’s crying as well, and the sharp intake of breath he takes is enough to confirm that perhaps he really is. “Don’t fight me, just follow me and it’ll all make sense.”

“No!” But he’s moving again, and you’re forced to come with him. It feels like your lungs are filled with water, and your throat feels like it starts to shut the closer you get to the backdoor of your house. “Bakugou, please!”

He isn’t listening.

“Bakugou, listen to me!”

The door is open and the sense of dread increases tenfold.

“Katsuki!”

Finally. He stops. But it’s far too late, you’re both past the threshold and you’re forced to stare at the red patch on the pristine white carpet that looks more cream now. His fingers slip away from yours but it’s like you’re in a trance the longer you stare at the stain that grows duller and duller the longer you stare at it, there are no shards of glass littering the floor.

In fact, as you look around the house is completely empty. Barren. There are dust sheets over the expensive marble kitchen counters, the doors have been removed and there are no light fixtures. What? This didn’t make any sense, it was your house you’re sure of it but it felt like an empty husk.

“I don’t… I don’t understand, is this some sort of sick joke?” You whirl on your heel to stare at Bakugou whose face is crumpled in what can only be described as agony, the white of his eyes are red with unshed tears.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“Why–”

“I shouldn’t have taken you in when I found you. I was told to never do that, I was meant to lead you back here at the start! To help you find peace but I couldn’t do it. It hurt too much to see you crying and pleading with me to take you somewhere safe, I thought I could keep you safe from all of this!” His words seem so out of place on the brute of a man, his large shoulders bunch up with each heavy breath he takes to stop the tears from overflowing.

“But you looked so happy when I said I think you would have a better future. You’d never have a better future with me, not really, you would always have that longing you feel in your chest right now. That emptiness that isn’t ever really gone until you move on.”

“Katsuki–... What are you trying to tell me?” His words in truth scare you, nothing he’s saying makes sense and yet it does. That feeling in your chest is true, and you’ve felt it from the moment you stepped foot out of this house just hours ago.

“You died!” He yells, a sharp intake of breath has him nearly hunching over as if he was punched. “He killed you, right there. And no one ever found you.”

“I don’t… I don’t believe you, that makes no sense. I’m right here! I can feel that I’m right here.” Your hand presses to your chest but even then, it feels cold. You can’t feel the pitter-patter of your heart beneath your fingertips.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, I could never lie to you.” His hands are warm when they press on either side of your face, cupping your cheeks until you look into his eyes. He looks heartbroken. As if his world has collapsed in on itself and he may never see the sunrise again. Perhaps he may never get to see it again, much like you, you’re unsure just who Bakugou Katsuki really is but the way he’s holding you is undeniably intimate.

“Do you remember when I said I truly believe that you could have a better future?” You nod in his hands, and he nods along with you. “You still can have a better future, I can give it to you.”

His fingers dig a little into the plushness of your cheeks, clinging to you as if you may slip from between his fingers like sand and he’s unready to let go of you just yet.

His face is so close to yours that you’re greedily breathing in the warmth of his breath, your noses brush with a slight raise of his chin. He’s asking for something; for permission, you realise, and you wonder if this is truly how it all ends.

His lips are just as soft as you imagined, they’re undeniably warm compared to the coldness of your own. Bakugou is greedy when he kisses you, his hands clutch that much tighter until you’re forced to feel the ache in your jaw. He breathes in when he can, only to dive straight back to your lips – to bite on your bottom lip until you allow him in. But you pull away before you let him in, and he’s forced to press his forehead to your own.

You meet his longing gaze once again to ask one final question.

“Did he survive?” Your question clearly catches him off guard, his eyebrows furrow and his hands loosen for just a nanosecond. “Did he get away with killing me?”

“...Yes.”

You expected that answer and yet it still hurts to hear, that he had gotten away with it and would most likely get away with it again and again until the hands of Death cradled him the same way Bakugou cradles you now. Something deep inside of you tells you that you can’t settle for that, you can’t let him have the last laugh nor can you let him believe that he got away with discarding you so easily.

“I can’t truly have a future as long as he’s still out there.”

Bakugou grows silent once again, the natural red hues of his eye dull as the tears dry up and his lips drop into a slight frown. “Is that what you’re asking for?”

“Yes. It’s my final wish.”

And Bakugou just nods solemnly, he knows what this means for both him and yourself. It hurts him that you feel like you’d be unable to move on without this one final thing, and still, he must obey your final wish. After all, he wouldn’t be the Angel of Death if he ignored the plea of an innocent.

… Somewhere in the city, in an empty apartment that sits lonely. A white lily wilts, one of its beautiful petals curling as the decay spreads until it falls into the dirt below. A lily that once had three petals has been reduced to two as the Angel sacrifices his own salvation in order to save yours.

#tw domestic violence #cw domestic violence #cw death #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugou x reader

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solsays · 2 months

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here we go again. serious post time. This one is about a very serious topic, and could be very sensitive for some people (cw: manipulation, domestic abuse). if you aren’t aware, this is about Shelby (and Wilbur, which is mainly who this post is about, but reminder that THIS IS NOT HIS STORY. TOSS HIM ASIDE. LIFT SHUBBLE UP.). There is a TLDR at the bottom, as well as a comment regarding my fics.

Shelby (Shubble) recently spoke about an ex boyfriend who abused her. People were guessing it was Wilbur, but she couldn’t say the name due to legal things, but today the scumbag posted a response.He tweeted an “apology”, that spoiler alert, was not an apology. Here is his sorry excuse of a reply if you’d like to read for yourself:

There are some things I’d like to point out here. First of all, he made this about himself. It’s not a damn apology, it’s a lousy attempt at avoiding taking responsibility. Second, he refers to the abuse as an “allegation.” It is not.

He locked her in his filthy ant-infested house. He refused to give her house keys even when he made her clean up after him and pay for the materials. He went two months without unpromptedly complementing her. He bit her so hard that it bruised and she would scream out their safe word. At the safe word he would sometimes bite harder, or grind his teeth against her skin. He joked that she looked like she was abused.

By the way, human bites are more dangerous than an animal bite. They’re incredibly dangerous due to the amount of bacteria in our mouths and can easily kill someone. Oh and also? That reply has an 85% match with AI generated content on TurnItIn, a website used for college papers.

Here are some responses to his “apology” from other CCs, as well as Shelby’s response:

You hear Shubble. They don’t accept it, meaning neither will we.

As far as other response go especially Freddie and Billzo’s are incredibly concerning. Do not, I repeat, do not pressure Tommy in particular to respond as quickly. He was one of the closest people to Wilbur. He was very young when they became friends, and Wilbur clearly has a history manipulating teenagers. They went through a friend’s death together. Maybe he did have a soft spot for Tommy, or maybe Tom received the worst treatment of any of his friends.

Phil is currently out of the country and off of Twitter, so he might take a bit to reply as well as the fact he may only now be realizing that he was close friends with an abuser. If he supports Wilbur, we drop him too.

Wilbur does not deserve support. He is a terrible person. He manipulates people for his own benefit, “abuses those he loves”. If you’re abusing someone? You do not love them.

I have dealt with plenty of people like him, and it is so easy to miss the signs. Especially if they’re good at what they do. They gaslight, they lie, and they trick you. Do not assume that anybody knew about his abuse just because they were friends with him.

Go support Shelby. Encourage her. Follow her and watch her videos. She’s so incredibly sweet and funny, and they’re a joy to watch. Shelby is asexual and uses she/they pronouns.

There is no excuse for supporting him. I have followed Wilbur since late 2020. I was there for the first Lovejoy EP. I was there for YLYL. I have merch from Lovejoy. He has been a huge comfort to me through some of the hardest times of my life. When this came out, I have blocked both Lovejoy and Wilbur on Spotify. I have taken down every piece of merch or posters I own. Don’t support him, period.

He did not care about her. He is a terrible fucking person, and deserves to be deplatformed entirely.

As far as my fics go, I will be (once again) removing his character entirely from any story I have. It may take a while as I’m incredibly busy at the moment, but I will be doing it as quickly as possible.

One final reminder: This is about Shubble. This is NOT about Wilbur. Let Shubble take her time to process this. Support them every step of the way. She is a wonderful person and deserves the world, and the best thing we can do is focus on them and their strength through all of this. They don’t want to be known for this. Let’s get him gone and focus on lifting her up <3

TLDR: Wilbur basically admitted to abusing Shelby in an incredibly self-centered and manipulative excuse of an “apology”. Do not support him, go support Shubble.

#qsmp #wilbur soot #wilbur #shubble #discourse #Kind of #qsmp discourse #putting those there so that folks with them blocked won’t see this #cw domestic abuse #cw abuse #cw manipulation #cw domestic violence #mcyt discourse

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timetravellingkitty · 7 months

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This is a Johnny Depp hate account. This account stands with Amber Heard and the other countless victims of domestic and gendered violence. This account believes that mutual abuse does not exist, for there will never be "both sides" to an abusive relationship. To claim otherwise is to show a fundamental misunderstanding of abuse.

We are in the midst of an anti-feminist backlash, a backlash that is only going to grow stronger. The verdict of the Virginia trial set us back a hundred years. It showed us that it's okay to punish women for speaking up about the abuse they've endured.

We've learnt nothing from MeToo.

#anti johnny depp #fuck johnny depp #i stand with amber heard #amber heard #feminism #reva speaks #cw abuse #cw domestic violence #cw misogyny

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archivalofsins · 4 months

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So-

Happy belated birthday to Kotoko Yuzuriha.

She had a very interesting one, right? So, here are my thoughts on her interaction-

Contents warnings for discussions about domestic violence and suicide beneath the cut.

I was talking about how I felt in private about the timeline interaction since yesterday. I didn't really want to give a kneejerk reaction. However, it really sucks to be Mahiru. Everyone is rightfully concerned about Haruka due to his threats to harm himself. However, I have one question in regard to that-

Why would he need to discuss his plan with Kotoko at any point in that process?

In the discussion I had the only valid reason given was to avoid having his death look like anything other than a suicide. However, this is pretty easy to contradict. In the first Milgram novel we read the equivalent of someone committing suicide by cop in a hospital room. Now the novels are not a playbook for how the web series is going to go.

However, both books are an indicator that the staff is well aware of every method one could conceivably commit suicide. Both books cover the concept of self-harm in depth for various reasons. Haruka is not asking Kotoko to assist him in any way in fact it's quite the opposite. He is asking for her to not intervene with what he is going to do.

Now to be frank we all already know how Kotoko feels about the other prisoners. Especially given her second trial CD that came out. However, she's consistently been shown to have a soft spot and respect for Haruka. For reasons that have yet to be illustrated to us.

21/12/15 (Kotoko’s Birthday)

Haruka: Ah…… H-happy birthday, Kotoko-san.

Kotoko: ……thanks. You’ve definitely changed a bit. Do you remember before? You could barely even talk to me. Haruka: I-is that so? Now that you mention it, I, I maybe have got a bit better since then. ……m-maybe I’ve got more used to being around people. There’s other people here who are interested in me, and, um, in particular Mu-san pays a lot of notice to me…… I… I’m enjoying myself here…… Kotoko: ……hmm. It’s just a theory I have right now, but I get the feeling the outcome of Milgram’s judgements are having some influence on our mental state. Well, I only noticed because I happened to be last up though. Good for you, then. This must mean that you’re fine. ……I’ll accept those birthday wishes.

Even going as far to extrapolate on her own observations about Milgram without any actual prodding from him. Something she did not do with the first individual she discussed this situation with.

21/10/24 (Shidou’s Birthday)

Shidou: ……oh, Yuzuriha-kun. It’s unusual so see you around this early. Wishing me a happy birthday…… probably isn’t the what you’re here for, huh.

Kotoko: No, it is. Happy birthday, Shidou. Though it’s not like I bought you a present or anything. But while I’m here, I’d also like to ask you something. Has anything changed for you recently? Having nightmares, hearing voices, feeling anxious…… anything like that. Shidou: Not especially, no. ……ah, so this is about how Kajiyama-kun and Shiina-kun have been strange recently? And she’s been trying to hide it, but Amane too…… We’ve been living in these conditions for a while…… it’s not unusual for there to be an impact on us mentally. Are you worried about them? You’re a very caring person. Kotoko: Hmm, so you noticed? If nothing’s wrong with you, then that’s good. ……if I’ve understood properly, that means you’re safe…. Once again, happy birthday, Kirisaki Shidou.

Despite her conversation with Shidou tentatively confirming her suspicions about Milgram. She decides to not disclose her observations as she willingly chooses to do with Haruka despite his unclear interest in the topic. I don't know if she's behaving this way towards him because she has a soft spot for him or due to her not taking him seriously as a threat.

Add to this Haruka's behavior and statements prior to Kotoko's attacks and well that's when things get interesting-

22/06/22 (Haruka’s Birthday)

Mu: What’s wrong, Haruka-kun? Did something happen? You shouldn’t look away like that when you’re together with me. Haruka: Ah, s-sorry, Mu-san. Um…… No, it’s nothing. I just, suddenly got a feeling. That something is about to happen. Mu: Isn’t that because it’s your birthday? Or perhaps it’s a sign the guard is about to wake up again soon? Fufufu, I bet they’ll be really surprised at a lot of things. Haruka: That, might be true. But, I want the- The guard to see. ……the new, me…….

Then directly after this the attacks happen. That's some convenient timing. Except it's not really, is it?

The entire prison is a panopticon, the cells and rooms go in a full circle. So, much so that in Es' voice drama the cells are referred to as times on a clock. From one to midnight. In that sort of set up and being as out in the open all the time as Mu and Haruka are stated to have been by multiple prisoners.

Well, it's not out of bounds to believe he saw Kotoko preparing and said nothing about it. It's a good reason for her to be so accommodating when it comes to being asked to look the other way herself now. We know from her voice drama what cooperation is to her. It's being able to do the things the other can't. So, the fact that she's agreeing to cooperate at all in any capacity means there is something she can get out of it by cooperating.

Which already shoots the idea of this being a suicide out of the water because if it was that- Would such an idea really illicit this response from Kotoko?

Kotoko Birthday TL Translation (12/15/2023)

Haruka: ...Please, be quiet about this. And you, please don't get involved. All I can do is ask this of you... Kotoko: Fufufu, fufufufufu. You're thinking some outrageous things. To be frank, it's abnormal. But I don't dislike it. If only all sinners were like you. Haruka: No... That's not it... I don't mean it that way... This isn't for me... it's to protect... so, Kotoko-san... please... Kotoko: Eh? Yes, yes. Well, I promise not to interfere with your plans. Even though I'd like to do it myself, I'll leave it to you. What happens after that... depends on Es, doesn't it?

To be frank like Kotoko, I don't believe she would give one's rat's ass about what Haruka does to himself and neither would Milgram. It's been illustrated (again in the novels) that the prisoners can self-harm within the facility. Also, that they can partake in self-harming behavior during the trial.

Again, the novel isn't a playbook for how the web series goes but Jackalope plainly states to Es and the audience the only restriction during the trials is the prisoners cannot fight each other. Never adding on any other restrictions to this.

We also see the characters partaking in harmful behavior towards themselves over the course of the trial be it mentally or physically. Like Milgram wasn't stopping Haruka from holing himself up in his room and not eating. The only person who intervened with that was Mu. So, honestly if he was worried about Kotoko interrupting his attempt he has the perfect time to do it right now as she cannot attack him as the trials are still going on and he is free to do whatever he wants to himself.

I'm not trying to be crass or dismissive of his threats of self-harm. Suicide ideation is a real issue and can cause great harm to an individual. However, there's a difference between threatening to harm yourself in order to protect another person/get something and actually facing this very serious and severe mental health issue.

What Haruka did is a manipulative tactic that people in all sorts of relationships use to get what they want. Validating that with his desired response would have been morally incorrect in my opinion.

This behavior is incredibly bad and emotionally manipulative full stop regardless of how much I like Haruka as a character. Takeaway here is never let someone else purposely leverage their physical wellbeing against you to get their way. Yes, you feel like the bad guy if they do it, but you aren't obligated to do things you don't want to or are uncomfortable with to avoid a threat, they put on themselves.

That's not how that works. That's just manipulation. Doing what Haruka did in this trial is a form of domestic violence. Here's some sources on the behavior-

What to Do If an Abuser Threatens Suicide

When Your Partner Threatens Suicide

How to Deal with Coercive Suicide Threats

As someone who has personally struggled with suicide ideation and depression. As well as someone who has had the above done to them several times by multiple parties it feels incredibly disrespectful and gross to have this sort of manipulation legitimized in any way. However, it makes sense that it's being legitimized. Because that's the point of making coercive threats like these.

The point is expecting the other person to be better than you so much so that'd they'd want to do anything to avoid having another person be hurt or die. The point is going prove you care more about me than your personal beliefs, security, emotion and physical health. Then if you say no I'm not doing that you're the bad guy, you're the uncaring heartless piece of shit that'd rather hurt two people by voting one guilty at the expressed expense of another's life then just forgive another person.

I forgave Haruka because I understand how he got here and empathize with that. However, that does not change the fact that what he did is textbook domestic violence and manipulation tactics. And it's so fucked up that people are still going if he does anything it's our faults when no it's his fucking choice nobody forced him to make that threat. That is a reflection of his character.

Furthermore, as shown through this if he wanted to, he could have by now. No one can stop him during the course of the trial. If he was worried about it not looking like a suicide because Kotoko attacks him well, she fucking can't right now. This is actually the best time to do that not during the intermission where the chances of it appearing ambiguous are highest.

Sooo what does this timeline mean?

Well...

It means exactly what it meant the last time he pulled a I think something is going to happen right before someone else's birthday.

22/06/27 (Amane’s Birthday)

Kazui: What’s up, Shidou-kun? You’re looking pretty down. I guess you must be tired, I’ve been relying on you a lot lately. Shidou: Yeah, I just remembered…… today is Amane’s birthday. I’m just getting a bit sentimental. Kazui: Hmm, it’s unfortunate, but at the moment we can’t worry about that. ……you understand, right? There’s something that you need to do right now. And if you tried talking to her your words definitely won’t reach her. Don’t look at me like that. We’ll just wait until the situation changes. Let’s do our best. Shidou: Yeah. I’ll do what I can. I can’t have a child making a face like that. Even though we’re “murderers”…… we’re also the adults here.

Everyone is here rightfully worried about Haruka. It's human instinct to just jump to tunnel vision onto the easiest threat to perceive. However, the audience only perceived this threat because he made it. He continued to make it during all of trial two. That doesn't mean he has the intent to follow through and it's a disservice to people who have actually been manipulated in this fashion and those who actually struggle with suicidal throughts to have their experiences and struggles compared to someone acting in such an overtly manipulative way.

Especially someone who very clearly stated these things for all to see-

The fact that he talked to Kotoko and asked her not to interfere with what he was going to do only cements that for me. Because the only thing that Kotoko cares about that she would interfer with or come into conflict with someone about are people interfering with her self-given job of prison deputy.

Meaning if someone were to do what she considers to be her job or intervenes with it they will immediately come into conflict with her. Regardless of whether they are Innocent or Guilty. She is then going to have an issue with that person even if it does not escalate to violence.

Something shown here-

22/08/05 (Kazui’s Birthday)

Kotoko: ……Mukuhara Kazui. Thanks to you, I wasn’t able to properly serve justice to those who did something unforgivable. I’m currently acting as an agent for our prison guard Es. Don’t get in my way next time. Kazui: Oi oi, don’t be silly, Yuzuriha-chan. There’s no way I could just look away from your outrageous display of violence. Anyway, even disregarding the fact violence against those voted guilty isn’t a part of Milgram’s system, what you’re doing is just acting recklessly based on a broad interpretation. As long as I’m free myself, I’ll stop you. Kotoko: ……what a pointless argument. Hmph. Since Es forgives you, I have no choice but to forgive you myself too. If you to keep to your words, then you’d best do what you can to keep being forgiven. If you’re not, then next time you’ll be one of my targets. Kazui: Oh, how scary. That girl truly is frightening. ……well then, I wonder what the guard will decide to do with me. That’s the one thing I really can’t make out. Honestly……

Attacking the prisoners she's meant to be in charge of while Es is asleep would technically be stepping into her territory or trying to take her postion. Something that would immediately have her and whoever tries it come to blows regardless of verdict. So, him talking to her at all about not interfering with whatever he has planned is already incredibly suspicious and makes me severely doubt it has anything to do with harming himself or harming himself only.

Ultimately this timeline could mean a lot of things and only highlighting a threat Haruka put on himself is exactly why he put that threat there to begin with. It's difficult to think of him hurting someone else when he's already very vocally committed to harming himself if a certain outcome was not given to him.

Yet instead of highlighting the audience not taking that threat seriously in a told you so way now. It's important to recognize the fact that the threat existed and was one he made at all speaks volumes about the sort of character he is. regardless of if you like him or not. It's important to recognize that people who do this to get their way are emotionally neglectful and harmful to those around them and such behavior should not be incentivized/rewarded ever.

Either way whatever Haruka has planned is going to be interesting and may not be happening on Mahiru's birthday since trial two won't have closed by then and if he is planning to attack another prisoner, he cannot do it before the end of the trial. Which is why he's planning ahead by discussing things with Kotoko so far in advance.

However, that's just my interpretation of everything that has occurred so far. I could be wrong, and it could just be about him doing that. Still doesn't change the fact this is a very awkward timeline interaction to come up right before Mahiru's (a person who has only gotten sicker and sicker over the course of trial two) birthday.

So, here's hoping Mahiru has a decent birthday next year.

#milgram #kotoko yuzuriha #haruka sakurai #mahiru shiina #cw suicide #cw domestic violence

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barkhoffman · 5 months

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I'm sure Seth didn't just kill Angelina out of nowhere, he had to have been abusing her before that, and there's no way Mark didn't know about it

there's no way he didn't fantasize about beating or killing Seth day in and day out, there is a 0% chance he didn't get filled with murderous rage every time he saw a bruise on her that she brushed off as clumsiness or an accident

and as a result, I can say with 100% certainty that he blames himself for her death because he didn't do something about it sooner, because he didn't put a stop to it the second it started, because he tried to play nice and be the good, welcoming big brother who didn't pulverize his sister's boyfriend over something Angelina would insist wasn't what it looked like

he'd think about how strong she was and how desperately he wanted his little sister to flourish as her own person and be able to make her own decisions (even though he found them to be stupid decisions sometimes), he'd curse himself for caring more about not getting into fights with her than protecting her where it counted, because they would get into fights over it, and she'd stop talking to him for days and he'd panic and play nice with Seth for a while and give him those eyes that said "if anything happens to her, I will kill you," and he meant it, but Seth didn't know how much he meant it, so it didn't matter in the end, did it?

every day he wishes he'd just been a little more forceful, a little less of a pushover, and every day he knows deep down that it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because Angelina was her own person, a kind person, a person who saw too much good in everyone (even him), and she was going to do what she wanted regardless of what he said or did, and what she wanted was to believe she could handle it, that Seth loved her, that he'd never do anything to hurt her, not too badly, not to the point where it would be too difficult for her to get away

and every day he knows that it doesn't matter how hard he wishes and wants and dreams and bargains and begs, because she's gone, and there's nothing he can do about it, not anymore, and maybe there never was

#thanks for coming to my TED talk #idk what this post is for #that one chick from Mean Girls voice: I just have a lot of feelings #Saw #Sawposting #Mark Hoffman #Angelina Acomb #Seth Baxter #cw domestic violence #cw domestic abuse

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karimationkat · 2 months

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Purple Family headcanons

(Warning for domestic violence)

• Cherry was the main bread-earner in the family,

in the avm ep 29 we see how Cherry cares about Purple and disapproves of Navy's actions, yet, only later she steps in. Personally I think that Cherry didn't know that Navy's training escalated, which is why she didn't get involved sooner. Navy however was shown predominantly in Purple's childhood which is why I assume that he was mostly at home, training and teaching Purple. We barely know how stick-society works, but it seems similar to ours. Cherry was a busy and hardworking stick earning the money, which is why she didn't find out about it. (Also because Purple was too afraid to tell her about it and lied about how they got the bruises and all)

• While Navy was the house-spouse,

Since he is shown to "prepare" Purple for the world, he taught them a lot of other things to be self-sufficient like basic cooking, cleaning, sewing and so on.

• Other thing is that Navy is a minimalistic utilitarian

And is also very strict with the resources, the type to use something till it's completely useless. So, slowly annoyance from little Purple being messy and sloppy with work because they're literally just a CHILD turn into frustration and then to aggression to the point of getting verbally and physically abusive towards Purple, which both Purple and Navy considered "normal" because it wasn't like Purple wouldn't get hit in training.

• Cherry completely cut off contact with Navy to protect Purple

While Navy left on own accord, it was Cherry who after finding out how Navy treated Purple who more or less forced Navy to do so. She was afraid of Navy too because she now knew of what he was capable of. And even though Navy raised his hand in the heat of the moment, he then realised what he was doing and decided to leave. Not only because he almost hurt his loved one but also because said loved one rejected him and that left Navy heartbroken. Cherry made sure that Navy wouldn't ever come close to Purple with what he had done to them but didn't tell Purple anything about it. We only see their backstory through Purple's POV. Because of that Purple believe it was all their fault for the falling apart of their parents and how heartbroken Cherry was, though, it was because she believed to have failed Purple as a parent.

Note: While I use she/her for Cherry and he/him for Navy, it's not because I think of them as female and male but to have it be easier to understand. Personally, I don't see them being any gender because it doesn't matter.

#avm headcanons #Cw domestic violence #ignore the grammar and spelling mistakes #This was in my drafts for a while now. But only the #Cherry was the main bread-earner in the family #Part #Holy duck #This ended up as a whole fan-backstory rather then just a hc #Welp #Also #I'm back =D #alan becker #animation vs minecraft #avm purple #avm

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birgittesilverbae · 1 year

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endure thou therefore hardship

cw: mention of domestic abuse

i. who hath chosen him

You can't remember a time when you could stand tall, before you had been buckled beneath the weight of a load too large for your young shoulders. Your mere presence to blame for a family unit shattering, for the departure of a woman who looks upon you and feels nothing. Your own actions to blame for the bruises that long blanket your ribs and your back and every inch of your skin that can be covered by clothing. Your disinterest to blame for the whispers that spread behind you in the halls of a Department of Defense school you've never quite felt at home in. You're to blame, you're to blame, you're to blame.

The litany of blame only lightens when you step into the church on base, tucked into the back of the installation. You while away your evenings there alongside the chaplain, growing tall enough that your feet no longer dangle above the floor when you settle into one of the folding chairs that stand in for pews. Alan, the latest in a long line of chaplains, is always slow to hide his grin when you carry the chairs in ungainly stacks and rest them in neat ranks against the back of the hall. He sits with you as you struggle gamely through biology and calculus, chemistry and history. There's a keenness to his eyes, an interest in his gaze, that makes you feel accepted here, in this quiet space where you can shelter from the whirlwind of rage that haunts your home.

His quiet, steady voice – so much at odds with the barks of every teacher who seemingly aspires to become a drill sergeant – directs you to prayer, to supplication, to stain your lips with the crimson of His blood, and you find peace in those moments in which you can finally hear yourself think. You are so used to living with eyes downturned that it doesn't feel a burden to lower your head in prayer. It feels a relief to know that you are not alone, even in your isolation.

Your backpack is light, containing only a binder with an essay you've left almost to the last minute, when you duck your head into Alan's office to give your greetings. He is not alone, and confusion spikes up and down your spine when he gestures towards you and introduces you to a full-on nun. Wimple and all. You've grown too used to Alan in his fatigues or his dress uniform, can't remember the last time you'd seen him in his robes of office – the Easter services, maybe – and thus the contrast between the pair of them is all the more stark. Alan with the top buttons of his fatigues undone in concession to the heat while this black-robed crow perches opposite him without even a bead of sweat on her face.

The confusion only grows, as confusion so often does for you, with the continuance of conversation. An offer of something that's never quite stated outright, the way your fingers trace the margin of a bruise but never press at its centre. An opportunity to take a combat-oriented role in… something. An affiliation to the Church, the proper noun always evident in the stating of it.

You've drifted from Mainline Protestant to Evangelical to Catholic with the rotation of chaplains through the base, none of them striking any particular chord with you beyond the one strummed by the offering of religion as refuge. Face to face with a steely-eyed nun of the Catholic capital-c Church, you feel a sudden surge of belief that this is where you are meant to be. That all your burdens have brought you to this moment, to this offering of escape from the only path you'd felt left open to you.

(You've never had the grades for university, and you've heard often enough that art is not a viable option. But you have a body, and what better use for it than to lay it on the line for a country you've experienced only in brief snapshots of time, a week long vacation here, a funeral there. If that's all you're good for, then it will be no trial for you to pile more dirt upon the root of that disinterest in boys you've already so easily buried.)

You have a body, and you are being offered another use for it.

You grab hold with both hands and hang on tight.

#warrior nun #mywn #myfic #shannon masters #cw domestic violence #dicking around with 2nd person as a writing exercise and I am not enjoying it #babea au #technically #just haven't got around to there yet lmao

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cyphyree · 1 year

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Thinking about how Gio's creatures only activate Attack Reflect when being directly hit -- and not when they're set on fire or decayed by mold -- and how that may have stemmed from him being physically assaulted by his step-dad as a kid and how he couldn't stop it or protect himself at the time... so he subconsciously bestowed his creatures that protection

#not art #vento aureo #golden wind #giorno giovanna #gold experience #jojo's bizarre adventure #cw physical violence #cw domestic violence #jojo thoughts #cw abuse

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intheholler · 5 months

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Hi! Epic poem anon here

I guess, with all the discourse, I'm becoming more and more insecure about my writing. I always strive to be respectful and not just use "aesthetics" (being that my own culture is currently being appropriated by neo-Nazis). However, now, whenever I go to write, I guess I just, worry. Worry that it isn't going to do justice.

The story surrounds a "forbidden love" (gay, one from a family that will cut him off given the chance and one who's already been kicked out) and, at the end, the two main characters end up moving far away (not to "escape" the region, but because one of the characters is tied up in sex work + an abusive relationship that he can't easily escape because the man he's tied up with has a lot of money/power). There's a lot of biting criticism of Christianity throughout the story, too (angry trans, queer ex-Christian here)

However, my motivation has always been to make an epic out of something "ordinary." To show the beauty I see in a region that so many see in such a negative light. That's my goal in all my writing. However, if any of my story might be offensive, which it is always going to be because queer stories are always more harshly viewed than heterosexual ones and people tend to find more offence in them - both "leftist" and conservative, I might make it a different region.

Idk, sorry for the long ask.

hi there, don't be sorry!

so like. i obviously don't speak for the entirety of the region and this feels like a tricky topic, so here's my personal take:

much like writing from any perspective you don't have direct experience in, so long you write from a well-researched place with a healthy understanding of the various intersections of religion/queerness/poverty specifically in appalachia--i don't see anything wrong with it. at that point it isn't just "aesthetic" and therefore isn't part of the issue in my opinion. yk? it's like... a holistic approach at that point. (is that the right use of the word holistic here? lol)

as long as you aren't falling into the trap of romanticizing these elements or leaning on stereotypes--even accidentally--to tell the story and convey your characters, i think appalachia is a beautiful setting.

but the fact that you're worried this much at all tells me you're probably doing just fine <3

basically: just don't go all hillbilly elegy on us. we beg you.

fellow queer appalachians who wanna weigh in please do

#cw dv #cw domestic violence #cw homophobia #asks

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tenfaceandthree · 2 months

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"You all think that I date Andrew because I'm in love with him or whatever, but no. I date him so I can get away with domestic violence. Someone's gotta beat his ass so many he'll learn to stop runnin' his mouth."

#noble speaks #cw domestic violence #inseparableduo #dash commentary #he's kidding i promise !!!!#or is he-

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turianmailman · 2 years

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Can you hear the rumble?

Can you hear the rumble that's calling?

I can feel the thunder that's breaking in your heart

I can see through the scars inside you

[ Part of the Stardew Valley AU ]

#cw domestic violence #cw blood #princess tutu #ptutu #PTT #fakir #fakir princess tutu #rue princess tutu #kraehe #princess kraehe #stardew au #context incoming: fakir and rue are cousins in this au #rues dad aka fakirs uncle is ‘’the raven’’ equivalent #and is LOOSLEY pam in the stardew equivalent #rue lives in the trailer with him and is about as good as a parent as the actual raven in the show was :/#fakir handles this …. i wouldn’t say WELL #but idk i’ve gotten into ghost the band and the anger this song embodies is what i was going for #plus wanted to practice painting colors #but i have a comic planned that goes deeper into their 3 way dynamic #and haircut fakir is a signal that the family clusterfuck reaches its peak in the time #timeline #rue btw handles this by internalizing it and weaponizing her trauma against other people #WHEN she’s at her worst #when she’s at her best she’s a little cold but not as combative as she is in the original show #but i like to think when she feels threatened she needles people in the place where it HURTS #i just rlly wanna explore her relationship with fakir more i just don’t have time yet ;-;

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nobodywritingao3 · 2 months

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i feel kind of sick making this post so please excuse me if i sound like a rambling mess. i am not the type of person to talk in detail about my life in online places cuz i live in fear of this getting back to my abuser but shubble's story punched all my most sensitive spots and i want to talk about it

(really long sensitive post)

ive gotten kind messages from people that i havent responded to. the idea of responding to people individually kind of makes me feel sick. so im doing this instead. and im also going to vent really hard because i am not doing well and talking about this to my therapist is soul crushingly embarrassing because wilbur soot is a minecraft man and im a freshly turned 20 year old who pays rent and is respected by my therapist and i dont want to admit that i wrote fanfic about a 30 year old white boy i discovered in quarantine when i was 15. can you imagine that conversation? id have to explain what the dream smp is.

when i watched shubble's video for the first time, i was in total disbelief. i couldnt believe that wilbur soot had done these things but i knew that the liklihood of it being anyone else was pretty low. i chose to hope that the story was not about him, and that if it was that he was a reformed abuser who had reorganized his value system and respected his partners now. i had a lot expectations. then he released his statement and i was horrified. i was disappointed and kind of in denial. his statement was worse than anything i had prepared for as 'worst case scenario.' as time has passed my denial has mostly dulled but im ashamed and im embarassed and im badly triggered.

i kind of hysertically hoped that it was a sick prank that shubble and wilbur cooked up and would get horribly cancelled for, but its not a prank, theres no "haha sike" moment, and wilbur abused shelby.

his response undid me because i saw so much of my own abuse in the words he used.

abusers are really good at making people take a centrist "two sides to every story" stance. i dont know how to describe this to people who have never been abused, but i will do my best

most people are taught that when theres an argument between two people, both parties carry some amount of blame and if you want to resolve that issue, it's a good idea to look at your part in the dynamic. we're also taught to keep our disagreements between ourselves and to not involve other people in our drama.

these are sensible sentiments, but abusers are very good at manipulating these sentiments.

when a victim speaks up for themselves and they call someone an abuser, what they are saying is: "this person cruelly bullied me and hurt me and exerted control over me that i did not deserve or ask for or elicit."

that's a heavy accusation and it contradicts sentiments we are taught like "it takes two to tango" and "dont involve others with your relationship drama."

many abusers are charismatic people. id even say most. when you hear this accusation about someone you think is really cool, your natural instinct is to ask for their side of the story.

they will tell you some version of this:

"i am shocked and hurt that she would call me an abuser. we've been having relationship problems recently, and sometimes i lose my temper. im not proud of that. ive done a lot of things im not proud of. it's true that i did [insert played down act of violence] to her, but you wouldnt believe the horrible things she was saying to me. i lost control, and im so ashamed of myself."

this version of events makes the abuser seem reasonable, it makes the victim seem irrational and quick to blame and hysterical

from here, a lot of people will nod thoughtfully and go. "yeah. yeah. that makes sense. everyone has a unique perspective. the fact that shes attributing all the blame to him without recognizing her own flaws and contributions to the relationship while he does shows that hes the reasonable one here. hes such a chill guy. the things shes saying dont make sense at all. i probably wont say it to her face, but i think shes in the wrong."

wilbur's response hit all the beats im familiar with. it was so in line with everything my abuser used against me, and in line with what ive heard other victims say their abusers used against them, and in line with examples ive read and witnessed and had countless psychiatrists walk me through that reading it was like getting hit by a train.

the hope that i carried with me through that week was that wilbur was a reformed abuser. but reading that response gave me the gut wrenching confirmation that he wasnt.

thinking about it too much literally makes me sick and shaky in a way i havent experienced since my own abuser tracked me down the first time and gave me a beautifully wrapped gift. with my abuser, i had several years trapped with him where all the love i felt for him disappeared and was replaced by total hatred for everything he put me through. i wasnt expecting this from wilbur at all, and i feel fucking sick because this was a man i sincerely admired and looked up to a lot. i really liked wilbur soot. he released that response and this image in my head that i had of him was tainted by the memories of my abuser.

im reminded of one event several years ago where i was choked. i tried to ask for help but everyone who knew immediately reached out to him and asked for "his side of the story." i dont want to talk about what he did to me after that. all that matters is that in the end, no one believed me. everyone took his side over mine and insisted that i was lying or exaggerating or trying to get attention or trying to make him look bad. people who i loved and thought would always be there for me sent me paragraph long text messages calling me a bitch and a cunt. the person i loved the most in the world told me that i was out of line and said point blank that they were sorry, but couldnt believe me over the person who choked me. i had never felt so alone.

ive been having a rough time. i confided in a friend who is trying to escape his abusive husband, and he gently told me that this might mean i have "a type," meaning im naturally drawn to people who are abusive. after i escaped, i took a lot of solace in the fact that i was inspired so much by wilbur soot. i thought he was progressive and stood up for womens rights and was anti bigotry and all those lovely good things. this man i admired so much was the image of healthy, nonviolent, kind masculinity. finding out he isnt has made me question myself and my own judgment and it's making me wonder if the people i let in my life and the people im drawn to are people who i subconsciously know will hurt me.

as of now, its been a year and a half since i escaped my abusive family at 18 years old. i turned 20 like half a second ago. the past 18 months of my life have been devoted to looking into legal protection, getting therapy to undo nearly 2 decades worth of ptsd, trying to keep all my baggage to myself because i dont want to burden my friends anymore than i have, and holding down a steady job so that i can afford rent without having to rely on the parents of my friends to house and feed me and keep my location secret from an insane group of people who reeeeally want me to come back even tho im pretty sure one of them might """""accidentally"""" kill me one day

i feel ashamed and embarrassed by being this affected by wilbur soot. parasocial relationships are looked down upon and i feel like the perfect stereotype of a hysterical, delusional teenager / young lady finding out that her hero is "a flawed human being, just like you and me - seriously, what did you expect?!"

i already see people jumping to his defense, although i try to look away because that is also extremely triggering for me.

it is hard not to acknowledge wilbur's humanity, and i want to clarify that i do feel compassion for the amount of death threats, doxing, and isolation he is undoubtedly experiencing right now. no matter what you do, i dont believe that retributive justice or revenge is a proactive, sane response. i am sincerely worried that he will either try to kill himself as a last ditch attempt for sympathy OR that he will actually just kill himself from the public shaming. i do not want him to experience a mental health crisis and i do not want him to die, even tho he has horribly disappointed me and reminded me of so many bad things

this was kind of an insane post. im ready for it to get 1 note and then experience a horrifying amount of embarrassment as i realize that people read this and know disgusting amounts about me as a person, but i want to share my experience as someone who has been abused. i want to offer solace to people who are in the same boat and possibly reach someone who might have otherwise believed wilbur was telling the truth.

i want to end this post on a positive note, so im going to share some naive hope ive been repeating to myself for the past few days

i hope that people believe shubble. i hope she finds comfort and compassion and healing. i hope she can internalize that what happened to her was not her fault. i hope she lives a happy life surrounded by people who see her and care about her

i hope that the people close to wilbur make him confront this side of himself. i hope he fixes his abuse problem and reorganizes his values. i hope his network of people is strong enough not to abandon him entirely but to intervene and make him work on himself. i hope he stays alive and i hope that he becomes an advocate for abused women

this was cheesy and unrealistic but ive been sending my hope into the universe and trying not to shut down because i dont know what else to do and my two hours of government issued weekly ptsd therapy is already devoted to the horrible things i experienced firsthand

anyway

as far as my fanfiction goes???? i dont fucking know.

im not going to delete it. im definitely taking a break and at least stepping into a pause so i can properly reflect on what to do in the meantime. as a musician and writer and creative in general, i was inspired by many aspects of wilbur soot for years and i need a second to chill out and get a hold of myself

maybe ill complete my work. if i do ill upload the finished products in one go and probably orphan them. and maybe delete my ao3 account. god knows at this point

i am still cringing so hard at myself for making this post. it's very emotional and i try to sell myself as serious, intellectual person. maybe this post will be received great or badly or just be ignored. in any case ill be embarrassed so it doesnt really matter how anyone feels about me after this. if you took the time to read, thank you for hearing me out. and if you didnt, im glad that i got a little catharsis

#wilbur soot #im embarassed of myself #whatever #wilbur situation #shubble supprt #cw domestic violence #i feel sick after typing this #this was basically a diary entry #tldr wilbur soot reminds me of my own experience of abuse and i think i wanna throw up #cw abuse #oh god goodnight everyone #i have read peoples compassionate messages to me and im very thankful for them #it has been very sweet and helpful cuz this isnt smth i share to my offline friends so i havent gotten my usual support and affection #thank you to people who are being nice to me

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