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zishuge · 5 months

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Today I gave myself feels thinking about Fang Duobing, Di Feisheng, and Hulijing moving on and aging in a world without Li Lianhua. A world where Li Lianhua isn't there — but then again, he is there, in Lianhualou, and in the townspeople who flock to it, bearing gifts for the miracle doctor who once saved a life, fixed a roof, exposed a conman, comforted a child. Young Fang Duobing used to want to know every little detail about his hero, Li Xiangyi. Now Fang Duobing wants to know every detail about his beloved friend, Li Lianhua. The years pass and fewer people come. But if they remember him, Li Lianhua lives on.

(long post, half meta, half fic, bittersweet)

They travel together, with Hulijing, in Lianhualou. Fang Duobing has nothing better to do, so he takes up detective work again. Di Feisheng has nothing better to do, so he comes along. Everywhere they go, they look for Li Lianhua. And in their journeys, it seems like everywhere they go, someone is talking about Li Xiangyi. Li Xiangyi, who had always been something of a legend, but ever since his reappearance and subsequent (re)disappearance, has seemingly been elevated into something approaching godhood.

you should've seen him, people say, floating across the rooftops in red, cold and beautiful, like an avenging hero out of some novel. wasn't he dead? no — of course he wasn't, li xiangyi would never have been so easily killed. but it was bicha poison, i heard nobody could survive bicha poison. yes, he was definitely dead, and came back to life through dark magic. no, he'd been alive the whole time, just held captive by di feisheng. he tried to kill his shixiong ten years ago and failed, and came back to finish the job. no, his shixiong tried to kill the emperor and li xiangyi came to stop him. the emperor? impossible. yes — don't you know, li xiangyi is the emperor's long-lost son?

All of it only amuses Di Feisheng, but it irks Fang Duobing. The same Fang Duobing, who, when he was younger, would've hungered for every little detail about Li Xiangyi and begged to hear more, now finds it maddening to listen to these strangers talk about him as if they knew him. The world might have known Li Xiangyi, but it had never known Li Lianhua.

Li Lianhua, who could wield Shaoshi like it was a natural extension of his arm, but regularly cut his fingers clumsily slicing radishes and onions. Li Lianhua, who would invariably try to shrug off an attack of bicha poison, but yelped and jumped back from hot oil splatters in the kitchen like a child. Li Lianhua, who frowned when a passing carriage splashed mud onto his robes, but knelt carelessly into the dirt and grass to play with Hulijing.

None of them knew any of that.

But as Fang Duobing and Di Feisheng continue their travels, they begin to encounter other people as well. People who come running when they see Lianhualou in the distance tottering their way. People who come bearing gifts — a woman looking for the shenyi who had helped her with her back pain and also exposed the con artist who had tried to trick her daughter into marriage. A young man coming to thank the doctor who had given his father herbs for stress while uncovering the corrupt official who had falsely accused him of theft. An elderly couple looking for the young man who had helped them thatch their roof before a rainstorm and had given them some medicinal cream before he left. (One middle-aged man with a club, looking for the wangba quack doctor who had exposed his infidelity to his wife — he had left after one look at Di Feisheng, standing silently in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest and dao strapped across his back.) People who greet Hulijing like an old friend.

Fang Duobing listens eagerly to every story they tell him, and in return, he tells them about his brilliant, kind, exasperating friend. Di Feisheng rolls his eyes every time, but Fang Duobing notices he never walks away either. They don't talk about it. But it’s as if Li Lianhua returns, however briefly, during those visits; in those moments, Fang Duobing can almost see him standing there, bending down to pet Hulijing alongside these old friends as she grins her little doggy grin and wags her tail. She escorts their guests to the door, and sits in the doorway after they leave, looking out at the world as though waiting. He doesn't ask if Di Feisheng can see him too. They sit and share wine after these visits, and eat the fruit that the visitors bring, until Di Feisheng can stand the heavy silence no longer and pushes Fang Duobing outside to spar. Hulijing follows faithfully, as always.

(fang duobing had brought home a puppy, once. he can't remember where he found it, but he remembers that he had held it in his lap in his wheelchair, eager to show it to his uncle before taking it home to his mother. his uncle had glared, and told him that dogs were only useful to guard the house, and tianji manor already had guards, human ones, and that fang duobing would do better to focus on his swordplay rather than waste time on such useless and frivolous things. he had taken the puppy away and fang duobing had never seen it again. it wasn't until those blurry months as he rode across the countryside looking for li lianhua, hulijing trotting along ever so loyally at his side, that he realized this was just another way that shan gudao and li xiangyi were opposites.)

The years pass, and there are fewer and fewer people who come. One day Fang Duobing wakes up with the unbearable realization that he is now older than Li Lianhua had ever been, would ever be, and is unable to get out of bed for a good half a shichen. Di Feisheng leaves him be.

The years pass, and Di Feisheng grows older too. There are lines on his face, snowy white beginning to thread through his jet-black hair. Fang Duobing wants very much to tease him about it, but the words catch in his throat when he looks too closely at the signs of time on Di Feisheng's face. What a precious and altogether rare thing it is, to age.

The years pass, and Hulijing grows older too. Fang Duobing finds that more and more often, Hulijing can no longer keep up with him when he goes riding. He stops going riding. She gets cold more easily now too, and more and more often Fang Duobing wakes in the morning with Hulijing curled up under the covers next to him, her wet nose shoved into his armpit. He holds her close and thinks about Li Lianhua shivering in his arms.

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It's been nearly a year since their last visitor, but today there is an old man. He comes in the morning, bringing a basket of plums. A long time ago, he says, a young man who lived here saved my life. I had been poisoned, he says, by my son who wanted my money and my lands. The doctors said there was no cure. But then the young man came and performed a miracle. He saved my life. He saved my life.

Fang Duobing knows it was no miracle that saved him. He asks for the old man's hand and it is given readily, albeit bemusedly. He presses his fingers to the inside of the man's wrist, and is greeted with a whisper-faint, gentle thrum of yangzhouman — a soft hello from a much-beloved friend. You fool, he thinks dazedly, caught somewhere between overwhelmed that here is someone, inside whom a piece of Li Lianhua lives on, and so bitterly angry. What had it cost? Some hours, days, weeks? He doesn't let himself think of what another week might have afforded them in those wild final days, in their desperate search for a cure. Fang Duobing gives the old man back his hand and blinks back the sting of tears. He cannot talk about Li Lianhua today. He apologizes and tells him that the man he is looking for is traveling and won't be back for a few days, but that Fang-mou will pass on the message. Before he leaves, the man leans down to rub at Hulijing's ear. My old friend, he says, like me, you, too, are truly old now.

After the man leaves, Fang Duobing folds himself into a sit on the floor of Lianhualou and gathers Hulijing into his arms. Gently — her joints are stiff now, and he can't haul her around, can't roughhouse with her the way he used to. Di Feisheng comes down the stairs from where he had been listening; he stands behind Fang Duobing and places a warm, steady hand on his shoulder. At the edge of his vision, near the door, Fang Duobing can see the hazy hem of green robes. If he looks up, he wonders brokenly, what would he see? The face of a man forever frozen in youth? Or a face lined with age, snowy white beginning to thread through jet-black hair? He suddenly finds that he cannot bear to find out.

Fang Duobing knows. He knows that the myth and the outlandish rumors about proud, arrogant, beautiful Li Xiangyi will never die. But he also knows that one day, there will be no one else who comes to Lianhualou; no one left who remembers gentle, sly, infuriating Li Lianhua. One day, the old man will pass on and the piece of Li Lianhua that he carries with him will fade as well. And one day… Fang Duobing presses his forehead against the soft fur of Hulijing's neck where it has gone white and thin with age. He closes his eyes and breathes.

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Years and years and years later, Fang Duobing is awakened from where he has fallen into a light doze reading in his chair by a soft knock on the door. There is a woman standing outside, holding a small basket of pears. I think I remember this building, she says. I must've only been six years old, but I had run off and lost my parents. I fell down in the street and skinned my knees. A kind gege helped me and gave me a piece of candy. He said he would walk me home but I said I didn't know whether I should tell him where I lived. He laughed and asked if it would help if I knew where he lived. He pointed to the most fantastical and wild house I had ever seen. I think it was this place. Xiansheng, does he live here? Who was he? Do you know him?

Fang Duobing smiles and invites her inside. On the bed, the small white dog that Di Feisheng has named, ridiculously, Baigujing, raises her head and thumps her tail a few times in hello. Di Feisheng looks up from where he is writing a letter at the table. Fang Duobing leads the woman over and waves at her to sit down. He sits across from her, ignoring Di Feisheng's eyeroll, and offers her a piece of candy. He always keeps candy around. Fang Duobing smiles once more and says, if you'd like to know — there is so much I would like to tell you.

#i just... the idea that xiaobao just wants li lianhua to live in any way he can #if he can't live on in reality xiaobao will make damn sure he lives on in someone's memory #something something you die a second death when there is no one left to remember you something something legacy #one day there will only be fang duobing and di feisheng #fang duobing who was li lianhua's friend #and di feisheng who was li xiangyi's equal #but it is not this day #i hurt myself #mysterious lotus casebook #cw: pet death #it's only very vaguely mplied but just in case #my ramblings #how long does transferred inner power stay in someone else's body? *shrug*#that's probably not how the force works #i write economic research for a living why am i suddenly writing mlc fic i haven't written fic in 10 years THE BRAINROT IT IS REAL #in my mind these are simple townspeople not caught up on jianghu things & thus never knew that li lianhua was li xiangyi - whoever that is #baigujing is “white bone spirit” from journey to the west bc i thought di feisheng would find it funny #but did journey to the west even exist yet in lhl time? probably not? IDK i'm uncultured.

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merr-murr · 1 month

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CW : L0l1, CSA, CSAM, Harassment

Apparently there's a hate brigade running after me because some people cannot separate fiction from fantasy. I've had to say it on my Twitter and despite my lack of adult content on this account, people have made it their prerogative to harass me on multiple platforms.

if you genuinely think that drawings of fictional characters is equal to the suffering of real children put in abusive situations, get the FUCK off of my blog. I dealt with CSA my entire childhood and all of my teens years, including being groomed. I tried not to let this whole thing get to me, but people calling me a child predator because I made a fucking DRAWING that they found icky is one of the most insane things they could have possibly done. ESPECIALLY to someone who was a victim and would never wish that pain on anyone else.

My ASSAULT is not equal to demon children in a cartoon. Real people are not equal to fictional characters. You can say it's gross, you can say you don't like, hell, you can even be a fascist and say we should censor art you don't agree with! But don't ever compare me to an abuser because I drew naughty art of cartoon characters without sentience.

I will not apologize for having tastes that don't align with some online fascists who save art that THEY think is CSAM to their own hard drives to "call people out." You're a freak if you are saving material that you think is genuinely CSAM. You're a freak if you are encouraging people to go interact with someone who you think is a predator. You're a freak if you think human children are as worthless as cartoon drawings. You're a freak if you equate the real abuse and suffering of real people in any capacity to a factitious scenario created for kicks.

If you actually give a fuck about protecting children, stop wasting your time on a random artist (a CSAA victim) who drew a singular piece of l0l1 art and maybe volunteer your services to charities that help REAL CHILDREN.

Get over yourself and go touch some damn grass.

TLDR; If you think real children being abused is even remotely equal (legally OR morally) to cartoon drawings of fake demon characters, I do not want you following me or interacting with me as a CSA survivor.

#cw csa #cw csem #cw csam #im so fucking tired of people online acting insane #if you dont liek something no one is forcing you to look at it #and no one is especially forcing you to screenshot ir and constantly remind yourself of it #just admit you want a reason to hurt other living people #im not gonna talk on this again #i shouldnt have been forced to talk about any of this in the first place

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whumporpass · 18 days

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Arrowverse Barry Allen?

#barry allen #the flash #cw the flash #whump or pass poll #MY BIAS INCOMING #you have been warned #last warning #one more warning because I am insane #I have a very VERY strong bias.#actual final warning this time.#HURT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM #I want his entire life to be destroyed. I want him tortured. Kidnapped. Injured on Flash duty. Whumped emotionally.#Forced to watch his loved one/s die. Power surpressed or stolen entirely. Tortured more. Stabbed. Electrocuted. Enter Zoom style beatdown.#Put in a small space and unable to escape. Betrayed by someone he trusted. Tortured more. Stabbed more. Kidnapped more.#My blorbo #My beloved #My whumpee of all time #He is everything to me #He must be whumped #a decent amount of these happened in the show btw #sigh. I could have used a much whumpied pic but decided not to because; as the poll runner; I should not be biased somewhere people would rb #but if someone submits propaganda I will happily rb it as I would any propaganda #:)

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whumblr · 10 months

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Weapon

So, a lil while ago, @whumpedydump asked about Zayne working with Emery and why Zayne says it's better to be tortured by him than by Emery. Here we go.

Warning: Dead dove. Don't want to spoil, so if you're not sure, check the tags for warnings, if ya don't care, keep going.

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

“What the hell happened to your hands?” Jay gaped at the bruises and scratches over Zayne’s knuckles.

Zayne instantly pulled back and turned away.

“Punched a wall because I have to put up with your stupid questions.” His left hand – unconsciously – slid over his right, covering the worst of the bruises, the raw, reddish split skin, and lightly rubbed over it.

“Yeah, sure, a little one-two combo to a brick wall.”

“Now you’re just begging for a one-two combo to your face.”

“Just saying,” Jay held his hands up, “if you found someone else to torment, be my gu—"

Zayne sharply turned. “Don’t ask,” he snarled and pointed a shaky finger in Jay’s face. “Okay?”

“Did I say you could stop?”

“Sir, he’s… he can’t take much more.”

Zayne took another step back, revealing the man kneeling in front of him to show Emery the state he was in. He was quite sure that another hit would knock him clear out. Which, honestly, would probably be a mercy at this point.

The man barely had any strength left to stay upright on his knees, his clenched fists ziptied behind his back were trembling, blood poured from his nose, and even with gasps and heaves he couldn’t get his breathing under control.

Emery remained unimpressed and stayed where he was, just a few steps behind Zayne. He merely glanced down at the man, who struggled to look up but glared at him with all he had left. “Yes, he can. Keep going.”

Zayne hesitated. He felt disgusted having to do this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t beaten on someone before. But this was… different. Too random. Impersonal. He had no idea who the man was, what he’d done to deserve this, what Emery wanted from him. He’d just shown up to this warehouse as Emery had ordered, was presented with nothing more than a man tied up on his knees and the task to ‘make him talk’. That’s it.

But the man didn’t talk. And by now, Zayne wished the guy had actually passed out like half an hour ago. But he was stubborn, like a certain someone he knew. Emery, unfortunately, was also stubborn, and Zayne knew the guy was going to be the first to break.

And he had to do the breaking.

Emery never lifted a finger. He had others to do his dirty work for him.

While the man was obviously nearing a limit, he was not hitting a breaking point. He remained silent, unwilling to give up a scrap of information, and with the bits of strength he did have every now and then, just glared past Zayne right at Emery.

But Zayne felt that he was nearing a limit as well.

His hands were trembling and not just from the pain of bone striking unrelenting bone. But also from the sickening crunch that followed every strike, the blood that stuck to his hands, the grunts of pain followed by agonising silence in front of him, judging silence behind him. How much longer was this going to take?!

A coughing sound escaped the man’s lips, along with some blood as he tried to speak and Zayne found himself hoping he’d finally spill. But when the man found his voice he merely said:

“Yeah, man, keep going.” His voice was soft, tired, but the defiance in it was thundering loud. “Knocked out you’d get just as much out of me as you are getting now.”

Zayne peeked a look at his boss to see how he’d take this.

Not well. Emery’s face darkened.

“Your knife,” he merely said, narrowed eyes still on the man.

Reluctantly, Zayne reached into his pocket. He didn’t go for his actual knife, the one he used with Jay. That was his favourite, meant for play. This one was a spare, meant for work, to be put away after everything had ended and snap it closed to keep the memories of the job contained. All kept separate.

He held it out for Emery.

But Emery refused it and took back a step, making room for Zayne to stand over the kneeling man and positioning himself in just the right spot to watch over the whole spectacle.

Zayne wasn’t really sure what he expected. Of course he was going to have to do it.

He made a show of slowly folding the knife open, but his heart wasn’t into it. Usually he’d love the twitches of fear, the widening of eyes, the flinch as the knife clicked. Here he was just furiously hoping it would make the man relent. When he didn’t, he stepped behind him, kept him in place with a hand on his shoulder, and pricked the blade over the side of his ribs.

Last chance, man!

The man tensed under him, flinched hard when skin split and red soaked into the cut fabric of his shirt. But the warning by just cutting skin deep was not enough to make him either scream or talk. And before Zayne had to make himself go a step further, he heard a tutting sound.

Emery sighed, shaking his head, and stepped forward.

Before Zayne could pull away, Emery’s gloved hand was on his and pushed the knife deeper into the cut.

The blade sank in deep. Way too deep. Zayne startled and meant to pull back, but Emery’s hand clamped over his and actually pushed harder, dragging it along. The blade slid in up to the hilt, carving through skin, muscle, blood vessels; indifferent to what it severed. Blood immediately gushed free. A sickening scream rose up and Zayne had to force himself to keep the man down by his shoulders before his trashing made things even worse.

Emery finally withdrew his hand. “Stop petting him and get him to talk.”

With some effort – and with a disgusting squelching sound – Zayne had to actually pull the knife free. Blood kept running down the man’s side, sticking his shirt to his skin. If he had to dig that deep, the man would probably bleed out after about three or more cuts. This was no longer threatening a man to talk by torturing him; this was ‘talk fast or die’.

And the guy seemed to realise as well that he wouldn’t be able to walk away with this.

“No… no, don’t do that again,” he wheezed. “No!” He bucked again when Zayne held the knife under the first cu— he couldn’t even call it a cut; it was a full on open stab wound.

“Talk,” Emery said over the begging.

And something burst. Along with his tears, the man’s words spilled out of him, talking as fast as he could through gasps of pain and in-between heaving breaths.

Thank god. Zayne let him go and stepped away, relieved he didn’t have sink the knife in like that himself, that it was finally over.

Emery nodded, seemingly satisfied with the info he got. “Good.” And before Zayne could even fold his knife, he followed up with his final order:

“Slit his throat.”

Zayne froze up. “I… I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I do,” came the cold reply, effectively ending any further protest.

The knife nearly slipped from his grasp. His heart skipped a beat and it felt like it just plummeted down into his stomach, dunking into the pool of dread that started to violently swirl around. It didn’t. After that world-stopping split-second it kept going, thundering against his ribs. Wide eyes shot from Emery to the man and back until Emery’s patience ran out.

“If I have to do it myself, I will do it twice. Do you understand me?”

Zayne clenched his jaw and tucked away all feelings before a hint of the despair whirling through him could slip free. When he turned his back on Emery, a tiny bit did slip out as he couldn’t help but glance at the two guards Emery always had with him, estimating his chances. Slim. And he had no doubt that the man wouldn’t follow up on his threat.

Something hardened inside him. Him or me. Or rather, him and me or just him. Survival instinct took over, wrapping all around him like a cloak protecting him. He did hear the man’s pleas, but the words just bounced off, like arrows against armour, never fully registering in his brain so that even if he wanted to he wouldn’t remember them later.

Besides, begging him was useless. He didn’t call the shots here. He was just the—

He stepped behind the man again, so at least he wouldn’t have to see the shock and betrayal in those eyes turn blank when— He firmly grabbed onto the man’s hair and dragged him back up on his knees, holding him up. All part of his determined, cold act.

But when he bent over, settling the knife just under the man’s jaw, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Then he let the blade sink in, immediately going in deep – letting him bleed out as fast as possible was the least bit of mercy he could offer – and he dragged the knife over his throat all the way to the other carotid artery, cutting both.

The trashing stopped as the finality of the act hit them both. The pull of gravity on Zayne’s hand turned heavy and he let the strands of hair slip from his grasp. The man slumped to the ground, wrists digging into plastic as he struggled against the zip ties as if reaching for his throat could somehow stop the bleeding, and Zayne looked away. Would rather look at even fucking Emery than watch the final moments of the man under him.

Emery watched impassively and with a certain disdain, cold eyes fixed on the man, following every twitch until he finally stilled. Then he abruptly turned and walked outside to his guards.

Taking just the slightest moment to compose himself, Zayne took a deep breath – that did fuck all like putting a band aid on one of those cuts he just inflicted – and followed.

Cold air swept over the river towards him. He didn’t notice the cold as much, but the breeze tickled over the cuts on his hands and he found that he was still holding onto the knife, fist clenched around it.

Emery glanced back at him, almost surprised that he was still here. “Someone will be along shortly to dispose of the body,” he said, tone dismissive and colder than the night air around them. “You are done for the day.”

A vague sense of immense relief that he didn’t have to clean this mess up hit him, but not as hard as it should. It was dulled, along with everything else. Zayne went along as if on autocue, making eye contact and nodding, hoping it would uphold a stoic pretence.

But as soon as Emery turned the corner, his mask shattered.

Every emotion that he had kept at bay all night burst free in a whirlwind of chaos, battling each other over which one would get released first. It was overwhelming. He didn’t know whether to cry or to scream his rage.

Because what even just happened?! Was he—did he just—

He refused to look back inside, just wanted to forget about that image as soon as he could. But even if he wanted to, to get confirmation on what he just fucking did, he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot. Completely paralysed, making him just stand there watch over the dark churning water.

The protective cloak of survival instinct ripped away. Immediately making way for something dark bubbling up, taking hold of him.

Guilt.

It clawed up inside him, whispering to him, calling him names, calling him murderer.

No…

No! This was not on him. It was not! It was Emery. It was all Emery!

If he hadn’t been here, Emery would have killed the guy himself. If Emery had called some other pawn to order around, the guy would still have been killed. Even if Zayne had refused, the guy would still be dead. And so would he. Every possible outcome ended up with the guy bleeding out on the ground.

This was not on me. It was on him, on him, not me! On him!

Because Emery already had his mind made up. And any bit of mercy Zayne’d tried to—

His breath caught.

If you hadn’t tried to spare him… If you’d just knocked him out… maybe…

No!

The blood was on Emery’s hands! Not his!

His knuckles ached as his fist clenched around the handle of his knife. Split skin burst open further, stinging, making him look down.

It wasn’t his blood… coating his knuckles, running over the flesh of his thumb.

And with a scream, he threw the knife as far as he could into the river.

Continuation here

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98 @scribbelle

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autistic-katara · 1 month

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there r fics that make u insane (so amazingly good it’s removed ur sanity) and then there’s fics that make u insane (you need to fistfight the author for how they did a specific thing that caused u to rant for hours)

#i know i just posted that other thing but ffs that is NOT how u handle someone in that situation everyone involved made everything 10x worse #yet it’s being treated like the right thing to do (which again ofc they’re cops they don’t understand harm reduction but still) like #seriously everything’s so forceful like u seriously think forcing ur friend to talk to u or forcing a patient to talk to a therapist under #the threat of being admitted to a psychiatric hospital is gonna make her feel comfortable talking to u? or anyone? she’s just gonna trust u #less and get better at hiding it and speaking of which the taking away all sharp objects thing makes sense in theory but like think abt it #for a minute she confirmed she isn’t suicidal and this is her only way of coping so do not just forcibly take away all her coping mechanism #like yes she is hurting herself but it’s a COPING MECHANISM. she’s coping with something. help her with that don’t just take away her penci #sharpers or whatever (which btw since she’s an adult she could easily buy more stuff and yk learn to hide it better) which again has to be #voluntary it isn’t gonna work if u force someone to do smthn they don’t want to like as ur friend u could’ve made it clear u care abt her #and wouldn’t judge her for anything and r here if she wants to talk don’t just say “you have to talk to me” and casually threaten #hospitalisation when she isn’t ready in the moment like seriously if this wasn’t a badly written fanfic she would completely stop trusting #bcz given that this wasn’t even done out of panic i would like ffs u are NOT doing any of this right #oops sorry ranted abt the bad fic in my tags-#it’s not where the author’ll see it and know it’s about them i don’t feel bad abt it #this was my first time even looking at stuff for this fandom so #cw self harm in tags #idk if i need to tag anything else for that 😭#fanfic #ao3 #ryan shut the fuck up

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risingsouls · 6 months

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[This is what I do with GOKU IS A BAD DAD AND HIS CHOICE TO STAY DEAD AFTER CELL DOESN'T MAKE SENSE bad takes:]

#.:ooc:.#cw discourse #why are we still on this #their take was that more villains that showed up to cause trouble weren't goku's fault #so his reasoning for staying dead like a normal person tbh #isn't relevant and just hurts his family for no reason #and like I don't really agree with all their reasonings for why they say goku didn't attract certain baddies #meaning there probably actually are more that can be traced to him than not #but even so ummmm #the fact that there were any and that he probably HAD made enemies in the universe or even more on earth itself #through his deeds is still a thing #he could still attract trouble from these people/forces #i mean yeah the movies aren't canon but uuuuh #we didn't see androids between 8 and 16 #couldn't perhaps goku wonder if those androids exist waiting to hunt him down #and then there's cooler who yeah goku doesn't canonically know about #but he also knows that frieza had a BIG army with a lot of loyal followers #so there's also that #tl;dr saying his reasoning for staying dead is stupid and it's not unfounded. you just want to subscribe to the goku sucks as a dad bs

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burnedumber · 7 months

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Seeing a fic that made Cuff implicitly suicidal at the prospect of being discarded after his purpose is complete and thus having gone at that final fight against Frey with the slight ulterior motive of having her potentially kill him to avoid that possibility has changed my brain chemistry irreperably

#you know who you are if you see this. my brain exploded #(looks at the angst tag) real #forspoken #cuff #susurrus #frey holland #cw suicide mention #their weird mentor student friends enemies forced imprisonment snarky co-fighters dynamic is so much to me #emotional hurt comfort with them either way around makes me go aagh #ok gn its 2am

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whump-in-the-closet · 11 months

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13. How it's Done.

previous.

cw: forced to hurt, knife cuts, torture, inhuman whumpers

You look at the knife and then at Valian.

They stay silent.

The eyes of all three agents are on you, watching with a calculation that hides exactly how much they’re enjoying this.

There’s no way out of this. The horror leaves a taste in your mouth like death. But what can you do? You can try not to step on the blood as you cross the grass. So you do. The walk is over far too soon. Before you know it, the knife is glinting in the light, hovering over Valian’s back.

Valian is shaking, forehead pressed into the tree. Braids fall around their face and you find that you’re grateful you don’t have to look them in the eye as you do this.

A small mercy.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Steel and blood.

No answer.

You trace a thin line down Valian’s shoulder with the blade. It’s enough to draw blood, but more of a scratch than anything.

Behind you, there’s a hiss of displeasure.

So you drive another line into Valian’s skin.

You hear a hiss that’s more of a growl. The sound echoes like it comes from a cavern.

Another scratch.

“Stop.”

You freeze, and a drop of scarlet blood rolls down the edge of the blade. It continues on its path down your wrist. Down your wrist, along your arm.

“You have failed to show your fealty to us and to the Council.” You’re pretty sure it's the leader who’s speaking. Her voice doesn’t echo, or burn. It’s deeper than both of the others. You’ve heard stories of the god of death as a child and you think this is what death would sound like.

Monotone.

Horrifying.

A creeping warning in every one of her words.

You turn slightly, clutching the blade with sweaty hands like it’s a lifeline. Why are the corners of your vision darkening?

You’re not that scared.

Yes. Yes, you are.

The agents stare down at you. Judge, executioner, and jury. All with four arms. The leader waves Solis forward and she takes the knife from you.

She grabs the knife by its blade, and though it cuts her, there is no blood. She smiles, showing all her teeth.

“Let me show you how it's done.”

It happens so fast, it's a blur. The knife is a flashing blur of steel and Valian’s back is nothing but red.

Your vision is red. And black. You can’t watch this.

Solis rips open Valian’s back. Shreds it like its paper. A whip couldn’t inflict more damage than Solis with the knife.

You’re vaguely aware of Valian’s choked cries. The roaring in your ears muffles most of the screams.

Behind you, a voice echoes. “Watch this. Do not look away. After Solis is done, your own suffering will commence.”

taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast, @d-cs, @annablogsposts, @sorrowful-hyacinth, @whumpsday, @whumpinthepot, @whatwhumpcomments, @whumpycries (lmk if you want to be added/ removed!)

#helect cyoa #fantasy whump #interactive whump #no editing we die like men #whump writing #valian is in so much pain rn #hehehe #that was an evil laugh #cw forced to hurt #cw torture #cw knives #cw knife cuts

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apamates · 4 months

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Fitz' loved ones going "is anyone going to inflict unimaginable trauma on that boy??" and not waiting for an answer

#alternative caption 'scenes that make my blood boil'#we just brought back this teen from death and he's obviously scarred let's hurt him more for funsies #Fitz has 0 male role models that don't fuck him over bc of their own issues - Patience please come back i miss you #chade 'if i was used for decades and took it happily you should too' fallstar #i won't even touch burrich's deal bc he's happy that fitz is alive but still resents him for calling out his flaws #verity 'i gave mind and body for this kingdom why shouldn't you too? farseer #the fact that hipersexuality as a sa trauma response was explained chapters before and Fitz accepted being with Starling bc he felt forged #it's so clear that before that fitz copes with complex emotions w/ substance abuse or getting into wacky situations that force his mind to #only focus on the present for survival #but after being sa'd he escapes that particular shade of trauma by being with Starling and going full hermit #i hate you verity #we shall hunt and eat and sleep and you will heal. oh how i love nighteyes #abuse cw #sa cw #rote #assassin's quest

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galaxywhump · 1 year

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Difficult Conversations, Part Two

Trope: Survivor’s Guilt

Fandom: Original Work

[Masterlist]

[gray for requested, blue for completed]

Timeline: set after Difficult Conversations, Part One.

contents: rescue and recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, medical setting (medbay on a space ship), trauma, discussion of death and broken whumpees, referenced noncon kissing, downplaying trauma, swearing.

~~~

Hey. Sorry I haven't called you. Let's talk in person when I'm back, okay? It's just a few more days.

Alright.

Wren stares at the single word, the response that came not even a minute after he sent his message, and exhales slowly. Doubts are tearing him apart, he should call, that’s the right thing to do, but he can’t imagine himself doing that just yet.

Not over a call.

He runs his fingers over the strap of the communicator circling his wrist, just to remind himself that it’s there. Johnson gave it to him and let him keep it, and he didn’t expect just how comforting having it would be.

Something he couldn’t get his hands on for two years. A link to civilization.

Before he can turn the communicator off, the sound of a new message makes him flinch.

I’m glad you’re okay.

He blinks in disbelief, but can’t help but smile a little bit. It’s the last thing he expected to read, given who sent it, but it’s enough to make him tear up. He wipes his tears away with a laugh, then types a message of his own.

I’m glad too.

He’s not okay, no matter how much he pretends otherwise and wishes he was, but he knows that now… he’s capable of being okay, eventually. Daniel is dead. He’s free. Earth’s waiting.

He turns the communicator off, closes his eyes with another exhale, and smiles.

~~~

There are people here, on the I.S.S. Brittany, and the thought still makes him lightheaded. It’s a fairly small crew, but it doesn’t seem like it after two years spent with two other people at most, with his hope of seeing anyone other than his tormentors ever again diminishing every day; he tries not to think about being surrounded by even more people when he’s back on Earth for now.

In the medbay it’s just him and Vitkus, and Johnson, occasionally checking up on him. He was instructed to continue sleeping in the medpod to ensure that the wound that had almost killed him twice doesn’t scar, but eventually Vitkus decides that it shouldn’t reopen.

“You can leave the medbay if you’re ready,” she says. “See the ship, meet the others.” She sees the panic in his eyes, and gives him a sympathetic smile. “I know it might seem scary, but you can always come back here if you feel overwhelmed.”

He nods, but he’s far from confident. “I want to try. I have to try. There will be… other people, and I can’t hide from them forever.”

“Just try to take it slow.”

He does. Walking out of the medbay feels like a feat in and of itself, and he can’t stop himself from laughing. He never thought he would consider leaving a room an achievement, and yet here he is.

The ship’s layout is similar to the ones he’s used to, so it doesn’t take long for him to find his way around - and he’s grateful for his knowledge of where cryopods should be located. He avoids so much as looking in the direction of the room. Thinking about what’s in there, how only a single metal wall stands between him and Daniel’s lifeless body, is harder to avoid, as is the brief irrational and terrifying instinct to enter the room and try to see through the frosted glass, facing his captor and the weight of what he’s done.

He has to consciously take a deep breath as Daniel’s final moments flash through his mind. His hands hurt from how hard he’s clenching his fists to get rid of the memory of closing his fingers around the gun. He can see the raw panic in Daniel’s eyes when he realized what was coming. The gunshots ring in his ears.

Vitkus lifts her head and frowns with worry when he enters the medbay and leans against the wall.

“Cryo room,” he explains, not letting any emotion show. “But I didn’t walk in.”

Vitkus nods. “It’s locked, you need a code to open the door.”

He sighs with relief. “That’s… good.”

His next trip is more successful; he chooses a different route this time.

Then he starts running into people. It’s startling, it makes him nervous, but he can see it’s mutual, no matter how casual the other rangers try to act. They exchange formalities. Bakradze. Vue. Pereira. Kumar. They address him by his rank, then seem to relax when he asks them to address him by his first name. That’s something, at least.

Still, he can see wariness in their eyes. Uncertainty. He can't blame them; now, on top of being a former victim of the slave trade, he has killed his captor too. They witnessed it. They saw him being thrown into that shuttle, they were there when the hatch opened. They saw him shivering, eyes wide, as crimson soaked his shirt.

It didn't help with his feeling of not belonging.

He doesn't hide, though. He does his best to spend time with the crew, joining them for meals, usually sitting next to Johnson. There's always a moment of silence when he arrives, but thankfully it always passes. Conversations resume, and Wren chimes in from time to time, and it almost feels… normal, reminding him of when he’d visit the canteen on his own ship, with his own crew.

Spending time around people is intimidating, but comforting; but when he finds himself getting overwhelmed, which never takes long, he leaves, just as doctor Vitkus suggested. Rather than go to the medbay, though, he sneaks out to the place he finds more comforting - the observation deck.

He watches the stars pass by, the galaxies change, and the visual reminder of getting farther and farther away from SV-240 and closer to Earth helps more than anything else could.

~~~

He's not alone in the bed.

"Gh-" He crawls out of it, frees himself from Daniel's arms, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest; he scrambles to his feet and stumbles backwards.

The bed is empty.

His breathing is ragged as he stares at the bed, which is nothing like Daniel's, it's sleek, more oval in shape.

And yet Daniel has found his way into it to hold Wren close.

Before he knows it tears are streaming down his face, and he doesn't have it in him to stop them. A sob escapes him, and he covers his mouth to be quiet.

He can't even fucking sleep.

Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.

He shakes his head with another sob.

I love you too.

He should get back to sleep; otherwise he'll be half-dead for the next day cycle, and he doesn't want that, he doesn't want to look completely miserable.

But he can't get back into this bed either.

He leaves the room - his room, only his - and walks to the bathroom on shaking legs, careful not to make a sound. The bathroom was safe… most of the time. It's where he'd lock himself when he needed a moment, when he had to stand in front of the mirror and remind himself that he couldn't break, that there was hope.

He was right, but he still finds himself gripping the edges of the sink here, staring in the mirror.

When he first did it, he noted with a small spark of happiness that he was already looking better, healthier. That's not gone, but there's a familiarity to his reflection now - dark circles under his eyes, tear tracks on his face, a haunted expression.

"I'm safe," he whispers to himself, his grip on the sink getting tighter. "I'm free. Daniel is a fucking corpse. I'm safe."

His words barely mean anything when nearly everyone else is asleep and he feels like he's dreaming, or floating in the void. He closes his eyes and stays still for a moment, taking deep breaths, then reluctantly leaves the bathroom. His nerves pick up when he enters his room again and sees the bed.

A normal bed. He wanted to be able to sleep in a normal bed, alone, that was why he was eager to leave the medbay, but Daniel had made sure that wouldn't be possible.

Daniel embraces him and presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

Wren recoils.

He lies still, staring at the wall with empty eyes, feeling Daniel's hand steadily moving up and down his side.

He starts shaking.

He can't. He can't do this. Not yet.

He exhales, gathers the sheets off the bed, and takes them to the corner of the room; he sits down, wraps the blanket around himself, and rests his head on the pillow pressed to the wall. It's uncomfortable, and he knows his spine will pay the price, but it's his only hope of getting some hopefully uninterrupted sleep. Daniel can't get him here. He’s uncomfortable, but he’s safe, and he’s finally alone.

~~~

“People know that you’re alive.”

The world flashes for a moment, blinding Wren, and he has to blink away the shock. He nods numbly, his hands starting to shake. Why is his body reacting like that? Of course people had to find out. He’s going to be back among them soon, after all.

“We waited as long as we could,” Johnson continues in a soothing voice, looking at him with worry in their eyes. “But now the League is pretty sure they have information for most, if not all, of the trade, and… we’re going to reach Earth in about thirty-six hours. I wish you had more time, I know this must be overwhelming for you, but this information had to be made public before your return.”

“No, no, I understand,” Wren says quietly. “I’ll be fine.”

Johnson nods, not responding, their worry increasing as they watch Wren shivering, taking deep breaths, trying to calm down. Thankfully it’s just the two of them in the briefing room, so there’s nobody else to witness his reaction; Johnson had made sure of that.

“Hey, Wren,” they say, and once he looks at them, they give him a small smile. “I just want you to know… The slavers are currently being tracked down and arrested, and there are operations underway to find and rescue the victims of the trade, and it’s all thanks to you. You saved so many lives, Wren. You’re a hero.”

He flinches, eyes wide.

“I-I was just saving myself, though,” he explains, glancing away. “I had to expose the trade, but… it didn’t feel heroic.” He continues before Johnson can try to protest. “And… how are the victims?”

The heavy pause before he gets his answer only makes him more certain that there is something unpleasant at play, and that Johnson probably regrets bringing it up in the first place.

“A lot of them have been rescued already, and the people who’d bought them were arrested,” they start explaining slowly, carefully. "What they went through had a deep impact on them, but they're receiving the help they need. They're safe."

"Not all, though." There is no answer, and he sighs. "You can tell me, Lieutenant. I-I need to know."

“I understand, but you know what the answer is going to be, and I don’t think you’re ready to hear more about it.”

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Wren lifts his chin, looking Johnson right in the eye. They exhale with a pained expression.

“Some of them, yes.”

“And others?”

“The trade had existed for years, completely in secret, so there are people who were there for years, too, and that… left a mark on them.”

“They’re broken,” Wren whispers.

“They’re alive. They can be helped. And, Wren… Even those who didn’t survive… Their loved ones have finally gotten closure, the people responsible have been arrested. Please don’t beat yourself up over this. It’s not your fault, and if it hadn’t been for your signal, it could’ve taken so much longer for the trade to even be discovered.”

It makes sense, but Wren’s mind doesn’t care for sense, not when he’s filled with doubts, when his thoughts are screaming that he should’ve been faster, he should’ve contacted the League sooner, he should’ve- should’ve-

There must have been another way, months earlier, to escape, he was just too stupid to figure it out, and because of that more people suffered. He swallows.

“I have to go,” he mumbles, standing up.

“Wren.” They try to stop him, but he shakes his head and leaves in a hurry, his heartbeat nearly painful, his thoughts fixated on all those people, dead, broken, ones he couldn’t save. And it wasn’t like his purpose had been to save them, it just happened, but now that he knows, guilt rises in his throat like bile.

Dead. He had been terrified of dying on SV-240, dying before getting a chance to break free, and that’s exactly what had happened to some of those people before his message could save them.

Broken. He remembers being an empty shell. Staring at the wall, crying soundlessly. “Happy anniversary.” Somehow he came back every time, back to being determined, but some never did, and he can’t help but think that maybe some never will.

He picks up the pace until he reaches his room, where tears threaten to overflow when he sees the bed, the damn bed that he can’t even sleep in, the clinging remains of his captivity. He curses under his breath and walks to the corner, where he leans against the wall and fixes his eyes on the ceiling, forcing himself to breathe.

Dead. Broken. And he’s here, alive against all odds, hanging on to himself, and… why? Why him? Why did he of all people succeed?

Everyone knows now.

He feels weak; he slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor. The thought that is so clear in his mind constricts his lungs and heart.

Everyone knows. Everyone - including the surviving victims of the trade, including their loved ones, and they can see that he’s alive, that he managed to gain the upper hand in the end, and they can question it the same way he is questioning it right now - why is he alive when the others aren’t? Why is he still himself when others had themselves being beaten and brainwashed out of them ages ago?

And now he’s crying because of a bed, and he knows that once he’s back on Earth, it will only get worse. There are people there, everyone knows what he’s been through, he’s going to be surrounded by people who are going to take one look at him and know.

“Wren?”

The door slides open, and he turns his face away to hide his tears from Johnson, as if they couldn’t see the state he’s in.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know, okay? Or do you just want to be left alone?”

He wants to nod at first, but then he realizes that he wouldn’t be alone, having the nagging thoughts as companions, feeling like they’re going to crush him, hearing accusations and hissed insults in his head.

“It’s alright. You can stay,” he says, keeping his voice low to hide its shaking. There are footsteps, then Johnson sits down next to him. The only sound is Wren’s sniffling as he tries in vain to stop crying.

“I’m going to spend some time on Earth once we’re there.” Johnson glances at Wren before looking straight ahead again, not wanting to stare while he’s in this state. “So if you need to talk to someone, you can contact me. I… I’ll do my best to help.”

“Thanks,” Wren whispers. “Really. It’s just… It was just me and him on that planet and I’d… forgotten about the other people, about the trade. And that whole time they were in captivity too, suffering and dying and- and it took me so long to do anything and I feel like I should’ve done… more. And sooner.”

“You were a captive, though, just like them. You did what you could, when you could. It was so dangerous, but you did it, and now? You’re free, and so are many other people.”

“But so many didn’t make it.”

“It’s not your fault, and nobody’s going to think it is. Focus on the lives you’ve saved, and most importantly… on yourself. You went through something horrible too, and you need help as much as all the others.”

Wren frowns. He’s… feeling fine, though. Daniel is dead, he’s free, he’s still himself, more or less, and that’s more than some of the others can say.

But there is still a phantom in the bed. There are still memories, pain and torture and kisses and I love you’s. There is still tension in his body that he can’t imagine going away anytime soon. There is a part of him that remains on SV-240, in Daniel’s house, and there is so much he doesn’t want to tell anyone about, and as long as he keeps it a secret, nothing will help.

He nods as new tears gather in his eyes from the overwhelming words and emotions and realizations of the day, from the weight of being the one to expose the trade and feeling weaker than ever before, even though he’s no longer being starved, hurt, restrained.

Johnson sits with him in silence until he forces himself to pull himself together, because no matter how long he cries, it never brings him even a sliver of relief.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @rose-whump @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp

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