#trigger warning: murder

[ninadove]

She undressed me with her eyes

And somehow, you didn’t see

Put her hand on my thigh

Felt like a hundred degrees

— Thank God You Introduced Me to Your Sister, by Sarah Barrios

[simplymelaninated]

Fuck that zen shit! My reputation is all fucked up because of this dude and his lies! I tried to come over here and have a conversation about how he keeps disrespecting my name in these streets and he tried to mind game me and flip the script. Nope. Bitch bye.

[chocoblep]

#13: Theater of the Mind

((Trigger warning for several things on this one: Body Horror, Torture, Murder))

The space was dark; unbelievably, unbearably dark. The oppressive silence that surrounded him was infuriating--if he could just hear some snippet of the outside world, get some clue as to where he was, maybe he could get out of here and warn someone, anyone, of the person who had captured him. Who had captured him…? Try as he might, whenever he tried to recall a face or a voice, even a smell, all he came up with was some blurry approximation that could have been anyone.

Dirty fingers flexed against the cool floor, and the resultant scratch of nails on smooth stone seemed to bounce around him and amplify. It was a trick of the room, no doubt. Shifting his weight only brought about the same result, the rough swish of fabric coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. He was hungry. Thirsty. Tired… so tired, but every time he began to drift off, he heard a giggle from some long-lost child, or saw a face that he knew belonged to the dead.

He knew, because he killed them. He knew, because he remembered all of his kills.

This one’s name was Kellis. He couldn’t have been more than five turns old, fresh-faced, pale, and blonde, with dimples that would make anyone melt when he smiled. He watched from the darkest corner of the pitch-dark room, peeking out to laugh at the man when the man tried to fall asleep. Kellis told him that he was a bad papa. That he had failed him, and failed Easton, and failed Dillon and Phineas and Leiland and--

“STOP!” he shouted, his voice booming through the quiet. The laughing continued. “Stop, or so help me I will flay you alive!”

“Oh, no,” said the child. “I am not the one who is being flayed alive.”

The man had to squint to take in the light that suddenly flooded the room. In walked a man--a Miqo’te with a set of precision instruments meant for surgical procedures. He wore a white jacket and a pair of nice pants, and his curly hair had been pulled back into a sensible little half-tail. He drank in the Miqo’te’s features.

“Ah, you are awake,” the Miqo’te said with a smile on his thin lips. “This is good; it means I won’t wake you with your treatment this time.”

This time? Had he met this man? He struggled and failed to remember the face. He should have; his mismatched eyes were quite striking, green and gold and luminous even in the bright light. The room itself was completely bare, not even a shadow of a doorway to tell him what sort of room he was in. He made to speak again, brought his hand up to indicate--indicate what, exactly? Whatever rational thought remaining to him fled with the sight of his hand.

His skinless, scabbing hand. He held it up and inspected it, feeling the dull pain for the first time in a while, and then held the other up and looked at that, too. It was almost as if his skin had simply been peeled back and away, all the way up to his elbows. Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up to find the Miqo’te donning a pair of gloves--gloves made of his own skin.

He screamed as the Miqo’te brandished a sharp, wicked-looking knife, and though he tried to scramble away, he was frozen to the spot. “I think today we cut out your tongue,” the Miqo’te said as he leaned in to do just that. Pain, blood, choking...

M’rath sat quite comfortably in an oversized armchair, one leg draped over an armrest and his tail hanging down to brush its tufted end just barely over the floor. His mismatched eyes were fixed on a man on the other side of the room, who was bound just as surely by his shackles as he was by his own mind. The tension in the man’s form, wrought from agonizing sensations and the warped reality of his thoughts was in stark contrast to his cool, collected Miqo’te counterpart. Though there was not a single mark on the man, surely he felt every bit of what he was experiencing in his head right now.

The man was a murderer and a child molester, and he was giving to this man what he’d pried from his memories--the removal of the tongue, the flaying of the hands. It was only right and fair that he suffer this torture for at least as many times as he’d killed a child.

With rats like these, an eye for an eye didn’t cut it.

But maybe he’d make the bastard live through taking an eye next.

[ferrumumbra]

ANONYMOUS ASKED: hmm maybe instead of killing the borels they should employ you to stop others trying to kill them. aymeric seems to attract that trouble and mors is just trouble all over. i mean you run in the kinda circles that would know if there was a price on their head, right? you’re kinda useful. MENTION: @referentblood​ && @vialacteus​

“There’s always chatter in th’ underground o’ the city abou’ th’ Lord Commander--” Though, he says naught more.

[a-little-slice-of-fandom]

Ted Bundy was mentally ill... do you think that we should stop stereotyping him as a killer and a monster? should we look past all the thing’s he’s done and try to think about how there’s worse people out there and how he isn’t that bad?

Absolutely not! However...there’s a bit (read, a lot) of a difference between someone killing because they wanted to in the 20th century and a monarch trying to regain control in the 1500s. Mary isn't considered a serial killer by historians for a good reason. Again, does the context excuse her actions? No. I literally stated that, as a Catholic, I was disgusted that someone would do that! If you had actually read the entirety of my post, you might have noticed that sentence!

You have to look at the historical context of Mary's actions, and comparing her to Ted Bundy isn't doing that. A more apt comparison would be Elizabeth or Edward, or other monarchs in Europe. You cannot try and apply modern values to people (or media) from the past! You should be aware that those things were bad and wrong, but we also need to recognise the context of the period that these people lived in.

[incorrect-gintama-quotes]

Gintoki: After all your little speeches, you’re nothing but a common murderer!

Utsuro: I am an exceptional murderer, Gintoki. And since I’m moving up to massive murder, you should be more polite.

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Motus Cicatrice

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC/BatFam - Jason Todd/Red Hood, feat. Dick Grayson/Nightwing, Bruce Wayne/Batman, & Clark Kent/Superman

Rating: PG-13 (for mentions of murder/killing/major character death)

Original Idea: Just came up with it probably in the shower. Though the scars come from a Pinterest prompt and popular Sanders Sides headcanons for Virgil. Who doesn’t love a little Jason Todd angst? Hmm?

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) The title is pronounced, “Moe-TUSS, cik-uh-TREE-chay” (sort of, it’s Latin and that’s the best I could write it out). Shout out to Google Translate. You’ll see what it means. BTW, this one is LOOOONG! @welovegroot

“Motus Cicatrice”

^^^^^

"Y'alright, Bruce? You seem very quiet," Clark asked.

"Fine," Bruce grunted.

"Bruce? What's… wrong?" Diana pressed gently.

"Nothing," Bruce retorted, grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw. He pulled his cape more securely over his shoulders and sat heavily at one of the Watchtower's computers. Diana and Clark exchanged a glance behind his back. Diana bounced an eyebrow. She set her hands on Bruce and Clark's shoulders before leaving the room. Deciding that a moody, broody Batman wasn't a battle she wanted to fight. Clark just stood there.

Bruce sighed.

"What do you want, Clark?" he snapped.

"For you to tell me what's wrong, Bruce," Clark answered, sitting cross-legged three feet aboveground. "We're your friends. Don't push us away."

"Nothing's wrong."

"You can't lie to me, Batman. Your heartbeat is faster and your body is tense---"

Bruce shoved out of his chair, grasped Clark by the front of his cape, and slammed him against the wall of the Watchtower. "Listen, farm boy! I just watched my son watch his girlfriend die in his arms! So excuse me if I'm not in the mood to chat," Batman growled.

Clark gently pried Bruce's hands off his cape and wrapped him up in a hug. "I am so, so sorry, Bruce."

Batman relaxed into the hug. "She was the only thing that really made him happy. He's struggled in darkness for a long time. Then here comes this beam of light into his life. I've never seen him smile and laugh as much as he does when he's with her. She was the light and love of his life. Her death will break him. Again. He's already been through so much. He doesn't deserve this too."

"How… how did it happen?"

"Two-Face. Shot her after flipping a coin. Jason… couldn't get to her in time. Just like I was too late to save him from the Joker when he was fifteen. She was the best thing that ever happened to him. Gone. Just like that. Over a coin toss. She was twenty-one. My son held her and wept as she took her last breath. All I could do was watch."

Clark sighed. He wiped tears from his eyes. "I'm sorry, Bruce. Truly I am. I know how much your family means to you."

Batman let go of the hug. "Thanks Clark. I should get back to work."

"Where is your son?"

"Dick's with him at home. The Manor."

Superman nodded as Bruce sat back at the computer. After a moment's hesitation, Clark left.

^^^^^

Jason sat in the parlor of Wayne Manor, holding a framed photo of him and his girlfriend between his hands, staring at it blankly. Dick's arms were hugging him, but he barely noticed. His mind was refusing to believe she was gone. How could she be…? Death usually tended to be temporary for people in this life…

"Little wing? Jay? You alright? Never mind. Dumb question," Dick muttered. He glanced at the photo his brother was holding.

It was Jason and his girlfriend at an amusement park, wearing each other's sunglasses and laughing their heads off. Jason was holding his girlfriend from behind, in a white T-shirt and blue cargo shorts. His girlfriend was wearing a thin white blouse with flowy short sleeves and khaki capris. Her hand was holding onto Jason's arm. It was a candid moment Tim had taken when the whole family had gone out for a day of fun. Alfred had the photo framed.

Jason didn't respond to anything Dick had said. Didn't even move.

"No---NOOO! Come on. Don't die on me. You promised me you wouldn't. C'mon baby---you're gonna be okay. You gotta be. I can't lose you. Please. No. Please!" In his head, Jason heard him pleading with her as her life slowly drained out of her. "Come back to me. Come back!" He heard his own sobbing and kept watching her take her last breath while Two-Face gloated in the background.

He sniffed, eyes tearing up and then spilling over.

"Ohh, little wing," Dick murmured sympathetically, holding his younger brother tighter to him.

Jason turned and pushed his face into Dick's chest, sniffing and letting the tears fall. They soaked into Dick's shirt.

Dick rubbed Jason's back between his shoulder blades. "I know it hurts, Jay. Let it all out. It's okay to hurt."

"I love her. I miss her," Jason managed to say, letting go of the photo with one hand and using that hand to clutch Dick's T-shirt. Dick reached up and set his hand on the back of Jason's head, tugging at the roots of Jason’s hair.

The motion, along with his emotional exhaustion and crying, lulled Jason into a much-needed sleep. Dick eased his brother onto his lap and left him there, pulling out his phone. He's out, he texted to Bruce, Tim, Barbara, and Cassie. I'm just going to sit with him (don't have a choice he's lying on my legs) and let him sleep.

Good idea, Tim replied.

Someone knocked on the door. "Come in," Dick said quietly.

A familiar head poked in. "Hey kid," a familiar voice greeted.

Dick smiled. "Hey Clark. What's up?"

"I came to see how your brother was doing. Batman… was a little… shall we say… on edge just now. Told me what happened with the little brother's girlfriend. I wanted to make sure he was okay and making sure someone was there for him. Batman said you were here but I just wanted to make sure."

"You're a good man, Clark, thank you," Dick said quietly.

Clark flew into the room, a few inches off the ground, to keep the floorboards from creaking and waking Jason up. He sat on the armchair across the coffee table from Bruce's eldest sons and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. Clark nodded to Jason's sleeping form. "How is he?"

"Heartbroken. Devastated. Mourning. Has every right to be."

"I know. But will he be okay?"

Dick thought for a moment. "He's gone through a lot," he finally said. "Each bad experience has cracked at him. When Joker killed him, he broke. It took years to put him back together again. I'm afraid… I'm afraid this is going to break him again."

Clark pursed his lips. "Hmm. I know what you mean. What can we do to help him?"

"Love him. Support him. And keep him from murdering Two-Face." Dick paused. "Maybe have Diana talk to him. He was always a huge admirer of hers. Plus Jason has always listened to and respected women far more than any man." He twisted a loose lock of Jason's hair around his finger as he pondered.

Clark made an interested expression. "That I can manage," he said. He got up and drifted to a corner of the parlor. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. Dick went back to looking at his.

"Diana, hey, it's me. It's Clark…"

Dick scratched at an itch on his nose and gently tugged the photo out of Jason's limp hand. His own elbow---in a light blue T-shirt---was in the corner of the picture since he'd tried to photobomb the shot. He smiled at it. Remembering all the times she'd made his little brother happy. Though, little wasn't the term to describe Jason and hadn't been for a long while. Younger was probably better.

"Come ON, babe! It'll be fun!" Jason's voice exclaimed to his girlfriend in Dick's memory. He heard her laugh, as clearly as he could hear Clark on the phone with Diana.

"No WAY, Jay! I'm NOT going to get myself injured!" her voice retorted playfully.

Dick glanced down at the back of Jason's head. "You deserve to be happy, little wing," he murmured quietly. "Why do these things keep happening to you?"

Jason, however, was still asleep and didn't respond.

Clark murmured a few more things to Diana through his phone before hanging up and returning to the armchair. "She said she'll be over as soon as possible," he told Dick.

"Thanks Clark."

Jason suddenly cried out in anguish, breaking the relative silence of the parlor as a single convulsion wracked his body. Dick leaned forward, trying to see his younger brother's face---but ended up getting headbutted as Jason sat up abruptly. He shouted and clawed at his shirt, trying to tear it off.

Clark jumped over the coffee table, grabbed the hem of Jason's shirt, and pulled it off, leaving Jason bare-chested.

Dick gasped.

Marring his brother's chest was a long, thick, angry red scar. Jason had many scars---all over his body---but this one was the worst. And it hadn't been there earlier that day. He'd never been injured like that before.

Dick reached out as though to touch it, but withdrew before his fingers even reached Jason's chest.

Jason clutched at the injury, panting through clenched teeth and groaning with pain.

Dick looked in askance to Clark, hoping the older alien would, somehow, have an answer for where the scar appeared from. Clark's eyes met Dick's---a young man whom he'd long considered to be something akin to family, whose eyes were full of fear and worry---but didn't have any answers in them.

Dick pulled Jason back into a hug by the shoulders and squeezed him. Jason's breath came in ragged gasps. He'd been shot two inches from his heart and hadn't cried a single tear, nor had he made much more than a grunt of complaint.

To see Jason in so much pain that he was actively tearing up and clinging to his big brother looking for any sort of relief broke Dick's heart.

"What's going on here?" a familiar voice demanded from the door.

Dick looked up. "B! He just… he was asleep, and then he shot up and was trying to get his shirt off and once Clark removed it there was a massive scar there and it looks fresh but he hasn't ever had a chest injury this bad!" Dick explained.

Bruce came over and gently peeled Jason's face out of Dick's chest so he could get a look at Jason's chest. Bruce let out a surprised exhale. "He has motus cicatrice," he said.

"Come again?" Dick asked as Jason fell back against Dick's chest. Dick's arms wrapped around his brother instinctively.

"It's an extremely rare condition. The Latin name is directly translated as 'Scarring Emotions' or 'Emotion Scars.' Emotional pain leaving physical scars on the body," Bruce explained. "There hasn't been a recorded or reported case in over one-hundred years." He rested his hand on the back of Jason's head. "How's the pain, lad? Need a painkiller?"

At first, Jason didn't even move. His hand was clutching his chest and his panting was still ragged.

Then he sagged. "Y-yeah," he managed to get out.

Clark vanished for a moment and then reappeared, a bottle of painkillers in his hand.

Jason downed the exact amount to dull the pain in his chest, counting them very precisely. He never took any drugs if he could help it. He slumped against Dick's side, leaning on his big brother for support both physically and emotionally in a way he hadn't done since… never.

"How come we never noticed before?" Dick asked Bruce.

Bruce shrugged. "Because we're all covered in scars anyway. And after Jason's experience with the Lazarus Pit most of his physical scars from his childhood emotional trauma went away with his near-perfect revival. And then anything else just built up with his other scars. Unless you keep meticulous track of his injuries---"

"Pretty sure you're the only one who does that with your own," Clark muttered to Bruce.

"---you wouldn't notice. What's one new scar on a body full of them?"

Dick slung Jason's arm over his shoulder and pulled his much heavier brother to his feet. "C'mon, little wing. Let's get you to bed. You'll feel better in the morning," he said.

He helped Jason up to his room and helped his brother get in bed.

"I just… I can't believe she's gone," Jason rasped.

"I know. And I know it hurts. And it's okay to let it hurt. But right now, you need sleep. And no sneaking out to go shoot Two-Face, you hear?" Dick replied, ruffling his brother's hair. "I'll be right next-door if you need me."

"Mm," Jason grunted, rolling on his side and falling asleep again.

[hollywood3015]

I received the go ahead from Curt and I made my move. The old door surprisingly made no noise. I could hear the TV on in the living room and gave a smirk at the two empty wine bottles sitting on the kitchen counter. This was going to be too easy.

 Curt gave me a tour of the house not long ago so I knew the layout perfectly as I made my way to the living room. 

I made my way around the coffee table and Abby got up quickly. 

Abby: Wha- what do you want? I don’t have any cash on me but if you leave now, I will forget this ever happen. I am a high ranking judge. 

I said no words to her. What was there to say? I raised the gun up and pulled the trigger, she didn’t even get a chance to scream.