#manslaughter tw

[merrock]

CHARACTER INFORMATION

face claim: Alycia Debnam-Carey

full name: Sybil Danvers

nickname(s) / goes by: Billie

pronouns & gender: She/her & Cis woman

sexuality: Bisexual

birth date: April 29, 1991

birth place: Port Mansfield, Texas

arrival to merrock: January 2023

housing: Rural Country Side

occupation: Horse Ranch Owner & Part-Time Boat Mechanic

work place: Danvers Farm 

family: Father & Brother - Estranged

relationship status: Single

PERSONALITY

Billie prefers the company of her horses to people. They bring to her a peace and tranquility that shatters the moment she is surrounded by other human beings. With their soft snorts and kind eyes they can see her beneath the scars that she bears. She has the typical no-nonsense ranch attitude. Her hands can be soft and tempered or fists ready to fight. Sometimes on days where the PTSD is worse or the frustrations of life get to her she will seek out a fight. Sometimes in clubs getting paid for her efforts and sometimes with a random loud-mouth asshole from the bar. She refuses to talk about her past to just anyone and most don’t know how she got the burn scars that adorn the left side of her body. The worst of them are hidden by t-shirts and jeans. That’s her typical style. An outfit easy to ride in and cowboy boots. Her days are spent doing ranch work and she doesn’t much care what she looks like for that. Getting dressed up consists of showering and putting on a clean outfit. Gatherings with large crowds are difficult for her and she won’t attend unless forced or cajoled. The only type of crowds that are comfortable are ones coming to watch a fight or those at rodeos and ranching events. None of those people care about her past or what she looks like, just the quality of the work that she does. 

WRITTEN BY: Bird (she/her), cst.

BACKGROUND / BIO

triggering / sensitive content: assault mention, injury, mental health/ptsd, torture mention, military, manslaughter/death

ADMIN NOTE: heavily describes time in the military, mentions of torture, psychological health, and death/manslaughter; please use caution if these things are upsetting to you.

Sybil was born a miracle, her parents having given up hope of ever conceiving; options were limited in the small town and money was always tight. That’s just how it was for a cattle farmer in the middle of nowhere Texas. Though the Danvers' struggled to make ends meet, Billie, as she came to be called, had a rich childhood. What she lacked in material possessions she made up for in adventure. She started to learn to ride before she could walk and at the age of five was given her first mount; a pony named Chick-A-Dee. The two were inseparable, galivanting off with one of the family’s farm dogs in tow to check out every nook and cranny of her daddy’s huge property. With hardly any other kids around she learned to rely on her own company. Occasionally there would be an incident, a broken arm from climbing up a tree or a deep cut to the forehead that left a scar across one eyebrow. Once when she was ten the new horse she’d been tasked with breaking had bucked her off a ways from home. Knocked out cold, she was awoken by the shouts of her daddy and his ranch hands. Scared of what could have happened, her daddy put her to work on the farm, the time for adventures was over. That was how she learned to work. 

Other kids in their small high school would complain of having to do their evening chores or because their parents wouldn’t extend curfew. Billie however was typically up before the sun feeding and watering the horses and making sure their stalls were clean. After school and homework she was taken out on the range by her daddy to learn how to doctor cattle and manage a herd. There were a lot of kids who would have complained, but she loved it. Much more than her little brother who had come along when she was four. He’d been born right on the couch, the labor having gone too fast to make it to the hospital. Billie doted on her brother and despite the age gap the two were inseparable. Everything changed when their mama died. 

It was a freak car accident. A deep hole on a dirt road caused the truck to flip. Not one of them got to say goodbye. After that her daddy changed. He became more gruff and stern. Where once there had been time for fun now all he did was work and make his kids work. Billie loved her father, but when the for-sale signs went up she knew it was time to get out before the town swallowed her. Her grades in highschool had been less than stellar, more focus always having been put on the work at the ranch and so at eighteen she did the only thing she could think to do and enrolled in the United States Armed Forces. 

Wiry with muscle from her work on the ranch, basic training was a breeze. Billie was used to the early morning wakeups and late nights and was already familiar with the weight of a rifle. Her work ethic got her noticed by the right people and as she moved through the ranks she was given the opportunity to join Special Forces. Her brother was furious when he learned of her decision. He already hated that she risked her life overseas fighting in a war he’d grown up not believing in, that she had left her father and him in their grief. He resented her. Warned her that nothing good would come of staying so long away from family. She had simply scoffed. He should have been proud of her, like their daddy was. Whenever she was home on leave he would boast to the people in their new town about the work that she was doing and how important it was. How amazed and proud he was that he had raised a daughter who decided to serve her country. 

For her part Billie fell in love with the army. The structure in the rank and the camaraderie developed with the other soldiers made her feel at home even when they were thousands of miles away and on enemy territory. That feeling became even stronger when she was finally assigned to her Special Forces unit. One of only a few women, she had to work twice as hard to prove herself as capable as the men but once she had they showed her the respect she deserved. That hadn’t always been the case in some of her other units; some had sought to keep her down the only way those men seemed to know how: by force. After the first assault went unprosecuted by the military she learned to fight. To land blows and kicks that let her attackers know she meant business. Nothing was ever reported by the men; to do so would have meant they would have had to admit what they were trying to do in the first place. Eventually, they learned she wasn’t one of the ones who could be messed with.

With her time in special ops her body count grew. She stopped seeing people as people. They were a mission to complete or an obstacle that kept her unit from reaching its intended goal. Billie wasn’t heartless but it was the way she coped with the violence of her career. It wasn’t until her unit was attacked that a new emotion came into play: hate. A deeprooted rage that scortched her very being. The day had started calmly enough, everything seemed ordinary, the lookouts were unalarmed and a game of soccer was happening out back behind one of the tents. That’s when the bomb hit. All Billie remembers of that event itself is waking up to the sound of screams as men whose faces she couldn’t make out through the pain went through and ended most of her unit. She, along with three others, were taken. They were the least gravely injured though still hurt. Billie herself suffered from second degree burns along the left side of her body and her arm was broken in three places. The enemy doctors bandaged them up. Then began the torture. At first it was subtle; withholding food and water, pain medicine and antibiotics. When they still refused to cooperate it increased. To protect itself her mind went blank. There are no clear memories of that time which she can recall; only after laying in a safe hospital bed. It was there she learned that the others had died. The failure to save them, though misplaced, weighed heavily on her. Survivors’ guilt. Her dad and brother came to visit but she couldn’t bear to see them. She had failed. Let her friends be killed, tortured. She should have done something, anything. That shame weighed her down like Dorothy’s house atop the wicked witch. A feeling that became even stronger when the PTSD episodes began. When finally she was discharged, her side permanently scarred, hearing partially damaged, and arm healed, Billie fled as from the life she knew as possible. That was how she ended up in New York City. 

Unable to hold down a job she turned to what she knew; fighting. It was the only way to take in money as she refused the benefits offered to veterans. She didn’t deserve them. Just as she was beginning to feel secure, as the effects of the PTSD began to lessen, an accident happened. She had been walking home from a fight when a man bumped into her. Something in the way he walked, the sound of his voice, triggered her. Even now she cannot think of what it was. Billie exploded. All of the suppressed rage and terror and anguish that she held bottled up within her evaporated. It is all clear now. Now she can remember every detail either from what she was told or the evidence presented to her by her lawyer while she was locked in a psych ward. Three officers had been needed to pull her off of the man while she yelled and screamed and begged to know why he had done this to her. To her friends. Why did they all have to die? It took almost a week and a strong regiment of meds to bring her back to herself. Her shame deepened. This man hadn’t been a threat to herself. Wasn’t a target of the gang. He’d been an innocent man on his way home from work. The rest of her life flashed before her eyes. Manslaughter. Murder. Serious charges that had been leveled against her. If the district attorney hadn’t declined to prosecutem, she would be in jail. Realizing a city full to the brim with people wasn’t the place for her, she moved on.

Billie came to settle in Merrock, main. Her savings from fights and her time in the military allowed her to purchase a small farm on significant acreage. It took a few months and quite a bit of money but eventually Danvers Farm was up and running. A working horse ranch, it provides well-trained ranch horses to other farmers and ranchers as well as horses fit for competition in roping, reining, and barrels. The farm is her happy place and while it hasn’t yet turned a profit, she could never imagine giving it up. To supplement her income she’s been working as a boat mechanic. Her days consist of trailering a horse down to the docks and riding along them assisting those who can afford to pay. For more significant work the vessel can be hauled to an outbuilding on her land where she can spend some extra time tinkering with it. She’s now lived in Merrock for six months and the peace of the farm and tranquility of the water have been healing. Billie hasn’t had any more episodes. Still, she remains private and is finding it hard to make connections with how guarded her heart is. As time continues to pass, she secretly hopes to make this community her family.

#merrockbio #sybildanvers #assault tw #mental health tw #ptsd tw #military tw #manslaughter tw #death tw

[dazzlingpoppliolover]

My two favorite things are BEING CUTE and MANSLAUGHTER :3

#murder tw #tw murder #murder mention #death tw #tw death #manslaughter tw #i gotta tag this good good #pkmn irl #irl pkmn #pokemon irl #irl pokemon #rotomblr #pokeblogging #bronzetalk

[crowsfeathersandbones]

hot pink ferrari

#no context #madness combat #madcom #2bdamned #vehicular manslaughter #/ murder? #tw blood

[3minsover]

more murder boyfriends for the dash:

Rich kid Steve Harrington gets into an altercation out back at a party - it’s some nobody who thought Steve was flirting with his girl. Steve kindly puts him in his place, tells him that; “Honestly, I’m not even sure I’d call it flirting. I was just bored and she looked like she wanted a good time. Clearly she hasn’t been getting it elsewhere.” And sure, it’s a little unnecessary, but this chump is asking for it, all bravado and posturing. The guy pushes at Steve’s shoulder, tries to knock him off-balance, and Steve, well, he just laughs. Then he pushes back, two handed. Only, Steve accidentally shoves the guy a little too hard, and he cracks his head on the corner of a table. goes limp, a pool of red spilling from beneath his head.

No one sees it happen; Steve thinks he’s gotten away with it, that he can just walk away and not look back, maybe find that girl again, until a voice comes from across the patio. And a dark haired guy in a leather jacket steps out from where he’d been leaning against a tree. He drops a cigarette butt to the ground, steps over it as he moves towards a frozen, trembling Steve.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” the guy says casually, crossing the space to crouch down and place two fingers to the guys throat. “Or not,” he corrects, righting himself to look at Steve with a loosely impressed, smug smirk on his lips. “You make it a habit to commit manslaughter at parties?”

“I didn’t- he fell,” Steve starts, eyes flicking from the body on the floor to the heavy gaze of the man in front of him.

“Suuure he did, buddy. I’m sure that’s what the cops’ll decide happened. But not if you’re still standing here with that dumb look on your face. So right now, we gotta go.”

Steve’s still vibrating with adrenaline, with terror and…triumph? And this stranger just said ‘we’.

“We? I’m not going anywhere with you. i don’t even know you.” The guy smiles, all teeth, and offers his hand.

“Well, let me fix that: Eddie Munson, key witness. And your alibi.”

“Steve. Harrington.” Steve forces the words out, taking Eddie’s hand in a form grip and shaking it once, hard. “What kind of alibi?”

(The alibi, as it turns out, is that they were fucking at the time of the incident. Of course, they have to make it convincing - the pool house seems a good place for an illicit hookup, and that is indeed where the two of them are when the police come knocking. And if Eddie suggested that they ought to ‘make it believable’, well then that explains why Steve’s tongue is down Eddie’s throat, and Eddie’s hand is down the front of Steve’s pants.)

#steddie #steddie au #tw: manslaughter #3minsover #steve harrington x eddie munson #writing prompt #? #originally posted on twitter

[tang0w0tek]

Ranboo: I don't think we can manipulate, mansplain, malewife out of this one guys

Techno, holding up his sword: manslaughter it is then

#tw manslaughter #ranboo #c!ranboo #dsmp ranboo #dsmp techno #dsmp technoblade #c!techno #c!technoblade #technoblade #incorrect quotes #dsmp incorrect quotes #dream smp #dreamsmp #dream smp incorrect quotes #dsmp #WHY IS THIS ONE SO POPULAR

[3-2-whump]

Out of the Corner of My Eye 

<prev next>

TW/CW: whumper former whumpee, military whump, nightmare/flashback, PTSD, murder (technically manslaughter?) of a character that's there for all of two seconds, scars, noncon stripping, doing stuff to unconscious whumpee (not inherently sexual stuff though), creepy/intimate whumper, whumper with baggage

NOTE: The inner thoughts and opinions expressed within do not align with those of the author, who themself has never and would never condone such thoughts and opinions in real life. Reader Discretion is advised.

Thomas jolted awake from his bed, pulse thrumming like a jackrabbit and his breaths coming in shallow and rapid like he had just run a marathon. Everything was dark –why was it so dark? He quickly got his breathing under control and took in his surroundings. I’m home, he realized gradually, I’m in my apartment, in my room, in my bed. He sighed in exhaustion, dragging his hands over his face.

The nightmare had taken him to Afghanistan again, to a flash of light followed by the loudest sound he had heard in his life, to Young Tony –his little brother– lying dead in the dust and debris-

No, don’t dwell there, Thomas told himself. He pushed himself out of bed and blearily shuffled to the bathroom. Taking out the familiar bottle of pills, he shook out two tablets for himself and filled up a glass of water to wash them down. No amount of water would wash away the bitterness those pills imprinted on his tongue. He wandered back into the bedroom.

It isn’t even dawn yet, Thomas thought. Shouldn’t I try to go back to sleep? It took one look at the tangled, sweaty sheets for him to realize he didn’t want to try. He didn’t want to go back there.

He opened the bedroom door and quietly stepped out to the living room. His eyes were instantly drawn to a human-shaped form passed out over his couch. He approached the unconscious person carefully to get a closer look, all tiredness quickly forgotten as his senses sparked to life in the face of this unknown danger.

Thomas breathed an audible sigh of relief when he realized it was only Khaled. The boy had been sneaking out and staying out later and later, much to his annoyance. (They really should talk about that at some point, he reminded himself.) He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes; it looked like he had just enough energy to take his shoes off at the entrance and wander over to the couch before passing out on top of it. A silvery puddle of saliva was forming under his parted mouth and onto the couch cushion. It might’ve just been the darkness, but his face looked unusually pale.

Thomas leaned over the boy to get a pulse. He found it, thrumming slowly and steadily under warm skin, unlike…

In life, he and his little brother seldom got along, both being born of different fathers and a neglectful mother. Grandpa Tony, the one that truly raised them, only served to drive the wedge between the brothers further as he pitted each grandson against each other, forcing them to compete for their grandpa’s approval and eventually his title. Thomas saw through the bullshit much earlier than Young Tony ever did, which was part of the reason he ran away from the family in the first place. He never would have guessed his straight-laced little brother would track him down in his self-imposed exile, nor would he have expected his brother to follow him into the USMC and eventually to his death. Yet he did, and he died, and the motherfucker that took him would pay.

“Just let me talk to the suspect, just ten minutes, please, just ten minutes,” a younger Thomas begged. He still had fractured ribs that made every breath he took a living hell, and a concussion that made his head swim if he so much as moved too quick. But they had finally caught the bastard that blew up his squad –his comrades, his friends, his little brother.

The suspect was just a kid, no older than his brother was, with the baby fat barely shed from his cheeks and scarcely a hint of facial hair on his chin. Thomas began to cycle through all five stages of grief as he stared at the teen in front of him, though his mind hinged onto the denial, anger, and bargaining part of the cycle. Regardless of age or fine features, this kid was responsible in some way for Young Tony’s death, and damn him if he didn’t make the little bastard answer for it.

The suspect’s tear-filled dark eyes widened in fear as he backed further away until he was up against the wall. Thomas pushed his way into the boy’s cell and hauled him up by the shirt collar.

“You son of a bitch!” The boy made a satisfying little gasping sound, jerking in his restraints as the man’s fist met his stomach. “How could you?! You’re just a kid!” Thomas hit him again, this time in the face. “I don’t believe it, could someone like you really kill my squad?!” The boy was begging through bloodied lips in a language Thomas didn’t understand. “There’s no way, there’s no way! How could you?!”

Somebody should have stopped him. Somebody should have stopped him before he went so far. To this day, they never could be sure whether the boy in the cell was responsible for the bombing or not, but at that moment, to Thomas, he might as well have killed Young Tony with his bare hands. He hit him until his knuckles were warm and tacky with his blood. He slammed his head against the wall of the cell as he threw him around like a rag doll. And then, with both hands on that slender throat and a bit too much pressure-

Someone finally stopped him. It was too late by then. The suspect was dead.

In the darkness of the early morning, it was uncanny how closely his Khaled resembled that poor kid he murdered. Maybethat was why he got him.

“I’m sorry. I never thought I would take it this far,” Thomas whispered. He was partially addressing the sleeping boy, and partially pleading with the spirit of the boy from his past. He gathered Khaled in his arms and carried him to his room. It was reassuring to feel how warm he was, because warmth meant life. He laid Khaled out on the bed and debated whether to change him out of his clothes or leave him be. Khaled’s usually a sound sleeper, he reasoned, and nobody likes to sleep in jeans. Besides, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, right? Not that Thomas intended to ask for either as he began the careful work of stripping him.

Khaled unconsciously leaned into the touch as he gingerly peeled the clothes off him. He exposed the jagged scars across Khaled’s back as he pulled the hem of his shirt up. It was so easy to inflict those scars onto him if he just imagined Khaled was that boy. His eyes traced over every line, counting them in his head and naming them for every man he’d lost. That one’s for Callahan, that one’s for Trémeaux, that one’s for Martinez, that one’s for Tony-

A small, breathy moan came out when Thomas accidentally grazed his nipples trying to get his shirt off. It made his heart melt a little, while at the same time sending a familiar trickle of heat down below. “Not now,” he murmured, “but fuck, you make it sound tempting.” Thinking about the dead boy while committing acts of somnophilia on his living one was not high on the man’s ‘kinks to try’ list. He covered the now-exposed Khaled with a thick blanket and tucked it snugly around him.

“You were supposed to be my penitence, you know.” His index finger traced along Khaled’s cheekbone, just under his dark eyelashes. “You were supposed to absolve me of the sins I committed,” he sighed, “but here I am, sinning against you in the process.” He laid himself down next to the sleeping figure, spooning him like a lover. “So much for atonement, huh?” His lips lightly grazed the shell of the boy’s ear, right above where his own initials were inked in blackish blue. “But, now that I’ve had a bite, I can’t seem to stop consuming you. Look what you do to me,” he murmured, “How could I stop, now that I know what you taste like, feel like? I’m obsessed.” 

“But no amount of fucking you is going to bring that boy back to life,” he sighed, as if realizing this truth for the first time. “It’s not going to undo the fact that I killed him, is it?” Understandably, Khaled did not respond. He leaned over to press a light kiss on his temple. “I’ll let you sleep now,” he promised, raising himself from the bed to leave. He glanced back one more time before he exited the bedroom.

“I’m sorry.”The sleeping beauty didn’t respond. Thomas closed the door.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344

#whump writing #whumpee turned whumper #military whump #ptsd whump #tw murder #more like manslaughter but still #tw scars #tw: noncon stripping #doing stuff to unconscious whumpee #creepy/intimate whumper #whumper with baggage #finally a look inside my whumper's head

[mvshortcut]

#woe! shitty gif be upon ye!! #this is simultaneously the worst and the best thing I've ever made. everyone admire my creation #I have. zero idea how to create a gif idk how this happened #this process somehow involved both Zoom and Google Slides. #thank you gert for transparent golf cart and Nicholas (himb) #anyways. Happy Vehicular Manslaughter Monday to all who celebrate #not me posting this on a tuesday #the mysterious benedict society #nicholas benedict #ld curtain #flash tw #tw flashing images #just in case. for the text #tmbs #mysterious benedict society

[odieclipse]

had a crazy dream where i was in a creator clash with Markiplier and i said "well you cant hit me, im mist". and he punched me and his fist phased right through me because i was, in fact, made of mist. but because he punched me i dissipated and died and he was arrested on charges of manslaughter

#markiplier #dream #tw manslaughter #manslaughter

[itchose]

finding her like this brought him back to a place he's tried to forget for the last decade, with no real progress  —-   his baby brother dead,  a haunting image that anything can trigger,   especially something like this.    this is someone he’s come to see as a sister—   though he’s never had any real confidence in saying the title out loud,  nor has he ever felt like he deserved her calling him anything similar,   but whenever their relationship changed and turned into something familial,   he made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t lose her the way he lost his brother.   he would do better this time,   he would protect her in ways he failed to do for him,    he would be the kind of brother she could rely on for anything,  even her darkest thoughts,   ones he’s gotten used to from her and from himself,  a harsh similarity they share.

what’s different between finding her like this and his brother the way he did back then is that there’s so much more blood here,   too much that he’s not even sure how to go about cleaning it up just yet—   but their home is far from his concern,   his only real thoughts now focused entirely on her and figuring out how the hell she got like this.

@manslaught said, "i might just die, it would make no difference."

he’s been close to death more times than he could count—  close enough to feel something other than agony,   a relief of some sort that he was desperate to hold onto,  but it never lasted.   he and nat made a promise to each other long ago that they would never let themselves go that far—  but he’s never been certain that mikayla was in on the same deal, too,  and the more she struggled to cope with everything that was taken from her,  the more worried travis got that she would never find any peace   (   he could accept that peace wasn’t for him—-   but she deserved it,  more than anyone he knew.  )   it’s instinct to jump to the worst conclusion— to believe that she did this on purpose,  finally hitting a breaking point he always feared she might,  and her words do nothing to soothe him,  forcing tears from his own eyes as he frantically tries to care to her wounds. 

❝  it would.   it would make a fucking difference,   ❞    he blurts out,  ignoring the blood on his hand that isn’t his as he brings it up to her shoulder,   forcing her to look back at him.   he’s not one for eye contact usually,   but he doesn’t shy away from it now,  locking his eyes with hers in hopes that she can hear him.   ❝  it would make a difference to me.   i can’t—  ❞    he starts,  his jaw clenching as he sniffles,  trying to force his tears away,  because he’s worked so hard for years not to let himself fall apart like this,   but seeing her like this,  remembering the way he’s failed to protect his family before,   he can’t do it.   

❝  no.  okay?  just—  tell me what happened.   tell me what happened,  mikayla,  and we can figure it out together.  ❞    he’s never really been good at that,  but it’s all he can offer—   a chance for her to not be alone,  because she never is,  not when he’s around,   another promise he’s made to himself and to her.   he doesn’t know about her phone call,  doesn’t know about her ex-girlfriend planting roots to her new life;   all he knows is that mikayla could have died if he didn’t walk in when he did,   and it sounds like she’s okay with that.   he can’t blame her— not when he’s had the same thought before,  one he refused to voice,   because it made him feel sick with guilt.

❝  i'm sorry, mikayla, but i'm not letting you fucking die, ❞ he pleads.

#manslaught #thread: travis. #arc: travis / young adult. #unfortunate timing... we talked about this tonight then i found this in my inbox. so. hey <3 #the way this recontextualizes everything we've talked about for after his death makes me want to scream btw #wanted you to wake up to something good but what if it was horrible instead. :) #suicide tw #suicide mention

[killed-by-choice]

Janet Foster, 18 (USA 1971)

California legalized abortion a few years before Roe v Wade. Many pregnant people were killed by legal abortion in California, including 18-year-old Janet Foster.

Janet was told by abortionist Richard Neal that she was about 12 weeks pregnant. He performed an aspiration/suction abortion on the teenage girl and reported the abortion as uneventful. The date was September 11, 1971.

When Janet’s brother-in-law came to pick her up, he noticed that she was tired and weak. Janet suffered from abdominal pain and called the abortionist on September 14, who allegedly told her that he would see her the next day. She went to bed early because she was in so much pain and feeling terrible.

Early the next morning, the teenage girl went into convulsions and rapidly died. The paramedics were unable to revive her when they arrived. She was declared dead on September 15, 1971.

Janet’s autopsy results were horrific. She died of septicemia. Her lungs and heart contained serous fluid. Frothy tan fluid was in her respiratory tract. The autopsy also showed that her uterus contained “approximately 20 cc. of red-brown purulent and foul-smelling liquid with similar odor and color to an exudate on the endometrial surface.” Most horrifying of all, the uterus not only contained putrid fluid but Janet’s dead and mutilated son: “macerated, lacerated and purulent male fetus of about 19 weeks gestation. This fetus measures 14.5 cm. in crown-rump length, shows lacerations in the shoulder area, evisceration of the bowel through an abdominal laceration, and destruction of the skull and facial structures.”

Not only had Richard Neal given Janet wildly incorrect information on the age of her son, he had left the rotting corpse inside of her.

An LA County grand jury indicted Neal on a felony manlsaughter charge in Janet's death. The trial ended with a hung jury in 1976.

California’s early legalization of abortion caused many deaths, including Janet and her son. There was no reason that either of them had to die.

LA County Coroner Case No. 71-9846, LA County Superior Court Case No A310874 and Case No C34424

#pro life #tw abortion #tw murder #tw manslaughter #unsafe yet legal #tw ab*rtion #pre roe legal #abortion #abortion debate #death from legal abortion #tw graphic #tw mutilation

[dressupbastard]

Did you know i love incorrect quotes text posts so much? Because i love incorrect quotes text posts so much. Lmao, now you know 🙃

Anyway! ✨️

(I used a prompt/generator for these, and then edited them with his sprites, so that it looks a bit more fancy dandy than just plain text, lolol~)

Also i have a bunch more that i haven't edited yet, so consider this a part 1 (maybe) lol

#original post #rio ranger #toto noel #your turn to die #yttd #rio ranger yttd #yttd rio ranger #kimi ga shine #incorrect quotes #incorrect yttd quotes #orange #tw blood mention #the oversized sweater and vehicular manslaughter tho... #i feel so ✨️seen✨️ #/hj #/silly #i'll give it to him he's worth it 🎶🕺

[andytheaspec]

To the jackass who almost hit me because he just had to be on the freeway and then waved as if that would erase the fact that if I hadn't looked I'd be dead: This is why a yellow light is not a challenge. It is a warning. It is up to you to heed that warning. Unless you want to be on trial for vehicular manslaughter, I would recommend you heed that warning.

#pedestrian #fuck cars #infrastructure #andys tangents #tw death mention #tw vehicular manslaughter

[3minsover]

AUgust Day 22:

the great gatsby au (tw: manslaughter + murder)

old money socialite edward munson had a passionate summer fling with a bright-eyed, hopeful, romantic young soldier named steven. he promised edward the world, if only he would wait for him to return from war.

steven never returned.

when professional polo player jason carver asks for edward’s hand in marriage, he says yes. his heart is still broken, will remain so, but pressure from his family to make an advantageous match is too powerful. years pass, and edward’s life is rose-colored. he drifts through dinners and sunrooms like a ghost, keeps his steps light so that others do not notice him, do not look too close and see the gaping hole in his chest where his heart once was, a heart that he gave away to a soldier with no prospects, no property or land to his name.

at night, when all is quiet, he looks out over the water that laps at the shore of his extravagant home and sees the distant glimmer and glint of lights, hears the muted thrum of music, and sees a grand mansion illuminated by luxury and excess.

he hears of parties, almost every night, that take place at this mansion, and wonders whether one day he might know the origin of such conviviality. however, trapped in his loveless marriage and bound by duty to remain a beautiful artefact in his husband’s collection, edward simply turns away, ignoring the siren call of an emerald green light that blooms on the end of the opposite dock.

when edward’s cousin robin moves into the groundskeeper’s cottage across the bay, she attempts to strike up the old friendship they had had as children, becoming instantly fascinated by edward’s dearest friend nancy.

one night, robin invites edward, and by extension, jason and nancy, to a party. a party at the house across the bay. she insists that they must meet the host, that he’s simply a marvel, and grudgingly, jason agrees.

the festivities are in full swing by the time they arrive, strangers streaming through every hallway, drinking from fountains of champagne, splashing in shallow pools and dancing to the yellow cocktail music that pours from every corner of every room. edward is overwhelmed, overcome by the eccentricity of it all, longs to return to where it’s quiet and calm, where he may disappear to the safety of his own imaginings, where a sweet soldier offers his hand and his heart without reservation.

edward slips away from the group with nancy’s help; she guides him to a small room in which there is only one man, standing with his back to the entrance. his suit is tailored neatly, his hair slicked back with careful precision, and when he turns, edward’s breath is stolen from his lungs.

“steve?” he gasps, feet carrying him closer, lest this be simply an overwrought imagination playing him for a fool.

“eddie. eddie, darling,” the man exclaims softly, meeting him stride for stride, until eddie’s hands can clutch at the lapels of his suit. “you came. you’re here. you saw- it doesn’t matter. you’re here.”

“you never came back for me,” eddie whispers, gaze fluttering over steve’s face, because it is steve. older, broader, fashioned into something gilded in gold and sculpted from ivory, but it is him.

“i know, my darling. i wanted to, god how i wanted to. but i’m here now. is that enough?” steve’s eyes are wide, imploring as he cups eddie’s cheeks as though he were the fragile, delicate thing he feels himself to be.

and it’s not enough, eddie will come to realize. too much time has passed, too many bridges crossed and set ablaze, too much mess to be cleared away, but for now, for tonight, they might pretend. under steve’s gentle touch, eddie wills himself to forget jason’s harsh one, at the sound of steve’s sweet voice, eddie pushes away that of poor chrissy, the girl who calls and calls their home asking to speak to jason. he allows himself to be swept by the tidal pull of his steve, here and alive and everything he needed him to be all those years ago. and for a while, it brings him joy. for weeks after that night, eddie steals across the bay with the help of nancy and robin, plays make believe in the life they might have had.

until a dinner in the city ends with smashed glass and jason’s stern glare and steve’s cries that ‘he doesn’t love you!’. until eddie begs for steve to come home with him, dragging him back to jason’s car and curling his fingers around the steering wheel until they flash white. until eddie’s flooring the gas and he can’t see for tears, and steve’s carefully imploring for him to slow down. until the screeching of tires and smashing of bones, a shock of strawberry blonde hair streaked with red.

until a gunshot rings through the bay, a widowed husband standing on the edge of a pool with a gun in his hand and chrissy’s name on his lips.

until steve harrington floats face down in the water, and eddie can’t bear to even look at the funeral invitation.

in the end it’s not enough, and it never was.

#steddie #steddie au #au august #3minsover #twitter crosspost #tw: murder #tw: manslaughter #cw: unhappy ending

[adrianasunderworld]

so i dont see anywhere on your bio or pinned that says if your requests/asks are open so i will tentatively assume they are

(trigger/content warning for manslaughter, suicide (in that it is manslaughter disguised as suicide), dissociation, hanging, descriptions of blood, etc. like seriously its wack. also spoilers for OMORI if you haven't finished that game)

so in the headmistress rosehearts au with all of the bs going on, there has to come a point where yuu simply snaps. and many people break differently, some have a fit, some cave in on themselves, etc.

and in this state, its common to do things without thinking, things that you may even regret. and since omori is currently my hyperfixation, and i hate myself, lets do a thing, shall we?

so imagine this.

-----

ms rosehearts is, once again, making a big stink about something not very important. lets assume you goofed on a potion in class that day, and the mistress is here to deal with that personally.

from an outside perspective, you are clearly not there. you're standing there, head down, completely silent, nearly deaf to the belligerent nonsense spewing from ms rosehearts mouth.

you clench your fists, and start to try to walk away.

you are alone here.

ms rosehearts grabs your wrist, yelling about how she isnt finished, and that disobedience like this will not be tolerated. standing against the staircase, her voice taking on a whole new volume as she screeches endlessly about their insolence.

but you are. you are finished. all these emotions, hatred and resentment, and an overbearing exhaustion weighing on every bone.

why cant she just shut up?

a hand grasps the lady's dress.

another braces itself against the railing.

and

you

pushed.

the headmistress fell like a tower of cards, a flash of terror washing over her face in a fraction of a second. there was barely a moment to let out an aborted scream before her skull crunched against the railing, and she plummeted limply to the ground, sprawling out against the tile floor.

a race of footsteps quickly approached, alerted by the noise.

you stared down blankly from the top, your shadow blocking any light from reaching the woman's face.

ms rosehearts was faced downward, so its not like anyone would see her expression as is, but a faint part in the back of your brain told them it wouldn't matter anyway.

voices sounded from a nearby hall, getting closer. some were familiar, but you couldn't tell what they were saying.

you kept your eyes on the body, even as red began to seep from its skull in a puddle, like a perverted halo.

staring, waiting. for something to happen? you didn't know. should you feel something here? you thought you should. maybe. maybe not. maybe if you kept looking at it, you would.

why doesn't it feel real yet?

somebody is climbing the stairs. approaching you? passing you? you can't tell. you don't really want to know, anyway. so you keep staring.

"--u."

"y-u. pl--s-."

"yu-, pl--s- t-l- -- w--t -a--en-d."

"y--, a--w-r -e. a-- y-- o-a-?"

...

"YUU!"

it was only reflex that made you look. someone was there, crouching down to you, staring you down with emotions you didn't feel like parsing out. were they scared? you thought they shouldn't be. nothing was wrong.

you look back down again.

she was still there? why was she still there?

... maybe she needs to sleep. is she tired?

you don't look at the person, they should agree with you. maybe while ms rosehearts is asleep you can have some peace.

that would be nice.

you pull her up by her arms, ignoring the red that drips down onto your uniform. its okay. it'll go away.

head wounds always look more severe than they usually are, right? thats what ms rosehearts taught you, anyway. she'll be fine.

she's just tired.

but she's not really that heavy, like you thought she would be. she's pretty light. she really should be heavier.

it doesn't take long before you bring her down on a bed.

and wait.

you wait a while.

maybe she's just really tired.

what if..

what if she won't wake up?

no, no... she has to. she has to wake up. you don't know what you would tell everyone if she didn't. riddle is your friend, you wouldn't do that to him.

she has to wake up.

"yu-, -le-se."

"she -s no- waki-g u-."

"-uu, lo-k at me. she is dead."

she is dead.

she's dead? you bring back your gaze to her body.

lifeless.

oh my god.

she is dead.

what do you do?

how. how are you going to explain this? nobody will believe you if you tell the truth.

.. it was an accident, right?

a soft grip holds your hands.

"listen to me. we can fix this. nobody will have to know."

SOMEONE's eyes glow in the darkness. it begs you to trust it. it says... that everything will be okay. all you have to do is follow its lead.

you don't have a choice, do you? this is the only way out. even if it's unspeakable. everything has to be okay.

you pick up the body, and carry it down the staircase. nobody is here, but you feel eyes on you anyway. you ignore it. she is light in your hands. this is a dream.

faintly, you hear the creak of an opening door. SOMEONE beckons you forward. a light breeze presses your face, and the evening light meets your eyes, but you ignore it. you need to wake up.

you lay down ms roseheart's body in the grass. you do not look at her, keeping your eyes on the trees. everything will be okay.

you think you see a figure pick something up from the ground. you aren't sure. you dig your nails into your palms, hoping for one last shock to bring you out of here, to leave this nightmare. nothing happens.

SOMEONE paces back and forth in the corner of your vision. you keep looking at the trees.

shuffling... dragging... creaking... and pulling... all these sounds come and go, yet you refuse to acknowledge them. something is happening. you don't know what. maybe you can wake up again.

a hand rests on your shoulder. gently, another guides your face back down. a voice tells you to look at them.

its... riddle. his eyes are so tired, and tears are making their way down his face. the grey of his eyes looks almost white.

it dawns on you. this is real. everything was real.

he leads you back into the building, hand on your back urging you forward. you look back and you see it.

it sways in the wind.

haggard and unkempt, ms rosehearts would have never allowed herself to look like this. but she isn't here. her body is a shell.

everything should be okay now. it's over, you did what you were told to do, so now everything should be okay. you feel like you should feel bad for thinking like this. yet still you feel at peace. this is it. everything is okay now.

(you're a murderer.)

riddle follows your gaze, and stops. his eyes are wide awake, frozen in terror. you follow his line of sight.

an eye meets yours. your body grows cold.

you shouldn't have looked.

-----

anyway that'd be so fucked up right??? (yes halfway through is basically a rewritten version of the truth photo transcripts, stfu). WOW this is long my apologies oof

like just imagine how ruined riddle would be. his friend accidentally fucking murdered his mom, dissociated for like 20 minutes- totally unaware of how exactly both their lives have fallen apart, mind you- and then he had to help cover up what yuu did by making it seem like a suicide because otherwise yuu wouldn't be able to live at the school anymore, with no way to defend themselves because they currently had no understanding of what they did or what happened in the last hour.

riddle is a basil kinnie and that is the worst thing that he has ever discovered about himself

Literally your timing with this could not have been more impeccable. Literally the day before this ask was submitted was when my brother started Omori. I have not played, I was only with him for the very start, only up to the part where they go to the picnic and can save. So I don't know what Basil did.

Anyway, I love dark/horror stuff like this. It's fascinating to think about the state of mind of the character. Like what could have been going through Riddles mind in that moment? The decision to help Yuu and not avenge his mother. Very telling of who in this au is more important to him.

Also ngl, I thought for a second the SOMEONE beckoning Yuu was going to be Crowley. Like he was going to pop out and this was his revenge on Mrs.Rosehearts for taking his job and so he can come back, and this would be yet another thing for him to dangle over Yuus head to get his way.

#twisted wonderland #tw blood #tw suicide mention #tw manslaughter #riddle rosehearts #headmistress rosehearts au

[sukone-tei-official]

Do you want to steal a forklift and commit vehicular homicide together

Sure! Just don't let the cops see me, I already have a huge criminal record

@utatane-piko-official wanna join us?!

(ooc: so Tei has committed vehicular homicide before, R. I. P. Whoever it was)

#sukone tei official #vocaloid #vocaloid official #sukone tei #yandere #utau official #asks #tw murder #tw vehicular manslaughter

[cooper-magnolia]

i think i killed a man i didn’t mean to kill him i pushed him off the island he probably had people that loved him and i pushed him off i was fighting four people and i killed one why did i do that i didn’t even know his name

#pkmn irl #tw murder #tw manslaughter