#ABUSE is not a love language

[th1rdt3chnician]

who up hating pop psychology

[dukeofthomas]

Here's my controversial opinion; if you're trying to write Bruce as a non-abusive, good parent, you should also write him respecting his kids' privacy, boundaries, and not stalking&surveying them.

[whotfelsewantedtobelynnyx]

Headcanon that whenever Rosie finishes “cleaning” a kill, she’ll save the extra blood and bones and give them to Carmilla to use in her workshops.

Carmilla uses the blood to forge bone steel and carves the bones themselves into various decorative patterns to use as pieces for her weapons (the hilt of a dagger or a sword, the stock of a rifle, the handle of a whip, etc.). Since Rosie won’t let her pay for the parts (“Please, darling, it’s no trouble. They would’ve just gone straight to the bin if ya didn’t take them!”), she uses the smaller bones to make little pieces of jewelry to give her in return. Rosie’s absolute favorite is a pair of little skull earrings with tiny diamond eyes, all made of made of the bones and compressed ashes of an asshole who hit his children. She’s eagerly waiting for the guy to regenerate, because Carmilla promised to make her a full matching set if she brought his bones to her again.

[uncanny-tranny]

I truly hope that the younger generation isn't being told that when they are being teased or bullied it's because their tormenter secretly likes them.

Somebody liking you doesn't mean they should smack you, pull your hair, tease you, berate you, call you names, make fun of your appearance, make fun of your cultural background or immigration status, or anything else. When you talk about these things, you deserve to be taken seriously. Being written off is a dangerous thing, especially if you are being bullied.

Bullying is not love or admiration.

[lilithism1848]

[makoredeyes]

Seventh Seraph Officer's Revolver :: Damien-14

Damien's treasured hand cannon, dragged all the way from his days of the flesh working (voluntarily) as a security man at Braytech Exoscience. This thing's ruined a lot of people's lives, but it was hard earned, and a relic of some bad decisions he won't quite let go of.

The Bouquet is not a pleasant one:

Narcissus - Egotism

Marigolds - death, pain of loss & remembrance

Anemone - Abandonment & the forsaken

Scabiosa - "I have lost all"

[papercutslut]

Saw someone describe Bill's actions towards Ford as "mean".

Im sorry.

mean?

Several years of manipulation and at least several days of actual literal torture is "mean"?

dude.

[vamptits]

misinfo is still bad when it's used for "good" btw like you can't just say shit. you can't just say shit!!!!!!!

[angelbitezzz]

For the love of god sans give her another shirt (writing under the cut)

Prev - Next - First

Sans was woken from his sleep by a faint tune straining it's way through the floorboards and the soft clatter of something metal. Having a room directly above the kitchen when he had such an enthusiastic brother was the absolute pits sometimes, he thought as he rolled over on his mattress. Blearily, his eyesockets flickered open to regard his room, pupils sliding along until they landed on the blue jacket he'd left on the floor.

"huh. that's not supposed to be there." He thought to himself, eyesockets shutting again for a long moment before he registered the brown-red stain on the fabric. He sat up as the memories snapped back into his skull, the movement disturbing the little white dog sleeping on the end of the mattress. "oh. sorry, pup. at least one of us should get some more sleep."

He scratched at his backside as he stood, pawing sleepily for the hoodie that he'd left on his chair and tugging it on while he walked, opening the door to his room.

Oh.

"Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather...Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme...And gather it all in a bunch of heather...Then, she'll be a true love of mine..."

That wasn't Papyrus. The unfamiliar song wavered softly through the air as he padded to the landing at the top of the stairs, feet silent. The couch was empty...again. Hell, what was it going to take for that stubborn human to just rest? Did he need to tie her to a bed or something?

huh, actually, scratch that. bad idea.

A little flustered and more than a little frustrated, he descended the stairs. There was a good smell in the air, buttery and rich.

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair?" Angel was trying to be quiet, but seemed to be in something of a good mood. Her voice grew louder as he moved closer. "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme..."

Sans peeked through the entrance to the kitchen, halting for just a moment to watch. She had one hand in her jean pocket, his borrowed shirt baggy on her torso as she did something at the stove. The blood was still visible, dried now and likely staining the shirt forever. Damn. On the counter next to the stove was a plate piled with what he recognized to be pancakes. They were a darker brown than what he usually saw, but not because they were burnt? He didn't know what she'd done to do that. He stepped forward.

"Remember me to one who lives there..." Angel swayed a little, unaware of the skeleton currently standing just behind her. "She once was a true love of mine."

A heavy hand fell onto her shoulder, making her shriek and nearly jump out of her skin.

"hey there pal. just wanted to remind ya that it's past your bread time."

"SANS!" The human would've been yelling if it weren't for the fact that he'd stolen all of the air from her body. Her hand was clutching her chest. "What the fuck??"

"if you're not vegged out on the couch in the next 2 seconds, i'm gonna go wake up papyrus and let him lecture you."

The human pouted at him and gestured to her current activity, distractedly flipping a pancake.

"Okay, okay...but I'm almost done! Can't I—"

"nope."

"But—"

"no butts in the kitchen. that's unsanitary. what kinda cook are you, anyways?"

Angel deflated a little in disappointment, only for a thought to spark a sudden smile. She turned and grabbed a plate from the counter, then shoved it into his hands. There was a stack of three pancakes, still warm.

"Alright. But here—I already made your portion. And Papyrus's too. I'll just, uh..."

She made a motion like she wasn't sure where to walk, then shut off the stove and flipped the last pancake into the platter on the counter. Sans watched silently as she trudged to the couch and threw herself down on the green fabric like it had personally offended her, but her gaze quickly returned to the kitchen. In her face he could see that she wanted his reaction to her cooking; the eagerness bringing an amused thought of humans being related to dogs and melting his frustration.

Well. Far be it from him to say no to free grub.

He grabbed one—not bothering with a fork—and took a bite. It was warm, thin and crispy with a strong cinnamon taste that wasn't... unpleasant. In fact, it was quite good. He hadn't had anything she'd made before.

"...what's in this?"

"Oh! Well, my mom used to make us cinnamon pancakes when I was a kid. Wanna know the secret?"

"oh yeah? what's that?"

"Cinnamon."

"huh. who'da thunk?"

A pause.

"Is it good enough for me to finish—"

"not a chance."

"Damn it. You can't keep me trapped here, bone boy! I gotta be free!"

"i guess you're right. i mean, it IS a free country, after all. go ahead."

Angel looked at him for a long moment, suspicious of his sudden change in attitude. Slowly, she stood and walked over to the front door, still a little convinced he was going to make her go back to the couch. He watched her go, still chewing his way through his food.

"Okay. I'm leaving. Waaalkin' through the door. Yup."

"see ya."

She opened the door and stepped through, shutting it behind her.

Angel stepped into the house.

"back so soon? i thought you were free."

Confusion bloomed in her face. She looked back at the door and then at Sans.

"Uh. Yeah. Lemme just—"

She tried again.

The door shut behind her as her feet landed on carpet.

"you must really like us if you're not even trying to leave."

She didn't even dignify that with a response. After about 15 tries where she just kept walking back in, she slammed the door shut and properly gave up, huffing her way over to the couch and pulling the blanket over her head.

"well, looks like ya made the right choice after all. hurrah."

His voice sounded right next to the couch, making her peek out from the blankets to find a plate of pancakes being offered by the skeleton. Fresh, judging by the steam rolling slowly off them. Her stomach growled.

"here ya go. shortstack for a shortstack."

"...Thanks."

His left eyelid slid shut in a wink.

"bone appetit, kid."

The pun was enough to make her smile, bringing a foreign warm satisfaction to his ribcage. He chalked it up to getting a proper breakfast after all that nonsense yesterday.

Yeah, definitely that.

[midnight-roses-candy]

What’s my love language? Glad you asked, my love language is biting. But it’s cool that yours is acts of quality affirmation or whatever from some book by a homophobic pastor.

[selkiewife]

Tyrion's Seasons of Love

I’ve been wondering if Tyrion’s arc in the novels can be seen as following the progression of the song that Tysha used to sing to him, The Seasons of My Love.

I loved a maid as fair as summer with sunlight in her hair I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair I loved a maid as white as winter with moonglow in her hair

The song begins in the summer and summer is also where we first meet Tyrion. In the summer section of the novels, Tyrion is facing the outcome of his spring dreams being crushed- his past naïveté and hopefulness is examined under the harsh light of day. Because of Tywin's brutal abuse, Tyrion believes that the only way he can have love or friendship is through purchasing it with gold, as he does with Shae and Bronn. He also no longer dreams of dragons, as he tells Jon on the way to the wall. Yet it is still summer, and he is still somewhat optimistic in spite of himself. There is warmth in his relationship with Bronn and he falls in love with Shae in spite of himself. He also believes he is coming into his own as Hand of the King, using his unique talents to accomplish great things for his family.

Then the sun sets dramatically and Tyrion finds himself in a dark place. He is abandoned after the battle of the Blackwater and all his contributions to save the city are forgotten or attributed to others. He loses his nose and his position as Hand of the King. He survives an assassination attempt by Cersei, is forced to marry Sansa Stark, and finally is put on trial for a murder he did not commit. During the trial, Shae betrays and humiliates him (though she didn't really have a choice) and his father was ready to either execute him or exile him to the wall. Though his brother Jaime helps him escape, he also reveals the truth about Tysha.

After all he has recently been through coupled with a lifetime of abuse and trauma and Jaime's revelation, Tyrion murders both Tywin and Shae. Later, after escaping, he buys a sexual slave in Volantis called the Sunset Girl. She is called the Sunset Girl because she is believed to be from “The Sunset Kingdom,” (Westeros) though as it turns out she does not speak the common tongue. She also could be called the “Sunset Girl” because of her curly red hair. The Sunset Girl is very aptly named because she is a symbolic culmination of the sunset portion of Tyrion's arc. Tyrion knows that she is a sex slave and cannot refuse him, but he buys her anyway. It is deeply, deeply disturbing. He has tragically become "the monster" everyone thought he was. He is a rapist. He is a murderer. He is a villain. The end.

Except if Tyrion’s arc is following the song, it is not the end. It is only autumn. It is only sunset. It is only half way through the song.

Winter is still coming for Tyrion and for all the characters. And, there is still the possibility of "a dream of spring" for Tyrion. GRRM doesn't write easy characters and he doesn't write easy wins. He complicates the catharsis of Tyrion killing his lifelong abuser, Tywin, with the murder of Shae and the rape of the Sunset Girl. It is through these acts that the Tyrion we knew, who once defended and protected sex workers and who refused to rape Sansa (as his father instructed him to do) symbolically dies. As he says himself:

There are worse ways to die than drowning. And if truth be told, he had perished long ago, back in King’s Landing. It was only his revenant who remained, the small vengeful ghost who throttled Shae and put a crossbow bolt through the great Lord Tywin’s bowels. No man would mourn the thing that he’d become. (ADWD, Tyrion V)

But, the dead are rising in these novels. Tyrion is rising out of his own long night already the way he cares for and protects Penny, which is reminiscent of Theon Greyjoy's protection of Jeyne Poole. There’s evidence that he will also join forces with Daenerys and her crusade to end slavery. He will see the dragons that he use to dream about as a boy. The spring verse of The Seasons of My Love has not been revealed in the novels. Can this be seen as hopeful? Unlike a straight tragedy, Tyrion's future is not yet written. Just like Jaime's page in the white book: He could write whatever he chose, henceforth. (ASOS, Jaime IX.)

Tyrion's arc mirroring The Seasons of My Love song makes sense, because in spite of the tragedy of his life and the bitterness of his story, he may yet claw his way toward a hopeful ending. After all:

He had been born in the dead of winter, a terrible cruel one that the maesters said had lasted near three years, but Tyrion's earliest memories were of spring. (AGOT, Tyrion III)

The spring verse is likely the first verse of the song. Yet, it's reveal will be the last, ending the books with a beginning.

[peepatode]

good old fashioned 20th century flirting.

[thegeorgiatennantblog]

https://www.tumblr.com/ingravinoveritas/767679468900909056/excerpts-from-a-digital-spy-article-with-quotes

This woman doesn't know what a joke is, does she?

alas no!

I called my sister the worst names every day. And fun fact she's the one person I love most in the world. Maybe Ingrav doesn't have a sense of humour, maybe she was never in a loving relationship. Maybe both. But whatever it is, she has no right to take it out on Georgia.

[in-love-with-writing-whump]

TW: Implied Abuse, Strong Language

Caretaker couldn’t find Whumpee anywhere. They'd been searching the seedy part of the city— this is where they lived?— all night after they had stormed out after an argument, and still nothing. Caretaker didn't like this place, all grimy and full of faces that smiled with too many fangs to be human. The bars clamored with the worst type of clientele, and though their coat did little to protect from the cold, and the warmth enticed them, they ignored it.

They heard some murmuring from a small crowd, and their stomach turned to lead. They pawed their way through the crowd, glaring up at the jostling gossipers. They parted through the sea of people, finally able to see.

Whumpee laid there, still dressed in the less-than-winter-appropriate outfit from earlier, blood matted into their hair, skin all scraped up and bruised. One of their eyes appeared swollen shut, blood dripping from their split lip as they trembled in their unconscious state.

Caretaker shoved the people around them back. "Get the fuck out of here! Don't you have places to be?!"

The crowd grumbled but dispersed upon seeing Caretaker's gun. They crouched before Whumpee, cautious not to touch them. They didn’t want to scare them, instead letting Whumpee see their hands.

"Whumpee?"

They let out what sounded like a whimper, eyelids fluttering but never fully opening. Caretaker had a million questions, but sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose. They already knew have the answers, and besides, they weren't going to get much out of them like this anyway.

Caretaker stood up, shrugging off their coat, thankful for the thick top they had on underneath. They laid it over Whumpee, holding back a cry at how small they looked like that. They weren't supposed to be small.

"Whumpee, I'm going to pick you up now. I'm going to bring you home, alright?"

Their face scrunched up, voice too hoarse. "Whumper... No, please..."

Caretaker knelt back down, eyes burning as Whumpee's arm flailed, not hitting anything, just revealing more bruises and cigarette burns.

"I'm here now, Whumpee. Whumper won't hurt you while I'm here. I'm right here."

They gingerly scooped Whumpee up into their arms, wincing at how hollow they felt, like a strong breeze would blow them away. Whumpee's face nestled into Caretaker's shoulder, and as Caretaker carried them back home— their real home— they let that act as the smallest insurance that they might be okay.

[kotias]

YOU’RE RIGHT, AMAZON

THIS “I FORGIVE YOU” AFTER BEING KISSED BY THE LOVE OF HIS IMMORTAL LIFE QUALIFIES AS VIOLENCE AND FOUL LANGUAGE

[coochiequeens]

It feels like society went from men who didn’t talk about their feelings to men who used “talking about their feelings” to pull manipulative shit like this.