#Language Erosion

[tmarshconnors]

Destruction Of Words.

In an era where sound bites and social media blurbs often substitute for meaningful dialogue, it is easy to romanticise the past. We look back to a time when men and women communicated with a grace and eloquence that seems all but lost today. Figures like Sir Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, and Martin Luther King Jr. crafted speeches that not only conveyed their messages with clarity but also resonated deeply with their audiences, leaving a lasting impact on history.

Take, for instance, Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. In a mere 272 words, Lincoln managed to encapsulate the essence of democracy and the enduring spirit of the nation. His words, chosen with precision and care, continue to echo through the corridors of time, reminding us of the power of succinct and impactful speech.

Consider also the speeches of Sir Winston Churchill during World War II.

His rousing addresses, such as "We shall fight on the beaches," were masterpieces of rhetorical skill, instilling courage and hope in a nation under siege. Churchill’s mastery of the English language and his ability to galvanise an entire country stand in stark contrast to the often vapid and disjointed rhetoric we hear from many public figures today.

In today’s fast-paced world, communication has become increasingly truncated and superficial. The rise of social media platforms like Twitter, with its character limits, encourages brevity over substance. This shift has given rise to a generation of public figures who often struggle to articulate their thoughts coherently, let alone with the eloquence of their predecessors.

Sound bites have replaced well-considered arguments, and sensationalism often trumps sincerity. The art of debate, once a cornerstone of democratic societies, has been overshadowed by the spectacle of shouting matches and personal attacks. This decline in the quality of public discourse reflects a broader cultural shift towards instant gratification and short attention spans.

We have singlehandedly destroyed the beauty of words. It often reminds me of a quote from the film “1984” which goes like this “It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words.” However it’s NOT a beautiful thing. The erosion of language can and has lead to a decline in the richness of human expression and communication.

Words are powerful tools for conveying ideas, emotions, and knowledge. When we reduce their complexity, overuse certain terms, or allow language to become a tool for manipulation rather than enlightenment, we risk losing the depth and diversity that make communication meaningful and impactful.

[deargravity]

thought a bit too long about hajun's bilingualism and it turned into its own beast in my head, especially because i overfocused on the pride cd track where, at the height of his emotions, he breaks out a word in korean to express himself. both when he's angry / upset after the confrontation with ryuu and when he's grateful / freshly vulnerable later after that conversation with allen and anne. i know it's a trait of his character to be repressed and insincere in expressing himself but i also wanted to spend time on how language might play a role into his self-presentation, and possibly it is reflective of how carefully he has to maintain and build his image. the language he learned inside-out, the language he was born into (korean) and the language he learned outside-in, the language he speaks to blend into the host culture (japanese), and i think that's the bare-bone fundamental immigrant experience that it might also tie into his sense of isolation and how carefully he curates himself to be accepted and admired, without really knowing how deeply he is loved by the people in his life.

when you learn a new language, if you're busy attending to the rules of syntax and grammar and morphology finding the right way to word things, how much room do you really have for putting in your own voice into that framework, how do you really express yourself in the early stages such that you are truly understood the way you want to be, even in regular conversations when you can communicate with someone in their language, so much meaning is lost between what is said and what is heard. especially when language is the conduit for understanding culture as well.

language has been shown to influence our sense of time and direction and even the range of colours that we see so it's not too far-fetched to mirror this learning experience with how hajun had to grow up in japan away from his family, and his language, and acclimatise to an unfamiliar setting. what i'm trying to say is that after having to internalise the idea that he is unloved by his family, the struggle of fitting into a new society might have exarcebated his loneliness as well, especially since he couldn't regularly speak the language he grew up with. how closely was his childhood tied to the language, how often did his feelings get lost in translation growing up, and is this also part of the reason no one has truly been able to understand him, the reason he doesn't bother with honesty after a childhood of growing up alone, thinking himself unloved and not worth understanding, and of course does that affect his relationship with vulnerability into his adulthood? how do you even begin to conceptualise this kind of experience as a kid? everything he learned turned into habit that became less about being instinctive and truthful and more about putting it together correctly, not just in a new language, but also in a new self, for a new place. if you get what i mean by the parallel.

on language: what language do you think with? how do you access and translate memories into another language? what do you lose of yourself in the process of translation? at what point, do you give up on translating and build yourself something new? at this point, aren't you lying to yourself too? of course, you'd also lie to everyone else.

i don't know if i've read too much into something and turned it into a headcanon, but it's just something i noticed in the pride cd track, when his mask cracks under the pressure and not just through language. that aside, i just thought it might be a good place to start understanding part of the reason why he's so emotionally shuttered and distant all the time. maybe it's language, maybe it's habit, maybe it's because he also has a very selective and flawed understanding of himself, and very likely it is also self-loathing but that's a conversation for another day, thank you for reading.

[21st-century-minutiae]

"S'up Dawg" is a very casual phrase in the English language meaning "hello." "S'up" is a shortening of "what is up" which is a rhetorical question used to say hello. "Dawg" is a vocative address, from the word "Dog." It implies a level of friendship and informality.

"Konichiha" (spelt with an "ha" at the end when written in English letters by japanese, but pronounced "wa" for linguistic reasons associated with the grammatical structure that is the topic particle "ha"), is a Japanese phrase that means "good day." In English transliteration it is usually written as Konichiwa. It is usually translated as the closest equivalent of "hello," thought, like "good day" it is seen as less appropriate in the early morning or evening. The equivalent phrases for good morning and good evening will be used instead at the appropriate times. The phrase literally translates to something like a sentence fragment drawing attention to "this day" (this is the grammatical role that "ha" particle that is pronounced "wa" assumes) without actually completing the sentence and leaving it implied.

A "Chihuahua" is a small breed of Mexican dog. Like in "Konichiha" the "hua" is pronounced more like a "wa" in English. The "Chiha" almost perfectly overlaps phonetically.

So, Konichihuahua is a mixture of the two, taking advantage of both spelling and phonics to make a nonsense word that is a pun. This is an example of a pun.

English speakers in the early twenty first century would likely be familiar with "S'up Dawg," "Konichiha" and "Chihuahua," despite all three being from different languages. This is in spite of native English speakers seldom being trilingual. The pun would be well understood by these people.

How do you say “S'up Dawg” in Japanese? 

Konichihuahua

[patalanagamanchilada]

[literaryvein-reblogs]

words for when your characters get into a fight (pt. 4)

Pain

ache, anesthesia/anaesthesia, distress, harassment, hurt, pinch, strain, suffer, torture, wrong

Attack

aggression, assail, beat up, blast, blind-side, bomb, brutality, charge, come at, coup d’état, embroil, encroach, fire, foray, go for, infest, insurrection, invasion, lay into, mug, occupation, offensive, onslaught, overrun, pillage, pounce, raid, ravage, rush, sortie, subvert, waylay

To destroy

ablate, abolition, annul, batter, bomb, bring down, burst, butcher, clobber, come unglued, consumption, coup de grâce, crumple, cut down, decimate, deforestation, demolition, desecrate, desolate, devastate, dismantle, dispatch, do away with, do in, end, endanger, eradicate, erosion, execute, expunge, exterminate, extinguish, finish, genocide, hara-kiri, homicide, jeopardize, kill, knock off, liquidate, mangle, massacre, murder, obliterate, paralyze, pillage, poison, prostrate, pulverize, put away, put out, quench, raze, ruin, sack, shiver, slaughter, smash, stamp out, subdue, suppress, undo, vandalism, violation, wipe out, wreck

To injure

abuse, ail, batter, beat, bruise, cost, crush, debilitate, deface, deform, desecrate, devastate, disagree, disfigure, expose, fragment, gripe, handicap, hurt, incapacitate, jeopardize, lacerate, maim, mar, mistreat, mutilate, outrage, paralyze, poison, pummel, repay, ruin, sabotage, scar, shatter, shoot, smart, snap, spoil, stress, taint, torture, turn, violate, vitiate, wrong

To make dirty

adulterate, clutter, mess up, smudge, stain, tarnish

To make hot or cold

air, chill, freeze, heat, melt, numb, refrigerate, shrivel, warm

To make wet

absorb, dampen, dip, drench, drool, dunk, extinguish, marinate, oil, permeate, saturate, souse, splash, spray, squirt, submerge

Military action

barrage, blow up, conflict, coup d’état, deploy, deposition, dethrone, disarm, draft, engage, enlist, explosion, incursion, induction, invade, maneuver, occupation, offensive, overthrow, rebellion, revolt, salute, station, volley, warfare

Bad person

accessory, accurser, adversary, aggressor, alarmist, antagonist, ass, assassin, authoritarian, barbarian, bigmouth, bottom feeder, bum, burglar, cad, captive, charlatan, clod, cold fish, conspirator, criminal, crook, culprit, deadbeat, delinquent, demon, derelict, desperado, devil, dirty old man, dolt, do-nothing, dope, dregs, drone, dumbbell, dunce, enemy, espionage, exile, failure, fall guy, femme fatale, fighter, firebrand, fool, fugitive, gangster, glutton, good-for-nothing, gossip, grump, hellion, hobo, hot dog, hypocrite, imbecile, impostor, incubus, insurgent, intruder, Judas, killer, klutz, know-it-all, lawbreaker, lemon, loafer, loser, lummox, mad person, maniac, menace, misanthrope, miser, mole, mountebank, naysayer, ne’ er-do-well, nuisance, nut, ogre, organized crime, parasite, pawn, pessimist, pill, placebo, prodigal, prostitute, psychopath, quack, rascal, renegade, rogue, ruffian, sap, scamp, schlemiel, Scrooge, shirked, shyster, simpleton, skinflint, sleazebag, sneak, sourpuss, spy, swindler, tattletale/tattler, thug, tool, traitor, troll, truant, tyrant, vandal, wanton, whipping boy, wimp, witch

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary Writing Notes: Fight Scenes ⚜ Word Lists: Fight ⚜ Pain

[pebblegalaxy]

Reclaiming Language: The Dilution of 'Awesome' and the Power of Words

What is a word you feel that too many people use? In the ever-evolving tapestry of language, there exists a word that has woven its way into the fabric of our daily discourse. A word that, like a viral contagion, proliferates with reckless abandon, infecting our conversations and diluting their true essence. This word, my weary compatriots, is none other than “awesome.” Once upon a time,…

[twirlytumblfluff]

OK but ... these are groynes:

Manmade barriers on beaches to help control/prevent erosion.

Much, much less commonly used a word than, you know, where granddad gets hit with a football on America's Funniest Home Videos, but still a word!

EXTRA FACT: Anatomically, the groin isn't even the crotch, it's the sort of crease between abdomen and leg, that goes from your crotch up to your hip. It's not even naughty! When you're going into hospital they take a swab from there to check you don't have MRSA.

brother what

[rocketbirdie]

YOU. You are correct about Cloud Strife. Everything you say about him is CORRECT

Hi I'm going to use your ask as an opportunity to go on an unhinged tangent about him below the cut.

I believe that EVERYTHING about Cloud Strife as a character makes total sense once you realize: it's autism.

Here's a character whose entire arc revolves around the erosion of his identity and his desperate attempts to adhere to an ideal image, at the expense of his own wellbeing; and how self acceptance is the thing that brings him back from the edge of despair.

Youtube theorycrafters waste hours of their lives trying to piece together Cloud's psyche, when the answer is just... autism. It really is that simple. I will die on this goddamn hill.

In Trace of Two Pasts, we learn that even as a toddler, Cloud really was just... like that. Unemotive and awkward. And the entire lifestream sequence in the OG shows us a young Cloud who behaves in baffling ways. Tifa and her friends invited Cloud into their group, but he rejected their friendship while simultaneously harboring a seething jealousy. How the heck does that work, huh?

Viewing this through the Autism Lens™️, his approach make way more sense. Fearing his own inability to read and reciprocate their intentions, he pushes them away, and the resulting loneliness crushes him. He mistakes that loneliness for anger. He turns that anger outwards and gets into fights. Because the other kids don't understand him, Cloud sees them as stupid and immature. It's the perfect recipe for disastrous distrust. The tragic result is that, when Tifa gets into her accident, Cloud is immediately blamed by kids AND adults. He's seen as inherently dangerous and unpredictable, even though he did nothing wrong. It's like they were already looking for the perfect excuse to hate him.

The worst part is, because he struggles to articulate his own thoughts and feelings, he starts to just... accept what other people say about him. He's a pain in the ass. He's a selfish brat. He could try being a bit nicer. Any attempt that he makes to argue, backfires and proves their points even more. He's being childish. He needs to get his shit together. Nothing's ever good enough for him. He stops fighting it and lets people drag him around and violate his boundaries, because no matter how loud he yells or how intelligently he argues, nothing he says ever reaches their ears. He trims away more and more of himself to try and appease others and nurse the constant emotional pain. (And that's not even addressing the entire traumatic *waves hands* everything that he's gone through by the time he reaches Midgar! That would have to be its own tangent lol.)

It's hard to watch as a player; the secondhand embarrassment of Cloud's social blunders is immense. Some people don't like Cloud as a video game protagonist, which is perfectly valid. But a lot of times, they justify their opinion by perpetuating the same damaging language. He's an asshole, he's a weirdo, he hates people. The irony would be hilarious if it wasn't so frustrating. I know Cloud is just a fictional character, he doesn't need to be defended from harsh criticisms. But I can't help but wonder what these players think about the "weird people-hating assholes" that they meet in real life.

It also makes me wonder if they were even paying attention. I think the games make it pretty damn obvious what's going on. He's an asshole because other characters treat him like one before they even get to know him. He hates people because he doesn't understand them, and they don't even try to understand him. He's a weirdo because he has a strange way of showing how deeply he loves and cares, and he's afraid that his love will be misinterpreted like every other emotion he's ever dared to show.

The autism is everywhere. It permeates his entire being. It's in his silly responses when he takes things too literally. It's in his painfully practical way with words. It's in the stiff expressionless look and the flat tone of voice. It's in him constantly adjusting his gloves, shifting his weight, looking down at his feet. It's in his questionable idea of what you're supposed to do with your body at a yoga session. It's in the half a dozen flustered high fives, it's in the motion sickness. It's in the contagious eagerness with his special interests in SOLDIER and materia and chocobos.

It's in the moments where the facade crumbles and we get to see the real Cloud, the one that Aerith knew was in there— the one that Tifa finds in the lifestream— the one that Zack gave his life for— the Cloud that cherishes the whole world. He's got so much of everything inside of his heart, and he doesn't know how to get it out. You'd be a weird asshole about it, too.

[lizbethborden]

Something I think is fascinating is the way predators have absorbed language around identity, psychology, self-help, well-being, and therapy, and taken it to convince people, especially women, that what we see, feel, think, and experience are not real. Because they don't come right out and say that rape is inevitable particularly for women and sexualized minorities, male desire is to be prioritized above all, crimes against women don't happen and if they do happen they weren't crimes and shouldn't be punishable and same for crimes against children, etc. their posts and writings and etc get circulated endlessly and any challenge to what they've said is painted as low, emotional, animalistic, "carceral," "fascist," "being a cop," and so forth. Nothing has changed in 3,000 years in the cultural schemas that ennoble and idealize the oppressor and paint the oppressed as base and brainless. Not only are emotions valuable and important sources of information and not to be discarded, but victimized/oppressed people can ALSO utilize their intellects to argue and theorize. Condescending efforts to infantilize and belittle only highlight the fragility of the dynamic between oppressor and oppressed and emphasize how that oppressor's inner security is built on this tottering construction, which they must shore up and shore up against the constant erosion of basic factual truth, to wit: they're not the only person in the room with a brain.

[inkcurlsandknives]

The generational trauma of displacement was only compounded when many in our grandparent's and parent's generation decided they didn't want to disadvantage their children by teaching us, lest we risk speaking English with an accent

I hope all those white boys shocking waiters by ordering in [asian language] all collapse into a black hole singularity

[novlr]

I've read your post on manipulative characters, and it helped a lot! Could you explain how to write manipulated characters?

Creating a character who is under the influence or control of another is a challenging feat for any writer. To effectively portray this dynamic, it’s crucial to understand the manipulator’s goals and the methods they use to exert their influence. Let’s explore how a character’s dynamics might change when they are being manipulated.

Behaviour

Behave inconsistently with the decisions they would usually make.

Second-guess themselves or hesitate before acting.

Gradually change their behaviours to align more with the manipulator’s interests.

Show confusion or self-doubt.

Rationalise or defend the manipulator’s actions even when they are harmful.

Suppress their true desires to please the manipulator.

A declining interest in hobbies or activities that they once loved.

Signs of stress or anxiety, especially when the character is around the manipulator.

Increasingly isolating from their support network.

Making excuses for the manipulator’s behaviour to others.

Interactions

Unequal power dynamics, with the manipulator often interrupting or speaking over them.

A lack of reciprocal communication – the manipulator talks, the character listens.

Physical touch that seems controlling or guiding rather than comforting.

They are asked to keep secrets or lie on behalf of the manipulator.

Receive subtle threats or backhanded compliments from the manipulator.

Show an obligation to tend to the manipulator’s needs.

Are willing to compromise their morals under manipulative influence.

The manipulator may use personal information against them to keep them in line.

Have other characters note changes or express concern about their changed behaviour.

Have moments of realisation or clarity that are quickly squashed by the manipulator.

Body language

Closed off, with crossed arms or averted gaze.

Physical withdrawal or flinching.

Display nervous habits, like nail-biting, or fidgeting.

Make themselves smaller or trying to go unnoticed.

Have trouble maintaining eye contact.

Forced smiles or laughter to mask their true feelings.

Physical tension that doesn’t ease, even in supposedly relaxing environments.

Mimicking the manipulator’s body language subconsciously.

Physical exhaustion due to emotional strain.

Contrast in how they act around the manipulator versus others.

Attitude

A gradual erosion of the character’s optimism or hope.

Displays unwarranted hostility towards others.

Is overly apologetic, especially for things not their fault.

A shift from self-assuredness to self-deprecation over time.

A sense of helplessness that they struggle to overcome.

A fatalistic or defeatist outlook on their future.

A growing reluctance to make decisions independently.

Show internal conflict between their beliefs and the influence of the manipulator.

Repetition of the manipulator’s opinions as if they were their own.

A lost sense of identity through a disinterested or detached demeanor.

Positive story outcomes

An eventual recognition of manipulation as a moment of empowerment.

A journey towards reclaiming agency and self-worth.

Forming new, healthy relationships that contrast with the manipulator’s treatment.

Using their experience with manipulation to help others in similar situations.

The development of stronger personal boundaries and assertiveness.

Creative or professional achievements as they break free from manipulation.

Gaining insight and wisdom from their experiences.

Finding support systems that validate and uplift them.

A renewed sense of hope and direction in life post-manipulation.

Finds resilience and new strengths.

Negative story outcomes

Continued struggles with self-esteem and trust issues.

Setbacks and challenges in the aftermath of manipulation.

Potential for downward spirals as a result of the manipulative relationship.

A lasting impact of manipulation on the character’s relationships with others.

A psychological toll, such as anxiety or depression, that may linger.

Becomes wary of future relationships, romantic or otherwise.

Inadvertently emulates manipulative behaviours learned from the manipulator.

Might sabotage their own success due to ingrained beliefs planted by the manipulator.

Struggling to regain autonomy and make independent choices.

Increased tendency to isolate themselves to avoid being hurt again.

Helpful vocabulary

Coercion

Gaslighting

Subjugation

Compliance

Devious

Subtle

Undermine

Exploit

Domineering

Manipulate

Discredit

Influence

Contrived

Obedience

Suppression

Dependency

Guilt-trip

Intimidation

Passive-aggressive

Psychological warfare

[linguisticdiscovery]

The unequal proportion between the number of languages and how many speakers those languages have

The median number of speakers for a human language is only about 5,000 people.

From the incredibly good book, When languages die: The extinction of the world’s languages and the erosion of human knowledge.

[thecreelhouse]

anxiety attack(ing me in real time)

Paring: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: The high of your shared love confessions becomes buried slowly over the following weeks, all thanks to your spiraling thoughts mid-flare up. You begin to believe you’re just not meant to be loved, but Steve has no problem challenging that absurd thought.

This is a follow-up to just a lover. could be read on its own, I guess, but you might be a bit lost. Read on AO3 here.

WC: 2.6k

Includes: hurt/comfort, some very brief smut, language, discussions of painful vaginal sex/anorgasmia, moderately detailed descriptions of some LS symptoms, angst, happier ending

A/N: yesterday (1/17) was lichen sclerosus awareness day, and this fic is a way to cope with quite honestly the worst year of my life with LS, but also a request for a fic with a reader who deals with anorgasmia. I hope it’s alright I combined the two— it helps for me to write about what I know, but I hope this still brings some kind of visibility and comfort to any readers with any sort of vulvar conditions and/or painful sex. love y’all <3 (divider from @/saradika-graphics, and title is from anxiety in real time - the maine)

Of all the torment your body drags itself through, nothing is as devastating as forcing yourself to keep distance from the one you love most.

It’s been weeks since Steve touched you— because you won’t let him. It took one severe flare up, starting a whole new treatment— even discussing surgery with your doctor, as a last ditch effort for your health and sexual wellness— for you to crawl back into yourself.

Beyond embarrassment, the way your body betrays you is isolating. Always has been. Always will be, it seems. Despite finding love in the one person you trust most, the one you’ve always felt safe with, this illness is still merciless. 

You had some hope, maybe, just maybe, after those first few times together— never fully having sex, only what your body could handle— there was a loophole to it all. That it just took being with the right person to be comfortable enough to actually feel pleasure, and genuine love, rather than agony and shame.

This body, though, had other plans. It always does.

Slowly, you drifted away; even if your rooms were across the hall from one another, it felt like you were miles apart.

Steve’s been empathetic from the start, checking in on you and your pain level, taking it day by day, keeping his promise of sharing “lazy days” with you, comfy clothes and all. Sex wasn’t a priority, nor did you believe he was ever that kind of person, but it was destroying you from the inside out that you couldn’t have that intimate connection with him. Not in the way you’d want, without caution beyond protection, losing yourself in the heat of the moment.

It’s as if the emotional wounds from this disease, with all of its life-altering symptoms, continued to get worse alongside your physical health. You used to be able to turn the thoughts off, float away in bliss with your partner, but the negativity only festered, rotting away a corner of your mind to make a permanent home.

Humiliation triggered erosion at the simple concept of only cuddling with Steve, or hugging him. The belief of becoming a disappointment to him seeped into your confidence; maybe you should push him away, so he finds someone better. Someone who won’t be such a let down, or distraught over their body destroying itself.

Your body wasn’t just destroying itself, it was destroying your relationship with your partner, your best friend, too.

Once the spiraling thoughts held strong enough, they were hard to shake. Even the mere thought of Steve holding you made your chest ache. An ache full of want, full of self-disappointment. You wanted to let him hold you, and you wanted to hold him, too.

But it didn’t stop the one prominent thought, driving you further away from him each day:

Some people are built for love— to love, to be loved— and maybe that just wasn’t you.

“That’s it, honey…” Steve murmured, forehead pressed against yours as he pumped a digit into you slowly, gently. You shuddered as a familiar sting drew itself up your slit. “Doin’ okay?”

“Mhm,” you lied, eyes scrunching shut with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You were losing the tender moment, rather than losing yourself in it, feeling the pleasure slip through your fingers like sand.

“So good for me, so, so—“

Steve’s praise was cut off by an involuntary hiss from the pain; his hand stopped completely, frozen, afraid to move incorrectly and hurt you more.

“Hey, s’okay, we’re stopping—“ He’d cautiously pull his hand away, eyes flickering between his touch against you, and your expression. “… You don’t have your period, do you?”

Your eyes snapped open, falling to his hand; faint streaks of blood tinged the skin of his finger red.

“I’m sorry, I thought—“ Your eyes became glassy with tears, threatening to fall as you shook your head wildly. “I was hoping if I kinda… powered through it, maybe it’d feel better.”

Steve sighed, murmuring a “hang tight” as he slid off the bed, retrieving some clean, warm towels, and a first aid kit. It’s one he decided to make, full of things either of you needed, mainly for your flare-ups during intimate moments; back-up medication and all.

“Why didn’t you say something was wrong?” He kept busy with a tender touch, cleaning off remnants of blood on you. Shame began to swallow you whole, and the tears finally broke. “Hey, I’m not upset with you. I just wish you said something. I hate hurting you.”

“N- no, it’s not you, I promise!” This is where the whirlwind of panic usually tied to these flare-ups begins. “I’m sorry, I was— it’s— I didn’t mean to—“

He gently shushed you, hands warm as they rested on your thighs. “Lay back for me, angel.” You complied, conflicted by how sincere he was caring for you, and how mortifying it was for him to see this part of you. “Be honest if anything hurts, okay?”

With patience and love, Steve applied medication to your agitated skin with a feather-light touch. In time, the sharp sting and inflammation’s throbbing heat began to subside; it wouldn’t go away completely, not for a few days, maybe even a week, at least. This was better than minutes ago, though.

Though you were grateful through the guilt for his help, you hated whenever he had a close look at how fucked your anatomy had become, scarred over time from a majority of your life without a diagnosis, without treatment. The unkind thoughts began to convince you that you must look grotesque to him.

He cracked an instant ice pack, wrapping it in a washcloth before handing it over to you. “Your bed, or mine? Or do you want space?”

Ice pack held to your core, you croak out, “Yours, please.”

Minutes later, you were tucked in next to him, in fresh, loose clothing, physically feeling calmer, but mentally, you were a wreck inside.

“Talk to me,” he gently commanded. 

“It’s- sometimes it’s hard to—“ you huffed in frustration, eyes welling up with tears again. “Sometimes it still takes me longer than I’d like to finish… sometimes I don’t, at all. I thought maybe it was different now that we’re together, but it’s— I swear it’s not you. You know that, right?”

Steve rested his hand on your neck, fingers brushing along your jaw, behind your ear, in slow, soothing movements.

“I know. It’s out of your control. We don’t ever have to do anything.”

“But I want to—“

“And I want you to be safe, and not suffer more than you already do.”

There was no arguing that, not with Steve; you kept your mouth shut, trying to settle into the shared quiet before falling asleep.

Instead, your racing thoughts kept you awake; if you’d ever reach remission, finally feel something other than pain when Steve would touch you, or would he eventually become fed up and leave? You wouldn’t blame him.

Couldn’t hurt to give him some distance… right?

A knock echoes over the shower’s running water, but you don’t react. Instead, you stay curled up on the shower floor, knees pulled to your chest as you sit under the shower head. Body quaking with heaving sobs, you don’t hear the curtain as it’s pulled back, and it takes a few seconds to register arms around you, embracing you with extra care.

“Oh…” You look up to find Steve, leaning into the tub to hold you close, concern written all over his face. “Steve… you’re gonna get your shirt wet,” you mumble, hiccuping in between sobs. 

He laughs lightly, but it’s forced. “I can wash those, it’s— that doesn’t matter. What’s going on?”

You shrug.

“Angel, c’mon, talk to me,” he pleads. “Robin called me, said she could hear you crying from down the hall.”

Well. That’s a pathetic new low.

It hits you Steve’s still in his Family Video vest. “Oh my god— you— why did you leave work?”

He scoffs, exasperated that it’s not obvious. “‘Cause I love you, and you’re way more important than some stupid movies.” Pulling back, he peels his damp shirt and vest over his head, kicking his pants off too. He flounders around on the floor comically, struggling to get his pants off before realizing his shoes are still on.

You snort through your tears, curling his own smile just a smidge.

“Make some room, I’m coming in to bother you.”

That pulls a weak giggle out of you. “You’re never bothering me.”

Steve climbs in next to you, wiping water from his eyes as it hits his face. It’s a snug fit, in this tiny bathtub, but you make it work. He takes one of your hands in his own, gently kissing the back of your hand.

“Will you tell me what’s going on now?”

“Are you happy with me? With us?” It comes out like word vomit, surprising you, and it doesn’t stop there. “Because I— I don’t want you to feel like you have to be with me, if you feel bad, or you’re worried it’ll fuck with our friendship, and the fact we live together, and—“

“Where’s this coming from?” Then he begins to connect the pieces. “Is this why you’ve been so distant?”

You nod reluctantly, adding, “It doesn’t bother you that we can’t have sex?”

“If anything were to bother me about that, it’s the fact that I wish I could make you feel good when you want to.” His hand cradles along the side of your face, molding to your jaw as he sweeps his thumb along your cheekbone. You hesitate from leaning into his hold. “This is all out of your control… and even if it wasn’t, and you just didn’t care for sex, I’d still love being with you.”

Your bottom lip curls into a pout, afraid to let your eyes meet his own. “You’re not just saying that, right?”

“Are you kidding me? I loved you before we started dating, back when the most we did was cuddle. What makes me happy is spending time with my best friend, being in love with my best friend.” Not a shred of doubt lies in his expression. He maneuvers around you awkwardly, but eventually, he’s got your back to his chest, resting against him in the tub.

It’s soothing to have his skin flush against your own; intimacy and compassion without it becoming sexual. As much as you’d like that, it’s good to feel this, that it’s something he’s more than okay with.

“We’ve survived so much, that I’m just happy we’re both here. We’re both alive. I’m content spending time together however you want to, as long as you are.” He kisses your cheek, arms winding around your waist. “Has this been the same flare-up this whole time?”

You nod, sighing. “I kept getting… frustrated that I couldn’t finish, and eventually—“ Pausing, you remember he assured you in the past the gory, unappealing details don’t bother him; he’d rather you talk about it than downplay it. “I’m so mad I can’t experience what I did the first few times we got together. I’m angry I can’t connect with you in this way. It’s not everything, but I’d kill to feel…  normal when it comes to this shit.

“Thought maybe if I tried some toys again, I’d work myself up to do more with you, but that— I just… I’m only making the scarring worse. My skin has been tearing so easily lately. M’close to saying fuck it and getting surgery, ‘cause I can barely feel my clit under all the scars, and I’d really like to just… exist, without my skin tearing and fusing, and infection risks.”

Steve rests his head against the back of yours, asking softly, “What’s the ‘but’ here?”

“… But, there’s a chance it can fail. Worst that happens is… nothing.” Sniffling, you mirthlessly laugh over it all. “I go through surgery, I heal, just for my skin to completely fuse back together… but it’s gonna continue doing that anyway, even with treatment, it seems. So… might as well take the leap, I guess.”

“Whatever you decide, I’m with you, every step of the way.” He turns his palms upward over your lap, and you take the hint, lacing your fingers between his. Squeezing gently, he sighs softly in your ear, tickling your skin, earning a faint smile. “If you ever decide you wanna fool around, you have to be open with me. If you don’t feel good, there’s no point in continuing. And if you decide you never want me to touch you, even outside of sex, I can respect that, too.”

A small sob leaves your lips, shaking your head quickly. “No, I— give me time. If anything, I still wanna cuddle and kiss and all that… maybe more if this flare-up ever fucks off. Just kept thinking maybe if I stayed away, it’d be easier for you.”

“It wasn’t, but I understand you’re hurting. Like I said, I’ll respect whatever you want, but I hope it’s alright to say I missed this, being close like this. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. We’ll take it one day at a time, okay?” Steve runs a thumb over the pad of your own, grimacing. “How long have you been in here? You’re practically a raisin at this point, babe.”

“Oh, shit. I’m probably using up all of the hot water—“ You scramble toward the faucet, killing the water flow, cringing as you turn back to Steve. “Oops.”

He snorts, helping you up as he stands, too. “C’mon, let’s get in comfy clothes, then we can do whatever you wanna do.”

“Lazy day?” You softly suggest, earning a sincere, half-smile from your partner. He pulls a towel off the nearby rack, draping it around your shoulders before grabbing his own.

“Lazy day,” he affirms, enveloping you back into his embrace.

Though the thoughts try to creep back, it’s easier to shove them aside in his arms. Everything feels certain here. Safe.

While the two of you get changed, your gaze wanders, taking in Steve’s figure before he’s covered up. He’s just so… pretty. Even all this time later, your stomach still flips when you admire how gorgeous he is.

Steve throws a sweatshirt on, catching your less than sneaky stare. You clear your throat, rushing to toss a shirt on while rambling out,  “I really am okay with kissing, though. Like… really, really okay with it. Very okay. A-okay.”

He breathily laughs, pulling you back against him, only to hold you. “If you’re okay with it, I am, too. And if you change your mind, that’s also a-okay.”

“Well…” your hands grip his hips, glancing up with a tiny smirk, feeling more at ease than earlier today. “Just ‘cause I can’t do certain things, doesn’t mean I can’t make you feel good still.”

Blushing, Steve’s eyes widen. “I- I don’t— you don’t have to do anything, that’s not fair to you—“

“What if I want to?” Your question comes out sweet, and it’s genuine; you still love making him feel good, at least. There’s ways to go about that without worrying about your health. “Would that be alright with you?”

“Uh-huh,” he breathes, hyper-aware of your body against his. You lead him over to your bed, gently pushing him back onto it.

“Good.” Crawling up over Steve, it’s satisfying enough to watch how dazed he’s already become. It’s a compromise you’ll gladly take. You brush your lips against his, speaking softly, “‘Cause I got a lot of time and touch to make up for.”

[fangdokja]

Her Hell, His Heaven (4H): Pain is a Love Language.

His wife was never meant to be free.

She tells herself otherwise, whispers lies between bloody teeth, carves escape routes into the flesh of dying worlds. But no matter how far she runs, how deep she buries herself in the arms of false hope, he always finds her.

Her husband. Her captor. Her ruin.

He wears many faces—an emperor who chains her to a throne of gold and blood, a regressor who unravels time just to break her again, an assassin who carves his devotion into her skin with a steady hand. The same psychopath who cradles her between cruel fingers, smiling as she begs for mercy that will never come.

His love is a brand that sears her raw. His touch is agony, pleasure, punishment—tangled so deeply she no longer knows where pain ends and pleasure begins. He teaches her with chains, with teeth, with hands that force obedience into her bones. And when she trembles, when she sobs, when she comes apart under the weight of his cruelty, he only tightens his grip.

She should hate him. She should claw at his throat and spit in his face. But the way he looks at her—like she was made to kneel, made to scream, made to take everything he gives—drowns her in something thick, something dark, something she should not crave.

She fights. He laughs. She bleeds. He licks the wounds clean. She begs for escape, but in the end, she is always exactly where he wants her. On her knees. Beneath him. Bruised, wrecked, trembling—his.

She calls it hell.

He calls it love.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Trigger Warnings (Dead Dove): Explicit non-con, gore and extreme violence, sadist x masochist BDSM, psychological and erotic horror, extreme possessiveness, unhealthy relationship dynamics, underage sex and minor characters, major and minor character deaths, psychological and mental health issues, heavy manipulation and abuse, identity erosion, and a love story that should not exist—but does.

♡ A/N. LORD, help me with this. I've written a lot over the years. But... this one. I'm genuinely dreading and scared of writing this story for once. But, I love my husband, so fine, I'm doing it! AHHHH. Also based on the polls, am I that obvious on my personality and tastes?... God please, I can't believe I just revealed my private shiz *dies*

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Table of Contents

♡ Characters x OC. This is a canon-divergent fanfiction exclusively featuring Various! Yandere! Characters x Original Character. Characters included are those I have NEVER written for in any of my reader inserts and other books.

♡ Ao3. Most of the content will only be posted in Ao3, due to to restricted Tumblr content guidelines involving minors, suicide, mental health issues, etc.

♡ ⭐. Author's Personal Favorites. ♡ 🔞. NSFW / extremely explicit themes (non-con, sexual torture, dangerous edge play, degradation, humiliation, BDSM, etc.)

♡ Schedule. The following stories are released or scheduled for release:

....

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on this post. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Her Hell, His Heaven.”:

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. On your way home from work, you encounter an injured superhero. You have seen his secret identity. Now what will he do about it?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x reader, (maybe a why choose with Dick Grayson as well?? Idk tell me what you guys want)

Warning: Adult language, verbal abuse, parental abuse, severe injuries

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it 

Part One: Is that Trash or a Man?

There is calm chaos when working in the emergency room. You get used to the cacophony of beeps and alarms. Of moans, crying, screaming, and arguing. You get used to being on your feet all day and moving from task to task, from patient to patient. You get used to it because there is no other option. People need care and they need it now. You either step the fuck up or switch to a different unit. Or move to a calmer, cleaner, less crime-filled city. Calm wasn’t really my vibe. Maybe externally that’s what I portrayed, but internally my mind craves the chaos of the ER. It craves the chaos of Gotham. And the Gotham ER was an entirely different beast.

I finished nursing school about a year ago. A lot of my peers used it as an out. They went to more stable cities in New Jersey that had better funding and less chance of getting knifed in the staff parking lot. I was one of the only ones that stayed. I definitely was the only one that worked in the hospital. I couldn’t deny the demand for nurses was high, and the paychecks were even higher at Gotham General Hospital. And maybe some small pathetic part of my brain wanted to make the world a better place. I wanted Gotham to be a better place. Every day I worked. I convinced myself that how matter how shitty it got; I was making a difference. Even if it was only a handful of people in the grand scheme of things. 

I could convince myself that I mattered. That everyone mattered. That these people deserve more. They deserve better; they deserve a second, third, fourth, fifth chance. If I stopped trying to convince myself of that I know I would give up entirely. Seeing gunshot wounds, stabbings, overdoses, mutilations, burns, crushings, poisonings, beatings, day after day is a lot like erosion of the soul. Little by little it wears you down. You become jaded and jagged with time. Empathy becomes blame. Hope becomes desolate. Love becomes anger. The only thing you can do is gaslight yourself into thinking you’re making a big enough difference. That you’re helping enough people. After all, the brain can’t tell the difference between truth and irony. You tell yourself so many lies, you can start to believe them, right? 

Gotham City: 16 Years Ago 

“Dad, when is mom coming home?” My small voice asked. I was scared to make Dad yell at me again. I didn’t like it when I made him yell.

“She’s got stage four fucking cancer she is coming out of the hospital in a body bag, y/n.” 

I fought the tears that burned behind my eyes. Dad would get even angrier if he saw them. It was stupid of me to even ask. 

I felt him turn to me. His eyes bored into my skull. Quickly, I looked down at his feet. 

“Have you tried again?” He asked. His tone clipped. I knew he expected a timely answer.

Involuntarily, my fingers ruthlessly picked the skin around my nails. The sting was grounding in a way. 

“No, sir. Well yes, I have tried, but I… I failed,” the last word felt like a hot poker being placed through my throat. 

“Look at me.” Breathing became difficult, but I looked up at my father. He leaned his face close to mine. I could smell Jack wafting off him. “What good are you? What good is having healing powers if you can’t heal your sick mother?”

The simple hangnail became a chunk of missing skin. I lowered my head. Fighting back tears. 

“Sir,” my traitorous voice wobbled as I tried not to cry, “I keep trying but… I don’t think my power is that strong. I can close cuts, fix broken bones, but tumors are… hard.”

My father tilted his head back and laughed. Hard. He grabbed my wrist as quickly as a viper, “If I could put your mother’s cancer in you I would. You’re about as useful as a wet match in a dark cave.” 

I couldn’t help the tears that fell down my cheek. It felt like I was involuntarily waving a white flag.

Gotham City: Present Day

I had to be stealthy with my gift. I couldn’t heal every one of the patients to full health right away. That would lead to suspicion. But if I could help it I could stop the major damage. I would heal internal organs. Replenish blood. Reduce ten fractures to two or one. It all depended on timing and if people were watching me. 

I was walking home from the hospital. I only lived about three blocks away. I got off shift at around 20:49. I didn’t start my next stretch for another three days. And I was milking my walk home. Stopping to smell the roses or whatever. That is normally not a very smart thing to do in Gotham at night, especially as a woman. But part of me didn’t care. 

Earlier, I looked at my phone and frowned when I realized the date. 

Thursday, May 19th. 

My mom died 16 years ago today. Waves of emotion flooded my senses. Anger at myself for not remembering. Sadness that she had been gone more of my life than she had been in it. Restlessness for what my father might do or say. Some years he likes to reach out. Others he doesn’t. But most of all I was feeling reckless. Like I wanted someone to give me a reason. Obviously, I would only hurt someone to defend myself or others. But there was so much anger living in my body, part of me hoped some idiot would try something with me tonight. 

So, I walked home. Slowly. 

Normally, you keep your head down and you keep moving. You don’t look or gawk. You listen out of necessity. I was listening just because I could. It was the normal stuff. Men smoking cigarettes and catcalling. Women were offering their nightly services. Random people either praising or damning superheroes. Drug deals. Graffiti artists. Fights. And of course, people who simply were walking home from work. Gotham had range and was never boring that’s for sure. 

But something picked up on the very edge of my senses. Despite my better logic, I turned toward the very quiet sound. It could have just been rats, but it sounded so familiar. It sounded like a death rattle. The thing you hear just before shit hits the fan and the patient codes. 

Without thinking I ran down the alley toward the sound. At first, it was nothing. Just trash and rats. But then I saw it. He almost blended perfectly in with the shiny black garbage bags. His cape was the same color but reflected the light less. 

“Sir? Sir, are you alright?” I walked hesitantly forward, grabbing my pepper spray just in case.

The man did not answer, he only garbled and coughed. My work brain took over my fear. Instantly I rolled the man over and began assessing him. I suppressed a gasp when I rolled him over and a familiar cowl mask came into view. It was cracked down the middle. His face was bleeding from an unknown location. His breathing was labored and staggered. 

Calmly, I closed my eyes and pressed my hands against his chest. 

Oh yeah. Batman was dying. He had several broken ribs. A pneumothorax. A bruised liver, kidney, and pancreas. His cardiac output was a joke. The man had no perfusion. 

I didn’t think. I didn’t hold back like I do at the hospital. I just healed. And healed. And healed. I healed him down to his bone-on-bone knees, sprained ankle, and fractured wrist. 

God, this guy had a lot of injuries. 

I was close to passing out by the time I was done. I had done too much, ate, and slept too little. My powers were demanding when it came to energy. If I didn’t eat or sleep within 30 minutes I was about to pass out next to bat boy himself.

I gave him one last assessment. After double-checking that he would live and that I didn’t miss anything I finally looked at his face again. 

This time I gasped. Batman was the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne? I shook my head like I was clearing cobwebs. I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Much like Batman, I didn’t want people to know what I could do. The last time people knew…

Just as I turned and took a few steps I rolled my eyes at my nagging thoughts. 

What if someone sees him before he wakes up?

Reaching into my tote bag I pulled out a black medical mask. I not so gracefully MacGyvered it across his exposed face so that it was covered. And with that, I made my way home.

My cat, Hashbrown, eagerly greeted me at the door. I nearly fell asleep locking it. I bent down to pick her up and gave her a kiss on her perfect little cat head. I ripped my gross work scrubs off, threw them in the wash, and crashed on the couch in my underwear before my brain could process what happened.

I healed Batman. 

I healed… Bruce Wayne?

Part Two, Part Three

[rosemorningstar]

Alright so

Boethiah “the font of inspiration” who calls upon mortals to leave their mark upon the world no matter the form.

Hircine “who is half the conscience of men” meaning the half of mortal minds that follows instinct and the drive for survival.

Malacath “who speaks all languages sideways” meaning he is a universal entity whose name and purpose has become distorted over time. Alternatively, he twists words to inspire rage.

Mehrunes Dagon “whose mistress is the blazing sun” meaning he was created by and serves the will of the Magna Ge who brought him forth.

Sheogorath “the comforter of men” meaning he who facilitates dissociation or a break from reality; taking mortals away from the pains of the world via madness. It’s a comfort to be free of reality but the side effects vary.

Molag Bal “whose breath is most foul” meaning the commands he speaks upon the mortal realm are palpable yet undesirable; a domineering root of suffering.

Namira “whose works works endure forever” meaning her design for existence is inescapable and inevitable aka entropy and decay.

Mephala “who threads the needle with the hair of wives” meaning she manipulates the bonds of loyalty to her ends.

Clavicus Vile “who always answers” meaning he’ll make a deal with anyone but the terms won’t necessarily be fair.

Nocturnal “whose touch is mink” meaning her blessing is soft, concealing, and expensive to attain.

Peryite “who’s foundation is falling rock” meaning his power is based in the same forces that move erosion and the passage of time. Incremental but nonetheless potent.

Azura “the rim of all holes” meaning her power is what facilitates transformation and dramatic change on a singular level. The movement of an object or being to dramatically different circumstances. A goddess of exodus and transmutation.

Meridia “who contains the plenum” meaning her sphere is one of wholeness and abundance. Something she offers at a high price.

Hermaeus Mora “who holds the paper to the light” meaning he reveals the hidden truths beneath the surface.

Sanguine “who tastes the shaven fruit” meaning he consumes mortals at their most vulnerable; when they’re inebriated or at the height of their pleasure.

Vaermina “weaver of the panoply” meaning she designs mortal delusions; the fantastical fears we react upon in reality.