#SAYING SHIT LIKE THAT SHOULD BE CONSIDERED SELF-HARM

[himbosandhardwear]

Eddie scans the room, looking for who or what he's not sure, just keeping his eyes peeled for something interesting. It's Saturday night, a packed house, some of the usual suspects but some new faces too.

One in particular stands out, especially considering his Sears Catalog attire and artfully tousled hair.

There's something about his loose body language that draws Eddie's eye. He's out of place but he doesn't act out of place. Eddie can respect it.

Unfortunately, when their eyes meet, he gets a kicked gut reaction that makes it clear this guy is off limits. The guy looks away immediately, probably thinks Eddie is more likely to pickpocket him than buy him a drink. Oh well. No great loss, he didn't come to get laid anyway.

He makes his way to the bar, gets a shot of Jack and a Miller Lite and waits. Teddy will probably show up before too long, maybe they can bar hop. He sips his beer and looks around some more, noting the older Mexican lady who runs the flower stand on the corner. You wouldn't guess it just by looking at her but she can drink anyone in the place under the table. He should really get her name.

Sears Catalog has moved to a table on the right side of the room, standing with a presumed girlfriend. Their heads are bent close together. He looks up and catches Eddie staring. They both look away again. He's really gotta stop doing that before he gets hate-crimed. It's a known problem, his type being untouchable preppy boys. He's sure if a shrink studied him, they would say it was because he didn't think he was worthy of love, or some shit, but he can't help it. The straighter, the meaner, the cleaner cut, the more Eddie falls all over himself. It’s a miracle he ever gets laid. Thankfully there’s always closet cases. He swore to himself he wasn't going to do that anymore though, he needs to have some self-respect, not let asshole jocks use him and drop him the second an emotion is displayed.

“That outfit is hideous.”

Eddie jolts in his seat. He finds Sears Catalog smirking at him like what he's said is the height of wit.

Eddie wastes no time pouring the rest of his beer over the guy's head.

He stares back at Eddie in shock, almost hurt. Fuck him. He doesn't care, he's not letting some dumbass gymrat hone his bullying skills on him. Not today.

The guy's girlfriend jogs over with a handful of napkins, which is when Eddie splits.

“I told you not to use that line!” He hears her exclaim. Eddie stops in his tracks.

“But…but...he didn't even let me get to the good part,” Sears laments. Eddie can't turn back around, he's frozen in place.

“Yeah, dingus, because it's a stupid fucking line. I'm sorry you had to find out like this but not every guy who makes eye contact with you wants to fuck you.”

“I know that! I just thought… I don't know. Let's just get out of here.”

He sounds so defeated. Eddie did that. He assumed the worst and reacted accordingly. Like an asshole. Like a bully.

They're halfway to the door when Eddie's feet unstick themselves from the floor. He rushes to intercept.

“What was the rest of the line?” He shouts.

Sears turns, eyes wide, unsure.

His…friend? Looks Eddie over, unimpressed. “What's it to you?”

He winces. “Just…uh…I guess I thought you should know, some of the guys who make eye contact do want to fuck you, they're just too stupid to realize they're being hit on.”

Sears and Mean Friend make their own eye contact. Mostly ‘Beat it' and ‘Are you serious?’ and ‘Yes, oh my god, please go.’

Eddie respects their bond.

Once Mean Friend has sufficiently rolled her eyes and threatened Eddie with bodily harm should anything worse than beer befall her friend, she stalks off into the night.

“You should take it off.”

“Huh?” Eddie responds, stupidly.

Sears smiles. “That's the rest of the line. ‘Your outfit is hideous. You should take it off.’”

Fuck, it really is a terrible line. Something a middle aged creep would use. If he'd waited long enough to hear it the first time it would've made him laugh though, which would have broken the ice.

“Awful. Zero out of ten,” he says while grinning. “Looks like you already offended one guy.” He looks at Sears’ wet shirt, appreciating his own handiwork.

“I'll keep workshopping.” His hand comes up slowly, like Eddie might react badly again. “Steve.”

It's his honor and privilege to clasp Steve's hand in his own.

“Eddie. And can I say, your outfit looks great. It would look better on my floor.”

Steve practically twinkles at him. “Stop, I'm already a sure thing.”

He uses the hand still in his grasp to pull Eddie forward and smash their lips together.

When their grandkids ask how they got together, Eddie is going to have to lie.

[angel-in-your-basement]

It’s wild that you’re not OK with age play but you’re OK with saying that assault is a kink …. rape is not a kink! Why do so many people not understand that it’s CNC or it’s assault? Do y’all just do this for attention or what because I’m really confused on why you would think such a terrible thing could be considered a kink. Coming from someone that was raped before I was even five years old.. I just don’t think that we should sit here and act like rape is ever OK. like I said you’re looking for the term CNC, not rape. please stop contributing to men thinking rape is OK because they’re out here assaulting people in the real world when y’all do shit like this making it seem okay when it’s not. whether you think your little dumb posts are contributing to real world assaults or not, they absolutely are.

Hi there,

I can see you’re feeling really triggered by this, and I am going to explain my thinking, but first, I want to gently encourage you to take some time to self-soothe and take care of yourself, because engaging with this in a state of heightened emotion is not going to make you feel good.

I am answering this now out of the understanding that you are hurting, and this may be a good opportunity to share my perspective on these ideas, but I’m not going to answer any further asks about this. I don’t come on here to debate things.

Anyways, if you, or anyone else is interested in my take on this, here it is under the cut.

I’m going to address a couple different things here, with a reminder that is my perspective, and you absolutely don’t have to agree.

1. “You’re not okay with age play”

I actually am okay with age play, and there are some aspects that I, myself, enjoy. The reason it’s in my DNI is not bc of the kink itself, but bc of how much shit I’ve seen on tumblr of people actually being under age or seeking out under age people and using that type of tag/fantasy/etc. to do it, and I want nothing to do with that entire side of tumblr, as much as I can avoid it. Undoubtedly, there are people on here that are into age play that do so in consensual, risk-aware ways, and I support that, but I don’t actually engage with it online bc of what I said before.

2. “Rape is not a kink / it’s cnc or it’s assault”

So, we agree on this, except on the semantics of the language. Part of kink is exploring shameful and taboo topics in a safe, consensual way. It’s important to understand the limits of where play can become harm, absolutely, but I think that is very individual, and nitpicking how other people explore with no understanding of why they might be doing that is not productive.

With that understanding, it doesn’t make sense to me to say “well it’s okay if someone wants to be held down and have someone hurt them and not stop even if they say no, but they can’t say the word ‘rape’.” Language does matter, but it becomes counterproductive if we spend too much time prioritizing semantics over context and meaning. I prioritize safety, curiosity and connection, because that is what kink is about to me. I feel secure in myself that I can explore these dark fantasies without harming myself or other people, and that doing so is healthier than shaming myself for it.

3. “Do you do this for attention?”

I’m going to gently remind you here that I am also a person, who has my own set of trauma and bad experiences, and who chooses to process them in the way I choose to process them. I created this blog as a space to express myself in ways that I generally don’t get to in real life, because it’s not socially acceptable to talk about the scary/dark/repulsive thoughts that we all experience.

We are so conditioned to feel shame, and to shame others, and shame causes more damage than anything else does in humans, in my experience. Shame doesn’t make people change, it just makes them isolate and repress themselves, which leads to them dealing with their thoughts, emotions and urges in unhealthy ways. I choose to acknowledge the darker parts of people, and to be open about it so that we can learn to deal with it in healthier ways.

And yes, I do enjoy the attention, and I enjoy that people enjoy the content I create.

4. “You are contributing to real world assaults”

My question with this statement is basically: where do we draw the line? If I made the exact same posts and never used the word “rape”, would that make it okay? If I put a disclaimer on every single post, would that at all discourage someone who already thinks it’s okay to do these things without consent? Should I post about cnc at all, knowing it may be feeding into someone’s shitty ideas about the world? How much responsibility is on me, specifically, to prevent people from being assaulted?

Basically, it’s an endless rabbit hole. We have no control over other people. I choose not to take on the burden of feeling like it is my job to be perfect so that I never contribute to anything bad happening, because that is impossible. Instead, I choose to focus on the good I put into the world, and what feels good for me so that I can continue putting good into the world.

More importantly, if you want to make change in something as huge and pervasive as sexual assault, is your energy best spent lashing out at random people online? Or is it finding ways to help yourself heal, so that you don’t hurt yourself and other people? What about finding ways to support people who have through similar experiences? Or working through activism to support changing the systems at large?

I am very satisfied with the ways in which I put good into the world through educating people, supporting people and doing my best to be authentic. I have made a lot of meaning out of my suffering by helping other people.

If you genuinely want to make things better, find better ways to do it.

[theprettynosferatu]

CONTENT WARNING. NO, FOR REAL, READ THIS FIRST.

This story contains strong themes and graphic non-consensual sex. If you feel they might affect you adversely, skip this one.

Andrea is being tormented in college by a bigoted popular girl. Her daddy has always helped her... maybe he can help her get some justice...

CW: Incest, non-con, SA, orientation play (F-straight to bi)

I - No Expiration Date

She felt ridiculous. She probably looked ridiculous too, sitting against the wall, grabbing her knees, almost shaking, all in the middle of the hallway. Most made a point to not look at her, rushing to their classes, their dorms or wherever the hell they needed to be with such haste. Well, Andrea knew they only rushed because of her, to give themselves a plausible excuse to avoid doing the right thing and checking up on the poor, weird girl hyperventilating on the ground.

The worst part was that Andrea knew she shouldn’t let it get to her. If anything, it was Kate that should be ashamed of herself, not Andrea- fuck, to say such things in these days was almost quaint in its ignorance, and if Andrea chose to make a stink, grounds for expulsion. Would it be considered a hate crime? Maybe. But going up to the dean or whoever like a poor little victim felt so… humiliating. Perhaps more so than Kate’s constant, whispered words and stories. And some idiots actually listened to her! 

Andrea supposed that was the big perk of having a rich, connected daddy. Even the most moronic and bigoted statements found an audience eager to please, if only for the unspoken promise of future gifts, recommendations, networking opportunities. Shit, even the dean might sweep the whole thing under the rug just to please her family. Andrea could feel the rage building up inside her chest, making her almost sick. Part of it was the stench of injustice that surrounded the whole deal. But most of her anger was directed at herself. It wasn’t as if any of this was new to her: she had come out in highschool. Every insult and every joke and every slur had been thrown at her a thousand times over already. 

But… college was supposed to be different. Even the teachers that saw the abuse in her younger years had told her so. It will get better. You’ll get out of here, and in college all this will be a distant memory. That hope had kept her going even as everyone forgot her name and simply called her “The Dyke” her entire senior year. But those were kids. Kate was a fucking adult. And yet, bigotry seemed to have no expiration date.

Fuck. The bullying wasn’t even fucking accurate! Andrea had been openly bi for years, but apparently the nuances of sexual orientation were irrelevant when it came to making one person the butt of every facile joke, a stepping stone to get some sweet, addicting attention. And Kate loved nothing more than attention. Good, bad, who cared? As long as the spotlight was on her, whatever hole she had in what she called a soul was temporarily filled. Fucking go to therapy, you cunt! Did daddy not hug you enough? Used dollars as a substitute for affection? Boo-hoo. It didn’t justify a goddamn thing.  

Andrea took a deep breath and managed to get up. Her Social Psych lecture was about to start, and Andrea knew she would skip it, even if she tried to fool herself for a moment, to force her legs to walk towards the classroom. Step by step, she headed for her dorm room. Fuck. Another absence. Kate was even fucking up her academic life. But what could Andrea do? Go to the professor and explain that, sorry, I couldn’t make it because the rich girl made fun of me?

She threw herself on the bed with punishing force. A miniature form of self-harm, she figured. Sometimes she hated majoring in psychology: that little voice that analyzed her actions almost made her feel like she was performing her suffering, rather than feeling it fully. And that distancing might also be a defense mechanism. Well, shit. How does one turn their brain off?

Andrea felt a pang in her chest, a familiar longing for home. Sure, it wasn’t a perfect place and money was always tight. Sure, her mother had vanished when she was barely one year old. Sure, the old place was in dire need of repairs and an update. But it was home. Of course, she knew she was lying to herself by omission. She was trying not to think of the one person that made it a home, and inevitably, in trying to suppress the idea, it came to her twice as strong. Daddy. Her father was her home, and it made her feel childish, helpless, as if she was ten and running to him whenever things went poorly. That her mind still went to him filled her with shame.

Oh, bullshit. You know damn well why you don’t want to think about him.

She couldn’t tell when it had happened, exactly. It had been something slow, growing inside her, indirectly pushing her subconscious. If she looked back at her dating history, a pattern emerged, one hidden at the time but blindingly obvious in retrospect: similar to dad, similar to dad… and then, when an errant comment by a friend (“All I’m saying is, like, for an old guy… you’re dad is kinda hot”) opened her eyes, she swerved in an attempt to escape her feelings. Different from dad, different from dad… The problem with “different from dad” was, of course, that those guys were, well, different from her dad. 

The summer before college had been the worst. She did her best to be home as little as possible.

Before she knew it, twin emotions were boiling over inside her. The first made her feel sick to her stomach, made her muscles tense up, made her breathing shallow and quick, as if she was about to leap and bite some animal’s neck. It was rage, pure and shining, clad with the garment of a righteous need for justice. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fucking fair. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. That fucking bitch. She needs to suffer. She needs to be punished. She needs to fucking learn some humility. And at the same time, the second feeling snuck up on her, traveling in the shadow of the first, mingling with it until they became one, like snakes mating. Dad. She needs to suffer, dad. Make her suffer for me. Please. Please, daddy. Do this for me and I’ll… 

Andrea snapped back to reality, horrified. She moved her hand from between her legs, not even knowing when she had started playing with herself. Fuck, she was soaked. Shame almost brought her to tears, until Kate’s sneering face popped back in her mind. She had endured enough for one day. She had earned a little bit of fantasy. Just that. It wasn’t as if she’d ever do anything about… well, anything. But she could imagine, couldn’t she? She wasn’t that much of a coward- she could dare to imagine Kate, and dad, and… 

Fuck it. Who cared if it was wrong. She needed release.

Andrea let her hand go back between her legs.

II - The Call

Mike found himself staring at his phone. His morning coffee had gotten cold, but he took a sip anyway, almost as an automatic action. He couldn’t stop playing the conversation back in his head over and over.

“Dad, I’m on my way. I need your help. I… I’ll explain…”

“Andrea, are you okay? What happened?”

“I… I’ll be there in about an hour. I kinda… I don’t want to talk over the phone. Dad, I… nevermind. We’ll talk when I get there.”

And that had been it. No clues, no hint, nothing to guide him except the tone in his daughter’s voice. She was scared, and she was suffering, and that was all that he needed to know. Whatever it was that was harming her girl, he’d move Heaven and Earth to make it better. That much he knew, deep in his heart. Still, he couldn’t stop picturing the worst possible scenarios.

He tried to remain calm. Sexual assault on college campuses is… 

Mike pushed the thought away.  

Restrictions on reproductive rights have…

Snippets of news stories slapped him. The world could be a terrifying place for a young woman. But that was why they had chosen a college close to home. So Andrea could always come to him if she needed help. And she clearly needed help. Stay focused, old man. She needs you to be strong. Don’t let her see you panic. 

He needed to be strong for her. That was all he always wanted to be, more than anything: a rock, a place of stability, a North Star for the one thing that mattered in his life. They had faced the world together. They had survived poverty together. They had endured the pain of an absent mother and wife together. They had managed a retrograde high school that tormented Andrea together. She had saved his life as much as he had fostered hers. Without his girl, Mike wasn’t sure where he would be- perhaps underground. She had been the reason to dig deep, to find strength, to endure, always. 

Don’t let her see you panic.

Don’t let her see you looking at her.

He shook the intrusive thought off. Andrea needed him, not his fucked up neuroses, not the secret shame the last months of living together had awakened in him.

One hour stretched into a year, and Mike practically leaped out the door as soon as he heard the car pulling over. The first thing he noticed was his daughter’s panicked face, and that alone was enough to make his heart feel like it was about to burst out of his chest. The second thing he noticed was the other girl, passed out in the passenger’s seat. Andrea rushed into his arms, and he held her tight, trying to will some degree of peace into her mind. First things first.

“Are you okay?”, he asked.

“Yes, I’m… I’m fine.”, Andrea sobbed.

Good. Now to do what he did best: fix things.

“Ok, so, your friend…”

“She’s not my friend.”

“What did she take? Did you take anything? Look, I’m not… I won’t get mad, I just need to know what she may have taken… is it just booze? No, couldn’t be… Benzos? Or… Christ, I don’t know what you guys take these days in college…”

“Dad! She didn’t take anything!”

“Are you sure? Maybe she went into some bathroom and did something… okay. First things. We need to call an ambulance…”

“Dad, please! Listen to me! I’ll explain everything. But we need to get her inside before anyone sees-”

“Andrea, this girl is passed out! She needs medical attention! Who knows what-”

“I know what she took because I gave it to her, okay? She’s just asleep! And she should be asleep for… maybe another couple of hours. Daddy, please… I swear I’ll explain. Just help me get her into the house, okay?”

Mike felt dumbfounded. The idea that his Andrea had roofied some other girl was so distant from his image of her, from the girl he had raised, that the contradiction felt impossible to resolve. It was a paralyzing feeling, one he couldn’t entirely put into words. All he knew was he didnt like it one bit. He was a man of action. He needed to do things, more than ponder feelings. And the thing to do, if only to escape that horrid sensation, was to get the poor girl out of the car.

They dragged Kate into the house, and laid her down on Andrea’s bed- a task that, Mike noticed, his daughter undertook with less care than he would have liked. Back in the living room, he looked at his daughter and put on his best stern face. Stern was good. It hid other ideas that came into his mind when he looked directly at Andrea.

“Explain.”

Andrea broke down in tears.

“Daddy, that girl… Kate.. she’s… she’s making my life Hell! She tortures me every day, makes fun of me, spreads rumors about me… people think… I don’t even know what they think about me anymore. So I can’t make any friends. Just like high school. It’s the same damn thing! And they all said… you said college would be different! But it’s not! Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I’m just… I don’t know. Broken. Maybe people can smell I’m weird, or weak, or… and they know they can abuse me and mock me and… It’s not fair! And I didn’t know what to do, I wasn’t thinking straight… I just put a couple of pills in her tea, and… I freaked out. I needed to feel safe, and I feel safe here… with you.”

Mike took it all in. He had to admit the sight of his precious daughter in such despair was enough to pierce any ideas of being tough he might have. And yes, it wasn’t fair. The world wasn’t fair at all. Andrea was beautiful, smart, creative… but there would always be those people who couldn’t understand someone being different, loving who they loved, being their authentic self. He got the anger. He got the frustration. He hated that Andrea had been driven to this point. But there was a big thing to address.

“Honey… I know… but you can’t just… just… kidnap someone!”

Andrea couldn’t help herself. She ran into her father’s arms, and hugged him tight.

“Daddy… I didn’t know what to do. I…”

She went silent. Mike couldn’t find the words to console her, to lecture her, to say anything at all. All he could do was feel the warmth of her body pressed against him, intuit her soft curves, take in the smell of her shampoo, her skin. It was intoxicating, and for once he let himself feel… whatever it was he was feeling. He let himself enjoy the moment, and even the sleeping girl in the bedroom seemed to fade away from his consciousness. They simply lingered, holding each other, taking it all in.

Such a moment couldn’t last. It shouldn’t last. Mike forced himself to speak, to say… whatever he could muster.

“What… I don’t know what you expect me to do…”

He felt Andrea’s hands on his back holding him tighter. He felt her warm breath on his ear, sending shivers down his spine as she whispered before the words even registered in his brain.

“Daddy… please… fuck her for me. Fucking rape the cunt… show her her place. Daddy… break her with your cock. For me.”

III - Persuasion 

Andrea couldn’t tell exactly what happened to her, what shifted within herself in that embrace, what dam had finally broken in her mind. Even as her father pushed her away with a horrified look on his face, she could see him- almost as if for the first time. A veil that had been dulling her sight for so, so long had finally vanished. Yes, she saw everything so clearly now, with such simple purity, devoid of fear or shame or silly excuses. It was a bizarre sensation, to finally be able to accept without doubt or hesitation the truth, so long buried.

She wanted to fuck him.

He wanted to fuck her.

So obvious. So simple. So powerful. Andrea wasn’t going to run away from it anymore. And she could see, under the mask of horror worn by her father, beneath the shock in his eyes, something else. Stirring. 

Suddenly, Andrea felt powerful. Immense. Sexy. In control. The fact that she had become one with her secret desires and he hadn’t brought a predatory joy to her chest… and something else, both an anger and a need. In her heart she could see not just what her father was but what he could be, what he could become, what he needed to be. She could almost smell it- the strong, conquering Man suffocated by the dull veneer of morality and social norms. Yes, she felt powerful- but she didn’t need to be strong. She needed to be taken by him. She needed to bring the beast forth, somehow. To make him see himself as she saw him. To make him see her as she wanted to be seen.

She smiled inside, even as her father almost recoiled from her. It was all a game, now. One she intended to win.

In the blink of an eye her entire demeanor, her posture, the way she looked at her father shifted. For a second she was the perfect picture of innocence, of a young woman in need of rescue.

“Daddy… please… I need your help. Won’t you help your little girl? I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be so… so good to you, Daddy. I’ll be your good little girl. Your obedient… slutty… little daughter”, she smiled as she took one step towards her father, her body now swaying like a cat slowly approaching its prey. She took a moment to delight in the confusion in her father’s eyes, the tension increasing almost to a breaking point.

“I… what are you…”, managed to mumble Mike. Oh, it was so pathetic it became cute.

“Daddy… you think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me recently? It must be so, so hard for you… to see your little girl all grown up, and you all alone… that’s not fair, is it?”, said Andrea as she closed the distance with her now paralyzed father. Oh, this was too much fun. “You have been a bad daddy in your mind, haven’t you? That sounds so painful! Knowing it’s soooo wrong to think about your little girl like that… having to pretend you don’t want to… Fuck. Your. Daughter. Oh daddy, don’t blush! Surprised to hear such naughty words coming from my cute mouth? Or… do you like me having such a potty mouth?”

Andrea, in a swift motion ran her hand over her father’s crotch. Yes. She could feel it. So hard. So warm. She was right. He was breaking.

“Feels like your daddy cock likes me talking like a dirty slut! Don’t be ashamed! I love to imagine your cock getting so hard for me… I love to know I can make it so, so happy… And only using my words! Just talking like the hopeless little fucking whore I am… for you… just knowing you can use my tight holes whenever you want… however you want… and I’ll take it like a good girl! I am your good girl, daddy. You made me, after all… you own me… you can own every inch of my slutty, smooth body…”

Suddenly, she took a step back, her eyes almost in tears. She was the very picture of anguish, of despair, of vulnerability. Mike opened his mouth to speak, but he found no words came to him. He just watched, fighting his need to hug her, to protect her, to tell her he would make everything right again.

“Daddy… I’m so sorry… I don’t know what got into me. I just feel so confused, so disoriented, and… I don’t know. It’s like I have all these feelings inside me and they get all mixed up and I can’t really tell what I feel anymore, and it hurts so much. It hurts, Daddy. And that girl… Kate… I can’t tell you how much she’s hurt me, how she has been messing with my mind and making me so miserable… and… and I guess, I’m not sure, just… I thought you could help me, Daddy. You always could help me. You always could make me feel like everything would be okay, that I wasn’t a freak, or…”

“Honey, you are not a freak! You know this. You’ve been so brave, so strong, so true to yourself, even when everyone gave you grief over it!” He couldn’t help himself anymore. He held his sweet girl in his arms.

“But I… I did a bad thing, Daddy. I brought Kate here… I couldn’t think of anything else to do to make her stop, to make her leave me alone…”

“I know. And yes, you did a… wrong thing. But that doesn’t make you a monster, or evil or anything like that, okay? We’ll… I’ll find a way… I’ll help you. I’ll… fix it, somehow.”

“Will you rape her for me? Will you punish her with your cock for hurting your little girl? I’ll be so, so good for you if you do it, daddy… I’ll be the bestest daughter ever for you!”

Mike tried to pull away before he was interrupted by the sensation of warm, soft lips on his own. Time stopped. He felt dizzy, trapped in the feeling, the scent of skin, the rush of adrenaline in his chest. He panicked as he realized he didn’t stop it in time. He didn’t stop it as time stretched. He wasn’t stopping it even as the thoughts flooded his mind. It took Mike every ounce of willpower to push his daughter away.

Oh, it was so fun to see her Daddy so confused, so aroused, so disoriented. But Kate would wake up soon. Andrea needed to land the killing blow on whatever resistance her dear dad had left.

“I’m sorry Daddy… it’s just that I love you so, so much…” One slow, seductive step towards him. “I was bad, Daddy. I shouldn’t have done that, right? Does that make me a bad girl? A bad daughter?” Another step. So close now. “I’m so, so sorry for being bad, Daddy. I’m sorry I made your cock all hard for me and teased you and used all those dirty, dirty words. Will you punish me, Daddy? Will you make me good again, show me my place? I think you should. I think you should take your cock, and-”

One final step, and Mike snapped. For the first time in his life, he slapped his daughter. Horror set on his face, and it became a mixture of bewilderment and fire when he noticed Andrea’s reaction. She was smiling.

“Mmmmh… so strong, Daddy. Do it again. Punish me. Show me you own me. Make me your bitch!”

It was over for Mike. Something primal, something awful had taken hold of him. 

His hand on her neck. Hers rubbing his cock over his pants. Her soft moans. Kisses that turned into bites. His own mumbled, jumbled words. Little cunt. Evil fucking bitch. Her words, playing off his. Your little cunt. Your good little girl. Her face against the wall. Her movements, grinding her ass against him. Her hands on his chest, pushing him back. 

So many lines crossed. Mike knew, deep down, he had broken something inside himself. Or maybe she had broken it in him. It didn’t matter. He looked down at the beautiful, perfect woman kneeling and smiling. He saw his daughter, yes, but his eyes were now different. The barrier that kept the idea of “daughter” and “sex” apart simply didn’t exist anymore. He felt adrift, caught by a whirlwind he couldn’t stop- one he didn’t want to stop. 

Victory. It looked like victory. Victory over herself, over her old fears. Victory over his attempts at doing the “right thing”. Further victory to come, as well. And it didn’t hurt that the cock that made her was a rather large one, veiny and beautiful. He tried to keep herself in check. She knew exactly what to do, which went against everything her body was screaming for her to do. No matter how much she needed to feel that cock deep inside her pussy, no matter how much she longed to taste his cum on her tongue, she would have to wait. She couldn’t risk some post nut clarity throwing further objections to her plan. She kept her mind on Kate as she licked, kissed, loved his member. She was alert, ready to stop before he went over the edge. She did let one hand slide between her legs- just a treat, and a bit of a show for Daddy. She took him deep in her throat, deeper than anyone she’d ever blown. He deserved it. He was her one true love. 

She did manage to stop herself when she felt him getting close, heard his moans getting stronger.

She stood up and simply, gently, gave his Daddy her soaked hand for him to smell. It was a promise of the pleasures to come… if he did as she asked, as she needed him to. She could see it in his eyes. He had been unleashed. Andrea smiled, and with a moan sucked her fingers clean, keeping her green eyes fixed on her Daddy’s gaze.

Punishment would finally come to the one that had wronged her.

IV - Melody of Madness

Slowly, Kate started to regain her consciousness. It was a gradual thing, messy, disoriented. The first thing she noticed was a scent- the kind of smell that tells one they’re no longer home, but in a place inhabited for years by some unknown Other. Her body felt heavy, sluggish, weighed down. She wasn’t afraid, not at that point. She was too out of it to register such an emotion.

Only when her vision cleared a bit and her body started to feel more like her own did the true horror begin. She tried to remain calm. Okay, Kate. Just… try to figure things out. You’re in a bedroom. A girl’s room, judging by the decor. Shit, did you get wasted again? Wait, no… a room, yes, but not a dorm room. Bigger than the dorms. Oh, fuck. Did I party in town? Did I black out and some random girl decided to help me?

A part of her screamed. Assuming that this was just another regrettable morning after too much liquor was only a pleasant delusion, and she knew it. As painful as it might be, she would have to face another possibility. What was the last thing she remembered? She was getting up, ready for class… then she was picking up her morning coffee… a bitter taste, more than usual, and then… nothing. 

Kate needed to get out. Wherever she was, it was not where she wanted to be, that much she knew. She’d have time to figure things out later. First, get out of bed, and then…

She couldn’t. She was bound to the bed by improvised ropes made of sheets. Her legs were open, held in place. She noticed the way the air felt on her skin. She was in her underwear. This final fact froze her for half a minute- thirty seconds that felt like an eternity. 

Finally, she screamed.

“Shut the fuck up, or things will get very, very messy for you. And I don’t want to ruin my sheets, thank you very much.”

The voice was calm. Cold, yet expressing a hint of anticipation. And it was a voice Kate would never have expected to hear in that place, not in a million years.

“Andrea?”

“Oh, I’m ‘Andrea’ today? Are you sure you don’t mean to call me one of your usual nicknames? No ‘dyke’? No ‘carpet muncher’? No ‘cunt licker’? Isn’t it interesting, how something as simple as a little bit of metal and a few sheets are enough to teach you manners?”

Metal? Kate lifted her head as much as she could. There was Andrea, holding a knife. Shit. Shit. Shit. That little, insignificant bitch! And what was it with the outfit? Black lingerie, full face of make-up, devilishly sharp stiletto heels… Kate had never seen the stupid dyke looking anything like a real woman. Huh. So she had curves hidden under her usual baggy hoodies. Good for her. But she was still a fucking loser, and Kate knew how to handle losers.

“What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bitch? Let me go, now! What the hell are you thinking? People will hear…”

“Oh, don’t make a sound. I don’t want my father to…”

“Really? You brought me to your own home? You really are that stupid, huh? Let’s see what your dad thinks of his dyke daughter when she sees what you’ve done! Help! Sir, please! In your daughter’s room!”

Steps stomping outside. A man entered the room. Finally. Victory! Now the crazy dyke would get what was coming to her, and Kate would have a brand new story to bury the little cunt’s reputation even further. Maybe even hold the possibility of jail over her head.

“Andrea! What the hell is this? What are you doing?”, the man said, suitably shocked.

“Daddy! I’m so sorry! I… I just…”

“Didn’t I tell you to let me know as soon as she woke up?”

“You did. Sorry, Daddy. I’ve been a naughty little girl… will you punish me later?”

“Later, yes. Now we have work to do, don’t we, baby girl?”

“Yes we do, Daddy!” she chirped before giving in to a long, deep kiss with the man.

What. The. Fuck.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”, laughed Andrea. “Did you think he would help you? Kate, Kate… Ignorant as always. For one, I’m not a dyke, I’m bi- not that you care, but I figured a little education can’t hurt. And another thing about me: I have the bestest Daddy in the whole world! And my Daddy would do anything for me, because I’m his perfect, slutty good girl… and he’s very, very good at training good girls! Well, maybe ‘training’ isn’t the right word. How about… ‘breaking’? You know, like a horse! And we’ll make you such a good, good girl!”

Panic set in.

“Crazy! You’re both fucking crazy!”

Kate squirmed, a scream dying in her throat as Andrea crawled on the bed, swaying like a terrible feline, giving her dad a marvelous show. She lightly touched the inside of Kate’s thighs as she made her way up… before flashing the knife in front of the poor captive’s eyes.

“If I were you”, cooed Andrea, “I’d be very, very still for this part.”

Kated hated that her body seemed to instinctively do as the fucking dyke told. She froze, every muscle locked tight. She closed her eyes, and prayed to no deity in particular. Please. Please. Make it stop.

Kate shuddered as she felt something cold barely grazing her, almost between her legs. Terrible images flashed inside her mind. I might die here. A second later, she felt air caressing her private areas. She opened her eyes, only to see Andrea’s mad smile as she held the remains of Kate’s panties in her hand, skillfully cut off her body. 

“Not the sexiest of panties, I must say. I’m a bit disappointed! But…” Andrea brought the panties to her nose and took a deep, gratifying sniff. “There’s something alluring there. Oh! You’ve never had the pleasure of smelling a nice cunt, have you? No, you’re so very, very straight… you’d never do that, right? Well, you’ve been missing out. Time to fix that.”

Andrea carefully, almost lovingly, tied the panties around Kate’s face. Every breath now was an assault, a reminder of how powerless she was. A humiliation.

“Better get used to it, you stuck-up slut. You’ll be tasting the real thing soon enough. But…” Andrea leaped off the bound body of her foe. “What am I thinking? You’re straight! So, I take it you’d enjoy a big, hard cock more than my… dyke attentions, won’t you? Well, how about some Daddy cock? Won’t you love that? I know you will.”

Andrea skipped, child-like to her father. He was watching the scene before him, almost panting. A beast ready to be unleashed.

“Look!” chirped Andrea. “He’s so, so hard for you already! You should be flattered! Well, no point delaying the inevitable, I say. Ready to feel this big cock ramming into that tight pussy, you bitch?”

“No… no, please, don’t… I’ll… I’m sorry for… for everything! Please, please, please…”

“A little late for that, you evil cunt! Now get ready to be used like the fucking cumrag you are!”

Kate tensed up and shut her eyes hard enough to make them hurt. She braced herself for pain, for agony. She tried to somehow make her mind escape somewhere, anywhere else. Wasn’t that something that happened in these situations? Some sort of protective dissociation? And yet her mind was nailed in place, as stuck to the bed as her body. She waited, shaking… and nothing happened.

“How rude of me!”, mocked Andrea. “I almost made my daddy take that pussy dry! That would hurt a lot! I could help with that situation, you know… but you’re not a filthy pervert like me, that likes cock and pussy alike… so… I have to say, I’m a bit conflicted! Wouldn’t want to make you a dyke against your will! But you can choose. Dry or dyke? Huh? Too shy to speak now, you cunt? Answer me! Dyke. Or. Dry.”

Kate couldn’t believe her ears. An image of the knife flashed in her mind. Fear took hold. Feel of pain, primal, deep. The promise of less pain seemed like an imperative, and her mouth spoke before she could stop it.

“Dyke…” she mumbled.

“Sorry? I couldn’t quite hear that”, saud Andrea.

“Dyke! Dyke! Dyke, goddamn you!”

“She’s out! She’s loud! She’s proud! Welcome to the club, sister! Now relax and let me introduce you to a brand new world…”

It felt gross. It felt odd. Kate tried to reframe it. It’s just lubrication. It’s just making it easier for later. It means nothing. It’s just a tongue. It’s just…

Andrea was good. Extremely so. She took pride in her oral skills and was using all her talents, all her tricks on Kate. Not because she wanted the little bitch to feel good: simply because she knew that pleasure would make her suffer as much as the pain to come. Every involuntary thrust of Kate’s hips, every muffled moan that escaped her lips was a step towards conquest… and Andrea felt like a warlord, like a terrible goddess exacting just revenge…

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she giggled. “But we can’t have you cumming like that… not when dear Daddy has been so, so patient!”

Fear crept from beneath the disgust Kate felt with herself. A part of her had enjoyed it, and she hated herself for it. Her body was starting to betray her, and that, more than anything, was terrifying. But now the pain would come. She knew that for a fact.

“Daddy, my sweet, sweet Daddy… break the cunt”, said Andrea.

“Please… don’t…” managed to mutter Kate.

It was in vain.

It did hurt. The man was a beast, savage, thrusting into Kate without the slightest care for her pleasure or comfort, using her body like an object to take out all his messed up frustrations, his fantasies, whatever was mixed up in the storm inside his brain. Kate whimpered and yelped and tried not to scream. And in her ear, a warm breath, whispering to her constantly.

“Good girl… won’t you cry for me? Like you made me cry so many times? You fucking slut… don’t fight it… you know what you are, deep down… don’t you miss my sweet tongue on your cunt? Relax… let it happen… you deserve this… and I’ve earned it… your pain… and what you will be for me later… when the pain is gone…”

Part of her mind was aware enough to realize Andrea was rubbing herself right beside her. But most of her mind was focused on the sensation between her legs, the burning, the feeling she was being torn apart… and something worse, slowly creeping its way into the strange mixture assaulting her consciousness. Andrea saw it immediately.

“It’s better now, isn’t it? You can feel it… it’s okay. You don’t have to lie. Not to me. We are sisters now, after all. I, made by the cock that is remaking you! It’s so… poetic, isn’t it? You are a slut. You’ve always been a slut, deep down… all you needed was someone to prove to you that a slut is all you need to be. All you deserve to be. No more queen bee at college for you! And I know you will be such a good little girl for Daddy…”

“Fuck… fuck you…”

“Oh, you’ll get to do that too! Want a taste?”

Andrea started slowly, kissing Kate’s neck, nibbling it, giving her victim goosebumps. Then she delicately removed her bra, and lips met sensitive skin. Kate’s nipples, hard against her will, were assaulted by kisses, suction, skillful licks. Andrea toyed with Kate, varying the pressure, the speed of her tongue, inserting playful little bites into the game. Measuring. Learning. Deciphering every preference, every weak point. To Kate’s horror, the pain was starting to feel duller, as if coming from far away. The pleasure, on the other hand, was sharper, demanding, a hungry thing coming from her own traitorous body. It was hard to think. Hard to keep any single idea in frame inside her mind. Too many stimuli, coming from too many places, attacking different parts of her idea of self. She felt as if she was drowning in sensation.

Andrea made her way down, slowly, as her father’s thrusts became a bit slower. Stamina wasn’t infinite, but she was quite confident that together they could get the job done. Together, they could do anything. It took a bit of careful positioning, but soon the tip of her tongue was able to tease the little cunt’s clit and even give her dear Daddy a little extra lick when he pulled his beautiful cock out, only to ram it into Kate again. Oh, if only this moment could last forever. Father and daughter locked eyes for a moment, in something that felt like a twisted perversion of love. It was time to move on to the next step.

Kate couldn’t stop squirming. Couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop her fucking body from reacting to the big cock inside her, the tongue playing her pussy like a violin, her own shame turned into a corruption of pleasure, disgust with herself that swirled and shifted and somehow enhanced the feelings that were eroding her sanity. And then, it snuck up on her.

Kate came, harder than ever in her life. Any pretense was undone at that moment. Her body was too honest. But the fucked up father and daughter team didn’t stop. No, they paused for only a second or two before resuming their work. It was too much. Kate shook as she came again. And again. And again.

She was exhausted. Too exhausted to fight anymore. Too confused to protest anything Andrea said. Her words just permeated, unfiltered, into Kate’s mind.

“...tell you? You can be such a good little whore… and we can be Daddy’s sluts together! Don’t you think he deserves it? His cock made you cum so much… your pain gave it so much pleasure… it owns you now. And you’ll love it, I know you will. We’ll make you love it so, so much, until you forget what a fucking bitch you were before…”

Kate didn’t even notice when the restraints were removed. There were stronger ones in place now, and she could feel them. Inside her head. She had been defeated. She had been conquered. She had surrendered.

“On all fours”, Daddy said. He didn’t have to say it twice. Kate complied. 

“Word on campus is that your little ass is the one hole you’ve been saving up for someone special! Well, I say you’ve met someone very special! So now Daddy will take the last bit of you and you’ll finally be entirely his! Isn’t that exciting? But… what about your poor fellow slut? I mean, I gave you pleasure too! I say I deserve a treat. So… you get pain for Daddy and he gets to watch you eat a pussy for the first time! What a show it will be! And we’ll make it a show, won’t we, sis?”

Yes. Whatever Andrea said. It was easier to comply. Easier to obey. Easier to just accept. It would hurt. Good. If her pain was what they wanted, they would have it. She would have sex with another girl. Good. If they wanted her to dyke out, she would. 

Kate’s screams sent vibrations through Andrea’s pussy, only making Kate’s inexperienced attempts at eating her out so much more delicious. Andrea felt like a queen, being serviced as she deserved. Mike was a beast, finally letting out something that had been suppressed in shame for far too long. Kate let her body take over, turning even pain into something else, something like purpose, or atonement. In a single day, all three had changed. Forever.

The tight, virgin ass, paired with the spectacle of this girl pleasuring his sweet little girl sent Mike over the edge. He barely managed to pull out before cumming with an intensity that shocked even himself. Kate’s back was soaked, and some drops had even landed on his own daughter’s breasts. 

Andrea licked her lips.

“Kate… sis… why don’t we clean each other up for Daddy?”

V - Epilogue

Mike woke up to the sensation of tongues on his cock, as was the norm. He let himself relax and sink into pleasure. To think that half a year ago, the idea of even looking at his daughter had felt revolting! How silly he had been. They loved each other. They made each other their best versions of themselves. Their most perverted versions. 

And Kate… how lovely it had all been. Sure, it had taken a little while for her to fully enter the family, but now she and her adoptive sister were inseparable. They went shopping for slutty outfits, they did their camshows together to make Daddy money… they had even made out in front of the Dean when they announced they were dropping out of college to be full-time whores. It was tender, in a way. Kate’s addiction to pain and humiliation had come as a bit of a surprise, but a welcome one- especially by Andrea, who had started to explore her sadistic side more and more.

Of course, they both adored Daddy. They were always ready, always willing to please him. After far too many years of gray, dull effort and solitude, Mike felt happy. He let himself enjoy that fact.

After he came, the girls licked each other clean, moaning as they savored their Daddy’s cum. With bright smiles, they leaped on the bed with Mike.

“Good morning, Daddy!” they said in unison.

Did you enjoy this story? You can get access to the full library and support my work at patreon.com/prettynosferatu

Every bit helps!

[devilsxxharlot]

assorted nsfw tobias rogers thoughts ;; MDNI.

wordcount: xxx.

warnings: marking, overstimulation, predator/prey, mild sadism, blood, SELF-HARM (last blurb).

other: reader is gender neutral :3. also i kinda wrote this on the spot so his speaking style isn't 100% accurate (i.e, i haven't researched how to write his tics and stutters yet)! also x2, for the german, you should be able to right-click/select and choose "translate to english".

|××××××|××××××|××××××|

➵ toby who's unfamiliar with having a personal relationship to something that arouses him. i imagine he might have explored porn over the years, but it was more out of curiosity, not any overwhelming urge to get off. but now, with you around, he wants it all the time. casually, intimately, in pieces, wholly—whatever way you're willing to give yourself to him, whenever you're willing.

➵ toby who's easy to get going but hard to stop. with practiced stamina and his CIPA, toby isn't slowed down by overstimulation or soreness like you might be. and, honestly, even if he was, i don't think he could help himself from begging for another round.

➵ toby who loves to make you cry. he loves listening to you sing for him, loves the way you jerk and shake and squeal when one round turns into three turns into seven. he doesn't believe you when you say you can't take it. if you couldn't take it, you wouldn't have opened your legs for him after last night. suffice to say, you've got to be into overstim to survive this relationship.

➵ toby who'll chase you through the woods and fuck you on the ground like an animal in heat. he genuinely never wants to hurt you, but knowing how your heart must be thundering as you weave between trees, well aware that you're at a disadvantage... he wonders if you're competitive enough to want to outlast him, or if you're so desperate you'd roll over and wait for him to pounce?

➵ toby who, after some assurance, can't stop himself from biting you. who, when he sees you the morning after, bruised and aching, can't help but feel a swell of pride. it was his teeth that dug into your shoulders, your chest, your hips, and your thighs—his marks that he'd make sure wouldn't be erased.

➵ toby who welcomes any scars you're willing to give him. scratch your nails along his back and engrave a story about your love into his spine; bite his shoulder so he can let the dips of your canines permanently mar his body.

➵ toby who always ends up locking his fingers together with yours when you're having sex. he knows he's not capable of being the sweet, gentle lover you deserve, one who buys you flowers and a big house and gives you a family, but the gesture is romantic enough that, for a moment, it doesn't hurt so much.

➵ toby who whimpers and begs you for more even when he's domming, babbling sweet pleas like "p-please, Hassse, one—two more, a-and then we'll be done, pr-prom-promise. doing so good, baby, i know you can take it. you always take it. can give me two more, right, baby? zu gut zu mir, du bist zu gut zu mir, Hase".

➵ toby who can never stick to cockwarming or trapping you against a toy. it's all just too much, too good for him to spend time tormenting the both of you when he could inside of you, making you scream.

➵ toby who always comes inside whether it's a good idea or not. maybe after he'll consider it a lapse in judgement, knowing that he'd be in deep shit if it ever caught—but in the moment, getting you big and round with a baby sounds like a damn good idea.

➵ toby who traces any self-inflicted scars you has, kissing and trailing his tongue against them until he could remember the shape and feel and length of each one in his dreams. and who, one day, decides you should match—so in the middle of a session, he untangles his hands from yours, pulls out a pocket knife from the bedside drawer, and cuts his arms into a messy, bloody mess, all while cooing and rolling his hips into you.

|××××××|××××××|××××××|

don't cancel me pls /silly.

[noirsdoll]

-> till death do us part

pairing: james sunderland x daughter!reader

words: 6.0k

summary: He never loved you, especially now. You’ve changed, something about you has eroded. You disgust him, James thinks, just as much as you awaken a deep-seated perversion within him.

tags: father/daughter incest, rape, somnophilia, referenced bulimia, snuff, attempted suicide, mentioned self-harm, pills, choking, creampies, smut, reader is james's and mary's kid, set years after sh2, james is a shit dad

note: hi.. i started writing this in october. this is extremely self indulgent cuz i need to write dadcest of all my faves.. there are a lot of heavy themes in this so please read the tags and yeah. enjoy!! james is peak wet dog here 😋

read it on ao3

Killing yourself is inherently a selfish thing. 

When you choose to do it, you’re only thinking of yourself. You’re not thinking about the responsibilities you’re abandoning, or the people it’ll affect, nevermind the gory mess you’re leaving behind. 

It’s even worse when you fail. 

Because it makes you look like a sick loser who was too lazy to deal with life. You’re not ill, just confused, and you’re too young to know what the world holds for you. You didn’t even give life a chance. 

You’d argue that two decades is more than enough time to get a taste for life, and that all this has taught you is that you’re shit at planning. But at this stage, nobody trusts a word you say, blaming your suicide-addled brain. Everyone walks on eggshells when they talk to you, plucking each word carefully, like picking the wrong dialogue option will make you slit your wrists in front of them. 

You’re not sure why your plan failed. Maybe a survival instinct decided to kick in, maybe the world decided you’re not ready to go, maybe you’re just a fucking coward. You couldn’t even kill yourself properly, sending half your family into cardiac arrest with the possibility of your death rather than the actual thing. 

And now they all have to look at you. One by one, they file into your hospital room. Close family, friends, extended family, assholes you’ve never even heard of, they come in and take a look at you. You feel like a zoo animal, a reassurance for them that at least they aren’t you, at least they’ll never do something so miserable as this. The pity makes bile rise in your throat, you’re used to throwing up. 

Then they’re all gone, then it’s just him. Why do you have to look at him? You shouldn’t have to, you should avert your eyes like he’s something divine. His disappointment carves into you and rips you to pieces better than you could ever do yourself. Not a word is spoken, a myriad of expressions form on his face before he even considers speaking. What is there to say? You tried to leave him, when all he ever had was you. 

There is this feeling that festers in you. The dreaded hiss that you are an abnormality - that you are the antithesis to every causation in your life. You shouldn’t have this, you shouldn’t be this, yet here you are, getting fed food through a tube. All those days of starving yourself have caught up with you.

James sits by your bedside, creating a dip in the thin mattress. He turns to you with worn eyes, heavy like he can’t bring himself to look at you. You don’t need to guess why. 

“It’s not your fault,” you say, because it’s yours, because you’re a piece of shit for doing this. You should’ve taken up alcoholism instead of cutting. Drinking yourself half to death is commonplace in this family. 

James shakes his head, staring at the hospital tile. “No, sweetheart, this is my fault. I should’ve been there for you, I should’ve—,” he cuts himself off, wringing the sleeve of his jacket between his fingers. 

You rub your eyes, the foggy atmosphere outside is doing nothing to help you. Your apathy is dismantled by the sight of your father trying not to cry. You reach out, the pulse oximeter cold on his skin as you grab his hand. 

“I didn’t want to tell you, I didn’t want you to worry.” This was supposed to be your own burden, but now you’ve made it his problem, now he has to suffer alongside you. 

He shakes his head again, swallowing the lump in his throat. He hangs his head, hair covers his teary eyes. “God, no, you shouldn’t have to hide this. Was I— did you not feel comfortable telling me?”

You squeeze his hand tighter, a reassurance that your words can’t quite give. Your other hand shakily moves the hair out of his eyes. He leans into your touch like an old dog who’s been kicked one too many times, like he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get it again. 

You should’ve done it right the first time. That selfish thought crosses your mind, killing yourself purely so you don’t have to see the way he breaks down, the deep exhale that does nothing to stop his tears. You might just be the shittiest fucking person on the planet. You should cry now, the situation is calling for it - you want to, but you can’t. 

“I don’t know,” you purse your lips, averting your gaze to the felt blankets. The truth is, you do know, you’ve known for a while. Putting the words into place is the hard part, the one the therapist does for you, but you’ve had enough pitiful looks to last you a lifetime.

The silence stretches, nothing but the ringing of the fluorescent lights to fill your ears. “Do you want some time alone? I know that was a lot, with everyone coming in… I can give you a moment, if you’d like.”

“No, don’t go,” you frown. “Stay here, please.”

And so he stays, and he doesn’t say much. He doesn’t let go of your hand either, squeezing so tight you’re worried you’ll lose circulation. You’re exhausted, everyone pretending to care is catching up to you. So you fall asleep like this, both a failure and a miracle.

Getting discharged is a new nightmare.

You have to eat a special diet to get all your nutrients back, and half of that is pills. So, so, so many pills. You feel like a lab experiment more than a person. James has to supervise you an hour after eating to make sure you don’t puke any of it up. 

You’re depressed, not bulimic, there’s a difference. All this just ends up being dehumanizing for you. You had one chance and fucked it up, now look where that’s gotten you.

At least you and your dad are talking more. Before this, it was always so stagnant between you two. Even if he’s been your only parent your whole life, it was like he didn’t know how to act around you, lingering pauses and sidelong glances. Now he actually spends time with you, you see him smile, just the same as it looked in all your baby photos when Mom was around.

You don’t know how to feel, or how you should be feeling - maybe the pills are messing with you, but you’re starting to think your dad is kind of cute. All his soft edges are in spite of something more malicious, but he curls into you in a way no one has, thick eyelashes looking at you like you’re actually important. Sometimes you want to pick him apart, see how the gears of his brain fit together. 

Maybe it’s because you have nothing else to latch onto. All your friends have sent their mandatory ‘I’m here if you want to talk!’ paragraphs that have about the rigidity of pillow fluff. Your dad’s the only one who’s been here for you. You’ve started to look forward to that post-dinner supervision. 

Usually, you’ll watch TV together, but today you decided he should wait it out in your room. James doesn’t object, he’s allergic to saying no to you. You both lay on your bed, you choose to stare up at the ceiling. 

The pills make you feel sick and weak, like each limb is weighed down to your bed. You wonder if they’re purposefully trying to make you this frail so that you can’t grab a knife and cut yourself to pieces. You let out a throaty cough, and James’s head shoots to look at you, something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

“Are you okay?” He asks, tentative.

You nod, clearing your throat. “Yeah, I just think that the pills are making me feel funny.”

“Do you want me to call the doctor?” He offers. “Maybe you can take a break from them.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you shake your head, sitting up against the headboard. Your body feels warm, flashes of heat run through you and turn your brain to mush.

His eyes scan your face. “Alright.” 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. 

“For what?”

You frown. “I shouldn’t have done it.” You’re apologizing, not because it was a mistake, but because you wasted his time. 

“Sweetheart, don’t apologize for that. You can’t control it.”

“I should. I should be able to.” You squeeze your hands together, biting down on your lip, trying to fight your tears.

“You’re getting better, aren’t you? You are,” James says, in a tone that sends a shiver of something through you. 

You swallow and nod. “Yeah… I am.”

“Good. That’s good.” He glances at his watch. “It’s been an hour. I’m gonna head to bed.” He kisses your forehead. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight.”

You remind him of Mary. In all the wrong ways. 

This shouldn’t be happening, not again. James washes his hands in his bathroom sink, something has sunken into his skin that he’s unable to remove. 

He’s waist-deep in debt from your hospital bill, but that’s nothing compared to the cold dread sitting low in his stomach. You’re sick, a mental ailment that is steadily corroding you, ruining that beautiful picture he’s framed in his mind. 

What happened last time can’t happen again. It was a long process to rectify things. 

James has never liked change, but it was necessary. He had to cleanse himself of what had happened, he had to be a better person for you. Sweeping the broken glass of his relationship with Mary under the rug, James had to become what you needed. Neutrality instead of apathy, comfort and love instead of buoyancy. 

You look so much like Mary now that it’s driving him insane. And now you’re sick just like her. He can’t escape it. His life is a revolving door of fuckery and hopelessness. At least he’s not like you. He didn't try to choose the easy way out. 

James clenches his fists, fighting the surge of emotion that courses through him. You were supposed to be normal. That was your one job. You were supposed to be normal and complacent and not a fucking freak. You had to ruin it all for him. Every sacrifice he put in place for you, all those sleepless nights and early mornings, just for you to make a fool out of him. What do you want from him? Was none of it enough for you?

James digs his knuckles into his eyes, sighing. It’s not your fault. He’s just angry. At himself, mostly. That he couldn’t be what you needed, that you hid all this from him. Your depression, your bulimia. 

Anxiety is high, he’s worried you might do something rash if he leaves you alone for more than five minutes. The pills are diluting you, you’re turning into a shell of yourself, the same way Mary did. It was the tipping point for him, she was so weak she couldn’t even scream for help when he killed her. 

James won’t do it again, he promised himself. Even for you. Even though you tried to do it yourself. What would he have done if you succeeded? He’s not sure, it seems so impossible. You’re the light of his life, or at least you should be. Your attempt has managed to garner an ember of feeling for you, negative or positive is hard to tell. 

In the beginning, he only entertained you because it was Mary’s last wish. James never loved you like a father should, he didn’t know how. It felt wrong, considering how she died. You live as a reminder of her, of her disease, of her degradation. 

He grimaces at the thought of you. That inkling of emotion culminates as disgust. You’re sick. You’re not going to get better, purely because he knows you don’t want to. You’re a freak who enjoys your sickness. 

You’ll drink up every last drop of his care and affection, just to abandon him to a deathbed. 

Not again. Never again.

You feel like a ghost in your own home. 

You drift through the halls in one of your father’s worn hand-me-downs, trying and failing to find your appetite. Dinner is long over, you’re eating out of boredom, something you haven’t done in forever. This should be a cause for celebration, it just makes you feel worse. 

You find your dad in the dimly lit kitchen, drinking whiskey straight out of the bottle. No need for a glass, you’re a few months shy of drinking age. The cold moonlight silhouettes his features. 

He’s drinking because of you, isn’t he? You wouldn’t expect any less, you remain nothing more than a problem, a charity case for those around you. James is receiving the brunt of it. 

He squints at you in the darkness, setting down the bottle with a clink. “Mary?”

You swallow, standing there like a statue. He didn’t mean that, did he? He must be drunk. Just as you open your mouth to speak, he steps closer. 

“Just like her,” he mumbles, “you look just like her.” James runs his thumb along your cheek, the most tender touch you’ve ever felt. Warmth blossoms under your skin. 

You can’t find it in you to speak now, the urge fizzles out. You remain frozen, looking up at him as his eyes brim with affection. Affection you’ve never received, affection you’ve only ever seen in old family photos when you were too young to remember the sight. 

James looks at you a little longer, the light deflating, the exhaustion weaving back into his expression. “Oh,” he breathes, “sorry, sweetheart.” He looks away, clearing his throat. 

This is a hurt you don’t have words for. You were shown something you never should have seen, a love that wasn’t meant for you. Not from him, at least. Strangely, you find yourself craving it, at odds with the apathy you default to. 

His hand hasn’t left you, you memorize the delicacy of his touch before you step away. You thought things were getting better, but of course, they aren’t. You stifle a cough, grabbing an apple off the counter. Wordlessly, you turn and dart back upstairs. 

You’re lucky you’ve been unable to cry with all the medications you’re on. You shouldn’t feel upset. You’ve known this all your life. James will always love Mary more than you, when she died a piece of him was lost forever.

Ever since you started getting sicker after your discharge, James has drifted away from you, ripping you off his skin like a half-healed scab. You know he’s trying to be nice about it, you know you remind him of Mom, but you can still see it, and it still hurts. You just want him to care, for someone to actually care when you’re at your lowest. All you truly want is to die.

You toss your apple in the trash.

Hours later, you’re still unable to sleep. Sleeping medication seems to be the only thing the doctor left out on your prescription, the only thing you actually needed. You sneak out of your bedroom once more. Maybe stretching your legs will do you some good.

You find yourself at the door to his room. He’s already asleep, the room is pitch black. You barely know the layout, since you’ve only been here a handful of times - to look at baby pictures in the short moments you get before James takes the book away, hiding it somewhere new.

Walking into the room, you’re careful not to make a sound. You’re not sure what your plan is. You let your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. James is lying there, keeping to his side on a bed big enough for two. You could squeeze right in, sleep right beside him, he wouldn’t know until morning.

As carefully as you can manage, you slip into the empty space. James stirs, giving you a mini heart attack, but nothing happens. You’re laying beside him, free to observe his minute wrinkles and relaxed expression as best you can in the darkness. 

Your eyes stray to his hands, rough and worn, yet so soft on you, the softest thing you’ve ever felt. Without thinking, you reach for his hand, gently splaying his fingers in your hold. You bring his fingers up to your face, feeling his touch once more. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t wake up, you take it as a sign.

You slide his fingers from your cheek to your lips, imagining how his thumb would skate across the seam of them, how, hushed and tender, he’d ask to kiss you. Purely because he loved you, because someone on this god-awful planet actually cares, and it’s him.

Your tongue, warm and wet, urges his fingers into your mouth. You can taste him now, the salt of his skin. The way it drags against your tongue pools warmth in your underwear. You stare at his sleeping face, imagining the way he’d feel you out, the way he’d swear under his breath as you teased him. No gag reflex, you’ve thrown up so many times it doesn’t even function.

With trembling hands, you bring his spit-soaked fingers down, your body shaking with nerves. A small smile pulls at your lips, from joy or embarrassment you’re not sure. Either way, you’re easing his fingers under the band of your underwear, the warmth of his skin right against your drooling pussy. Holy fuck.

Maybe that’s why you failed when you tried to die. Because you were supposed to experience this, the feeling of his hands against you, the heat of his touch. It’s hard to puppet his hand at this angle and make sure he doesn’t wake up, but you have to. You think you need to, or else what was the point of this agony?

You can’t take your eyes off of him as you press his fingers into your soaked cunt, he slides in with a quiet wet sound. You bite down on your lip so hard you break the skin. His palm brushes your clit and you whimper out into the silence, not even the hum of a fan to save you.

Your hand loops around his wrist for balance as you shift your hips against him. You reach up with your free hand and graze your fingers against his light stubble and the divot of his brows, your touch featherlight. It feels good, you’ve never felt like this, never had urges like this. 

You know this isn’t normal, but nothing you’ve ever done in your life has ever been close to normal. A constant fuck up, a waste of space, of potential. You’ve heard it all, but never from him. His passiveness is a comfort for you, the only one you’ve ever received.

You fight the tears in your eyes. James is a shit dad, at least he’s making it up to you now. Your stomach pulls tight, you squeeze around the thickness of his fingers, his palm grinding messily against your clit. 

It’s at that that he starts to stir. James blinks away the haze of sleep and comes face to face with you, your soft gasps and glassy eyes, rutting against his hand. Your face pales with fear, but you can’t bring yourself to stop, your nails digging into the muscle of his forearm as a wordless plea to let you keep going.

“Sweetheart, honey, what are you doing?” James murmurs, voice half-slurred from sleep, you squeeze around him at the sound.

You rest your cheek on his bicep, tits flush against his arm. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” It feels so good, pleasure threaded through your eyelids, tugging them to half-mast. You are nothing if not your father’s daughter, every bit as pathetic and wanton as him. 

James tries to pull his hand back, it curls into you and you whine, thighs locked around his hand. “What are you—? Stop—”

“No, please - need it,” you slur, pleading with him, tears brimming in your eyes, because you’ll never have something like this from anyone other than him.

And so he lets you. He does you a favour because it’s the only thing he can do. With a look of disgust and the occasional grimace when you squeeze around him, he lets you use him to get off. He barely moves his fingers, but any slight tremor has you keening. It’s so filthy, so fitting - it’s what you deserve.

You trail your free hand along his cheek, sweeping the loose hair away from his face. James used to look at you like you with indifference, you miss those days before you revealed your sickness to him in its entirety. Your corrosion, your dependence. You’re not fragile, or at least you’re not supposed to be - you’re supposed to be dead.

Now, you do nothing but disgust him. You know that, still you choose to ignore it. You cum with a sigh, it washes over you like a mist. Once the adrenaline of your high fades, the stark embarrassment you feel digs a pit in your chest. A milky ring of white circles the base of his fingers, his memory of you.

James frowns at the sight, he doesn’t meet your eyes. “Get some rest, okay?”

When Mary died, James felt free.

As he stood there, the faint memory of her warmth on his lips, crumpled pillow in hand, he felt unlike he ever had. James no longer had to suppress his perversions. The thought was as comforting as it was terrifying - there was nothing to hide behind, no ring to cull his wandering gaze or filthy thoughts.

He had always had them, from the beginning. She ruined it for him. Mary coughed from a sore throat, she bruised from her frailness, not what James inflicted on her. What he wished he could, what Mary never deserved.

Mary wouldn’t have understood it. James didn’t understand it either, at first. Maybe his life was so mundane that obtrusive kinks were the only way his brain could stay functioning. None of it would’ve worked with Mary, she would’ve thought that he hated her, that James’s fetishes were a manifestation of his loathing her.

James never hated Mary. In fact, he loved her. James loved the Mary underneath her sickness, the one he saw in short glimpses, that strung him along those three years until she was finally lost to the passage of time. Her bitterness and her paranoia consumed her, it distorted her mind and her compassion. She died three years before he killed her.

You died the second he took you to the emergency room.

James realizes that as he stands over your bed. You’re curled in on yourself, you sleep with your brows furrowed. He reaches out to smooth the divot, but catches his fingers in his gaze. The tips are still pruned from when you used him.

What had gotten into you? How long have you thought about him like that? The medication has poisoned you, it poisoned everything about you.

He never loved you, especially now. You’ve changed, something about you has eroded. You disgust him, James thinks, just as much as you awaken a deep-seated perversion within him.

And yet, this situation reminds him too strongly of Mary, in all the ways it shouldn’t. You’re her ghost in every way, you’re his chance to right his wrongs. That makes him wonder, something sick winds in his gut. Do you bruise just as well as her? How well can you fight back?

James stops himself, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. No, he wants you to be awake for this.

James withers into himself after that night.

It’s difficult for you not to notice - the only stimuli you receive now is your father’s lethargic footsteps, the small groans and huffs of breath that he lets out into the quiet. You both play hide and seek in this decrepit house of yours, it’s been unwelcoming since you were a kid. The feeling of rot clings to the walls and permeates your heart and mind. Maybe that’s why you are the way you are.

You blame the medication. You hate the medication. Taking them implies you want to get better, that you care enough about your well-being that you’ll try to fix your sickness. You like it, your pain is a safety. Love is a fleeting thing. Pain stays. Pain scars.

Bile coats your mouth, the remnants of your breakfast have already been purged. You see your father in the living room and your stomach drops. It’s easier to pretend like that night never happened, since even the memory of his touch makes you feel all warm in a way you don't deserve.

He sees you, it had to happen at some point. The walls feel like they’re closing in, you lock eyes with James and suddenly your heart’s beating too fast, your eyes sting and your breath comes short. You try to inhale but nothing goes in, you’re suffocating on air and shame. 

God, he stares through you more than he looks at you, like you’re already the ghost you wish you were. You should’ve killed yourself properly the first time.

Your panic attack, however, is not lost on him. James cradles you on the couch, rubbing your back and helping you through your choked breaths. “Breathe for me, honey. Breathe,” he says, so uncharacteristically sweet that it jars you even more. “You’re okay, I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?” you manage to choke out.

He shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”

You were expecting him to crucify you, you would receive your bloody punishment in scorn. You know you do nothing but revolt him, but he’d never hurt you, he’s incapable of that. 

“What happened isn’t your fault, okay?“ He speaks slowly, tentatively, like he’s feeling the words out as he says them. “You’re just sick. Very, very, sick.”

You nod, trying to come to terms with this, trying to wrap your head around why he’s so okay with this. Honestly, you’re just happy to brush everything under the rug. At least there’ll be one person at your funeral. 

He tips your head up to look at him, his eyes so achingly soft, trembling like he’s watching you die right in front of him. Slowly, he brings your lips to his.

If your pulse was even slowing down, it starts right back up, thumping against your sallow chest. You try to shove him off, but he’s too strong and your limbs are numb. You begin to hyperventilate - this can’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening. What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with you? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

James’s hands move over you, what’s left of you is more like it. Your once plump flesh has all but rotted away - you’re emaciated, sickly. He shouldn’t look at you, much less touch you. His blunt nails graze your tender ribs and you wince.

“Dad—“ The name feels foreign as it leaves your lips, yet your plea falls on deaf ears. His hands are all the way up underneath your worn shirt, the calluses of his hands catch on all your soft parts. 

Soft to the touch, frail like a sheet of ice, so entangled in his grip it’s hard to tell where you start and he ends, because he doesn’t stop. You’re unsure when all the lines between you became so blurred, maybe it was you who smeared them all that night with that ring of your cum on his unwilling fingers. 

James leaves open-mouthed kisses on the hollow of your throat, his hair obscures his eyes from your vision. He’s methodical, this is a process with an end goal, yet you’re unsure what the final destination is. 

He’s not rough, but he’s uncaring - James squeezes your breast too hard and you whine out into the quiet, the pain thrums against your skin for a moment longer than it should. Every touch is an imprint, a marking on you. 

Tears bead along your waterline as he tugs down the waistband of his pants, baring himself to you in partial entirety. The parts you thought mattered the most, when all you really wanted was to be close to him. 

“James,” you start, unsure of what to say. Your lips are dry just like your mouth, the skin cracks as you speak. That’s what you should call him when you two are like this. Are you his equal? One foot in the grave, your skin falling off the bone, is this what it took?

He grits his teeth and doesn’t look at you, his brows furrowed, thinking. James’s eyes trail down, lower and lower, and he winces, like he can’t believe himself. “Just let me do this,” is all he says, abrupt and unforthcoming, but he’s never been honest with you. 

Your clothes land on the floor at the foot of the couch, you want to hide, curl up in on yourself. You never imagined yourself getting this far with anyone, you were perfectly content to die that way, clearly. He parts your thighs, baring your sickness to him. The cuts on your skin frame your drooling cunt— it’s picturesque. James sucks in a breath, but if he wants to say something, he doesn’t. 

You’re wet, you can’t help it, but not wet enough to take him the way he wants to have you. The folds of your pussy curl in as he breaches you, you let out a pained whimper and back away, crowded against the arm of the couch. 

You’re like a cornered animal— the only thing you can do is fight. You try to kick at his stomach, James grabs your ankles and wrenches them apart. He’s scary, he feels terrifying even though you’ve never known him to be, even when you thought he was incapable. 

You’re crying suddenly, so at odds with the version of the man in front of you, nothing like the beautiful picture you’ve framed in your mind. You miss the old him, the ignorance and passivity and the way he barely looked at you. You want it all back, anything but this. He pushes into you in a way that is far from loving, dragging against you like a knife on concrete.

Despite everything, you can’t help but realize what he has become, a perverted likeness of the parts of you that you’ve tried to hide. Because while your body shakes with fear, you can’t help but admit that the idea of this has festered inside you for so long, finally arriving in this corroded rendition that sours everything you loved about him.

You love James. God, it welled up in you in such an unfamiliar feeling that you didn’t recognize it until now. You believed you were incapable of anything other than insecurity and self-pity, but here you are, so hopelessly in love with the man who wouldn’t care if you lived or died. Tendrils of pain snake out from your center with each reluctant movement of his hips. No different from a blade on your skin, it hurts all the same. He is your punishment.

You’re already as close as can be, bodies joined and yet this is the farthest you’ve ever felt from him. He wipes the tears off your face with his sleeve and you wonder for a short second if he’ll kiss it better. James will, eventually, you know he will. Every moment of his passivity was brushed off with an internal promise that he would be better, that he would finally love you the way you love him. 

Instead, he rubs your clit like it’ll make up for every time he let you down, for every scraped knee he didn’t kiss better. You squirm, the pain fades like you hoped it would, and yet you feel so utterly trapped, caged in and forced to come to terms with the cold fact he never loved you. 

Attempting to kill yourself was you running away from that truth, because it was scary, because it made you realize that he was a failure at the one thing he was supposed to do. Emotionally absent and yet physically here, he stuffs you full and loves you the only way he knows how. James hides his teary eyes as best he can, ducking his head as he continues. 

You don’t moan, you don’t think you can, though your cunt’s making all the noise for you, a wet sloppy slide that is part blood and part slick. You can’t even tell if he likes it. You hope he does, that you have worth to him even if it’s just as a glove for his dick. The shaky jut of his hips, the quiet creak of the cushions, the hum of the TV, the cloudy afternoon through the windows. Everything is so quiet. 

James looks at you then, this hollow stare. Fear rises in your gut, wrapping around your stomach and squeezing. This is something new, something you’ve never seen. The cool jade of his eyes looks so empty, he stares like he’s memorizing you. His cheeks are all tear-soaked and a frown slowly forms. 

His hips still. He reaches for you with both hands, you think he’s going to cup your face, maybe kiss you to distract you from what he’s doing. But his grip curls around your throat, coils like rope and he squeezes. 

You gasp out, but no air goes back in. His thumbs dig into the column of your throat, blunt nails pressing hard enough to break the skin. Dread sinks its icy tendrils into you, you raise your hands to grab at his, but he is a man and you've eaten nothing but pills for the past week. 

James doesn’t look away, neither do you, and now you understand. Startling clarity douses your body and you realize his end goal.

He wants you dead. And you cannot stop him. 

Regardless, the self-preservation you thought you lost kicks back into high gear. You try to squirm to save the speck of life you have left, but to no avail. You can’t run because there is nowhere to go. You have nothing but him, and he has nothing but you. 

All you can hear is your blood pumping, tiny wheezes of breath. Black starts to creep into your vision and you think that this is really it. His thumbs dig deeper and deeper into your flesh, you hear the ugly squelch of blood along with everything else.

“Dad…” You croak out, succumbing to the ache behind your eyelids, succumbing to your fate.

He stares down at you. What’s left of you, that is.

With shaky arms, he lifts his hands away from your bruised flesh. Two purple claws around your neck. Blood and skin is caked under his nails, a gory mess. Against his better thoughts, he raises his fingers to his mouth, tasting you the way you wanted to be tasted. Iron on his tongue.

James doesn’t think he’s breathed once in the last five minutes. He’s incapable of anything but staring at your crumpled body, at the way you just accepted it, because you trusted that he always knew what was best for you.

James eases his hips back, pulling out of you in a cum-stricken mess. He’s fucked up, he knows that. All those years he spent raising you, caring for you, and loving you are all gone - whisked away like the light in your eyes. You withered away just like Mary.

James lets out a shaky breath. He is the overlap. He is the correlation, the causation, he is the curse that befalled both you and Mary. The realization stirs anger in his gut. But there is no tinder to spark the flame and it fizzles right back out. There is no you to get mad at now. 

It’s his fault. All of it is. 

And you’ll never be able to forgive him for it.

[needanaccount2readarcaneposts]

hello! stumbled across a post about whether or not the Grey is a chemical weapon by @bwat5-blog and was curious what you think about it

Has me blocked, lol.

But I feel confident in saying that as long as these people - and Amanda Overton - justify their opinions on the Grey by basing it on the fundamental fantasies that:

not only is gas a precision weapon, but it is so magically precise that it can actually swerve around the children and random low-level nobodies like Thieram working their 9-5 in Shimmer factories and Chembaron headquarters (and there are a lot more Thierams than there are Sevikas),

the gas is also so precise and their use of it against only the evilest of the evil cartoon baddies was so strategic, that they... [checks notes] used it in the streets to clear people off them to 'keep them safe',

gassing the poors and a boots-on-the-ground invasion were definitely the only two options, and we should definitely take that uncritically and at face value when told to the audience by the people who have a specific and vested interest in mounting a boots-on-the-ground invasion and/or gassing the poors; that war in the Middle East undercity is the only way to keep us good guys safe! from the terrorists! the terrorists, you guys! and drone gas strikes actually save innocent lives!; and that all this is definitely not a false dichotomy that requires both the viewer and everyone else involved to conveniently forget that every Councillor still alive already voted for Zaunite independence, and that the quickest way to deescalate the situation in which it appears to everyone (except Jayce, who never says shit, lol) that the memorial attack was a strike against an oppressor after independence negotiations failed, is to simply grant Zaun its independence effective immediately, tell them Jinx is their problem now, and that any further attacks on Piltover's sovereign territory, from Jinx or anyone else, will be considered an act of war and responded to accordingly,

the gas is never ever ever shown to do long-term harm to anybody, especially anybody innocent, uwu, when:

- there is a confirmed cut shot of innocent refugees arriving in the Firelight hideout coughing and wheezing from the Grey, which, idk about you, but I consider a shot that made it into the script and was mostly animated before being cut to be more canon than Amanda 'Cait-is-my-self-insert' Overton's random instagram headcanons,

- the newspaper from the (supposedly canon!) Jinx Fixes Everything game is clearly talking to the everyman who is being harmed by the Grey, and,

- literally onscreen, we see that the goons in Margot's HQ were simply knocked out and left to lay there in the Grey, barely breathing. They weren't important enough to bother arresting, but they were soooo evil and dangerous that they warranted incapacitating with the Grey and then simply being left to lay there, struggling to breathe in the lingering gas, until some random good samaritan (who?) came by to drag them out. But I'm sure they're fine, right? And even though they didn't do anything that merited being arrested in the eyes of the Gas Squad, they definitely deserved whatever they got, right?

then they are wrong on a fundamental level and idgaf what they have to say, lol.

[yuri-for-businesswomen]

i have left

hey everyone this will probably be the last thing i post on this blog albeit im keeping it up for resources.

im eternally grateful for how this community has helped me through prostitution and everything, i have amazing mutuals and i have learned so much 💜

but it has become toxic. many of yall cant handle disagreement and default to being as condescending and obnoxious as possible. one of us calling out a post is not enough, we have to dog pile everyone with a slightly shitty opinion. some of yall have severely lost the plot if you ever had it in the first place. not everything is that serious, especially when it comes to online drama.

im sick of it. so many engage in the same bullshit we accuse online trans activists of. this is an echo chamber. so many just mindlessly parrot slogans and arguments. what im very sick of is seeing single tweets or posts by a nobody, usually anonymous, being spread as receipts and shit. you know how annoying it is when everything a self proclaimed terf somewhere on social media says is taken by trans activists at face value and representative of the community when theyre not even radical feminist, just transphobic? yeah. yet a lot of yall do the same by saving and sharing „receipts“ where some random person who claims theyre trans (or not even) says some fucked up or out of pocket shit. you will always find people like that online, from any politicial „camp“ or ideological alignment!

a lot of yall seem to think that debate is about winning and not like, having an exchange of arguments and let the audience come to their own conclusion

and i just dont hate trans people. in fact i feel kinship to any female or homosexual trans person, anyone except heterosexual males. many of yall dont even realise how male centered you are when you more or less equal the trans community to heterosexual men who have a fetish for humiliation and forced feminisation or whatever. who exist and are an issue and i do wish the trans community at large would distance themselves from those men, but its not all there is to it. yes i agree that we need to protect vulnerable young people, girls and especially lesbians and gay boys, from being pushed into transitioning, i think the age of consent should be put at 21 or something, but we have to acknowledge and consider that there are people who have already transitioned and will transition in the future and i just dont understand how you cant have any empathy for them. no matter what you think about transition, many trans people ARE vulnerable and marginalised. plus consider how many detransitioned women are in this community yet yall talk about trans people as mutilated and shit its gross. in the end we can only try to establish structures that keep people from self harming, but an adult of sound mind has the right to do so anyways, including plastic surgery and trans surgeries. and i want to keep my arms open to them; but a lot of rhetoric around it spread on here will only alienate them further.

right now im saving all my essays in notes so its out of my mind. i have missed the community a lot so maybe i will return at some point but i have also been feeling better since i stopped being on radblr. i miss the rare valuable input and thoughts by other women but overall i have felt unaligned with how things have been handled on here. it has been mostly negative instead of constructive and pragmatic. ive had the impression some of yall enjoy the „being in the in-group“ community aspect more than actually being here for feminist exchange. lack of nuance, lack of empathy, lack of reason. it pains me but i have more and more come to understand why people just block us without engaging on general suspicion because ive also come to be annoyed with some of yall engaging with posts - and im on „your side“.

anyways im doing okay, im going to drug counselling regularly now and am trying to establish a stable life for those of you who inquired, and i hope anyone reading this is self reflected enough to know whether this applies to her or not. bye

[moriitis]

Cool, now write an angst about his reaction be if their child died into early childhood years-

(Should probably name myself...🫐/🔮 Anon or something like that)

LEAVE THIS MAN ALONE.

Forgive me for the crimes I am about to commit.

MASTERLIST.

CONTEXT 1.

CONTEXT 2.

Content/Warnings; child loss, death of a child, descriptions of a corpse, depression, suicide, anxiety, mentions of vomit, murder, funerals, self inflicted harm, drownings.

It was a freak accident. He looked away for two seconds, no, no.. less than that. He wasn't sure, it seemed nothing more than a millisecond and as soon as the turned back - the child was gone. Toby understood games, hide and seek being the favourite game amongst him and his child.

"Where ya hidin'?" he called out, expecting a little giggle to emerge from behind the tree to his nearest left. But when all that followed was silence, a sinking feeling in his gut emerged. Shit, maybe the kid had just gotten better at hiding? So, settling the chunk of wood down and his hatchet beside the pile of fresh logs he had hammered down, he stepped toward the tree.

The brunette creeped at first, wanting to scare his child a little as he almost tiptoed between sticks and shrubbery below him. The idea of catching the kids face, the little yelp and giggle that followed after only exciting him more.

Only, when he turned the corner harshly, pouncing almost with a little 'boo!' that followed suite, confusion was plain across his features. The kid wasn't there and now, just ever so slowly, he could feel his pulse quicken.

"Alright.." Toby uttered, a little flabbergasted in total honesty at the skill his child had managed to acquired over night. "Where are ya?" he called out again, glancing around his shoulder and scanning the forest line ahead of him. Perhaps the kid wandered off, saw a butterfly or feather that interested them. With the silence, his anxiety only nipped further away at his being as he rubbed his chest with the palm of his hand - trying to soothe his heart that was rapidly picking up the pace.

It wasn't all quiet - no, for the rushing lake beside him bubbled and spluttered against each rock that peppered along the water itself. The water wasn't dangerous, per say; but for any child that didn't know how to swim, it's current was violent and unwelcoming.

And that's when Toby's anxiety really began to bubble and quickly he rushed around each tree in the area, calling out the child's name in a calm, collected manner - the undertones of his anxiety evident in each waver and strain on his voice box.

"This ain't funny!" Toby called out helplessly. "Look, kid - you win!" he threw his hands up, surrounding, but no child emerged and as time ticked on, that overwhelming urge to vomit only increased.

'The water isn't that deep, it's not- I can swim, it's only-'

Fuck! The kid was just fucking there! Sat behind him, playing with pebbles! He looked away, one fucking second!

Now he was scanning the water, eyes desperate and heart aching as reality began to slap him further and further into madness. Losing the kid, what would he say to you? How could he come home.. without the fucking kid?!

He couldn't care about his clothes as he dove straight into the water, feeling for anything child like under the murky water. Calling out the kids name, trying to find something that looked like a body - as much as he didn't want to.

But minutes ticked on to hours and there was no sign of the kid. Toby too distraught to even consider walking back home to tell you, god forbid it, no - then that would be him admitting defeat. So he dropped to his knees for a moment to calm his thoughts, to try and think things through. Every parental thought and instinct within him screaming to get up and look for his damned child!

Toby just knew, a sick, twist in his gut that told him everything.

So, with his head down and chin tucked to his chest, he trudged home, childless. He could barely form the words to you, could barely console you as you collapsed onto the wooden flooring of the cabin, screaming. He knew you hated him and right now, he hated himself more than anything because how could he let this happen?

A search was conducted within seconds, Slender heard the screams from a mile away and sensed something was wrong. Everyone was on board to find the child, to check the water, any trees. Jack using the kids shirt as scent while he tracked along the river edge, the darkness being nothing unusual for him.

You could barely find yourself leaving the cabin to look but as far as you were concerned, you were still a mother. Perhaps the toddler just got lost, everything would be okay. It would be fine. With flashlight in hand, Toby on your shoulder and fighting tears, you both stepped along the stream. The both of you walked for so long that the ache in your legs were nothing compared to the pain you felt in your heart. You should be home, reading a bedtime story to the kid.

Then Jack stopped, hands dropping to his sides as a smell filled his lungs. A smell you wouldn't be able to smell yet.. but a smell a bloodthirsty demon could.

There, by the waters edge, was the child. Pale, lips blue, bobbing slightly against the beat of the water.

It wasn't real, it wasn't true, but the child had the same nose as you.. the same, beautiful eyes as Tobys' which were half lidded and staring off into the distance.

The days that followed was a blur. That night was a blur. All you could remember was holding a cold, stiff child to your chest and crying out into the star riddled night.

The funeral was small, fitting for such a small child. It took a lot of convincing for Toby to come out the bedroom to attend it. The death hitting him a lot harder than you. He trudged out looking.. deflated, lost, not even a spell of anger in his eyes as he couldn't bare to even look at you.

You buried the child behind the cabin, in a little meadow with butterflies and flowers. The meadow you sat in a lot with the child and Toby, making flower crowns in the summer, snowmen in the winter.

What a cruel, cruel world.

When Toby lost the kid, he lost a part of himself too. Which is ironic really because when the kid was born, a part of Toby came back and now, that part of him died with the child. He spent a lot of time sleeping, rotting away and barely able to dress himself. Some nights you awoke to him crying, other nights you awoke to him just staring at the ceiling. You felt the pain, the hurt, but that sadness radiated off him in waves that felt suffocating.

Encouraging him to go out was.. hopeless. Toby went through different fits of grief, rage, anger, sadness and guilt and it ate away at him every single day.

It ate away at him so much that he slit his wrists one night while you were asleep. It was another failed attempt and so when he got stitched up, he disappeared for months on end. A part of you fearing that maybe he went and succeeded elsewhere.

But no, he just directed a lot of his anger out on other people instead. So much so that Slender had to tell him to back off the killings a little.

The kids bedroom collected dust, untouched toys with stories that would never be spoken of again. As for Toby? He disappeared. Both of them being nothing but a painful, broken memory.

yikes srry i rushed this because i crave sleep.

anyway, big up toby for losing his child. father of the year award?

[inbabylontheywept]

Hi. I've been doing writing as a hobby since 09, but am still pretty shit. Do you have any advice for how to make things into proper stories? Or on how to actively improve in other ways? Or where to go to find resources for it? (Man has finding good resources gotten hard after AI slop took over google search results) I have fun writing, but can't help but feel like I want to improve and maybe write something more long-form at some point.

I don't give good writing advice. I am just now beginning to learn this. You're lucky in that you get to dodge me giving actively bad advice, but you're unlucky in that I have not yet fixed this and will be somewhat unhelpful.

I can point you in two good directions for advice though.

The first is WonderBook by Jeff VanderMeer. The same guy that wrote Annhilation. It's an incredibly fun read, it's beautifully illustrated, it contains personal notes from like, a dozen other authors, it has an interactive website, it is, bar none, the best book on writing I have ever read, and the only one I ever recommend to people. The second best book is Storyteller by Kate Willhelm, which is good, and helpful, and not harmful, which is actually a high bar for a book on writing. I still would only rate it as maybe 15% the value-add of WonderBook. That's how good WonderBook is.

(I know it will be tempting to go read more books after reading WonderBook, but I am going to say that most books on writing are actively harmful, and you should be extremely suspicious of all of them.)

(This applies to self-help books in general.)

The second place to go for advice is a local writing group. Any kind of writing. I go to a poetry group because it's near me, and it exists, which are two compelling things in small town Utah. I don't consider myself a poet, but I go anyway, and it's still great for me. I think it would work well with you too.

Wishing you the best!

Babylon

PS: ...If anyone has any literature/advice on how to give good writing critiques, I would be very interested in hearing about them. I would love to be a better editor.

[dumbasswithapen]

can we just listen to Disabled people when they say what accommodations they need??? Like it really isn’t that hard to just take someone’s word on what is best for their own body! Whether it’s more or less or different than what you deem they need it really isn’t your place to say!!!

Sometimes, people need more than they show! Especially if they’re used to being in pain all the time, then they won’t always display that discomfort.

Sometimes the accommodations someone needs are different than what you assume. A friend who struggles with noise sensitivity may ask for you to turn on a different type of music, instead of turning it down, and if that is what they express they need you don’t have to say “oh no I can just turn it down!” and ignore them saying that that isn’t necessary because your idea of noise sensitivity is different than their own experiences and needs.

And sometimes people need less than you try to provide! Or simply don’t want that accommodation at the time! And here’s the crazy part: this applies even if what they say to do could hurt them. Obviously this isn’t a rule for every situation*, but for some it absolutely is. If your friend wants to tag along for, say, a hike, and they have joint pain it isn’t your place to add in “oh no but they can’t do [the hike]! They’ll be in pain! We have to do something else to accommodate them!” If that person expressed a desire to go, especially if offered other options prior that wouldn’t hurt them, let them live. Let them do the thing that puts them in pain, because Disabled people don’t always want to be shoved into a little box of safety. Absolutely sometimes they do, and some might always want to, but if they don’t, then let them make their own choices for their body. Just as anyone else does. You go out and get drunk, even if it gives you a hangover. You go skating even if you’re shit at it and scratch up your knees a bunch. Just because someone is Disabled doesn’t mean that they can’t do the same thing and do that fun thing that hurts them.

I don’t know if I’m displaying my point how I want, so here’s my own example: I am allergic to the cold. Anything below 60 degrees (f) I get hives. Any water cooler than a fucking warm shower I get hives. My joints don’t do great when it’s cold out. This does not mean that when I say I want to go swimming, you can say “oh but you can’t you’ll get hives!” Or “no you can’t do that you’ll be in pain!” Because. I know that. I know that. I know my Disability better than anyone else can, and I can ask for accommodations I need. I am not a child to be wrapped in bubble wrap so I don’t get hurt. My body is my body and I can do with it what I want, and face the consequences. Likewise, just because I said I wanted to go swimming doesn’t mean that when I don’t want to go out and muck around in the snow it is anyone’s right to say “oh but you wanted to swim earlier, so obviously it isn’t that bad for you!” Or “oh it’s fine it’s not that cold! Just wear a sweater!” Because at that time I need and want different accommodations and that should be listened to and considered accordingly, as far as it can be in that situation.

Seriously. Just listen to us. We are in our own bodies. We know ourselves. It really isn’t that hard

*a situation where this point would be null is, for example, a situation where the person has been peer pressured into doing something, or one where you know the person well and know that the endurance of pain is a self-harming behavior

[wosoragebaiter69]

but i didn't did pour the whiskey

barça femeni x reader

overview: they said getting over addiction wasn't easy, what about when no one knows? what about when relapse happens after a whole year?

A/N: my requests are sitting... but I can't get to them and im really sorry, ive been so busy atm and dont got much modivation for em'

TW: alcohol addiction, self-hatred, relapse, course language, actual detail instead of me brushing over it

!! viewer discretion is advised, i suggest only mature audiences read this !!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In all honesty, you'd seen the signs. You'd known the inevitable was coming. The feelings of urge that you'd felt a year ago when trying to stop. You had stopped though, so you ignored it. Then it became more real. To the blank stares at the crates in the stores, rather than the hatred you harboured before after finally being ‘better’.

To walking and judging if you should buy it or not.

To blinking tears out of your eyes, wondering why you'd think that in the first place.

Because why would you, you were better now. Right? That's what you'd told yourself anyways.

It kept amplifying over the course of a week. Until you couldn't take it, until everything you'd worked so hard for for the past year came crashing down. All those memories of countless nights pacing, crying, yelling over a stupid fucking substance fade away.

Guilt. That's all there is. Guilt.

Guilt for betraying your past self who had cried for hours, who felt like she was going psycho over not having a single drink.

But, you can't find it in yourself to stop drinking it. It's just one beer, how harmful could it be? Said by the words of a true fucking alcoholic.

So, you do the only thing you can think of and cry. Cry until your face is numb, your throat burning with every breath, cry until your lungs can't take in any oxygen anymore.

Cry until you feel like you've felt something.

Then when you did stop crying what did you do? The only option you thought you had. Drink more.

- - - - -

You knew you looked like shit, you felt like it too. Your face puffy from the numerous breakdowns the night before, your eyes red from the tears that had an endless flow, dark rings under your eyes from the restless 3 hour sleep you'd got.

Also not to mention the headache you'd acquired. Knowing that only last year if you'd drunk this much, you'd only start to feel something. That's not something to be proud of.

You try your hardest to make yourself look even the slightest bit presentable, getting rid of the puffy face with a shower and taking paracetamol to take away the ache in your skull.

This would do enough to convince them you were fine, it's not like you were the loudest or most obnoxious person on the team. Preferring to observe everything with a smile.

What you didn't consider? Your captains. You're only 22 so even if you're techincally an adult, they're still over 7 years older than you.

So you walk into the lockeroom for training, silently making your way to your cubby as usual. Until, you feel a tug on your sleeve. Alexia is standing there, worry etched into her features.

"You ok? It looks like you've barely slept." Her voice is low and quiet, something you were eternally grateful for.

"Yeah, just a rough night. Thanks capi." You don't lie, but you don't tell the full truth either. She can sense this but doesn't say anymore, allowing you to go back to getting ready.

You take the time to rethink of the previous night, the regret you'd felt immediately after taking the first sip. But, the feeling of being unable to stop.

No matter how much you'd told yourself it was nothing, you know this isn't the end.

You push the thoughts away, clearing your mind of any thoughts before walking out onto the field ready for training.

- - - - -

It was the same people you saw watching you; Alexia, Marta and Mapi. It wasn't every second but enough to showcase they knew something was wrong but just didn't know what.

You had joined in the summer from your old club in Italy. No one knew of the past you'd had with alcohol. It's not like you made an effort to tell them either, they respected your choices not to drink when going out and you didn't need to bring up topics that were from before even moving to Barcelona.

Maybe if they knew, you'd have someone to confide it.

Somehow you'd managed to hide it from your old team as well, but considering the close relationships that Barcelona had with each other you doubted it would be shrugged off as easily.

When training was finally over, you were quick to slip away. As the thoughts and need of what caused you in this melancholic state start to reappear in your mind.

Not now, why after so long did you have to collapse now? When the peak of your career could potentially be around the corner.

You want to survive like a normal person, you want to be able to do things without relying on a fucked up liquid. Why did it have to be you?

And why?

Why is the only thing you can think of to soothe these thoughts, alcohol?

- - - - -

You stare blankly at the open carton, hesitation as you ponder if you should give in or not. Should you drink it? Part of your mind says yes, part of you yearns for it. The rational side says no, and to stop before it's too late.

But wasn't it already?

So you give in. The burning down your throat a painfully familar comfortality.

In a depressing way it makes you more aware of your surroundings, the beer bottles scattered in the room. Liquid all over the floor and on your things. It bothers you, but you can't bring yourself to clean it.

So you sulk, going over past memories. You'd never considered yourself a sad drunk, always being happier and finding a way to goof about while drinking. Then, very rarely toward the end of recovery getting angry. Never sad though.

Times change, people change. You thought you'd changed, but that kind of addiction? It never seemed to leave. Waiting until you're vulnerable to attack. Like an incurable disease.

Before you really comprehend it, the whole box of beers you'd bought yesterday are empty and strown across the floor.

You reach a point of feeling nothing, a numbing feeling brought by guilt, the alcohol making everything seem hazy. Your phone is ringing, but you can't bring yourself to answer. You can't bring yourself to care.

- - - - -

Knocking at your door brings you out of the limboed state you're in. You figure they'll leave soon, and the knocking stops after a minute. Until the door opens revealing the three who had been watching you in the morning.

Alexia is the first to you, the others take in the state of your apartment and walk around elsewhere.

"Hey." It's all she says, but enough for tears to fall from your eyes. You can't bare to look at her face, so you keep your eyes glued to the floor.

"Come on, look at me." She uses her hands to guide your chin so you're looking straight at her.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me." She pauses, "Let's sober you up first." You don't argue, and follow her orders. Exhausted, you pass out as soon as your head hits the pillow.

- - - - -

Waking up was easier than you'd thought it would be, your head not pounding as much as in the morning. It made sense though considering you'd drank less than the night before. There were pills on the side table with a glass of water which you take easily.

The sun is setting so you must have slept for a couple of hours by this point. When you walk into the living room you notice all the rubbish gone, the floors are clean and there's no reminisince of beer anywhere. Alexia, Marta and Mapi are talking quietly amongst themselves and look up once they realise you're awake.

"Come, sit." Mapi pats next to her. You nod silently walking over.

"Would you mind explaining to us what happened? I know you’ve said before don't drink, so this is very new. If you don't want to talk that's also fine but I don't want to see you hurt." Alexia says, she doesn't pry but she does make her point known.

"Ok, but please can you do no talking while I explain? I'm not sure how much I can take if I don't explain it all in one." You're not sure why you opened up so easily, maybe because you desperately craved for someone. Anyone.

"Last year, I was an alcoholic and I can't tell you really when it started. It was to take all the weight and pressure off my shoulders originally, but it turned worse. I just kept drinking regularly and when I tried to settledown, I realised I couldn't. So I didn't stop. It worked for me."

"Then as the season moved on I realised I did desperately need to do something about it but I was just so scared of what people would say to me. How would they react?"

“So instead of getting proper help I did it myself.”

"I got rid of all traces, didn't go out as much. It was horrible. I thought I was going crazy. I wasn't ok at all. I'd obviously relapsed a couple times when trying by myself to recover but it gave me more determination. I'd say it took like 3 months before I truly felt like I was clean."

"Then, I'd had the oppurtunity to play here and it's like everything went away. I should've known better." You sigh.

"Known what? Did you know you were going to relapse again?" Marta asks carefully.

"I saw the signs but ignored them, when I did give in... all I felt was regret, I still do. I think that's why I drank the rest if I'm going to be honest." You look away, not daring to look at any of them.

A pair of arms engulf you, large hands pushing your head to the persons chest.

"Listen to me, we can help you. You won't ever have to do this alone, not while I'm here ok? I don't know much about this, but I'll try. We all will." You start sobbing into her chest, clinging your fists tightly into her shirt. A way to thank them without words.

Because the belief they had in you made you feel like you could do it. Even in these drowning times.

—————————————————————————

i hope you enjoyed fic, this may not be accurate to everyone but this is my experience with battling addiction to alcohol and i write it because i too relapsed after a year recently

this was more for also for awareness and just know that you aren’t alone in anything, if you feel you need someone to talk to i’m always here :)

[seeingsooey]

SENSELESS JACKIE + SHAUNA PAPER

Now okay. So this is going to be long

Disclaimer: this is just how I interpreted their relationship. If you think differently, right on! And I’d love to see more takes about these two. more has to come out with s4 and s5 IF it actually happens, but this is what I’ve got down for now.

I’ll probably do the same thing I’m doing here for other dynamics within the show too!! I’m starting with these two because they’re ( arguably) one of ( if not) the most popular in the fandom.

That might mean I’ll do Misty + natalie next

Where do I even begin with these two??? For the sake of organizing things, text about Jackie will be orange, and text about Shauna will be blue.

Shauna is obsessed with Jackie. In a very odd way, and throughout almost all of her life in what we’ve seen so far.

I’m shocked that Sophie hasn’t really mentioned that Shauna could be in love with Jackie, either. Because imo, it’s very painfully obvious that she is, and has been for a long time.

I dooo think that Shauna really hates that she feels this way for Jackie though, considering everything else. It’s a weird infatuation that she thinks isn’t right, because she feels trapped in what was almost entirely her own doing between them. I would maybe call it denial?

Shauna is deeply, deeply jealous of Jackie. And I would go as far to say that she wants what Jackie has. What she perceives as a “ life.”

^ Shauna throws herself under the bus for this. Hell, Shauna got accepted into fucking BROWN. I’m shocked she doesn’t give herself the credit for this! And, double whammy, she assumes that Jackie would be unhappy because she wanted Shauna in college with her. ( but, I think given Jackie’s care for Shauna, she’d congratulate her for that achievement. It’s been implied that Jackie ( even if she said it as a ghost), wanted Shauna to speak up.)

The whole brown thing implies to me that shauna has always been hardworking. She feels like she deserves that “life”. she really desperately wants people to like her but doesn’t realize that it’s not something that comes from force.

So instead, Shauna cowers under Jackie. She doesn’t live the life she wants to live.

And, this is suddenly Jackie’s fault, despite Shauna refusing to get off her ass and actually say or do something for herself. She should have, instead of hold it against Jackie. I don’t think Jackie ever realized or noticed that Shauna was hurting, and Shauna’s avoidance of conflict only fed the pit of resentment she was beginning to feel.

And as we all know Shauna for, she is EXTREMELY defensive. About like, everything ever.

Now as for Jackie goes, I don’t even think Jackie has what Shauna is even jealous of her for. Jackie is “ the all American girl next door” only because she feels like she has to be. I think this is also the only reason she keeps Jeff around, because she states that she doesn’t even LIKE him. 💀 There’s this pressure on her shoulders to be THIS person that she expects society, or somebody, to want her to be. Now where this pressure comes from kinda beats me, but it’s definitely there.

Jackie is obviously insecure about her role, which only grows more obvious as they spend time in the wilderness, fearing that nobody will need her anymore. She’s self obsessed, and unfortunately to the extent to where she doesn’t see Shauna choking under her. And she doesn’t realize how self absorbed she’s being during her time in the wilderness. She couldn’t even try to help.

Jackie fucking LOOOVES Shauna. To Jackie, I think Shauna is somebody she can actually drop her status act around. She wants Shauna to be a part of every goddamn thing in her life: which, is unfair to Shauna, but Jackie didn’t realize this would genuinely harm her. 😭 Jackie is really naive in the sense of thinking that Shauna would have genuinely wanted to do everything she was. Shauna needs breathing room, girl!!! But it would have been nice if she told you jack shit, to be fair.

Yeowch! Waiter waiter, please give these two teenage girls therapy. I’m tired of watching them stare yearningly at eachother and ponder fucking eating each other’s face while SLEEPING in the same bed in the cabin./joke

As for Jeff, I’m not even entirely convinced that Shauna really loves him at all. I think she only married him to hold a piece of Jackie. She refuses to let Jackie go 😭

But if I was in her shoes really, I wouldn’t blame her. She straight up left her outside. Even if Jackie was being stubborn and didn’t want to go in, I wish she held some more concern about what could be out there to hurt her. Didn’t Van’s face get mauled off like, a few episodes ago??

Oh, and literally everyone knows that some freaky shit happened between those two. I jumped with joy when tai and van were picking on Shauna and Melissa. “ do you think she makes her wear Jackie’s clothes when they make out?” DAMN. 💀💀💀

Bye bye I might make another one of these for Misty and nat

[firecrackerhh]

I know the “makes me feel so comfortable as a woman!” Is meant to be sarcastic. But like…why is this specific portrayal so fucking uncomfortable for you? You need to get the fuck over yourself.

“Ugh this portrayal makes me feel bad about myself!” Like…why? Do you act like that? Why do you feel bad about it, there’s no harm in loving sex yknow. Maybe you should go to therapy for that guilt complex you clearly have honey.

And there’s no harm in making jokes about it either, like cmon man get the stick out of your ass and lighten up a little.

And if you don’t act like that…why are you whining? Why do you feel ashamed over behavior you do not engage in? Are you saying women who actively enjoy sex should be ashamed?

Hell, do you think porn actresses or only fans models should be ashamed of their career? I don’t deny the issues with the porn industry or whatever, but if they choose to do that, and enjoy it, who are you to say shit?

“Viv’s a misogynist!” I dunno, maybe you’re actually the misogynist if you think women who like to fuck should be shamed actually.

Projecting your insecurities onto other people like that is rather pathetic. Consider self reflection.

[lastoneout]

how do you make a whole post about people suffering from the tariffs and the need for compassion and never once consider the canadians who will suffer from the us initiating a trade war

That post was intentionally, very specifically directed at leftist Americans in blue states who are making jokes about people in red states suffering, with a side of me complaining about a small part of the Canadian government's plan about how to address this extremely complicated situation that I, in the post, admit to not fully understanding. I will apologize for that at least, that wasn't really what I meant to be talking about but I kinda had to critique the targeting red states part to explain my point about how the GOP thinks and why OTHER AMERICANS SPECIFICALLY should reconsider the way they talk about this. I didn't mean to say Canada was wrong to act, I was trying to address how certain Americans are responding to those actions, and that kind requires talking about Canada.

(I will also admit that I am am slightly salty at every single other country at the moment given most of them, including, as far as my research could turn up, Canada, won't let disabled people immigrate there unless we can work which like. We can't. Or we have a spouse or family member who has a job that will cover all of our expenses which....yeah most of us don't have access to jobs like that. My fiancé can provide for myself and him atm but he loses his job if he leaves America. We're queer and disabled and stuck here because the majority of the world doesn't think disabled people are worth saving. So yeah, kinda feels a bit like being complete abandoned by everyone and it does color my perspective a bit even if I do happen to agree that Canada should protect it's people from the harm Trump's bullshit is about to rain down on them.)

But yeah, obviously the entire world is going to suffer because of the shit Trump is pulling and I'm pissed about that too. The Canadian and Mexican governments cannot just sit by and do nothing while their people suffer, and I don't fault them having to take drastic measures even if I do disagree with the way one government is going about it. At the end of the day all of this suffering is Trump and Musk's fault and they should be the ones shouldering the majority of the blame. But I'm also allowed to make posts about one thing that is specifically directed at a singular group of people, especially a group of people I'm part of. I'm allowed to critique my own political allies when they fuck up. And as far as I've seen most of us have been not only very sympathetic, but borderline too eager to shoulder the blame themselves for the rest of the world suffering. I haven't seen any leftist ignore that the people of Canada and Mexico are going to suffer due to the actions of our government. I've even seen some of them legit reaching suicidal levels of self-hatered, saying they don't want to suffer but it's what we all(Americans) deserve for letting this happen, as if it was the people's fault and not a small group of money and power-hungry bastards who don't give a shit about anyone but themselves. I did not detect a lack of sympathy for the populations of other countries amongst Americans discussing this topic so I did not think that needed to be addressed in my post critiquing said Americans for their lack of sympathy for their countrymen.

So yeah. I am sorry to the Canadians and Mexicans who are going to suffer. I'm really, really fucking sorry. This is embarrassing and scary and painful for all of us, I wish I could stop it. I'm one disabled person who is bedridden recovering from surgery cycling through the stages of grief so fast it's making me nauseous. Your government IS right to try to protect you, I would give anything for mine to do the same, not just for Americans but for everyone trapped on this earth with us.

But again, I am allowed to make posts that are about one thing or talking to one specific group of people. I wasn't trying to address the people in other countries at all, this was talking to American progressives and liberals and leftists, and very specifically ones living in blue states, addressing how they talk about other Americans and how poorly it reflects upon them.

I apologize for not being able to cover every single aspect of a massive, extremely complicated situation in my one post, and sorry for being so bitchy about the Canadian government, I didn't mean to imply that other people aren't gonna suffer too. I figured that went without saying since I've seen so many Americans talking about it already. We should do both. Sympathy for everyone who's going to suffer.

I'm going to go lay down and continue to worry about my American friends and Canadian friends, and everyone now. Bye.

[empyrangel]

I can’t find my post from a few years back about the crk fandom’s reaction to Affogato, but anyway, Peach Blossom just released and I’m here to make my Why Can’t the Cis CRK Fans be Normal About Gender Nonconforming Characters Part 2 post.

Seriously, what the fuck? I don’t think the reaction is as bad as with Affogato, but maybe it just looks that way to me because I’m not nearly as active in the fandom as I used to be.

Of course people are sexualizing him, disappointing but not surprising. Before he released, everyone seemed very insistent that he was evil/would pretend to be helpful but later be revealed to be working for Mystic Flour (which is funny in hindsight considering he turned out to be literally just some guy with 2 minutes of screentime). But their justification for why he was so obviously going to be evil was his feminine appearance, which like way to reveal your biases I guess.

I straight up saw one person say they knew he was going to be a trickster type character because of his “deceptive appearance.” What an absolutely unhinged thing to say. Please tell me y’all don’t say shit like this to real people. Imagine seeing a gnc person and going “you don’t look like what I think a person of your gender should look like, therefore you’re manipulative and a liar.”

There’s been a lot of trap jokes as well. Most of them seem to be ironic/self-aware so the people doing them don’t think there’s any harm. But it really doesn’t matter if you’re genuine or not, it still perpetuates a harmful mindset if the joke is the mere existence of gnc people, especially gnc men, being inherently deceptive/outrageous/confusing.

Edit: found the post

[mouthwashingconfessionsblog]

I think the Mouthwashing fandom is bad, not because of shipping, I couldn't care less about shipping, I think the fandom is bad, because people have zero empathy.

As an emotional abuse victim, I see people way too comfortable with saying that Curly's fear responses towards someone who is abusive as fuck as a flaw of character, that if he was a better person he would have reacted with violence. Are we really saying that freezing and fawning while getting emotionally manipulated are signs of a bad person now? Are you guys hearing yourselves??

The ableism is also INSANE in this fandom, seriously, I have seen people literally saying they think post-crash Curly shouldn't even be considered a person anymore.

I know I am talking a lot about Curly, but that's a pattern I noticed during my one month observing the fandom from afar. People in this fandom take abuse as seriously as they would take a joke.

Also people on twitter telling others they should pirate the game, because Wrong Organ told them to be NORMAL and stop harassing people.

It all comes back to the lack of empathy, saying shit that affects real victims, trying to harm the devs financially, crossing boundaries (like it happens a lot in this blog, I am sorry you have to go through this shit), it's all a lack of empathy and self awareness.

Sorry for the rant, but this is really starting to make me mad.

.