#Self-Hatred TW

[son-of-pendragon]

Pull you in, push you away That's how I say “I'm a little unstable” Emotionless, like a machine Can't feel a thing with short circuits in my cables

A brain built by every memory Of times I was not enough to make The ones I need most just wanna stay What's wrong with me?

Love is a lie; hope is a hole Trust is a trap that took my soul Family is fake; hatred is home Getting abandoned is all I've known

I have tried, I have tried to be perfect But I believe, I believe I deserve it I have tried, I have tried to unlearn it But I’m wired, I’m wired for worthless

Wired for worthless

Every act of kindness, every word of praise Makes the system malfunction Only hear the negative 'cause each mistake Is what feeds the combustion

A brain built by every memory Of times I was vulnerable in vain That just proved I'm never worth the pain What's wrong with me?

Love is a lie, hope is a hole Trust is the trap that took my soul Family is fake, hatred is home Getting abandoned is all I've known

I have tried, I have tried to be perfect But I believe, I believe I deserve it I have tried, I have tried to unlearn it But I’m wired, I’m wired for worthless

Love is a lie Hope is a hole Hatred is home It's a part of me

That I can't let go

I have tried, I have tried to be perfect But I believe, I believe I deserve it I have tried, I have tried to unlearn it But I’m wired, I'm wired for worthless

Wired for worthless

[positivelybeastly]

Mancation: maiming; mutilation / Sinister

"Make the incision, McCoy."

There was a pregnant shine of a scalpel, the movement of an oversized hand, the twitch of fingers . . . and then . . . moments passed.

A sigh.

"I said, make the incision, McCoy."

There was a momentary wobble of a finger, a halting breath - before the scalpel moved, the gleaming stainless steel tip pressing to warm, unmoving flesh, unzipping the thin layer of - in front of the - that covered the, sternum, that . . .

Blood.

A clatter, a turn of a stomach. And then warm, pale fingers on the back of his neck, and Henry went stiff, feeling the familiar touch of his - mentor's hand on the so very human looking flesh of his neck.

"You don't want to disappoint me, do you, Henry?"

The shake of a head.

"So why do you persist in doing so, boy?"

The bob of an Adam's apple, and the garish homunculus that once was, still called itself, Nathaniel Essex, let out another sigh.

"You're fifteen years old, Henry. You're more than old enough to do this now. It isn't even a mutant you're working on yet, this is just a flatscan. They aren't people. You know that. You've seen the research we've done on them, we know that they don't feel pain the same way that we do."

Did they? Did they know that?

"There are thousands of mutants who would kill to be in the position you're in now, boy. Thousands of people with lesser intellects but greater wills to do what must be done, and they're all just sitting, waiting, for the chance that you keep squandering. How long do you think I shall wait? How many chances do you think I'll give you?"

He was quiet. The boy couldn't normally shut up when he was cloistered with his books and his research journals, but the instant it came time to do some actual damned work, he was quiet? The human spine of him was so very disgusting.

". . . I had high hopes for you. I selected you personally."

There was - a vague memory. Henry wasn't sure if it was blanketed out by some kind of mental alteration, by what he knew to be a young mind's inability to form long term memories the same way a fully formed one did, or if it was just . . . fear.

A fear of half-remembered warmth that had turned so very cold so very quickly. He remembered . . . sitting on the floor, it had been a wood floor, next to a fireplace, he couldn't have been more than - four, maybe five. Very young. Very very young. He could remember hushed, frightened voices, a man and a woman, talking about getting out of America, about leaving the farm behind and just going.

He could remember not liking that idea. Of wanting to stay on the farm, with its strings of golden corn and rich, brown earth, with its never-ending horizon and all the things he could swing from - it was a playground to him.

Everything gleamed, sparkled, it had such lustre, it begged to be looked at, turned over, investigated, prodded, poked. He'd had a field day when he discovered worms liked mud, he'd just sat there watching them for hours until his . . . someone, had found him, told him off, cleaned him up. Held his jaw and smiled, telling him that she wasn't upset, that she just wanted to make sure he was all right, that he could tell her all about what the worms had done over dinner.

Dinner had been burbling away when the knock at the door had come. The low tones and the panicked, assertive whisper-shouts of two people who knew their time was running out had ceased, replaced with silence. Just the burbling of a pot.

The swing of a door. A shadow in the doorway. A voice.

His voice.

Every time he tried to remember past that point, it got hazy. Complicated. Like a knot of hair that had been left to scraggle around itself for months, tangled so tight it was impossible to unwind, fit only to be cut out and regrown healthy. Untangled. Uncomplicated.

"I have raised you, taken a special interest in your education, in your growth, in your being. You would be lesser without me, you know that, don't you?"

In his mind, Henry pulled at that tangle, and it bled. He could remember - smoke, coagulating in his lungs, choking him. He could remember a sweet smell even through the salt of tears, blood soaked wood, and then pale. White. Pale white with a little red diamond.

"You insult me with your silence, Henry, but that's fine. It's the burden of a father to be disappointed by his son. You have one week. If I return to this lab and you do not have results for me, you'll be released from your service and you can make do out there."

There was an instinctive chill at the mention of out there. A tensing, a revulsion, a creeping horror at the knowledge that the world was not as it should be and there was nothing anyone could do to make it the way it should be.

Footsteps. The door. And then, as if like magic, the air returned to the room.

Henry breathed and pulled back, his hands shaking as he looked down at the tiny incision he'd made, barely a cut, really, but even just that speck of blood had made him want to retch. An invisible hand reached over the back of his and squeezed, directed him to grab a surgical cloth and clean, apply pressure, stop the bleeding.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He pulled away the instant he could, moved to the sink, refused to look in the mirror for as long as he could. Why hadn't he been able to do it? He'd been taught the correct method, he had studied all the surgical manuals, it should have been easy, he had hands that could, that could disassemble and reassemble a pulse particle rifle in twenty seconds, that could detect the vibrations from the music three floors down if he pressed his palm to the walls, his hands never shook, but the instant he'd . . .

He looked up, in the mirror, and winced. He was pale. Sweaty, weak, white as a sheet, god, he was disgusting. Why was this the hand that his X-gene had dealt him? Why did he have to look so basely human? Why did he have to look so degenerate, so much lesser? Why couldn't he have been one of the lucky ones?

His mutant gift was concentrated in hands that couldn't do the work he had been given. What cruel irony was this?

*

"Have you read the Lord Apocalypse's latest treatise, McCoy?"

Henry's eyes flicked up from the food he'd been pushing around on his plate with a blunted knife, regarding Kavita with a cool, cautious eye. She was a human, but - she was all right, by most standards. Allowed to work with the other mutant scientists by virtue of her intelligence and her willingness to work in the ways that Henry found so hard, she was probably a front runner for his replacement if he continued to falter.

For a moment, he considered plunging the knife into her throat, just on the off chance that happened.

"What? No. No, I have not, I've been - busy."

Busy being not busy. Busy staring at the drugged subject on his lab table, trying to work up the nerve to carve them open and nourish himself with the information that was hidden inside. Busy trying to be someone he wasn't.

"Too busy to read the Lord's latest treatise . . ? That doesn't sound like you."

He scowled.

"If you wish to continue to be enigmatic, Rao, you can leave. I'm in no mood to entertain you today."

Kavita rolled her eyes, knowing better than almost anyone that Henry was just in one of his moods, and though she elected to leave, as he'd suggested, she did, nonetheless, slide over a pamphlet - a slim one, by Apocalypse's standards, but that usually boded well. That usually meant less philosophy, more science.

'The Awakening of Mutancy - Secondary Mutation.'

"I think you'll find it an interesting read. It's still just theory, for the most part, but Apocalypse truly believes that there's potential in it."

*

Henry devoured it. From the first word to the last, it was seared into his brain, because in amongst the quasi-religious, gallingly obvious propaganda about the purity of the mutant form, there was science here - there was theory, there was data, there was hypothesis, there was . . . promise. Unfulfilled, as of yet, but it was there.

X-gene manifestation at puberty as a result of a cocktail of hormones, adrenaline, acetylcholine, forming a brand new hormone that had yet to be isolated, but that was theorised to be the root cause of mutant gifts. A hormone. Fascinating. Chemical instructions, chemical blueprints for a new form that catalysed the unique genetic markers, pulled something new out of the code, a form of alchemy, really.

Fascinating.

Fascinating.

*

"Rao, I assure you, Essex knows the specifics of this project, and it's to him, and him alone, that I'm responsible. Now, if you'll excuse me, this cell diagram has to be programmed immediately. And to do that, I'll need absolute concentration. Which means, I'm afraid, you'll have to leave."

There was a moment of pregnant silence as Kavita took Henry McCoy in, took in the frantic, manic little man as he all but raced from table to table, from station to station, before she spoke.

"Henry, this is . . . you only have three more days before Essex returns, and you haven't even begun to do the work that he's asked you to do. Are you sure you should be wasting time on this?"

"It's not a waste of time. You don't understand."

The short, clipped tone made Kavita feel as though she were staring at Henry through a funhouse mirror - he was still unmistakably himself, still that same too intense fifteen year old with a mop of brown hair, but there was a look in his eyes that was . . . impulsive. Propulsive. Determined. Worrying.

"I almost wish I hadn't given you that pamphlet now, it's clear that I set you down a path for fai - "

In an instant, he was upon her, grabbing her by the shoulders and slamming her against the nearest wall. Her head bounced and she groaned in pain, but even though she could see a flicker of remorse in those searing blue eyes, it didn't stop him for even a second.

"I. Will not. Fail. I can't fail. It's impossible. I'm too smart to fail. I just need time, to focus, and I don't need wittering little humans with their fragile little four chambered hearts and their shrunken brains to talk to me as if they know me."

Kavita swallowed.

"Henry, your heart is - "

"Six chambered. Just because I look like you, just because I look like a genetic mistake, doesn't mean I am. What matters, is what is in here - " He tapped fervently at his temple and his heart. " - and that is mutant." He released her, stepping back, breathing deeply, and she rubbed at the back of her head.

". . . You've done me a service, Kavita. That pamphlet was the key. But you are, in the end, only human. Don't forget that. No-one will ever let you."

He turned, and she watched him stalk over to the cell diagram once more.

"I hope - I hope that this brings you what you want, Henry. I hope, more than anything, that what you want, is what will make you happy."

*

Perhaps you should have listened to her, Henry. Instead of focusing on the genetic extractor you were developing, perhaps it might have saved you.

"There - it's done. I've finally diluted the precipitate. This . . . this is the hormonal extract, the chemical cause of mutation. With this solution, we'll be able to extend the natural chromosonal imbalances - in effect, to turn any man into a mutant."

You swallowed, Henry. You could feel, on some level, that this was a moment that would define you. What might other Henry McCoys have done? Put the extract down, throw it in the trash? Accept failure? Accept defeat? Accept the human face that stares at you from the mirror?

Not you, though.

The fear. The sheer, unbridled terror that's sat in your gut since that day so many years ago. The low, dull throb of anxiety that pulses like a second heart inside of you. The crippling, choking shadow of a hand around your throat, and something wet coagulating on your face.

The fear is what makes the decision. Not you. But then, what is a man but the sum of his fears? What is a man but the totality of the roads not taken? What is a man, if not what he'll do to avoid failure?

"Don't know what will happen if you mutate a mutant . . . but I've got to take the chance. I've got to."

That wasn't precisely the truth, was it, Henry McCoy? You didn't have to. But the fear that's driven you since you were five years old and newly adopted by a thing not of this earth told you differently, and you took the hormonal extract, and . . .

You changed.

Blinding, searing pain - for a moment, you thought you might have swallowed acid. You bent over, clutched at your stomach, and for that long moment, you thought, this is what it means to die. But that was when you understood.

It's all right to die. Resurrection, reformation, rebirth, re-emergence, resurgence, is what separates the man from the mutant, after all.

And resurrected you were. Your skin burst, the flesh separating from the muscle as the soft cells of a human burned away, to be replaced. Your nails surged forward, blood bubbling up around the cuticle as the digits swelled and everything about you grew. You screamed as that hole inside of you was suddenly filled to overflowing, as newfound strength thrummed through you, new life, new power, new you.

It's all right to die, isn't it, Henry? Nothing of value inside of you was lost. Not truly. Some other Henry McCoy might see this as a curse, but you . . . ahhh.

You were blessed.

*

"Well now, Henry, young Doctor Rao here tells me that you've been quite the busy bee - I do so hope that you've applied yourself to - "

Essex stopped.

The broad back that worked and flowed and tensed and relaxed before him was covered in a thick layer of harsh black fur. Heavy strands of hair were braided, hung low with beads. There was a glimpse of a hand, twisted into cruel, shimmering claws and grabbing, eager fingers, and Kavita brought her palm up to her mouth. She spoke through her fingers, taking it all in.

"What is all this?"

The voice that answered was deep, sonorous. There was a rumble to it that wasn't quite human. An edge to it that wasn't quite all there, or, maybe it was. It sounded so very sure.

"It's science."

Essex's voice was dubious.

"Science. How delightfully vague, Henry. What have you been doing? I hope for your sake it's been what I told you to do."

Henry - or, whatever it was that had assumed Henry's shape - turned around, and Kavita wanted to scream. Essex, even, started.

A mouth twisted with glee at their reactions.

"Why, Kavita, Nathaniel, you look as though you've seen a ghost. But then, perhaps that's accurate."

He stepped aside, revealing the body flayed open, pinioned with steel rods, the flesh taut like canvas, organs conspicuous by their absence. There had been no mercy, no invisible hands, no memory here. Just efficiency. Just good, honest science.

"After all, a ghost is nothing more than a memory, a memory of who we once were, before we become what we must."

The thing laughed, and Sinister laughed with it - delighted. Proud.

"And what am I to call my young protege, now that he's become what he was always meant to be?"

It was almost affectionate, the way Sinister's tongue curled around the words, and Kavita could see the creature revel in them. He didn't have to think twice.

"Beast. Call me Beast."

[starlitwishes]

Family? You truly think you deserve a family, puppet? You'll only endanger them as a deserter of the Fatuu.

The venomous words made Wrenn bristle and tense.

Those words coiled around something in his chest, making it hurt. Yet it wasn’t like the stranger was wrong—he didn’t truly deserve a family, did he? He had so many sins to bear, so many things he couldn’t ever make up for.

Then there was the added element of danger as well—the fact he was a Harbinger that deserted his post, no matter the circumstances. That was still treason to the Tsarista, even if Wrenn didn’t have plans on getting in her way or stopping her.

But Wrenn was so, so tired. He wanted to rest—he wanted a peaceful life. Ge wanted to be happy.

Was it really so much to ask for?

Maybe it was.

“Shut up.”

That was his only response—because in the end, those venomous words were right.

He didn’t deserve a family. He was dangerous to be around.

He didn’t deserve to be happy. He didn’t even deserve to live, after all.

[livestosave]

@ein-schnee-sturm from here

It was a scene that felt both familiar, and...not. He'd never been on this side of it, not like this. The other two, yes...he'd never been the adult coming in like this. It struck him, then, to wonder if Lark and Goodkind had ever felt this weight in their chest. The aching desire to set things right...and take care of who they could.

James took a breath, and slowly stepped inside. Instinctively, his shoulders dropped from their usual stiff, straight posture, to fall more naturally and make him a little smaller to the eye. Right now...the last thing he wanted was to be intimidating, or authority right now.

"Winter..." Despite himself, his voice came low and soft, pitched to be as soothing as he could manage. Something to latch onto, even if she couldn't meet his gaze, or even truly look at him. Gods, he could hardly ask it of her, could he? "I'm not asking you to leave her."

No. No, he couldn't. No. He remembered Ozpin too clearly laid out on a hospital bed. Remembered too clearly being in one.

Carefully, the huntsman stepped closer, keeping an eye out in case he was pushing. In case distance was what his student required from him. He wouldn't presume his presence itself was going to be helpful; he knew all too well that it could be quite the opposite.

"Please. The doctor won't make you leave, I've made arrangements. You can stay here...just please, rest." For now...for now, he would let the rest sit. He could say Winter was not to blame until he was blue in the face, but it wouldn't remove the feeling that she was. Nothing could except time and healing.

He would know that too, wouldn't he.

[cammyluvss]

stop liking this you little fuckers

if this gets 20 notes in a week ill start drawing more and going outside

if this gets 100 notes by the end of march i will actually try in school

if this gets 200 notes by the end of march i will eat more, ,,,,,,rn i only eat lunch

if this gets 400 notes by the end of march ill stand up to ppl at school who bully me

if this gets 500 notes by april ill stop cvtting

[sibmakesart]

prev

[remember-to-be-gentle]

Inspired by this tumblr post by @hawnks 

Subject: JJK, Satoru Gojo

Title: Hate Me Tomorrow (Omega!Gojo x GN Alpha!Reader)

Trigger Warning: Dub con, omega verse, scenting, size difference, biting/marking, obsessive/toxic behavior, self-hatred, knotting, knot riding, begging, heat/mating cycles, grinding 

The sweet, musky scent of Gojo's cologne and sweat enveloped you. Even the giant stuffed beta fish you were snuggling had no scent but his. His pillow fort was surprisingly spacious, granted, Gojo was nearly twice your size so there was a lot of him to fit. But being in here with him was nearly suffocating, and not just because of the light whiffs of omega scent rolling off of him or because he'd practically ripped off your jacket to snuggle into. 

He'd called you suddenly, saying that he needed to spend time with someone. It made sense. Geto just died and there were only so many people who were willing to pick up the phone for Gojo, and even fewer he'd actually call. Especially when it was a secret he was an omega, pretending to be an alpha and you were an alpha pretending to be a beta. 

The two of you were decent friends, hanging out after teaching at Jujutsu Tech for a drink or a quick round of gossip. He was one of the few people who knew you were an alpha and he an omega, an unusual kinship formed but it was never anything more. More importantly, you knew about his relationship with Geto. You couldn't say no. 

Which was why your thigh was snug against his, smartphone balanced on your knee, his favorite plushie shoved into your arms. His head on your shoulder breathes fast but not uneven. It seemed like he was trying not to cry. Poor guy. The winter fashion review didn't seem to be helping him calm down at all. Nor any work gossip. You wanted to stay and help, but it was getting late. If he really wanted to, he could just pin you down, sometimes that thought scared you.

Gojo curled onto his side, struggling closer to you, your jacket wrapped in his hands like a security blanket. 

It felt wrong to leave, but you needed to take care of yourself, too. "Hey, bud, I need to get going. Are you going to be alright by yourself?" 

Gojo buried his face in your neck, silent. He leaned his weight into you, just enough to make it clear he didn't want to be alone. 

Fuck. "I'm sorry. I'll come first thing tomorrow. We'll call out from work and go to the city or--" 

His teeth scraped your neck. Possessive, dominant. Alpha behavior. Before you knew what was happening, he was ripping off your scent suppressor, inhaling like he hadn't been breathing for hours. Alpha pheromones leaked from your skin, invading your nose. "Gojo?" 

Your stomach turned as your instincts awakened, the need to comfort an omega struggling with your own needs for autonomy. Your fingers dug into the beta fish plushie, filled with his scent. 

He reached for his own scent blocker and you suddenly realized what was going on. With his neck practically right under your nose, his omega scent was free. And not just that, he was going into heat. The pillow fort was a nest and this was a trap. Gojo was primed to breed and he was going to use you to fuck away his pain. "This isn't healthy, Gojo, listen to me!" 

But his patch was already off and the omega scent of him in your lungs, filling you, lighting every nerve on fire. Your cock swelled under your clothes, reacting to his breedable scent with vigor. 

Gently, Gojo took the plush and pushed you onto your back, yanking off his pants as his pale face filled with color. His bandages were already slipping, the iridescent shine of his six eyes laser-focused on the swelling at your crotch. He crawled on top of you, already tugging off his shirt. "Just for today, please." He panted, his thin but muscular chest heaving as if just sitting here breathing was a near-impossible task. 

His weight lowered onto your cock and you gasped, feeling his wetness through your clothes. His heat was so pleasant, feverish but warm, empty, and yearning. Blood pulsed lower and you gulped. 

Slowly, Gojo rocked back and forth, moaning loudly each time your shaft met his clit. His back arched, nipples swollen and pink, and standing at attention. "Please," he begged. "Just me just for tonight. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please, ah, Y/N. Please, I wanna cum. Let me have it inside me." 

It was getting harder and harder to think straight. He felt so good, the need to fill him up, let him fuck himself stupid on your cock growing. It would be better if you let him, a voice whispered. Another said, it's what you were made for. Just let him. 

"Gojo," you gasped. You reached for him, tried to make him stop so you could think, but his fingers intertwined with yours and he was moving faster now, his breathy moans coming faster. His skin was so soft and warm, filling you with his heat until you thought you might burst. Blood pulsed in your cock, his pussy was sucking at you through your clothing. He wanted you so badly. You wanted... What did you want to do again? You had to leave but why? 

"Y/N, I'm cumming." His hips rocked faster, tummy rolling with downy white hair covered in sparkling slick. "I'm cumming on your alpha cock." He let go of your hands to lay across your stomach, his head buried in your neck to take in your scent, his own making your head spin as pleasure threatened to burst out of your cock. His teeth met your skin, nibbling and biting gently then hard enough to bruise until he let out a long, throaty groan as he came. 

Instantly, your clothes were soaked, his hot slick smothered on your member. If you weren't fully erect before, you were now. 

Still panting, Gojo lifted himself up just enough to tug your cock free from your clothing. He didn't wait, spreading his pussy with his fingers as he sank down on your tip. Slick gushed down your shaft as he cried out, swallowing your swollen head into his heat. You bit back a groan, fingers digging into the blankets making up the fort. 

"You feel so big," Gojo moaned. "So good. I've only done this with Geto, so I'm going to have to start slow." He sank a little further, impossibly tight and hot and wet. "Feels so good," he huffed, rolling his hips and finally, sinking all the way down your shaft.

Your knot throbbed, seeming to sense that an omega was speared on your length. 

Gojo humped himself on your cock, needy moans slipping from his mouth each time his hips met yours. "Feels so good, Y/N. I've only felt Geto like this before." 

Before you could respond he pulled back to his full height, six eyes glowing in the warm darkness of the pillow fort. He spread his lower lips as he lifted himself up, clear slick drooling from his hole. His pretty, pink, clit a shining pearl at the apex of his thighs. "You did this to me. Look how wet you made me." Slowly, Gojo slid back down, pushing the head of your cock against his cervix. Again, he kept himself exposed and rose up, only to slurp your length right back down to the knot, aiming this time higher, into something spongy and mouth-wateringly soft.

"G-Gojo, I know you miss him but you can't--" 

He raised himself up and dropped down, knocking a groan from you both. "I think about him a lot," Gojo panted. "About how empty he left me. In my soul. In my body. So please, let me fix one of those. Just for now. It's okay if you hate me, but I need you now more than I've needed anyone." 

Gojo whined, flushed and excited. "Right there." He slammed back down on you with a stomach-churning squelch right into that soft sweet spot. "So good." He was riding you now, using you like a dildo to get himself off, his delicate fingers rolling his clit in circles. You couldn't take your eyes off him. "I want you to cum inside me, okay? Fill me up with your seed. Help me feel less empty." 

Pleasure gathered deep inside you, begging to come out as your knot swelled. Shit. You shouldn't. He was your coworker, your friend. But omegas needed alpha seed, he needed reprieve from his heat and you were the only one he could call--because the person he really wanted was dead. 

That thought shattered your high, grounding you back in the moment. "Gojo, I know you're still mourning Geto, but this isn't healthy for you." 

Gojo settled on your stomach, chest heaving. His hands snuck under your shirt, impossibly soft and warm in your skin. Your cock twitched inside him, wanting him to squeeze and milk you dry but that wasn't what a good friend would let him do. 

"I killed him, you know." His hands curled into fists by your hips. "He left me after taking my virginity and when he came back, I killed him on Christmas Eve because he didn't give me another choice. I'm awful, aren't I? Shoko hates me. She won't say it but I know she does. I hate me, too." The blue of his eyes shone as tears gathered, threatening to fall down his red flushed cheeks. 

"Shoko doesn't hate you." You said soothingly. You sat up, so much smaller than him, and ran your hands through his hair. "It was an impossible situation, we all think you did the right thing. We--" 

He didn't let you finish your thought. Gojo grabbed you by your shirt and slammed his mouth onto yours, his tongue filling you as if he could make you swallow every hateful thing he'd ever thought about himself. "If you don't hate me," he breathed against your lips, his spit wet and warm as it dribbled down your chin, "then cum inside me." He rolled his hips, reigniting the electric pleasure in your core. "Please. You can hate me tomorrow, but right now, I can't let you go." 

The pulsing softness of his pussy contracted, squeezing you so tightly you thought you might burst. You gasped for breath when Gojo released you and then did it again. You wanted to move. You wanted to stop. You wanted... 

Gojo pulled down the front of your shirt, rolling his hips roughly, chasing his end against your cock. He bit your chest, hard enough to bruise, marking you like an alpha. And that was enough to come undone. 

You exploded inside of him, eyes rolling back as your core emptied against his sweet spot. Your hips rolled up into his and you shivered as you felt your knot pop into his pussy, slick sliding down your thighs and onto the blankets. 

You struggled to breathe as Gojo laid himself on top of you, breathing fast. He rocked his hips against your knot, already trying to drag another orgasm out of himself. His arms slid under your back, pulling your chest to his. "You're all I have now, Y/N," he whispered, "so please, don't leave.”

[uncanny-tranny]

Whenever people who are entrenched in diet culture talk about how terrible chemicals are, I just want to whip out this:

[ndcultureis]

Autism culture is not feeling things in the normal way and hating yourself for it

.

[akirathedramaqueen]

CBT and Exposure Therapy: Blitzø Showcase

An important (really, don't skip) disclaimer

If you are contemplating whether or not you would benefit from any kind of therapy, consider consulting with your medical provider first. While I did my best to validate all the points made using publicly available resources, I am not a medical professional. At the very least, I strongly advise that you do your own research and not take some amateur's opinion about a character from a silly demon show for granted.

"Everyone in this show needs fucking therapy STAT!"

We hear fans screaming into the void every now and then. Me too. I plead guilty and I willingly put myself in custody. But I am not taking these words back.

Especially often it is being said with Blitzø in mind, who, as hinted earlier and clearly shown in the latest episode, Ghostfuckers, is not doing okay. Not in the slightest.

Which is . . . yes. Indeed, trauma-ridden Blitzø is a major problem for both him and those around him. Yes, we see him reaching his lowest point now exactly because he left these gaping wounds untreated for so long.

But the tricky question is—how, though? What to do? Will a good talking to a confidante help? Or, maybe, some kind of shock would snap him out of the spiral?

I've been pondering on this topic for more than 4 months, and, as the Ghostfuckers came out, I finally got all the data I need to prove a point. The show did all the job for me and effectively made Blitzø go through improvised versions of two popular therapy techniques. And, before I even start, I want to say—I am so glad with what we ended up with. What they did, and, more importantly, didn't do, aligns well with how it would likely happen in real life.

So buckle up, and let's see where it gets us!

Therapy # 1. Cognitive-behavioral therapy, or CBT

This is, in essence and with some corrections, your good old talking. Here you can find more information about it, so, if you're not familiar with the topic, I recommend following the link first.

But, very shortly: CBT is an extremely common approach to be tried while you're dealing with anxiety, depression, and a number of other mental disorders. What it aims to do is to help you get past unhelpful thinking (distortions) and learn not to act on it.

Looks like it fits the bill, right? Blitzø has a lot of issues with self-fulfilling prophecies, infuriatingly stupid assumptions, poorly thought-out actions . . .

But he's not like, you know . . . w-we're not, like . . . we're not doing a . . . w-we . . . what's betw— It's a transactional fucking, you see.

If you don't feel like coming, that's OK! I'm sure I can do without it for one month. :)

Stolas only cares about having a rugged peasant raw-dog him into his matress! It's nothing, ya know . . . it's nothing else.

You . . . no longer have any obligation to see me, to touch me, to bed me . . . You are— you are free of me.

He sees things which aren't truly there.

It's not Stolas giving him space after the disaster in the 'Ozzie's.' It must be Stolas not needing him anymore, getting tired of him.

It's not Stolas caring about Blitzø. He is a royal, why would he care how an imp's day he happened to be fucking was?

It's not Stolas setting Blitzø free and putting an end to a problematic transaction they had with the hope for it to grow into something more. It's him getting rid of Blitzø.

As a result, he ends up hurting himself and the relationship he had with that one sad gay bird he happened to fall deeply for but literally trashed in his own house twice, acting on nothing more than frenetic fear of losing Stolas, but in reality, driving him away even more . . . for good.

I mean, you royal fucks think you can do this every time, like you can just play with our feelings because we're smaller and not as important!

Ha! I'm right, aren't I? You get off getting plowed by people you look down on!

And I can sorry more people, everyone but you! 'Cause I don't owe you dick! Everyone, but you . . .

So, the case's closed? Let someone—say, Millie—talk to him and tell him how wrong he was about himself and the others?

Well, here's the thing. Despite him being infinitely wrong about Stolas's intentions, we can't deny the fact that every one of his beliefs was not, in fact, a distortion. It'd led him to wrong conclusions, yes, but it was built on the information he received and legitimate experiences he had in his life. Here are only some of the facts connected to only this situation with Stolas, but there are other problematic behaviors and other reasons for him acting the way he does.

Fact # 1. The circus fire did happen, and Blitzø was the reason for it. Unintentional, and of course it wasn't his fault, but it still ruined the lives of many people—him included. Blitzø cannot act like it never occurred.

Fact # 2. Hell is divided by class and race. Their situationship with the grimoire was an embodiment of that inequality. A lot of Blitzø's outburst during the Full Moon and later in the Apology Tour was connected to it, to his beliefs that Stolas is the same as the rest of the privileged circle. Beliefs, I stress, justified by the real world. Stolas is more of an exception, and even then, his behavior is only different when it comes to Blitzø. He still acts the same toward other imps.

Fact # 3. We knew about Stolas's intentions all along, but before that fateful Full Moon, what Blitzø saw was Stolas avoiding him and not communicating the issue the Ozzie's date had raised. And before Ozzie's? Stolas did act entitled and inappropriate. He was baby-talking to Blitzø and used derogatory terms while addressing him. The dude literally called him an impish plaything in the Truth Seekers.

Fact # 4. Blitzø's heavily implied (though not officially confirmed by the show) existing conditions—ADHD*, BPD**, PTSD, and dyslexia/dyscalculia***—do affect his life, and while Hell seems to be somewhat receptive of neurodivergence, he still has to deal with it every single fucking day. He is going to be avoidant and afraid to be abandoned at the same time. He is going to hate himself. His learning disabilities are going to make his life harder. No way around it.

Note: *, **, and *** contain links to separate meta-analyses from @timkontheunsure and @tealvenetianmask about the respective conditions and how they show themselves in Blitzø's case.

And my beef with CBT here is exactly that. CBT's goal is to gaslight you into believing your distortions hold no water and suggests you just ignore them. And, as I've shown with Blitzø, these reactions and assumptions aren't baseless. They are legitimate, and, in fact, sometimes help to get by. Even though it's a crooked crutch, you can't learn to walk properly by just throwing that crutch away. You're still going to limp, and oh, will it be painful.

This is oversimplistic and dismissive. Anxiety and depression don't come out of the blue, and with mental disabilities, it's even deeper. The class/disability stigma is alive and strong, and just slapping a "you're fine" bandaid on your traumatized self isn't going to help.

Therapy # 2. Exposure therapy.

Exposure therapy is another approach commonly used while dealing with traumatic past and its aftermath—PTSD, anxiety, phobias, and such. Again, if you're not familiar, there's the link for you, but very shortly—the therapist puts the patient in a safe environment and 'exposes' them to the feared object in question for limited periods of time. The goal is to eventually get rid of the targeted fear and decrease avoidance.

And Blitzø has got some phobias for sure.

The fear of letting everyone down. Again.

And the fear of abandonment. Again.

All of it is a result of self-hatred, sitting so deeply it rules his life and his vision of how others perceive him. Said it himself. Almost.

So, where and how does the show expose Blitzø to his traumatic past?

First, the most recent, and the most obvious one—Rolando and his slideshow of all traumatic events Blitzø ever had in his life.

Second—Blitzø's drug trip in the Truth Seekers. While it does not contain the events of the past as they were, it does force him to face his fears.

Are you worried I might have enough of it one day as well? . . . You're going to die alone! . . . You're going to die alone, Blitzo!

With some stretch, the third one is Verosika's 'Blitzo sucks' party. Where Blitzø was forced to see the consequences of his avoidance and rejection.

Note: to be clear, I do think the party does not show the true extent of Blitzø's actions and how much he'd hurt people. It was exaggerated by Verosika, and here I explain why this is the case.

So, what gives? Or, rather, what gives it not?

It might sound funny now, considering I brought it up myself, but I, once again, say this is not therapeutic, just as CBT kind of 'talking.' If anything, all these three events did more harm than good.

The D.H.O.R.K.S.'s goal in the Truth Seekers was to torture the information out of Blitzø. He was not supposed to overcome it. He was supposed to crack.

The Verosika's goal was to ruin Blitzø's reputation. She was working her ass off to prove he's just a heartless freak.

The Rolando's goal was to fucking kill Blitzø.

And okay, their motivations had nothing to do with helping him, but maybe it did, in its own twisted way?

No. The writers added this to push Blitzø past the breaking point, not to heal him, and to show us more of his lore. Each time he was forced to face his past or fears or consequences, he was only spiraling more.

The only thing which did him some good was . . . well, Millie finally seeing his bravado mask falling off. But the cost of it was way too high. Not worth it.

To the therapy's defense, some points why it would never work in the way it was done in the show:

Blitzø had never given his consent and was not ready to face it. I might be very rude right now, but go and try producing some explosion-like sounds in front of war veterans without letting them know first and see what happens.

The amount of fearful experience exposed was way too overboard. He couldn't possibly digest it in a healthy way.

The environment was not safe. It was straight-up retraumatizing, an intentional one.

So there's that.

But what helped then?

We've briefly brushed over the fact Millie did talk to Blitzø. While I did imply this might be an example of CBT, here are some key deviations from the classic therapy which made all the difference.

Millie didn't sugarcoat all the shit Blitzø did. He was hurting their business. He didn't pay her. He was reduced to Bethanie. It showed her opinion can be trusted.

Millie apologized for not being there for him sooner. She admitted she relied too much on Blitzø being bulletproof, unbothered by everything. She admitted she didn't support him in a way he always did.

While proving she could never hate Blitzø, she used their common story, one he knows and can recall. She used evidence to prove him wrong, not a "it's all in your head" bandaid. And more than that, later she proved it with action—not for one second did she believe Rolando and his shittalk about what Blitzø supposedly was thinking about her. Her unwavering faith spoke more than any words ever could.

Getting back to exposure therapy . . . Metaphorically, she reminded Blitzø he can handle a beating or two. And physically beat the infestor demon out of him, which, as we can see later, didn't really affect Blitzø that much. He wasn't even battered. So, apparently, when the said exposure is done by someone who genuinely tries to make you feel better and knows your limits well, it might just work?

And finally, Millie acknowledged Blitzø's pain. She didn't brush it away. She validated him.

What all of this is about?

Like every treatment, too much of a medicine can become poisonous. So are CBT and exposure therapy.

They might help, and lots of research shows they do in certain cases. But there are limitations to what they can and cannot achieve, and they have to be adjusted to each individual story, to each trauma, and they should not be applied as a way to mend the outcome of the trauma without taking into account the story it comes with. Again, legitimate concerns and experiences cannot be brushed away or ignored.

Actualy . . . we've seen where it leads in the show too. In the beginning, Millie was quite dismissive of Blitzø's worries—all of this over a . . . breakup?

And here it comes full circle.

Only when Millie started taking Blitzø seriously, did it help them progress. And look how quickly we've switched from a complete despair to a glimmer of hope! Isn't that a beautiful closing scene?

As a closing note—we do not need to 'fix' Blitzø. After all this shit he went through, there won't be a day where he wakes up and be like, "Hey, I don't hate myself anymore! And look, I'm not afraid to be abandoned or misunderstood!"

I'm sorry to break it to you, but this is a lifelong battle. Being mentally whole, healthy, and constantly happy is no more than a myth, and everyone has their own demons and skeletons to deal with.

What Blitzø needs is some good support system to pull him back when he's down.

And boy, do I hope that one particular owl will fill in that role of unyielding pillar for Blitzø each time our lizard will fall into that pit again. Look, I love Millie, but there's only so much she can do. She can't be always present, she has her own life . . . and her own disaster of a husband to look after (affectionate <3). Here and here @lost-romantique talks about Stolas's capacity of loving, with me occasionally nodding, ha-ha. But to be short—it's fucking immense. And since he loves words, I do believe he has all the energy to tell again and again and again how awesome Blitzø is. Even if Blitzø wouldn't believe it himself.

[pastelcatnip-x3]

She’s finally done! Here’s my TPTM oc, Parasite Girl!

She’s meant to represent imposter syndrome, and always feeling like you’re a burden to everyone around you- hence the parasite imagery, since she sees herself as someone who always takes and never gives no matter what anyone tries to tell her. Her style is based on 2020s Cutecore/Cutegore aesthetics, joifuku fashion, and yamikawaii! I love her so much and she is my new favorite little guy.

(It took soooo long to make her carrd page since I was basically going in blind T^T)

Bonus Headcanons:

She would be closest with Disposable Girl, Chocolate Box Girl, and Splitter Girl

Her MV would feature imagery of magical girl anime, anime figures and other cute collectibles, assorted bugs, and meat. She would be voiced by Vflower!

Her favorite food is strawberry mousse and chocolate crinkle cookies

She loves Super Sonico, and her favorite anime is Madoka Magica

She often spends a lot of time in the backyard observing different bugs

She likes to makes worms on strings into earrings

She has had many pet bugs over the years, and currently has a pet snail

Her favorite music genre is Denpa

She paints her nails so she doesn’t chew them

Her favorite official Vocaloid is Rin, but her favorite UTAU is Meaty-Chan.

She loves body horror in fiction

She plays an equal amount of horror games and cozy farming sims

WARNING! Her file is below the cut and contains a brief mention of a su!cide attempt and S/H, viewer discretion is advised. Her moodboard is also there, which has imagery of meat, blood, and insects.

[styrofoam-box]

youre not a waste of time to me.

[ein-schnee-sturm]

“You can barely keep your eyes open, go lie down.” - James at Winter, your choice of time period darling

Calling Winter tired would’ve been an understatement. She hadn’t slept more than a few minutes since that day in Mistral, the explosion burned into the inside of her eyelids — and the acid taste of failure eating her alive from the inside out. Logically, the snow leopard knew that it wasn’t her fault, that she had had no way of knowing that the Atlesian embassy would be targeted; and even more so, that Gwenn would be inside. Gwenn, and all of Ilya’s family (those that mattered, anyway), and countless other innocents who had had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the three days it had taken to extract Winter’s Teammate’s — miraculously still living — body from the wreckage, she had been focused on keeping Ilya from self-destructing.

Finding Demeter at the same time had mollified the blond wolf only enough for them to proceed to glue themself to their cousin/surrogate sister’s bedside, much as Winter was still doing with Gwenn. Gwenn’s father Rodrigue visited when he could; her mother Naomi was busy “mourning her son”; and her baby brother Felix had been dragged out, kicking and screaming, by Naomi when he tried to join Winter. All of that had been over a week ago. Winter had kept as uninterrupted a vigil as she could, and she had thought she was fine, if tired… but clearly, she was doing worse, if someone else was telling her to sleep. For a long moment, the soon-to-be Second Year didn’t answer, hands curled into fists in her lap; the claws she could finally grow out biting into her palms. The pain was clarifying, and even though she knew that James would scold her for it, the barely eighteen-year-old needed the anchor… and she had to punish herself somehow.

(She didn’t have the energy to follow protocol and think of him as “Headmaster Ironwood,” just then.) As the silence stretched, Winter began to rock back and forth in the chair she had claimed a week ago; it was between Gwenn’s bed and the wall, so the white-haired teen didn’t have her back to the hospital room’s door. Eventually, Winter spoke, gaze riveted to her best friend’s sleeping face — the only part of Gwenn (aside from her fluffy feline ears) that had been spared by the flames and destruction of the explosion, as well as the subsequent shattering of her Aura to keep Demeter alive. “…I am her Team Leader,” the taller feline managed, feeling more wretched than she had in at least a year — than she had since abandoning Weiss and Whitley.

“And I could not keep her safe.”

She hadn’t a clue where Macaria was, either.

[nervouspoets]

[afriblaq]

Given the results of this election, i wanted to resurface this idea about American identity 

[maskt]

every time someone around me makes a joke about "big back behavior" i genuinely get so mad i see red. it does nothing but shame people and their bodies. just stfu be a decent person PLEASE!!!!! get on tumblr and look at how furries lovingly draw and paint and render fat bodies. how can people fall into the mindset that fatness is something to fear.