#abusive mum

[me-and-the-devils-minion]

Merry Christmas eve to all people with abusive parents and no one else

[Insert "Bitch, me too" meme]

[forsakendevil]

Why can’t you just love me? Am I so difficult to love? Am I not worth of your care?

Where did I go wrong? Tell me mum. If I fix all of my mistakes will you love me then? Did you just want a different child?

[just-healing-now]

i will always remember mum. i will always remember dad. i will always, always remember even when you don’t

[bluegiragi]

human.

early access + nsfw on patreon

more backstory that i wrote up for patreon heh:

Simon and Tommy had a complicated relationship as brothers. 

At a young age, Simon basically wrote himself off as a lost cause, and did the best he could to make sure at least Tommy had a chance to be a functioning human being. After all, Tommy was the gentler brother, the dreamer, the one who looked like their mother (who'd walked out on them years ago to escape their father). But Tommy got bitter, got sick of the one always being protected, being babied. He lost respect for Simon, for the way he wouldn't fight back, and in a twisted way, grew closer to his father as a way to learn how to be powerful, strong. It backfired, and Tommy got wrapped up in some bad business.

Simon's kid brother died while he was deployed. He got the news in the letter, and it broke him in a big way. In the story timeline, it was years and years ago but it still hurts like hell whenever Simon thinks about him. 

[saturnsorbits]

Sero Hanta, early-twenties, sat in a small room with his pants around his ankles and a small pot in his hand. There’s porn magazines all over the place, something he’s never quite cared for, but he still manages to deposit his sample with the nurse within a break-neck 10 minutes. Blame his youthful exuberance and the fact he hasn’t touched himself for almost two weeks leading up to his appointment, he guesses.

And you, fifteen years later, with your son. A lanky boy who’s too tall for his age, with a mop of black hair and eyes of such a richly, dark brown they’re often mistaken for black.

[beef-unknwn]

My Operetta redesign! I cooked here I think 💥

(some design notes under da cut☝️🤓)

The Dies Irae (at least the first four notes) is referenced in these four prominent blotches! (shitty visualisation) (and yes! I gave her five linear scars to reference music sheets)

And this schwoopy hair thing is supposed to look like a treble clef but i probably didn't make it obvious enough oopsies 😐

Anyways I love bitches with facial deformities that are LOUD and UGLY 💖

[noctxj]

the reaper | part i

as far back as human memory can recall, the origin of flower marks remains unknown. if perhaps they came during or after the birth of humanity, or are benevolent gifts from the gods to aid ones navigation in life— milestones to remember and learn from, a north point on a compass lest you stray from your path. regardless, they have always been. and while flower marks remain an important aspect of ones journey, there is none other more significant than the soul flower mark. wherein the moment someone is born, this mark blooms above ones heart, as it is considered a pure reflection of who that person is and will be.

part i / part ii

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

so it was no wonder that during a gloomy winter evening, stricken screams of hysteria and the shrill wailings of a newborn baby echoed off the walls of the cold estate in a coalescing manner. the head midwife having no choice but to hurriedly pass the tiny squirming bundle to a reluctant nurse and focus on trying to placate the madam’s delirium— 

"that is no child of mine! keep that accursed child away from me! nurse--!" 

flower marks are a language all on its own, one that humans do not need to learn. rather, it is an inbuilt knowledge and understanding. and in the case for this newborn child, their soul flower mark had already predetermined their fate as forsaken.

as amidst the turbulent mess of bloodied towels and blankets, death had just been born. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

initially mesmerising in its opulent visage, its only when the mind catches up and registers its meaning that its beauty is quickly replaced with fear and alarm. 

a blooming grandiflora rose of black petals mixed with subtle hues of reds and haunting purples rests above the girls heart, with bramble-like stems arching up across her frail collarbones to ensure it is there to stay.

a black rose, promising the bearer as the omen of death.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

even at such a young age, the cruelty of fate had already determined that little flora would not be given mercy or reprieve from the reality that is her cursed existence. a forsaken trail of purple anemones had lightly entangled itself amongst the thorny stems of her soul flower, almost as if to placate its loneliness. 

a swath of lilies of the valley sprawl from her left shoulder over and down her shoulder blade, the burning trail of pain and suffering almost numb to her senses. 

and then upon the delicate skin of her left wrist lay a singular bloom— a moonflower, reflecting little flora’s most earnest thoughts, dreaming of love from her own mother.

all these marks permanently etching themselves into little flora’s skin before her third birthday.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

despite living under the same roof as her mother, rarely did little flora see her; instead following in her late grandfathers footsteps as a ruthless businesswoman, silver spoon in her mouth and all. instead she herself was always surrounded by staff always heeding to her mother’s orders, to "always have that child within your sights", with an ever rotating door of tutors and nannies.

“madam, miss flora is an intellectually gifted child, it is quite remarkable! she has just—", 

"… so?" her mother had sharply interrupted, “a high level of intelligence is a common trait within this family. i expect you to provide the girl with more difficult material to not only accomplish but also excel in; anything less than perfect and dare i say failure to meet my— this family's standards, will not be tolerated. or are you stating that you are not competent enough to fulfil your tutor roles' duties and responsibilities?"

"i— no— my apologies madam, of course there is no problem. if you would allow me, i have colleagues who would be thrilled to assist in miss flora’s academic—"

"do as you please. now, i have an important meeting with a gentlemen flying in from st. petersburg. a mr. z it appears… the estate staff will assist with your queries about the girl. so do refrain from contacting me any further-"

so as determined as a young child her age could be, she promised she'd keep being good to strive for her mothers praise, be an obedient and perfect daughter that her mother would realise is worthy to be loved— despite her soul flower.

“a curse that should never be shown to anyone lest she receive punishment,” her mother would often remind her.

a punishment that envelopes the expanse of her back as raised scars. milestones just as permanent as her flower marks. more lilies of the valley creeping down her back. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

little flora never knew who her father was, had asked her mother once and received a harsh slap across her cheek, her small body whipping to the carpeted floor from the force. 

the silent burning of nightshade on her right pointer finger ironically mocking the hush motion.

she never cared to ask again. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

little flora remembers the day she believed her mother had finally saw value in loving her. barely eight years old and still holding onto that naive hope— and she foolishly believed she finally did.

waking up early in the morning as per her routine, only to see her mother sitting in the chair beside her bed, happiness written across her usually severe expression, looking at little flora herself. blinking once— twice— then rubbing her hands across her eyes to make sure what she is seeing is real and not a dream.

“good morning flora,” what is going on— “you and i have an agenda for today, so please come downstairs for breakfast once you’re ready.”

is today the day? did she finally do it? is her mother finally learning to love her—

“as it is a special occasion, i’ve taken the liberty of selecting your attire. now, off you go to wash up.”

little flora had been ecstatic, her heart thrumming like a hummingbird out of excitement to prove that her mother would not regret placing value on her. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

little flora’s only ever seen her mother’s soul flower once, only by chance of course. her evening robe slightly loose across her shoulders, her motions lax from the glass of wine she was nursing— a far cry from her usually sharp and elegant appearance. 

a beautifully victorious gladiolus cradled upon her chest. she envied it, a blessing to be born with. unlike herself. however, it wasn’t until later that she understood why her mother despised her existence so much.

as victory and death are eternal enemies— always on opposing sides. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“it is the perfect place for you to grow in flora, a place for you to finally thrive in,” her mother’s words had echoed in flora’s ears.

she doesn’t know how long ago that was.

she didn’t even feel alive.

flora’s small body strapped down to a cold metal table, no longer wearing the attire her mother had especially picked out for her. instead wearing a customised medical gown, allowing an unobstructed view of her accursed soul flower mark to the blurry shapes her dull gaze had tried to focus on.

the harsh clinical smell of the room burning her nose, and the glaring overhead lights further disorienting her senses. flora couldn’t move her head if she tried, a strap also tightly bound across her forehead attached to the metal table. 

what is this place? why would mother send me here? this is wrong, they must of got it wrong, i shouldn’t be here, i—

flora could feel the burning of a new mark directly below her soul flower. almost the same in size she guesses, if only she could move her head.

the agonising pain of a broken heart flourishing as a vibrant yellow rose.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.✦ . ˳

tric’s notes

this highkey spawned from my hanahaki disease fic. flower meanings/symbolism was a bit difficult to grasp (ie. countries, cultures, time periods), so don't take this too seriously lol. 

i was hoping to make this a oneshot but it just kept going ugh. this is unedited. part ii may be more backstory, part iii the boys will appear (no promises though, just a rough idea).

i recommend listening to “my flower” by ladies code. it’s a korean song but i think it matches the mood of this piece - so i encourage listening to it.

thanks for stopping by!! ♡︎

crossposted on ao3 (same username)

[aurorangen]

But why does pain always come in the end?

Transcript:

[After a few months, everything started going downhill. You could say my Dad started disappearing]

[Not entirely though. Our morning routine was normal and I'd get dropped off at school by my Mum. Usually, my Dad's workday ends at the same time as school finishes, so he'd come to pick me up. But he began missing those. I didn't know what he was doing or where he was. Probably work. To this day I still don't know]

[It got to the point where this was happening frequently. I lied to my teachers and said I had permission from both my parents to walk home by myself, and that I only lived around the corner. An 8-year-old walking 30 minutes home, alone through the busy city streets. Any adult would be concerned if they knew]

[No one was there when I got home. I'd spend a few hours alone waiting for my parents and always my Dad came back first. He'd come home frustrated either ignore my existence or shout at me. Sometimes he'd start swearing or hitting stuff. I stayed far away. And when my Mum came home, he was completely normal]

[I started becoming afraid of him. He showed a split personality and I was the only one who knew it then. I was scared of telling anyone and kids were whispering about me. That's why I lied to my teachers to get out of there quickly. What if I told them the truth? Would things have turned out differently if I did?]

[ninadove]

What a lovely day to love Felix 💜🦚

[gardenoflupins]

Dark AU / @wolfstarmicrofic / 312 words

CW: violence, cruel characters

Remus watches without feeling as Sirius is forced onto his knees, wrists tied behind his back. He breathes heavily, blood dripping down his nose. The corner of his mouth was stained with blood.

“Bring him with us,” Remus’s voice calls out and Sirius snarls silently at the other werewolves who move towards him. He directs his expression towards Remus who is standing next to Greyback.

Their expressions are carbon copies of each other and Sirius lets out a sharp, cruel laugh. He had trained Remus well.

Remus’s brow twitches at the abrupt laugh. “Don’t make this harder for yourself. You’ve already lost.”

“Go to hell.” Sirius spits blood onto the ground.

Remus gives one curt nod in response.

When someone tries to haul him up, Sirius sinks his teeth into their arm. They cry out in anger and reel their fist back to strike Sirius in the nose again and again. Sirius chokes on another bloody laugh.

Remus does nothing. Sirius knew. He knew something had changed in Remus in the two years that he’d been missing. When they found each other again, he was a shadow of his past self. He kept the same face but the detached expression wasn’t his. Those empty, soulless eyes weren’t his. Not his Remus’s.

And now the pack was hunting down the purebloods, destroying them one family at a time.

“Don’t be difficult, Padfoot.”

“No.” Sirius shakes his head, struggling to breathe on the ground. “No. You don’t get to call me that anymore. You will never be allowed to call me that again.” His eyes sting and burn with emotion. With betrayal. With grief. With anger. With hatred. With remnants of love.

Remus doesn’t even bat an eye. Feels nothing. “Alright, Sirius.”

Greyback places a hand on his arm and Remus turns to walk away. The signal to be silent. His little pet dog.

[forsakendevil]

Maybe I’ll be safe tomorrow. I don’t think I actually know what it means to be safe. So maybe I’ll be safe never.

[lucielovekj]

I love how Nimona portrays Ballister’s curiosity as not inherently bad, and that when he’s respectful and gentle and acknowledges the sensitivity of the question Nimona is completely willing to explain and to show him. Because no matter what you use that as an allegory for it’s so often the case irl, if a stranger asks something invasive disrespectfully that’s completely different from a supportive loved one asking out of concern or a desire to understand you better, and that in close personal relationships asking questions, even if there’s a risk of stepping out of line or saying something insensitive, is usually good and healthy so long as it’s done properly.

Most of us (just like Nimona) are actively excited to talk about this stuff with those we care about, are happy for people we love to want to know us better, but it’s (obviously) stigmatised by strangers doing so rudely making people think they can’t ask any questions ever, which only increases the ignorance and stigma surrounding whatever the topic is. If someone knows they can tell you when a question is too much, when they trust you and understand what you’re intentions are, it’s good and natural to be inquisitive.

[lilithofpenandbook]

I'm starting to think maybe I was right, my mum is abusive. Not very, but still abusive.

How did I get to this conclusion? Thinking about my mum's behaviour, about my reaction to her. Somehow I got to thinking about Snape, who no one sees as a victim because he doesn't back down, he still fights his abusers and keeps on fighting them. He's the one in the wrong, despite being the victim.

And that's what made me think of something my mum says any time childhood trauma is brought up in the conversation: "If you were actually afraid of me, you wouldn't be talking back to me" "Would you still be so rude to me if you were actually traumatised?" "If I had traumatised you, you'd be too scared to speak like this to me", and similar stuff.

If you were actually abused, you'd behave like an actual victim

And that just reminded me of Snape, and how he isn't seen like a victim because he's not a "perfect victim", he isn't outwardly anxious, vulnerable, or delicate, he doesn't cry when yelled at, he doesn't stutter. He's outwardly strong, he's got self control. When emotional, he's angry, he's hostile. He's rude and sarcastic, including to the people he should be afraid of. He doesn't have any of the pretty, romanticised symptoms of trauma. He has all the ugly, real symptoms. The symptoms that mask his trauma.

Like mine. To my mother's face I am loud, I am rude, I am defensive. I show no fear. It's certain things though, that scare me. Certain things that make me angry and cry. Not in front of her. She doesn't see what's not in front of her face. She's only seen one panic attack, and that I didn't call a panic attack, I just said I couldn't breathe and my dad helped calm me but I never said it was a panic attack. I've had panic attacks in college. My friends know more about my anxiety, my trauma, more than my own mother. My teachers have seen me have panic attacks in the middle of class, after I've been stuck trying to keep it together all day. My sister once saw me, when I came home from class, exhausted by trying to keep the anxiety down to the point that even with the emotions gone the pain still had me in bed for hours afterwards. Nobody with a healthy relationship with their mother does that, do they?

But I'm supposedly not abused, not a victim, because I do not act like one in the least.

Yet if Severus Snape is a victim regardless of how he presented his trauma, maybe I'm also being abused despite my apparent lack of fear towards my mum.

Maybe that's why he's my favourite character.

Because neither of us look like we're traumatized.

Okay, so the abuse I face isn't so bad, and perhaps I'm overtly sensitive to be traumatised by it, but if I'm having panic attacks because of it then there is something there, right?

[sybill-the-seer]

Young ~3-y/o Harry following Petunia around the house while she does chores. Young Harry holding onto Petunia’s skirt and sucking his thumb while she does the dishes. Young Harry playing quietly in the grass near Petunia while she weeds the garden. Young Harry just wanting to be WITH someone at all times. Young Harry trotting along after Petunia all day being her little shadow until her patience wears thin and she sends him to his cupboard. Young Harry being a clingy child who desperately needs affection but never gets it.

[queerism1969]

[milkyspine]