#and this isn't a 'uwu take care of his wounds' post this is a 'what the FUCK is wrong with you??' post kfdashjsalhdj

[spring-lxcked]

once again saying that i need to see william snap while he's in college just once. sorry that i want Sweet Studious Will to show up at your muse's dorm room covered in scratches and with bloody knuckles because some guy talked shit and shoved him and he responded by hitting him and then trying to strangle him until someone pulled him off

[joz-yyh]

Benedictions of the Flesh

SUMMARY: Damian beseeches Tardif to partake in one of his penitent rituals. Dismas and Audrey make a friendly bet. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: M (wound care / masochism / slight sadism / handjobs)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

WORD COUNT: 4,610

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: This originally was supposed to be a relatively tame oneshot, but my brain came up with a smutty sequel almost immediately after I posted chapter 1 so, combining it here for your reading enjoyment. 🩹 ❤️‍🩹 🩹 (if you give me kudos, I'll give you a kiss) uwu

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Tardif is polishing the blood off his axe, sitting cross-legged, close enough to the fire that it provides him adequate light for the task.

The rag in his hand is much too stained to be of any use, his blade severing one too many arteries in the enemy brigands they'd come across, but he hated carrying sloppy weaponry into battle (it tarnished the blow), continuing on despite the setbacks it caused.

Dismas and Audrey are about thirty paces north of him, using their downtime as a good excuse to hold a knife throwing contest to entertain their boredom.

Their camp may be safe for the moment, but it was still pitch black out there, just beyond the glow of the torch blaze, the haunted woods always an unpredictable mistress, but such things were nothing compared to the arrogance of two young thieves.

Audrey is using one of the highwayman’s wanted posters as their preferred target, the bullseye being his big honking nose, much to Tardif's amusement.

They exchange a few practice shots as a warm up, the red bandit taking the indignity rather well, acting as if the man drawn on the parchment isn't him, but rather some look-a-like imposter that deserved to get pierced through.

Tardif’s not in the mood to deal with their frivolity. Not to mention knives weren't really his thing, preferred his axe if he was to throw something, no chance for the others to best him if he participated in such parlor tricks so he spectates, making a silent bet with himself of who was to win.

He tosses the rag into the fire, moving on from cleaning to sharpening his blade, and just as he takes out a whetstone from his pouch, the fourth member of their troupe approaches him.

Tardif wonders if the flagellant is merely passing by, never to associate with an agnostic sort, but then those bandaged feet stop from across the fire, a scarred mouth addressing him personally.

“Pardon the interruption bounty hunter. I was wondering if I may impose on you for a favor.”

The way he speaks, voice fluttering down from above as if Tardif’s sat in the pews of a church, seeking salvation and guidance.

“Heh,” the brute scoffs, wondering what kind of service he could provide a pious soul, “and wot favor would that be?”

“You see, my flesh, it must be purified, but alas it is beyond my reach.”

He sounds tormented, aggrieved, but clearly not the kind he normally revels in, a hand reaching up to appease the heavens and then in towards the iron crown engraved upon his bloody chest.

“Can't ye just use yer flail? Ain't that wot it's fer?”

Why else would flagellants be called flagellants?

As the whetstone grates over steel, honing the blade with a sharp sound, Tardif swears he sees the masochist shiver, can't help smirking behind his mask at the fact, keen eyes trained for the subtle cues of body language.

As valiantly as Damian tries to suppress it, he wasn't very good at denying himself the pleasure of pain, at least, that’s what the bounty hunter had observed in the short time they’ve known each other.

It was part of his job after all, reading people, predicting their moves, assessing their strengths and weaknesses, determining how to take an opponent down using the most effective means possible.

“In battle and in penance you would be right, yes,” Damian explains, educating him on the rites of passage, “but this requires a different tool, a different approach.”

Tardif mulls over this, not trusting Damian’s logic completely, but fanatics weren't exactly known for their flawless deductions.

Lucky for him, this just so happens to be the most intriguing prospect that's happened to him tonight, Tardif partial to agree, but doesn't let it show completely.

“I am not using any of my own supplies,” the bounty hunter barks, taking another rigorous swipe along his axe, pretending to fixate on it.

Not quite shiver, but a jolt from the flagellant, a tremble down his threadbare shoulders.

“Of course,” Damian nods, catching the lapse in his voice before it becomes too obvious, ”I've brought the materials with me.”

The bounty hunter regards him, studying, searching his half-hooded face before setting aside his axe, freeing up his hands, indicating for the priest to fill the space next to him.

“Fine then, get over here and tell me wot I have to do.”

Damian gracefully obliges, almost forgets to hide his excitement, but to a cunning man like Tardif, it remains exceedingly apparent.

He's handed a roll of bandages, a glass container of questionable liquid (with no label), and the funniest looking pin cushion he's ever seen.

“I could take a guess, but care to elaborate on which one comes first,” the bounty hunter asks, looking between the items in his possession, a veiled eyebrow raised.

“The bottle first,” Damian says, smiling as he removes the other implements from Tardif’s reach, stowed away until they were needed, “Poor it over my wounds.”

Alright, sure. That was easy enough.

Damian twists around, his lacerated spine aimed towards the stoic brute, waiting patiently, arms hugging his knees, bracing himself.

Meanwhile, Tardif pops the cork on the mysterious substance and whew, what a smell, his nose wrinkling up in offense.

“Ack, wot is this,” the bounty protests, flinching away, one eye pinched closed, “Cursed witch hazel?”

Damian laughs, “No bounty hunter. Something more earthly. It is the essence of vinegar and lemon.”

Good God, just what had he agreed to? He’s going to reek for days. The only redeeming quality is its potency, maybe not for whatever ailment it was supposed to cure, but for the strong offensive odor that will no doubt keep the beasts at bay.

The bounty hunter removes his gloves, not wanting them to get drenched in the stuff, brown leather thrown atop his axe.

He pours on a little to start with, bottle neck poised just beneath the flagellant’s collar, letting the substance follow the raw grooves of flayed skin.

Damian hisses as the acidity hits, clenching up, the bounty hunter smirking with sadistic glee.

The cascade runs out fairly quickly, trickling down into nothingness just around the ridges of his shoulder blades, but Tardif wasn't about to let up, oh no, he pours on a hell of a lot more, determined to drench him.

Damian’s reaction is much more animated this time, gasping in surprise, writhing as the liquid works its magic, groaning in an attempt to contain the wild sensations spreading across his skin.

“Sounds like it's workin’,” Tardif tosses into the open air, almost innocently.

“Y-yes, yes it is,” Damian huffs, panting hard, flesh shuddering, unable to deny the effect it had on him, but doing so anyway.

“More,” the devious huntsman asks, teasing him with a few more leaky drops.

The barely sealed wounds reopen under the vicious scrutiny, bleeding profusely, vinegar shining amidst the dancing flames, rivulets reaching the small of the priests back, diluted by crimson.

“In a moment,” the flagellant musters, taking a stabilizing breath, enduring the treatment, “Try the spunga.”

“Spunga,” the brute echoes, assuming it's the dried sea urchin looking thing.

“The cork and needle,” the flagellant explains, “beat it against my flesh, like this.”

The flagellant taps two fingers against his palm in demonstration, slow methodical thumps that mimic a pulsing heart.

“The sprigs provide enlightenment,” Damian says in response to the deadpan expression on his companion’s helmet.

“Alright.”

The brute simply accepts it, assuming the true nature of the device would be revealed, slipping two fingers into the strap attached to the cork, putting it to the test.

During his first application, the bloody priest doesn't provide much of a reaction, nowhere near the spirited utterances he's capable of. This comes as a surprising frustration to Tardif, growing too fond of his companion’s cries, trying again, but met with the same results.

Hmm, the holy man is suddenly immune. What could he be doing wrong?

Not to be bested, Tardif redoubles his efforts, focusing his attention on various spots, waiting for that sharp intake of breath, the quake of temptation to gratify him.

“You can apply it harder,” the flagellant advises, gritting his teeth in anticipation, “I can take it.”

Tardif snorts. The tenuous holy man needed to invest in a mouth guard, liable to bite his tongue, but then again, Damian would probably enjoy it if he did.

“Not like I know how these things work. Never even seen one before.”

The flagellant gives a shallow nod, unraveling from his tight embrace.

“They are a solitary tool, used on the chest, but I was curious if it would heighten my transcendence if executed on my back.”

“And that's where I come in,” the bounty hunter sighs, his role in Damian’s pertinent ministrations made clear.

“Yes,” the priest replies simply, candid embarrassment, “you are ... someone I trust.”

A beat, the crackle of fire, the laughter of Audrey and Dismas as they tease each other in jovial camaraderie, but Tardif is too fixated on the man in front of him to pay heed.

“Why?”

“Hmmm,” the flagellant hums, not following the root of his question.

“Listen,” the bounty hunter sighs, trying to make sense of the complicated stirrings Damian is evoking in him, “I've done my fair share of mortifying the flesh, but isn't this, I don't know, bordering on the obscene?”

Was it really an act of penance if Damian was enjoying it, fetishizing his whole religion?

“Ah, but you see that is entirely the point,” Damian explains, happy to delve into the methods of his madness, “the lengths in which I am willing to go, the burdens I bear, proving my devotion, that is what captures the Light’s eyes. I am released through suffering, freed from my mortal shackles to become one with the Light, my soul now a beacon to guide me.”

So hopelessly indoctrinated, Tardif can't help pitying the fool.

“Hmph, think yer more likely to be made sick by all this,” he argues, not about to be suckered into his beliefs, countering them with his own rules of thumb.

Wearing the body down with hunger, exhaustion and pain left it open, vulnerable to attack, ripe for disease and Damian was striving for it, setting himself up for a spectacular pit of failure.

Throwing away his potential was such a waste, Tardif tracing over the irritated blare of scars, almost fascinated by their grotesque beauty, but then, why does he care?

Damian seems to appreciate the touch, sighing contentedly as his scorned muscles are not so gently prodded by callous fingertips, “Soon, you will see it for yourself, my apostle,” he says, smiling knowingly.

“Ain't yer apostle,” the huntsman grumbles, ripping his touch away.

“Yes, of course,” the flagellant chuckles, saying it merely to appease his crotchety companion, “my mistake.”

Not to be outwitted with snark, the brute wails on him with the spunga, seeking to embed it deeply, mold it to his flesh.

“There! You have found it! Where the pain sings most sweetly.”

How Damian sings his praises, raising hallelujah, makes Tardif wonder if this was a seduction in disguise all along.

“Great, now wot?”

The bounty hunter's not sure if he wants to indulge the delusions of a deranged masochist anymore than he already has, but Damian’s heaving, rapturous breaths convince him to continue.

“Remove it. Coat the bandages in the elixir and bind me with them tightly.”

That’s probably the exact opposite of what he should do.

“Ye sure ye don't want me to get ye from the front too,” the brute taunts, not sharing in the same urgency.

“No. Now quickly, the bandages.”

Tardif is almost positive the real reason he doesn't want to face front is because Damian must be sporting an erection under those shaggy robes.

He reluctantly gives in, their hands bumping, touching, fumbling because Damian is trying to help speed the process along, but he's just getting in the way, annoying the piss out of Tardif for causing more chaos.

“Please, you must move faster or else the wounds will close.”

Wasn't that the point of bandages? To close wounds?

Tardif doesn't dwell on it, going along with the demands of this morbid game that they're playing, noting how the flagellants touch runs hotter than his own.

“Are they secure?”

The bounty hunter appraises his work before he answers, running fingers over the blotchy, iodine-colored dressings.

It's the worst, a horrible messy turnout of poorly wrapped sutures, but most of all they're tight like Damian wanted (the majority were anyway), the gauze stretched to its limit, strapping his rigid frame in suffocating layers.

“Yeah, they're tied,” the brute concedes.

“Thank you. You've been most helpful,” he nods in gratitude, a scarred hand placed over his heart in oath, “I will remember it.”

And just like that, Damian stands, as if their intimate exchange never happened, practically strangers again and that thought really shouldn't sting as much as it does.

“‘Ey! Don't be goin’ too far away from camp. Not comin’ in after yer ass.”

The priest's sauntering form is treading dangerously close to his carefully erected perimeter, stepping outside its safety.

“You need not worry for me, bounty hunter. There is but one last thing I must do.”

Tardif grunts his discontent, watching the holy man disappear into the cover of darkness, still smiling, smug like a cat lapping at his bowl of cream.

He doesn't know what causes the urge, a nagging hunch of intuition maybe, but Tardif checks his belt for the stock of one very particular satchel.

Shit, just as he thought. His caltrops are gone, stolen.

Was their whole interaction nothing, but an elaborate ploy by Damian so he could swipe his debilitating barbs without garnering suspicion?

The bounty hunter grabs his axe, on a mission to get his property back one way or another, chasing after the bloody sneak.

—-----

“Pay up,” Audrey demands in her customary cheek, pushing at the highwayman's fur-bound shoulders.

The wanted poster has thus been eroded away, his nose practically obliterated by the number of stabbings.

“No way, you cheater,” he gripes, weaving out of her reach, fighting off any further grounds of intimidation.

Girl was too brazen for her own good, Dismas always amazed by how tough a former debutante turned grave robber could be, how much her punches could hurt.

“Ha! Like you didn't!”

Dismas flinches at the accusation, giving himself away with that mopey, beady-eyed moe and simper.

A grave error in judgment was made if he thought he could rig the stakes and con Audrey of all people.

“That's right, loser. I saw you move the knife. Now c'mere, time for my prize.”

He sighs, poofy shoulders deflating, head hanging low, absorbed into his scarf as he bequeaths himself to the whims of the gambling queen.

“You ready,” she teases, ruby lips stretched into a shit-eating grin, prolonging his humiliation, drinking in every last drop of it.

“Yeah, yeah, just do it and get it over with so I can go on hating my life.”

“You got it,” she cheers, pointing a painted nail in his direction, swirling it about in little barrel rolls, drawing closer and closer until she's poking the gunslinger right on the nose.

“Boooooop,” the woman crackles in precious mockery, giggling like a drunken fool, a reward she won't let Dismas soon forget.

—-----

“Damian! ‘Ey,” the bounty hunter roars, boots clambering through the brush in hot pursuit, “I said wait goddamn it!”

The holy man continues on as if he hadn't heard him (there's no way he couldn't), swallowed up by the crooked sawtooth gag of the forest, one devout step after another leading him away into the shadow of leafless limbs.

Tardif is practically in a sprint, the flagellant going at the same lumbering pace and yet through some manner of sorcery the masochist still manages to elude him, stay ahead.

“Damian, stop!”

Still no compliance from his quarry, but Tardif won’t let him delay his wrath for long. Fed up and out of options, the huntsman puts his axe throwing skills to the test, taking aim, leading his mark, letting it set sail.

As the blade somersaults through the air, it strikes true, penetrating the bark of the tree in a solid throw. Damian gasps as the trajectory whizzes past his ear, shocked by how close it came to offing his head, an explosion of wood chips stopping the flagellant in his tracks.

The elusive priest finally turns to confront his pursuer, having the gall to look put out.

“Following me out here,” he growls, a snarl tugging at the corner of his mouth, fists clenched at being so rudely disturbed, “what is it you want, bounty hunter?”

Tardif isn't playing anymore. He marches right up to the insufferable masochist and grabs at the flagellant’s dusky array of robes, tugging at the knot of yellow tails to loosen whatever contraband may be stashed within.

“What are you doing,” the holy man snarls in offense, pushing him off, backing away.

“I know ye have ‘em,” the bounty hunter growls, giving no clemency as he persists in his search, “Give it up.”

“Must you look there of all places,” he argues, batting away the bounty hunter’s persistent invasion of his privacy.

“Where else ye hidin’ ‘em, then,” he grumbles, unconvinced by the distraction, blind with anger. “Stealing from a bounty hunter, how stupid can you get.”

“Borrowed,” Damian corrects, gritting his teeth, panting from the ordeal, “I had every intention of giving them back.”

Sure he did, covered in the thick of his blood no doubt.

“Ha! Might wanna think ‘bout askin’ next time. Now, I have to borrow them back.”

Ironic how Damian had asked him for something much more intrusive just minutes earlier, could have just as easily done the same for his caltrops, but for whatever reason he didn't and now here they are, locked in opposition.

Did he think he'd refuse one request and not the other? Why all the deception?

Amidst all the scuffling, hands flying between them, Tardif attacks a little too close, his grip settling on something long, hard and salacious.

He fucking knew it. Damian’s been getting off on this, aroused the whole time and of course the flagellant is unhindered by the conventions of underwear, letting himself flail about for all of creation to see. Tardif wouldn't have been able to “catch” him so easily otherwise.

The brute should pretend like nothing happened, retreat back to camp, but he gives the erection in his hand a tentative stroke instead.

This is bad … bad, bad, bad, bad.

“Tardif,” the flagellant cries, thick syrup dripping from his lips, a crux between a warning and an invitation for more.

The brute starts just a little at the proclamation, loins burning with telltale heat because Damian had said his name, not bounty hunter as he normally did, but his name.

They're at a standstill, Damian wrapped up in the vice of his fingers, and the huntsman still doesn't know how far he wants to take this enlightening predicament of theirs.

His body decides this for him, no more reflex than it is desire, gliding his fist with a few languid drags of experimentation, the remnants of vinegar on his palm probably making the sensation sting.

Damian grimaces as if he's in pain, steadying himself against the bounty hunter’s twin set of shoulder spikes, head downcast, heavy with need.

The priest doesn't seem to know where to keep his hands, fumbling for purchase all over the sections of his armor, never staying in one spot for long.

His grasp lands in the violet drapes of his cowl, yanking it down, exposing the bounty hunter’s stubbled chin.

For a moment they both pause, breathing in each other's breaths, collecting themselves as this intimacy is explored.

Damian is entranced by his partner's usually cloaked features, fingers trailing over the mercenary's jaw, the sight of such a precious gift meant to be devoured slowly. They’re drifting closer, the flagellant gravitating towards his lips, but once he reaches some inexplicable distance he stops, infringing no further, waiting for the other man to bridge the gap.

Tardif huffs in acknowledgement of this, smirking before he seals them together, and damn he wasn't expecting a kiss to make him feel so alive, but the sparks are undeniable, making his chest ache, heartbeat drumming against his ribs. He's suddenly drunk on the spell of it, pressing back in for more.

Damian is hesitant to participate, seemingly overwhelmed or lacking in experience, groaning his frustration and Tardif realizes he's paying more attention to their mouths than the neglected dick in his hand.

All it takes is a few more twists, some semblance of motion along his shaft and Damian is appeased, bloody hands now wriggling further inside his helmet, seeking more skin, tempted to remove the meddlesome hindrance.

“Does this come off,” Damian asks, peppering his touch over the various parts of his lover's visor.

He traces the beveled flare of wings framing his eyes, the adornment of spikes, the metal rim that wraps past his ears.

“No,” he says, voice gravelly, final.

They've exposed enough secrets about each other for one night, and Tardif isn't willing to reveal any more, not yet.

“Then, what about this,” Damian amends, moving one hand down, over the pleated plains of his gambeson, settling on his partner's belt.

Tardif knows he shouldn't, the weald probably one of the worst places to shag, but he's always been the type to live in the moment and he's not about to pass up an opportunity like this.

To hell with it. What's one more risk?

The brute reaches down to undo his belt buckle for him, all his gear falling around their feet, unlatching with a potent thud, spread about the dirt.

His gambeson shields him from view, but the state of his arousal is evident, Damian daring to slip a hand underneath the unnatural crest in the leather.

His touch is light, scarred fingers a whisper across the fat, pulsing veins of his length.

“Gonna have to stroke it harder than that,” Tardif grunts, hoping the man plans on giving him something more substantial to work with or he may never cum.

“I am admiring you,” the flagellant reprimands, unappreciative of insult to his technique.

“Admire it faster.”

It's revenge for Damian hassling him about the bandages, driving him to move at an exuberant rate when it was completely unnecessary, but at least Tardif has a good excuse. God knows something is going to jump out and ambush the both of them the longer this tryst goes on, needing to finish quickly.

Damian is probably enjoying the raw friction that the rigorous pump of his hand provides, chafing and grating without the ease of lube, but the bounty hunter would rather some oil or spit to slick himself, which leads him to offer his next thoughts on the matter.

“Could admire it closer, on yer knees,” he suggests, voice just a pitch softer, sweetening the proposition.

The priest hums in contemplation, but doesn't oblige.

Fine, maybe another time.

Bitterly, he squeezes Damian's dick in punishment, making the other man rumble out a husky whine of approval.

“I knew I was right … c-coming to you,” Damian rasps, unable to catch his breath, shaking, on the cusp of release.

“Heh, you'll be cumin’ alright,” Tardif smirks, picking up speed, rubbing him until he's beaming carmine red.

Damian mirrors the expression, holding the mercenary’s clothed cheek in his free hand, leaning in for another kiss.

It diverts some of the pressure away, offsetting the build up of heat pooling between his legs, the flagellant finding release first, spilling all over his hand, breaking off their lips to cry out in mangled bliss.

Tardif has the ingenious idea to use the spend as a lubricant, returning his desecrated hand to his own hardness, adding it onto Damian’s grip, slicking them both in the substance, hoping it would help him reach climax.

“Would you prefer to do it yourself,” the holy man asks, ascertaining that must be the case judging by his actions.

True, Tardif might know how to jerk himself off better than anyone else, but his current preferences have more to do with the imminent danger of their surroundings, feeling paranoid and pressed for time.

He lets go, permitting Damian to inherit the task, the priest taking his advice, stroking with renewed vigor.

“There ya go,” the mercenary huffs, the results instantaneous, about to lose himself.

“Hmm,” Damian muses, optimistic.

Tardif's breaths have gotten shorter, feeling weak, holding onto the flagellant's bandaged arms for support.

A ferocious grunt, one that turns into several smaller renditions of it, guttural, almost as if he's wrestling against his body, seizing up before spilling out.

His orgasm is pain, but also relief, labored breaths filling his lungs, regaining his bearings because he can't believe what they've done, that he's tired, empty, but still craving more.

“Damian … ,” the bounty hunter drawls, assembling his muddled thoughts.

“Yes,” he replies with a curious head tilt.

Tardif doesn’t get to finish his thought, barely has time to enjoy the afterglow before a familiar voice calls out to them from behind.

“Yoohoooo, where are youuuu,” the grave robber bellows, projecting the range of her voice with the aid of her hand.

She carries a torch with her, the smouldering halo illuminating a path through the woods, indicating how close they were to being discovered.

“Shit, they're comin’,” Tardif snarls, quick to stuff himself back into his pants regardless of how messy it is.

“As did you.”

Tardif spares a moment to glare at Damian for his disdainful comment before returning to his belt, pulling it up, trying to make himself look decent.

He's not too worried about the flagellant’s condition, his appearance often mussed and depraved so it's unlikely to draw any suspicious debate.

The bounty hunter manages to pin his cowl back into place, hiding the flush of his cheeks just as their rescue party cards past the bushes and joins the space they're in.

The two pairs of heroes stare each other down, Audrey the first to pierce the silence.

“There was no one at camp,” whines the woman in the tall hat, puffing out her bottom lip in mock concern, “Diz and I were getting sooo worried, weren't we Diz?”

The highwayman slides out from behind her big bell sleeves, flaunting his gun around in a dead giveaway, “Uh-huh, sure was.”

Stumbling upon this embarrassing scene almost made Dismas’ own experience with humiliation worth it, sticking Damian and Tardif with an inquisitive brow, a scrutinizing eye, punctuating his next words with a demeaning twirl of his pistol.

“Couldn't figure out why two grown men would suddenly go runnin’ off, *spin* … alone *spin* … in the woods *spin* … at night.”

“Dropped my caltrops a ways back,” Tardif explains, pointing a thumb at his companion, “He was helpin’ me look.”

“Oh. And did you find them,” the lady asks, a broad smile upon her face, calling his bluff.

Just then, his missing sack of caltrops makes itself known, spilling out of containment and all over the ground.

“Fuck,” Tardif growls, not in the mood to play thirty-two pick up with a splay of miniature land mines, “Nobody move.”

“Not to worry,” Damian volunteers, stepping forward, “I will handle this.”

Tardif feels a migraine coming on, holding his throbbing head in hand as he watches the flagellant stick himself, knowing he'll run out of space on his foot before they can gather them all.

[curiouschaosstarlight]

Okay I'm tangentially swinging back to this post-another video essay that's trying to claim that there's objective "you should never write this sort of thing EVER" stuff to fiction, and touting the importance of not getting "TOO" dark or "TOO" shocking because (you'd much rather appeal to as many people as possible rather than actually be true to what you genuinely want to create, right???) (because as we all know, nobody ever really wants to write dark content unless they're a perverted freak who shouldn't be trusted, or just doing it to shock you and make you miserable!!)

I really am so, so tired of the "no-no" concept with fiction. Just say something wound up not being your cup of tea or was a bit much for you and move on. Why does it have to be an Objective Crime And Flaw and a sign that the writer is morally bankrupt? Why does certain content have to be "if you read this, it will ROT YOUR SOUL!!!" (sir, YOU read it! Are you saying your soul is completely rotted??)

I'm just- I'm just tired, guys.

I wasn't THAT disturbed by the manga in question. Does that make me a bad person? If we were hanging out and I said that, would you start thinking of me as a threat? As someone you have to hold at arm's length? Even if we otherwise agree on a bunch of things, and you haven't actually seen me do anything harmful or threatening to anyone?

Reality = Fiction/there's a "limit" to how far fiction can go before it "clearly just says something about you" is the WORST rhetoric on the planet.

I've never been attracted to real life people or creatures, I've only experienced it towards fictional characters. Genuinely. There isn't a "oh, I guess 3D's nice from time to time too uwu" bone in my body.

I've watched/read/played and enjoyed things where horrible things happened to good people, and horrible people got away with an undeniable win.

I go out of my way to avoid stepping on the ants outside my house, despite the fact that it means the walk to the driveway is inconvenient af, because the idea I MIGHT kill them while they're literally just minding their own business makes me feel bad.

These are just examples off the top of my head. YMMV on what you might think about either one, I don't really care, I'm not making THE biggest point in the world, mostly because I can, quite obviously, say anything when I don't really have any physical proof of what I do or don't do, and I have no desire to acquire any. This isn't a "I'm the most holy, most knowledgeable being in the world" post, it's just...

Do people really genuinely radically change their view of another person, even if it's someone they've known for years, over whether or not they had "enough" of a specific kind of emotional reaction to a piece of fiction? I'm struggling to wrap my head around it... I have a friend who generally doesn't cry easy to fiction, but I don't go "wow! He must secretly be a heartless asshole!", I go "damn I wish that were me" (person who always cries at certain scenes, like Ash's temporary death in the first movie, or a specific other death scene from the Chobits anime, and has cried pretty hard while writing, multiple times)

Like

-vague hand gestures-

Does that all make sense??

argh

(As a disclaimer, the guy that inspired this didn't say All That and didn't really imply it either, though his take was still dumb/not-quite-informed and kind of dipping into those waters. This is primarily just a coagulation of Every Time I've heard people take the moral stance of "you can go TOO far in fiction")

Bit of a random post, but I think one of the worst things about having a brain (just in general) is how hard it is to keep yourself from orienting your expectations exclusively inside of your own experiences.

I think there's a lot to be said about people who build a very specific kind of hype up in their head, and will inevitably disappointed because the actual product was never going to align with their mental fanfiction, but

On a smaller and simpler note, my love for horror video essays is tempered by the fact it feels like 99% of the internet has a much more fragile stomach for the dark and disturbing than I do, and I can't even sit through a horror movie or play a horror game because I'm a goddamn coward-

(And the remaining 1% is into stuff that actually makes me squeamish in a way I can't quite handle, but they do seem to be living their best lives, and more power to them)

But generally my struggle is when someone builds up, like, a manga as "one of the most dark and disturbing things [they've] ever read", especially if it's a "no one should EVER read/watch/play this"/"I read/watch/played this horrible thing so YOU don't have to!", and then I go to experience it, and it's always

I've wrote/read/watched/played worse, and I am always expecting something "worse".

And sometimes it's just, you know, different things disturb different people; I don't find existential "we're just a tiny speck in the universe" stuff scary, but there's plenty of people that do, but I do find certain other things genuinely terrifying for how my brain will take the concept and try to be like "hey could you survive this? lol no you can't, you'd die dummy :) no escape", but those won't frighten other people as much (if at all)

But sometimes it's like

"Damn, if you tried to play/watch/read some of my top favorite non-horror things, you'd just crumble into dust, wouldn'tcha, bud?"

[weebsinstash]

What if reader ever decides to break up with yandere Valentino? Oh, the madness

I mean... we already know how he reacts when he's told 'no'

But god... I wanna write it so bad 👁👁 I wanna write Reader rejecting his ass SO BAD. I wanna write Reader straight-up DISAPPEARING on him. He would be FURIOUS.

I think the only way to really get away from him, if even temporarily, is to catch him by surprise or while he's preoccupied with something else. Like if he's drunk when he's being mean to you and he's got himself surrounded by his posse, you could potentially slip away while he's got his tongue down a dancer's throat. By the time he's turning around with a "sugar, bring me another drink" you're already halfway across town checking out that weird redemption hotel you saw on tv just so you have another place to say (and you KNOW Charlie isn't going to turn you away once she hears your story how you're desperate to escape your gross sexually harassing dickhead of an Overlord boss)

But gosh... im gonna be honest and say I've only thought about Reader running away when Val only has his eye on you. Running away when the two of you are in a sort-of-relationship? OOF. You're going to get it. Remember when he briefly broke up with Vox and had A Dramatic Episode where he 1. Bought a new pet 2. Killed that new pet 3. Treated himself at the salon and 4. Posted everything to social media for attention. I imagine this time around, he would have that sort of same insane manic self soothing reaction, but wouldn't be as public about it since you're not an Overlord like Vox and someone might hurt you.

I can just picture him going to your room because you aren't answering your phone and everything is gone (except the things HE bought for you) and he just starts. Smashing and breaking shit. Apparently it's a canon thing that he has a cane and has broken it over people's heads. I can see someone making the unfortunate mistake of having to deliver some sort of bad news while he's Absolutely Raging, say that now ANGEL has snuck off as well (maybe to find you and bring you back before Val goes SUPER INSANE), and Val just starts taking his anger out on people, hitting, throwing things, raving at the top of his lungs. You know doing tons of drugs can make you super emotionally unstable with a terrible temper, right?

Reader gets dragged back by either Val's goons or convinced by Angel's "come back before he gets any more angry and really hurts you" and Val is just, obviously so fucking mad. Reader gets brought up to him and he pretends like he doesn't care, sitting there with his legs crossed and taking a file to his claws with an "oh, YN, was wondering where you've been, welcome back uwu" as if half the studio isn't in ruins and Vox has new cracks in his face and some of the staff at the salon may have gotten shot and there's a receipt of designer clothes and self soothing gifts wadded up in his coat pocket BUT no dont get it twisted obviously he never noticed you were even gone uwu he's so powerful and cool, remember? He totally didn't flip out like a teenage girl and trash his own room and tear up photos of you and maybe just maybe be tempted to cry a little bit because he's obviously actually massively insecure and you're rubbing broken glass in the wound

But then I start thinking, how would he punish you? Would he just straight up beat you (which is. Probably the most canon answer)? I'm a fan of him putting you in something that restrains your movement, like either chaining your wrists above your head or putting you bent over in a stock, before he takes a crop and or a good paddle and starts busting your ass, something that HURTS but won't kill you or leave any permanant marks, and then when you're done sobbing and you're left with just embarrassed sniffles of pain, he'll take your face in his hands and say "now, you aren't going to make me do that again, are you?"

I think it'd be a pretty effective warning not to piss him off again 😳 at least he'll give you a chance to make it up to him when he takes you out later ❤ what? It's over? You two broke up? No you didn't. It's not over until he says it's over :)