#assault tw //

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I didn’t know that outside of music SA usually stands for assault and not soprano/alto. I posted to my choir’s Facebook group to announce that we’re doing a treble-only group this year and it read “The whole choir just got SA’d!!” I then got interrogated by Rivers Cuomo after that, who then beat me to death.

[genderkoolaid]

Though I have a UTMB prescription for my hormone treatment, I am still at war within TDCJ with trying to obtain my T injections, boxer shorts, hygiene products, razors, and basic pronoun respect. These past five years have been a nonstop battle against the horrors of prolonged solitary confinement. I've been a victim of numerous assaults during my time here. I've been punched, stomped, kicked, and spit on by officers. I've been purposely placed in a rec cage by transphobic officers where I was assaulted by four inmates. I've been denied gender-affirming clothing. I've endured broken bones, bruises, and wounds that were left to heal without medical attention because I've been denied medical treatment. It’s the luck of the draw weekly on whether or not I receive my T injections week to week, depending on medical supply, availability of staff, and the mood or personal opinion of the selected officer chosen to escort me to the infirmary. One officer doesn’t like the fact that I’m trans and refuses to take me to medical. My transition sometimes stagnates due to the inconsistency of my T injections. My body suffers silently from the weeks when I have to miss a dose of my hormonal therapy. I’ve been denied razors to shave, and when I am given razors they’re dull, causing me to get razor burn. Out of sheer malice, I am given women’s hygiene products such as deodorant, body wash, and shampoo, causing my pH balance to be off-kilter and creating irritation and inflammation. With no resources or outside support, there’s no coalition or aegis for protection or help for me to live as a trans man in prison safely.

[lecoindecachou]

In a conversation on Reddit about a Jewish grandmother being assaulted in France for wearing a Star of David, someone kept asking me whether what's been happening everywhere really counted as a rise in antisemitism or if this could be seen as a 'reward' of Israel's actions, like. Wtf are you talking about. I mean, I know what they were talking about, they were saying all this antisemitism wouldn't be happening rn if Israel just... disappeared from the map I guess, but also WTF ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. Do you also think random American Muslims deserved to be assaulted after 9/11 or do you reserve that line of thinking for Jewish folks?

[mysterycitrus]

very tempted to whinge at length about nightwing #93 and the consequential fallout in fandom again because like. dick grayson’s two long term romantic relationships being with women who were both a) assaulted and traumatised through loss of agency to varying degrees and b) reclaimed that agency and used their power to help others would perhaps impact his worldview on this issue. dick loves korys passion despite her pain and loves babs’s perseverance through adversity. regardless of personal gripes w babs or korys characterisation in comics i think there’s a way to include them in his recovery without them just shaming him for being assaulted. idk man.

[mintmatcha]

alright gang can I have a serious discussion. is it took dark to discuss readers assault

[whump-queen]

Godddd the choking piece with Seven was too good you have to continue it 🥹

omg I love that you loved it YAY!! these guys are in my HEAD today... heres a part 2 <33

Confession Time

Tags: physical abuse, choking/asphyxiation, victim blaming, past sexual assault mention, alcohol mention, denial is a river in egypt, Wes is an insecure baby bitch boy. | Words: 1.4k

continued from this | Seven Series Masterlist

༻✦༺ 

Wes was seething. Looming over Seven and gripping the belt, mercifully just loose enough for Seven to breathe. 

"So what, you just tripped and fell into a fucking closet with her? And what, your clothes just magically came off? You actually think I’m an idiot?” 

“Please, they—” Seven coughed a few times, still recovering, “— They got me so drunk, sir I— I barely even remember—”

“But you remember enough to come up with all these excuses, yeah?” Wes scoffed.

“Please.” Seven’s head cowered away but one tug of the belt was enough to make him right his position. “You— you asked what, what happened. So I’m just— I’m just telling you what I remember.” 

“Fine.” Wes twisted his face and scrunched his nose to make it clear he was irritated with even listening to the answer to his own question. 

“I was… they got me drunk. Really drunk—I swear—I blacked out at some point—but I remember… Brie. She— she grabbed me. Just grabbed me by the shirt and, and pulled me upstairs.. and���” Seven's voice was growing smaller the longer he talked, eventually fading out entirely to echo only inside his own head. 

He slumped on his knees, head falling to his chest, tufts of light hair hanging down his face like a halo of bleached nettles. 

He felt tears prick his eyes.

“It w-wasn’t my choice,” his voice cracked as he held back a sob. That was all he wanted to say about that. He was just praying Wes would understand. He was praying Wes wouldn’t press him for further details. 

He had seen pictures. Oh god, he hadn’t even realized. He faintly recalled the other people, who’d come upstairs, he remembered lights. But his drunk mind hadn’t pieced it together, and his sober mind and dutifully forgotten it—until now. 

His memories were spotty at best—fragments, half-formed images—but what he did remember was fucking damning. Nothing that would ease Wes’ mind. Nothing that would make this look better. If anything, the more he tried to recall, the worse it got.

What had Wes seen? It ate at him as he watched his face, waiting for the reaction, the— what did he want? Pity? No— Forgiveness? Compassion? But he wouldn’t get that from Wes. Not tonight. Probably not ever.

Wes stared at Seven, wide-eyed, incredulous. Then his expression contorted—brows pulling tight, lip curling in disgust.

“No. No fucking way. That’s what you’re going with?”

Wes snarled and kicked him hard in the ribs.

"Are you fucking kidding me?” Wes’ nostrils flared, his breath coming out sharp and ragged. His hand gripped the belt again, catching as it hung limply from Seven’s cowed neck. Tight fists, tension rolling up his arms, he gave the belt a tug, not enough to cut his air off, but enough to remind him he could. 

His free hand balled into Seven’s hair and pulled, forcing Seven’s eyes to meet his. 

“You’re really gonna sit here, look me in the eye, and tell me she forced you? Tell me Brie threw herself on you??"

“Please, I—I’m sorry, but it’s true,” Seven’s voice was hollow, barely above a pained whisper. He hated this. Hated that he had to say it. Hated that some tiny, desperate part of him had still hoped—stupidly hoped—that Wes would believe him.

“You don’t get to play the victim here, Seven,” Wes shook Seven’s head with the grip in his hair. “You don’t. You’re not that fucking special.”

Wes’s knee hit him hard in the chest before he could respond. Seven keened over and coughed through it, grateful Wes had caught him on an exhale this time.

“I swear to god,” Seven coughed through his words. “SIr, I didn’t— I wouldn’t—” he gasped, “You have to believe me.”

Wes grabbed the front of Seven’s shirt and yanked him back up into a sitting position. 

"You’re lying. You have to be lying."

Before he could react, Wes’ fist crashed into his left eye socket. 

The force of it knocked him back, and Seven collapsed, his knees and arms painfully folded beneath him. He’d been here before. He knew his best bet was to roll over onto his side and tried to curl himself up, using his knees to protect his face. But Wes saw his attempts to shift and apparently didn’t approve, because that expensive shoe came down hard and sudden on his chest, pressing down on his sternum and pinning him to the floor. 

The position was not desirable—his knees seared in pain, his spine was forced to arch with his wrists trapped underneath. Wes saw the opportunity to pull the belt tighter, cutting off his circulation and giving him nowhere to go to relieve the pressure. 

He felt a zip on one of the cuffs as the force of Wes’ foot pushed it one notch tighter. Seven was panicking, fraught with the urge to flee yet forced to freeze. Nowhere to go. 

Wes was getting louder now. His voice boomed off the pristine glass walls and marble flooring. He kicked Seven again, and again, giving him no room nor time to speak, to explain, to be understood. 

“You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know you by now? You can pretend to be all meek and fucking helpless or whatever, but when it comes down to it? You’ll take what you can get. And you did."

It wasn’t true. But it was. He had. He hadn’t wanted to. But he had anyway. Right?

Wes would never see it his way. Action over intent—the loathsome thing. Seven felt gutted. Like he’d taken every raw, bleeding piece of himself, laid them out on a tray—only for Wes to spit on them.

Wes would never understand. Wes would always blame him. And the sooner Seven accepted that, the sooner this would stop.

Seven’s vision was going fuzzy again. He cursed Wes. He cursed Brie. He cursed himself. If he hadn’t been so vulnerable. If he hadn’t been so easy. If he hadn’t let himself get so drunk. He should have stopped it.

It was weak, he tried not to let his voice crack.  “I– I’m sorry, sir.”

He felt the bubbling tears breach the dam of his eyelid and trickle down his marred cheeks. 

“I don’t want you to forget for a second what you are. You are mine. You work for me. You are here because of me. You do not go around hooking up with the sorority girls, or any girls, for fuck’s sake. I don’t wanna see any more hookups. Especially. Not. Brie.

Wes slapped him hard. 

“Ever. Got that?”

“Yes! Yes, sir, please—!” Seven cried out, desperate for it to end. He just wanted Wes to get his anger out and leave him alone. He just wanted to cry in peace. 

“Good.” Wes released Seven completely, letting him drop back to the floor, limbs twisted beneath him, belt loose and laying across his chest. 

Seven gasped, fighting the urge to curl in on himself. He didn't want to incite any more outbursts from Wes. He didn’t move from the position. 

"I don't even know what to do about you lying to me about this. I guess I'll have to think of something. Point is, know your fucking place."

The pain in his knees was a distant ache now—blurred out by something deeper, something that left his chest feeling hollow, his throat raw.

Seven groaned, "Yes, sir."

Above him, Wes adjusted his sleeves, exhaled sharply. 

"Don’t make me have this conversation again.”

And then, without looking back, he turned and walked out.

Seven exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. His shoulders sagged, only to pull tight again at the cold bite of metal behind his back.

The cuffs.

Still locked.

His only options were to go find Wes—an unthinkable idea in his current state—or to wait it out. Let Wes cool down. Let Wes get hungry. He’d have to unchain Seven’s hands to make dinner eventually. 

Seven turned onto his side, curling around his aching ribs. The floor pressed into his shoulder, pain still pulsating from his elegant swan dive into the marble.

Why was he still laying on the floor? He supposed he wasn’t as lucid as he thought he was. 

Seven stumbled up, nearly tripping on the sleek floor. Letting the world spin for a moment before he took a step, he made his way out of the living room and down the hall to his room. His hands still bound behind him, it was a pitiful pilgrimage. His door was cracked open. Small mercies.

Exhausted, dizzy, and choked out, Seven collapsed onto the bed, letting the gentle warmth of the blanket beneath him press against his bruised face. In his shallow respite, he hardly noticed the subtle weight of the leather still wrapped around his neck. 

He couldn't get a blanket on top of him, not with his hands like this, but this would be good enough until Wes inevitably came to find him. 

༻✦༺ 

Should I continue this? or you can send me situations if you want <33

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[shigarakislaughter]

Congrats on 300 followers!

For the Tomura date night, my idea is: going to a concert with him

Thanks for doing these!

Date Night!: Concert (gone wrong), shigaraki x reader

tw: assault

It was noon the next day, and you could not have imagined this date going any more wrong. The bruising on your cheekbone felt tender and hot, but significantly cooler than the anger that was currently brewing from within your core. You half-listened to the cop before you as you signed the paperwork to bail Tomura out of jail, more focused on what you were going to do when you saw him. It had been more than twelve hours since he'd been arrested. Initially, you were excited for this date. While both you and Tomura weren't a big fan of crowds, there was something special about a concert crowd. Everyone lined up to see the same thing, an excitement in their bellies that you felt too, your limbs tingly and alight. You could tell Tomura felt a similar excitement, his hand gripping yours so as to not lose you as you made your way inside, past the merch table, and near the stage. Things began to go downhill shortly, the crowd pulsating and alive as the band on stage performed. Suddenly your face went hot with pain as someone's elbow went straight into your face. You couldn't make out the words exchanged between Tomura and the guy who hit you over the sound of the music and the ringing in your ear, but by the way Tomura punched the guy, a grin stretched on his face, it must have not been a kind exchange. When he finally emerged from the doorway, all anger left your system. He looked tired, but there was a sense of pride that radiated from him—pride at protecting you. Burying your head in his shoulder, your arms wrapped tight around his middle you scolded him. "Don't you dare ever do that again." With his arms wrapped just as tightly around you, he grumbled, "Okay. Now let's get the fuck outta here, I want actual food." You laughed. "Okay, Tomura."

[genderkoolaid]

A Swiss trans man, Morgan Zuli Bahon, was beaten by a group of men after his ID outed him as trans. They dragged him out of the bar he was in and into the street. He is recovering with a fractured nose, a concussion, a damaged retina, a sprained ankle, and the attack triggered his multiple sclerosis and has led to migraines. Unsurprisingly, the comments of that article are full of victim-blaming "it wasn't a hate crime, you're too masc!" shit.

If you speak French, you can watch the video where he explains what happens on his Instagram.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

[mysterycitrus]

this is just stream of consciousness wrt to an ask i got

i don’t read much dc fic but a primary point of avoidance for me is the fallout of nightwing #93 because to address the situation with nuance u would have to disentangle devin grayson’s particular brand of sexualised racism (both by rewriting tarantula to be latina and her interpretation of rromani characters generally) and understand the context for dick grayson’s character prior to that point, and how it’s affected modern interpretation for his character.

i say this as someone who is attempting to include this in a fic, because it is hard to emphasise exactly how damaging it’s been for his character long term. part of it is fundamentally misunderstanding what constitutes assault on the part of the comic writers, sure, but i would also encourage people to just…. consider the context. why are u writing other people enacting revenge on tarantula on a survivor’s behalf? why are u uncritically engaging with devin grayson’s racism? why are u writing characters violently slut-shaming a survivor of assault when they would never ever react that way (roy harper, donna troy)?

and why is jason todd always there, for some reason

[blairwaldcrf]

"Gentleman, the worst thing for Elena Gilbert is the two of you." | 2x05 & 2x08

[obi-wann-cannoli]

On previous reads, I hadn’t paid close attention to Vinson’s injuries after the chamber but now I am and just. sitting here shocked. He was vicious to those women.

Also I’m pretty sure the ‘beatings in the lower city’ that the other ladies mentioned in the bathhouse (that caused the goddess’ temple to be harsher in cases brought to them) - it’s Vinson’s victims

[linusbenjamin]

Either I take off my shirt or he would take off your hand. I just listened to Merle beating the shit out of you in the other room. What could I do?

[worthyheir]

The way this was like 2 weeks ago and I still cannot stop thinking about like please don't approach people you aren't even mutuals with and have exchanged less than 20 back and forth messages with about SAing their muse because that shit is so fucking weird and even more so you could absolutely trigger someone (not me but other people for sure I just found it so fucking disturbing).

[nyaskitten]

I've seen a scary amount of people interpret the Mechanic's scene with Zane in s6 as sa when it is... nowhere near that??? That is organ harvesting he does, NOT sa.

It's very clear he sees Zane as nothing but an object with clean and pristine parts, and it's clearer that Kryptarium is smart enough to not let him have super sophisticated parts.

This is not a man sa'ing someone, this is a man preparing to do an amateur organ harvest on a robot with a shitty prison spoon... PLEASE stop inserting themes that DO NOT exist into a kids show... you can be uncomfy with him for organ harvesting, you can pick any of his suspected 37 crimes... but making up sa as one of them is just weird.

[returnofismasm]

Why have I now seen two posts comparing Neil Gaiman’s history of violent assaults to poor behavior in fandom? That’s gross and tasteless right. Please tell me most people know that’s gross and tasteless.