#cw discussion of grooming

[iamnmbr3]

honestly why did jkr choose DUMBLEDORE as arbitrary gay 'rep'. Besides the not even there stuff he is an awful person.

(And you could pretty easily read him as that sort of Creep. Like I know that's not the sort of grooming people mean but that's always what I think :( )

I know. She really went 'diversity win! the serial liar and manipulator of children who is weirdly fixated on the attractiveness of an 11 year old is gay!'

Now I am absolutely NOT saying that a gay character cannot be flawed or even downright evil. Being gay doesn't make someone inherently bad - or inherently good. Gay people are humans - and just like any other group of humans are capable of the full range of human complexity. However, when the ONLY gay character is like this it feels like their negative personality traits are tied to their gayness. (Just like if Dumbledore was the only straight character it might feel like the author was was casting aspersions on the morality of straight people - even if that wasn't her intent).

Also it's so weird because there were so many other characters that are very frequently read as queer - including Tonks, Lupin, Draco, and Sirius. Not to mention HARRY POTTER himself. But nope. JKR was extremely resistant to anyone even suggesting these characters might not be straight (lol joke's on her - she might not have meant to write these characters as not straight but she did. be mad about it jkr). Only the character who had one queer romance which was extremely destructive and then swore himself to a life of celibacy where he spends all his time manipulated children is allowed to be gay apparently. smh.

And yeah. As for Dumbledore coming across kinda creepy, I definitely think it wasn't JKR's intention but it is a very valid reading based on what she wrote. I mean Dumbledore literally is out there saying 'oh yeah one of the only reasons adults liked this 11 year old child was because he was hot' without any awareness of how incredibly messed up a thing that is to say.

Like if that's something he's comfortable admitting publicly what thoughts doesn't he admit to? This is just an incredibly bizarre thing to say and really says a lot about how he perceives the world.

Why does he assume that all adult teachers pay attention to how attractive the children they are responsible for are? Why does he assume that teachers' treatment of their UNDERAGE STUDENTS is affected by attractive they find each child? That is not how an adult should ever be relating to or thinking about a child.

And it's specifically attractiveness he highlights - not cuteness or charm or literally anything even slightly more appropriate to favor a child for (even though it would still be wrong to favor a student). No. It's the same way he talks about Tom later. He suggests that Tom used his looks in some sort of evil seductor routine to victimize Hepzibah Smith - even though what we actually see is HER creeping on Tom, so it comes across very much as a "he was asking for it" and "he was to blame because he was being a temptation simply by existing" type perspective which is absolutely repellent. And seemingly Dumbledore was thinking about Tom in that way right from the beginning.

In addition, I will say it's notable that in the Hepzibah Smith memory Dumbledore seems to sympathize with the person who is acting as a predator. (I mean she literally touches Tom without his consent and tries to hit on him multiple times while he tries to change the subject and seems super uncomfortable; she is the aggressor in that interaction).

It's also notable that Dumbledore seems to take Tom rejection of him at their first meeting very personally which is odd. Tom's reaction to Dumbledore is not that surprising but Albus seems to take great offense at the fact that Tom does not trust or look up to or like him and does not want to spend time with him or accept his friendship. It's a rather unusual way for an adult to react.

And more generally he doesn't treat children as children. He talks about child!Tom the same as he does adult!Tom and doesn't seem to view him as ever having been fundamentally different. He happily sends Harry and his friends into danger.

He also has a nasty habit of reading people's minds without their consent. I don't think it's a coincidence that nothing about the topic of Occlumency is taught at Hogwarts. It seems that he's been frequently reading the minds of the Golden Trio (and probably other students) for years - probably since book 1; and the mind is a very intimate and scared part of a person that shouldn't just be violated. Characters having a blank or closed look is often used as a descriptor to suggest that that character is employing Occlumency. We know Tom's mind powers were quite developed and I think he successfully blocked Dumbledore from his mind during their first encounter (after Dumbledore read his mind to find out about the things he stole) as right after that scene he is described in similar ways to scenes where characters use Occlumency. And this denial and rejection may been part of what particularly irritated Dumbledore.

His interactions with kids - and especially his fixation on Tom - are very weird. And you could definitely read it as him having some sort of repressed (or not repressed) attraction/fixation that he's probably in denial about (or does mental gymnastics to justify). 100 percent not JKR's intent. But yeah. The way she wrote him is kinda off.

[whump-card]

Sunless Lives Part 9: I Shouldn’t Take Advantage

Here it comes!

~2220 words

CW: alcohol, discussion of grooming, trafficking; dubcon kiss

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~~~

Simon was distant with them the rest of the day. Matthew had expected him to be cold, or even outright angry, but instead the few times Simon emerged from his room he appeared lost in thought. He did engage a little more when Amber stopped by to see him. She apologized profusely, and he repeated what he’d said to Matthew the night before: Finch would have killed you. It’s better this way. Matthew found himself thinking Simon could’ve been at least a little bit mad at her - there was a reason he’d never replied to her texts - but he didn’t interfere. All in all, Gina and Matthew kept their interactions with him limited to ensuring he ate, stayed hydrated, and was experiencing no worrying symptoms. Simon insisted on changing his own bandages, which Matthew didn’t take as a good sign.

Matthew worried himself to sleep that night. He took the cot, to give Gina a break. He felt like he had made so much progress with Simon, and now it was all undone. He’d made Simon laugh, for crying out loud - twice! They’d been making baby steps towards Simon telling Matthew more about himself, first the stuff with Isles, then the tidbit about the bleach and the nightmares. Now it could all be ruined.

Matthew was stress-dreaming about Simon kicking them out of the apartment entirely when he was shaken awake.

“Hey! Hey!” 

Matthew pushed himself up on one elbow and forced his bleary eyes to focus in the faint glow of the night light. Simon was crouched next to the cot, staring at him with wide dark eyes.

“Wha’s wrong?” Matthew mumbled, “Nightmare?”

“Get up,” Simon whispered, “Come with me.” He tugged on Matthew’s arm. It was unusually forward for him.

Matthew sat up, moving quietly to avoid waking Gina.

“What’s going on?”

“Come onnn!” Simon wrapped both hands around Matthew’s bicep and pulled. This close to him, Matthew caught a whiff of alcohol. He jumped to his feet, and had to catch Simon by his shoulders to keep him from falling backwards.

“Are you drunk?!” Matthew hissed.

Simon wiggled away from him.

“Jus’ come with me!” he loudly whispered, wobbling around the TV into the hallway.

Matthew frantically looked back and forth between him and Gina - still sound asleep - before feeling like he had no choice but to follow.

If this was what he thought it was, this wasn’t the way he wanted it to happen.

He followed Simon into the bedroom. Simon opened the door like a valet, shooing Matthew through and closing it behind them. Then he bounded over to the bed and jumped on, sitting cross-legged on the rumpled bedspread (long since cleaned and returned to its place). He patted the bed in front of him, indicating Matthew should sit as well.

It looked like this wasn’t what Matthew thought it was - but that didn’t mean he knew what was happening. He hesitantly climbed onto the bed and mirrored Simon.

“Simon, what -”

“Shh!” Simon lifted a hand, “Don’t talk.” They weren’t whispering anymore, but they still kept their voices low.

“Okay…?”

“I said don’t talk!”

Matthew nodded mutely. Simon looked down at his hands, knitting them together and twisting them as he searched for his next words.

“I wanna tell you everything,” Simon said at last. Matthew opened his mouth but closed it again, letting Simon continue.

“I like you. I decided I trust you. You already know half of it. And you can tell Gina whatever you want, that’s fine, but nobody else. Jus’ you. I just want it over with. I’m sorry I couldn’t… I’m sorry I couldn’t do it sober.”

Matthew couldn’t help himself any longer.

“Alcohol’s a blood thinner,” he warned, “With your concussion…”

“I know!” Simon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, “I know, I know… Please, just listen to me.”

Matthew took a breath, but nodded.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

Simon slowly lowered his hands from his eyes and stared at them in his lap.

Then he began. He spoke at first as if he were reciting a memorized list, slightly slurring his words.

“My parents died in a car accident when I was nine. I grew up in foster care. No one was mean to me, but I was mean to them. So when I turned eighteen I was alone. I failed my s-senior year. I had to go to a summer program. Lara was a volunteer there.”

“Lara… Everett?” Matthew breathed.

Simon nodded quickly, still not looking at Matthew.

“I should have known. That something was wrong. She talked to everyone about their families, the friends, and she… zeroed in on me as soon as she found out I had none. I should have known something was wrong, from the way she got all interested when she realized I was alone, or the way she got… excited when I told her my mom’s family was from Brazil. But she was grown-up, and beautiful, and rich, and she said everything that a teenage boy would want to hear.” Simon shifted uncomfortably, a hand going to his ribs. His voice grew strained.

“I tried to finish my senior year, I really did. But I was living in a group home and I hated it, I hated it. She kept saying I should drop out of school and move - move in with her, so I did. Right after I turned nineteen.” He was breathing harder now.

“A while after I moved in she told me her family’s business had failed, that we were going to run out of money, and be home - homeless,” he gulped down air, “It was all a lie, I figured that out after a while, but she convinced me that we needed to make money, fast, and that selling my blood was the best way. She was like, anemic, so it couldn’t be her, she said. And I really loved, I really loved her a lot,” Simon’s voice broke, and he pressed his hands to his eyes again, “So I said yes, and it started with blood draws, but then she said we’d make so much more money if they could feed - feed from me directly, and then we’d make so much more if they could do… Other stuff. With me.”

He froze for a little while, hands on his face, just breathing. Matthew watched him, rapt and wide-eyed. When Simon spoke again, his voice was a whisper.

“It just kept getting worse. But I really loved her. And then…”

His hands dropped back to his lap, twisting together again in painful-looking contortions.

“There was this one vampire,” Simon said faintly, “And it was really… awful. And she promised me I’d never have to do that again. Then later she said he was… coming back. And I couldn’t do it,” his voice faded to barely audible, “So I - I killed her.”

Simon finally sobbed, tension falling from his shoulders. But he soldiered on, his voice wet.

“I called the police on myself, because I thought I would go to jail for it. I didn’t know any better. But then Christian was there, and he took care of me, and they tried to put me in victim protection, but every plan they offered I told them exactly why it wouldn’t work, until Christian was like, ‘Damn! You know your stuff!���” Simon laughed through his tears, “So now, now I work here. But I can’t leave, not ever. Not ever.”

Simon wiped his hands across his teary face, forcing himself to breath slowly. Matthew gave him a moment to collect himself before speaking.

“You were never a field agent?”

“N-no.”

“Did you even go through any training?”

“Not - not really.” Simon tucked his chin down further, embarrassed.

No wonder Isles said their team was an experiment. Matthew shook his head in disbelief.

“So you really can’t leave? What about if all the vampires are captured? Couldn’t that happen?”

Simon stilled. He finally looked up at Matthew.

“Some of them are too powerful for the VIU.”

“How’s that possible?” Matthew asked, “We bring in grade As all the time.”

“It’s not just about the grade - I mean it can be, but…” Simon pressed a hand to his bandaged temple and sleepily fumbled through an explanation. “Y’know how some vampires form families? Some take it further, some form compounds, too strong for the VIU to break up. Dozens of vampires, protecting each other. They keep humans captive, instead of killing to feed, so their body count’s lower. That’s how the VIU justifies leaving them alone.”

“So…” Matthew put the pieces together, “The way the VIU operates right now, some of the vampires that hurt you will never be captured.”

Simon nodded, lifting his tear-streaked face to look at the ceiling.

“I’m gonna be down here forever.”

The words hung between them in the air. Matthew felt like he was unable to absorb half of what Simon had told him. He rubbed his face, and found himself a bit teary-eyed. He looked at the clock on the bedside table, which was surrounded by empty beer cans: 1:53 AM.

“Have you slept at all?” he asked.

“No. I was working up the nerve to talk to you.” Following Matthew’s gaze, Simon plucked up a beer can and gave it an appraising shake. Liquid sloshed within. He started to lift it to his lips, but Matthew snatched it away.

“No more of that,” Matthew ordered, “Get some sleep. We can talk more about everything in the morning.”

“Wait, can you stay with me?” Simon asked, suddenly awake and wide-eyed.

“Like… Here, in your room?” Matthew asked hesitantly.

“Yes! Please, I don’t -” Simon shook his head breathlessly, “I don’t want to be alone, I know I’m going to freak out if I’m alone, after digging all that up.”

“I guess I could sleep on the floor?” Matthew slowly suggested, watching Simon carefully.

“No, I mean, I want…” Simon’s hands flitted together in front of him for a moment before he reached out and touched Matthew’s knee. “Please stay with me.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea…” Matthew started.

“Please stay with me!” Simon burst out, “I can’t be alone after that, please, please don’t go!”

Matthew froze.

“Uhh…”

“Please,” Simon started sobbing, the tears flowing again and his words melding together, “I don’t wanna be alone down here anymore, I want you to stay -”

He cut himself off by leaning forward and crashing his lips into Matthew’s, his hands grabbing at Matthew’s shirt. Matthew kissed back for the briefest moment before catching himself and pulling away.

“Simon, I can’t, you’re drunk -”

“I don’t care!” Simon cried, “Please don’t leave me, please!”

Matthew detached Simon’s hands from his shirt as gently as he could.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said firmly, “Would that be okay?”

“No, I need you to…” Simon grabbed Matthew’s waistband, “I need you, I’ll do whatever you want.” His eyes sought out Matthew’s desperately, wide and tearful, “I know you want me, I know-”

“No,” Matthew moved Simon’s hand away again, avoiding his gaze, “I’m not doing that. I’ll be right back.”

Matthew quickly got off the bed, gathered up the rest of the empty cans, and left, while Simon doubled over on the bed and wept. He found the lights in the main room were on, and Gina stood by the light switch.

“What the fuck is going on?” she demanded.

“Uhh…” Matthew glanced over his shoulder towards the sounds of crying, then back at her.

“He told me everything. Now he’s not doing so good. Plus…” he hefted the cans in his arms.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Matthew dumped the cans into the sink with a clatter, “I’m going to sleep in there on the floor.”

He went to the cot and rolled up his sheets and blankets along with the thin mattress.

“Okay,” Gina said, “Just be… mindful.”

It was odd phrasing, but Matthew understood what she was driving at.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he assured her, “I won’t let it.”

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

“Okay,” she murmured, and watched him carry his bedroll and pillow back to the bedroom.

Simon was a silent lump under the covers when Matthew returned. Matthew wasn’t sure whether Simon was asleep already or just ignoring him, but he said “I’m here,” anyway. He unrolled the burrito of bedding onto the floor and dropped the pillow into place. Still receiving no response from Simon, he laid down and pulled up the covers.

The bright lights blared down, making it hard to keep his eyes closed. All this new information was like a tornado passing through his brain, uprooting long-held assumptions and delivering strange, new discoveries. Simon wasn’t a young prodigy; he’d never finished highschool, much less got a bachelor’s and gone through academy training. He didn’t have a few vampires with a grudge after him, he had over two dozen that were utterly obsessed. He wasn’t a cool-headed expert with a storied past, he was a victim. A tragedy. A blubbering mess. Even sober, hooking up with him would be unethical, wouldn’t it?

Matthew cursed himself for thinking about relationship potential at a time like this.

Besides, knowing what he knew now, and as much as he wished there was, clearly there wasn’t any.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

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Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy @pigeonwhumps @sunshiline-writes @seasaltandcopper

[litcyaoi]

kinda wish syscourse would talk about how common grooming is in the system community. or literally not just syscourse, the whole OSDDDID community in general.

there have been SO many people that ive seen be around my age (13 - 15) dating people who are 16, 17, or 18. my ex partner system, who i dated on and off for two years, is 18. i am 15 and don't turn 16 for another few months.

yet not a single person in all the syscord spaces i was, or on systok, or anything, said anything about the fact i was a MIDDLE SCHOOLER dating a JUNIOR IN HIGH SCHOOL. it was completely viewed as normal, with some of my mutuals even saying they had similar age gaps with their partners or saying the age gap was okay.

and i know it's not just me because there's so, so, SO many people, especially on systok, talking about how they've had similar experiences, and i WISH it was talked about more. i wish grooming between two minors as a whole was talked about more, especially in online system spaces where there's a lot of teenagers. yes, my ex was 16 - 17 for most of our relationship, but that doesn't mean the things they did suddenly are justified. i am traumatized bc of it.

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

i have class in 4 hours and im behaving clownishly. but i need to let my thoughts out

the discourse about afo and yoichis relationship has been driving me nuts on twt. it is worthy examining their relationship to be incestual and the fact people can’t distinguish incest as a narrative theme from shipping is insane. it doesn’t change the underlying narrative of their relationship and it is not stretch to think of it that way. if yoichi was a woman this would be a lot easier for people to grasp!

bnha covers themes like this consistently!! grooming and child abuse are overarching plot points for several arcs, and sexual abuse has been hinted at more than once. it is a disservice to the (imo) very nuanced and fleshed out relationship of afo and his brother, to overlook the most obvious element of incest and abuse.

not ONLY is it an obvious theme, the thematic importance of family as a microcosm of society has played a major part in the story since its conception. so many stories in the series revolve around the corruption of the family structure. afos story being incestual and by extension the most jarring of that corruption is a clever execution for his story!!!!!

its not about shipping!!!!!!!!!!! its a theme and part of the overarching plot between them and is not a stretch at all and wanting to discuss it in that way is not weird!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

like what other context is there for these panels!!! call a spade a spade!!!!

[rbquartz]

to the anon that's returned to the mbav community

don’t care + didn’t ask + cry about it + stay mad + atticus mitchell isn't gonna notice you + get real + L + mald seethe cope harder + ho mad + basic + skill issue + ratio + you fell off + leave my friends alone + the audacity + triggered + any askers + repelled + get a life + ok + and? + cringe + touch grass + donowalled + not based + die

[cadaveerie]

cw: child abuse and non-sexual grooming

VEILGUARD SPOILERS (from lucanis' writing, a mission towards the ending and a little general)

About Lucanis and the Antivan Crows...

after finishing datv, I can finally say for sure that despite the fact that i find this game was overall fine, there are several things about it that have disappointed me. one of those things is about lucanis (and it's not even the only thing about lucanis that bothers me, but we'll leave that discussion for another time, because there's a lot to say about the writing).

in this game, Caterina Dellamorte (lucanis and illario's grandmother) is portrayed as a woman that's cold and demanding. not particularly nice, lucanis fully acknowledges that she's not exactly the loving type, and it's easy to assume things about her and about their relationship based on that... but for some reason it's never addressed that she abused lucanis when he was a child, by beating him and starving him. this is something that you can read in lucanis' story in tevinter nights, the wigmaker job, which was lucanis' introduction.

"Memories of sweat-filled days without food or water came unbidden Lucanis’s back tingled from where his grandmother’s cane had bruised his flesh for letting his guard down or fumbling his footwork. For years, he’d hated her. But his time as a Master taught Lucanis that Caterina’s cruelty was her way he was prepared for this life—that he survived."

I was waiting to finish the game before I said it, because I expected him to mention at some point but... no, nothing. I don't know if there's anything in a codex or something specific I missed, but even if that's the case, I expected it to be significant at all. it wasn't.

i'm not even going to get into what lucanis should feel about this. before the game came out i talked about some of my hopes for him based on the info we had about him, and imo there was not even half of that level of depth to his character. but i wouldnt have minded if the game went in another direction, or if lucanis simply just wasnt open to discuss it, or if he came to the conclusion that it was fine. i won't get into how "problematic" thinking that is, because i could understand that he tells himself that, and as a fucking assassin, i understand that he's come to terms with it because otherwise he probably wouldnt have survived in such a dangerous enviroment. i won't get into it bc as i said, i can understand it. my problem is that lucanis never says it. he never tells rook or anyone else that caterina abused him, or that the crows overall are very abusive and that they do this to children and break their minds basically in order to become emotionless living weapons. and if this is said in any banter, then i missed it in my 91h of gameplay, and i had lucanis in my party every single time we went outside. or it might be in a codex entry, idk. the point is that even if that's the case, that's not a great way to tell this info, especially when in the story theres no other way to learn anything like this about the crows. ppl that i talked to that didnt read tevinter nights didnt know this fact abt caterina and lucanis' past, they simply didnt cause how could they. I just wanted to say this because I think it's important to know if you like lucanis, or the antivan crows, and it's never even actually implied.

I also have many other issues with his writing, but the antivan crows are unfortunately also whitewashed. at least if you've played dragon age origins you know this, but our first antivan crow companion, zevran, talks about how he was taken as a child by the antivan crows. how he was literally bought by them as an orphan, and forced to become an assassin, and when he tries to flee, they attempt to murder him throughout the game. he even talks about how apparently some crows even made their members go through blood magic rituals to acquire abilities (SOUND FAMILIAR? IT'S LITERALLY WHAT ZARA DOES TO LUCANIS, ISN'T IT. HOW FUCKED UP). i think it's so disrespectful to dragon age's worldbuilding and so appalling that they simply... ignored all of this. I'm very upset that this was completely whitewashed. i wont get into it, but i assume they didn't show the crows being awful because, well... they have to be the good alternative for government in antiva. the bad guys are the antaam, and that's it. but one of the things i always loved about dragon age is how they treat these sort of political things. as i said, in origins the crows were more of an antagonistic figure, but at least it made them feel more real and serious. and people loved the crows like they were, fucked up assassins. in this game... idk, am i supposed to believe the assassin guys are nice? why hide the ugly? of course it's gonna be there, and it's ok. irl it happens a lot that oppressed people have to rely on groups that are less than ideal for their liberation, and a lot of times citizens are kinda ok w it bc no one else will stand up for them, so they have to work w what they have, and they're just relieved theres someone there for them. and it also shows that people are not perfect victims. if you're putting ppl in a corner, at some point ppl are rarely gonna care about being "good", and it's only human. and im not even gonna get into being an antivan crow rook because... sigh, it's more of the same. just disappointing. rook even mentions that theyre an orphan. and im pretty sure in the final mission about treviso, at least if you helped jacobus, he is like "i'll take in orphans and give them a chance". oh man, yeah. cool. please tell me how you'll raise them to be, im so curious to see how you won't groom children and abuse them into becoming mindless cold soldiers. that's fucking insane. this feels like fucking US army levels of propaganda and grooming. i love when we normalize child soldiers that's so fucking awesome i love this "woke" game when it's pro-military and anti-fucking-questioning-anything-a-military-force-does.

i even wondered if all of this has been retconned or simply ignored. i dont have a problem w retconning overall, and it's only natural it would happen in a franchise that's as old as DA, but the thing is... why would you do it. it literally just makes them flatter, it doesn't make any fucking sense.

so yes. im VERY disappointed in this game and the writing. this is one of the many things in the writing that disappointed me. the antivan crows are an organization that bring hope, and im perfectly fine with them being portrayed as "saviors", but im not ok with them conveniently not addressing any of their very bad issues. it's unrealistic. it's disrespectful to our intelligence, to dragon age fans and to dragon age origins. it's disrespectful to characters like zevran, who got into an insane war with them for a fucking reason. it's disrespectful to every antivan crow character to be honest. and im sorry, i dont even think this is insane to ask from them. like.... im literally just asking for consistency. they had it already, i dont understand why they did this. i had faith in them, but perhaps that's on me. im so heartbroken.

and i promise i actually think the game overall is ok. it was fun. definitely one of my least favorite games, if not my least favorite, but still. i appreciate it, and LOVED. LOVEEED some scenes. in fact, it might have at the very least one of my favorite scenes from the whole franchise. i think this game has very low points, and very high points, so it's hard to say what i think about it in few words.... but there are so many things like this in the writing, and it's just SO upsetting and disrespectful. im sorry. im truly sorry, you don't know how much i wanted to love this game and the writing. you have no idea. but i have self respect, and i don't lie to myself when i see something i dont like. it feels like they're whitewashing the crows cause we'd be too stupid to understand complex political issues. i thought this game was mature and could handle mature themes, but it doesnt seem like it's the case anymore. perhaps bioware is dead. i still want to believe they can come back from this but......... the post credit scene doesnt reassure me AT ALL. sigh. im just upset and sad. and as i said, this is only one of my many issues. i'll talk about the rest in the future, but im writing all of it down and i need time for that. i hope you understand that this comes from a place of genuine love. sorry i can't be happy about this game, but some of the stuff i see just ruins the rest for me.

edit: someone told me that apparently theres a banter when you go to dellamorte's villa and lucanis *implies* that he was beat by his grandmother (at least to another antivan crow rook). this whole post still stands though. i think that should have not been a banter that i (and im sure others) missed. and again, it also ties to how i think the crows as an organization and their methods were whitewashed. even if it's not particularly a lucanis problem, it could have been to some extent addressed by him.

[cabin13cappuccino]

You are so right for this!!! Especially since Hades is in absent/dickhead father mode through BotL, The Sword of Hades, and TLO: he offers Nico no refuge when he runs from camp (he is literally homeless living on the banks of the Styx/in the Labyrinth) and he's never satisfied with Nico when he does give him a second thought; he lets his wife pick on his kid (turning him into a dandelion), he's constantly comparing Nico to the child Bianca could have been, and he manipulates him for his own gain. He has to find a way to gain his father's approval in order to be worthy of a home.

Then comes along a figure (Minos) who has worked in a position of power in the Underworld for millennia, who isn't dismissive or fearful of Nico, and who offers him guidance and a chance to get back the most important person in his life. Of COURSE Nico is going to jump head-first into following the only soul who has appeared to care about him. (Not that Percy didn't, but he was thirteen years old at the time with a potentially life-ending prophecy hanging over his head. Kid had no business being responsible for a grieving ten/eleven year old even though he wanted to be.) No parental support along with no other support network made Nico SO vulnerable to grooming.

The after effects on Nico of breaking out of that toxic dynamic aren't discussed/explored nearly enough imo, but I think one of the things Rick does quite well with this is characterizing Nico as incredibly closed off from other people going forward (at least until he starts to open up in HoH + BoO). Even as early as TLO, he shuts Percy out when he asks about leads on Nico's mom- and yes, that's complicated by the deal Hades cut with his son and Nico's crush on Percy, but the guy he likes is showing genuine interest in his life and Nico's response is just "NOPE can't let him in" because the last person who supposedly selflessly cared about Nico was doing it all for their own gain.

The lines about the lessons Nico learned about ghosts from Minos in BoO hits with a different sort of gut-punch from this angle:

"After his experience with Minos, Nico realized most specters held only as much power as you allowed them to have. They pried into your mind, using fear or longing or anger to influence you." (Chapter 14)

"Nico knew something about ghosts. Letting them get inside your head was dangerous. He wanted to help Reyna, but since his own strategy was to deal with his problems alone, spurning anyone who tried to get close, he couldn’t exactly criticize Reyna for doing the same thing." (Chapter 29) (bold emphasis is mine)

Nico's self-isolation has been a means of protecting himself from being manipulated further due to the grooming Minos put him through, which is honestly more tragic than it gets credit for.

does anyone wanna talk about the grooming metaphor between nico and king minos or should i continue screaming into the void

[hypertechnica]

i’m not saying that what Odo did in s6 while the dominion occupied the station WASNT fucked up beyond imagination, but am i the only one who thinks it completely makes sense why it happened (and why Kira forgave him?)

to be clear, i absolutely think the show forgave him too fast - it should have been a full arc on screen, not in a single off screen discussion in a closet. that was a massive writing failure. but! i don’t think that the arc is usalvageable at all.

(CW for discussions of grooming)

from what i knew of the dominion collaborator arc before i watched it, i assumed Odo had taken an active role in betraying the federation basically because he was lonely and horny and prioritized his own feelings over his values. i didn’t see that at all.

Odo’s betrayal lied within his inaction - his refusal to help kira and the resistance when she needed him most, ruining their plans and in the end costing thousands of lives. Kira (and everyone else) had every right to never speak to him again - so why did she?

Odo, to me, seemed completely dissociated the entire time his betrayal took place. where just before he had been talking of wanting to rip out his strong feelings for Kira, he then takes on an eerie apathy towards everything, stating things “used to” matter and that he felt nothing. he doesn’t even know how much time is passing. the crux of this, of course, is the link - Odo stresses that it’s an experience that can’t be compared to anything solids can do. Kira just “doesn’t understand.” that she can’t understand. what is so life changing about linking that makes him do a full 180 on everything he’s ever stood for? it’s basically just goo sex, right? right?

the Voice of the Link (the female changeling but i refuse to call her that because it’s a stupid fucking name) is manipulating him with his desire to link and to experience his culture. but linking is more than a metaphor for sex, it’s quite literally the emotional fusion between beings. the show compares it to sex, yes, but the emotional intimacy of the act transcends humanoid notions of sexuality in a way Odo had never experienced at this level before. the Voice already had power over him. she’d been building his trust and teasing him with hints at their culture for seasons at this point, it wasn’t a huge step to fully let her enter his mind. the Voice wanted Odo to join the Great Link - but she also wanted that minefield to be destroyed. Odo says she didn’t find out about their plans, but was he correct? what are the Voice’s true motives? she says she doesn’t care about the details of the war, that she just wants to be with Odo for companionship - i don’t buy it. she has to know about the resistance. she’s too smart to not have figured it out. it’s two birds with one stone - fully sway Odo to the side of the dominion, and ensure that the minefield is destroyed.

they’d linked before, but never in totality or for that length. she knew he’d be vulnerable to it. that he would lose himself to the overwhelming emotional intensity and melding of their minds. Odo was an extremely young changeling with little to no experience linking, and was thrust into an out of body extremely emotional and sexual experience literally transcending the boundaries of self with a thousand+ year old founder who knows exactly what buttons to press. of course he would lose his sense of self and detach from reality! she’s literally both attacking and assuaging every vulnerability Odo has in an extremely precise manner!

Odo wanted nothing more than to be able to link with another changeling but the power imbalance was too great. he was putty in her hands. it was really uncomfortable to watch and i dare say it was an act of predation rather than “Odo was horny and folded immediately” or “Odo was lonely and prioritized that over his friends.” yes, he was both of those things, but in the context of his relationship with the Voice… good lord. i wouldn’t even be surprised if Odo genuinely didn’t know the extent of the damage he caused until after things were over - he was completely and utterly gone.

it makes no sense for Odo to suddenly abandon his entire moral and value system just because The Link Is Cool and Awesome and i’m Learning About my Culture and then change his mind once more once shit starts hitting the fan. he’s not that gullible. he can’t rip out his feelings! but he can be coaxed into a state of derealized semi consciousness by continuous linking and isolation from others.

by linking with the Voice he lost track of where he ended and she began. his ego had been destroyed. he was nothing, and nothing mattered but the link. the totality of it. his loneliness was amplified by a thousand degrees every time they separated, she knew how to make him feel just right, she knew how to make him lose his independence completely.

but the spark within him, his love that he’d tried to get rid of, the kind that didn’t require becoming nothing but a drop in an ocean, saved him from her. Kira helped him remember himself and what he believed in right before it was too late.

Odo is far from a defendable character in many cases. he’s a very very flawed person. but i would argue this isn’t his worst moment. his extremely authoritarian tendencies and the amoral decisions he’s made while in complete sound mind are honestly more culpable to me than what happened to him in s6. the scale of the disastrous consequences resulting from his betrayal make it way worse obviously, but he was literally getting groomed and NOT in his right mind. he seemed almost drugged to me at points.

so he SHOULD have gotten another arc afterwards explaining all of that in detail instead of “well, he talked it out offscreen with Kira. he’s forgiven now!” BRO HE INDIRECTLY KILLED SO MANY PEOPLE dissociated or not he SHOULD face consequences for that!! make him grapple with it!! make him realize the extent of what happened not only the consequences but the the way he was taken advantage of! its literally existentially terrifying in every way! and of COURSE in that context Kira would forgive him. trust would have to be rebuilt, of course, but it’s one thing to actively put the entire alpha quadrant at risk for some strange, it’s another thing to have your vulnerability taken advantage of and be put into a dissociative state.

tldr: the Voice is a great villain and Odo has never done anything wrong ever in his life

[angie-words]

Second part of details from the Am I Broken: Survivor Stories episode titled Claire "I ignored It and I Believed Him Because He's A Storyteller [Neil Gaiman]". Part 1 here

Again, a reminder that I really, really urge you to listen to the episode if you feel able, found on Apple and Spotify.

EDIT (1st August 2024): two further women have made allegations

CW: details of sexual coercion, gaslighting, power dynamic imbalance, sexual assault, trauma, ptsd, sexual predator behaviour, grooming, abuse of power, discussion of rape culture, victim-blaming

Claire says she is glad the fandom is doing the work to believe victims, but she also understands those "burying their head in the sand" because that's what she tried to do

DeBoer asks what else has helped Claire, besides learning new vocabulary to help her frame her experiences (e.g. grooming, sexual coercion). She says that listening to her body's physical responses, including the trauma dreams, has helped

She began telling friends and she said this helped a lot as they validated what she was feeling rather than believing Gaiman's narrative

Claire says that writing has also helped her process, including writing letters she never sent. She wrote blog and reddit posts, but didn't publish any of them because she didn't know how to come forward with her story

DeBoer thanks her for finding the ability to come forward and asks her what allowed her to feel this was possible now. Claire says that talking with a friend allowed her to develop a certainty, especially when she starts advocating for herself and other people

Claire says that she had been in denial because she was trying to protect herself from the knowledge that someone she trusted and adored had violated her trust

She expresses a deep sadness about how her memories and love of Gaiman's work have been tainted by what he has done to her. She describes that loss of "such magic and beauty" as being deeply sad

The last time she spoke to Gaiman was 2022, which it now turns out was the same year he got Scarlett to sign an NDA.

Claire reiterates how he is seen as a god, deified by the fandom

During one call, he said "I don't know what I see in you - I'm an award-winning author and you are-" and he didn't finish the sentence but she says he didn't need to as the meaning was clear. She describes herself as one of many fans willing to do almost anything for him

Claire says she and others worshipped him. She says consent wasn't impossible, but she was operating from a hero worship complex, fueling a fawn response

DeBoer states that fans are incapable of true consent - what they see is a projection, they are worshipping someone who isn't real, and so they are incapable of being in a real relationship with that hero

Claire agrees it was his responsibility to open the discussion about power dynamics and adhere to it. She said he didn't check in or respect boundaries; she says that wasn't because of autism or something else - she doesn't know why he felt he was owed her body/consent. DeBoer agrees the responsibility was Gaiman's

Claire says that ongoing consent discussions are needed; DeBoer agrees that such things also need to start slowly, and they both discuss how fast Gaiman moved things between him and Claire

Reflecting on how these experiences have affected her in light of the allegations, she can see now she experienced trauma responses to things that reminded her of him. She had to distance herself from friends who still loved Gaiman; she found she couldn't even enjoy reading. She even stopped going into book stores.

Claire almost stopped volunteering at the rape crisis centre. She wasn't sure how she could advocate for anyone else when she hadn't been able to do so for herself. Her manager validated her feelings and said that if everyone who'd had their boundaries violated left, they'd have no one left. It's implied this gave her a new perspective and moved her away from some victim-blaming of herself

She still experiences feelings of doubt and a lack of self-worth in comparison to who Neil Gaiman is, what he's done. However, Claire is trying to move past this mindset, the voice of him in her head

DeBoer encourages her by reminding her that she matters, that she has a voice. They thank her for her bravery and courage

Claire hopes people come away with believing how our bodies respond to trauma - "listen to all of it, not just what people around you are saying"

Claire says she is not broken: she is sad for the child who lost her hero. At this point, Claire becomes a little overwhelmed. She states he influenced how she thought about the assaults

DeBoer ends by talking about how sexual abuse is about both sex and power, not just power as some have stated, otherwise this would be a different type of abuse. They say that there are many indicators of Gaiman having power (money, fame, social capital, age, maturity, gender, eloquence and mythopoesis)

DeBoer says the person with the power has the greater responsibility for shaping the boundaries of the relationship

They say that Claire's healing has come through being able to tell her story, finding the power within herself. DeBoer details an exercise called "safety bubble" that can assist with this (I'd recommend going to about 1:09:00 into the podcast if you want to learn more)

DeBoer reiterates listening to our bodies and how they respond to trauma - it can be difficult to interpret what the sensations we feel are, but it can allow us to reclaim our stories

They define rape culture and how it is insidious, blaming victims, then sharing original notes DeBoer sent when Claire first contacted them. They say Gaiman was testing and pushing boundaries, that this was predatory behaviour; they also said at the time that there was a high likelihood Claire was not the only person Gaiman had done this to

They end with mentioning where to find more information about restorative justice steps someone can take if they have hurt another person

I think that's all folks. It's been extremely difficult for me, as someone who's experienced sexual assault and also this kind of gaslighting thanks to rape culture mentalities. I hope this has been useful for some folks. Please look after yourselves❤️

[maria-is-stupid]

Yo so, i got something i wanna say rq.

Quick CW for the discussion of grooming, false allegations and a long ass post. If you don't already know about this situation, scroll down, I've provided links to the necessary posts at the bottom! I’m not the one for drama, never have been and never will be. But being a mutual of @ikamigami and literally getting tagged in it, it was inevitable that I would see @alexandraisyes' grooming allegation post on both her and Mothy. And after having reached out myself to get Ikami’s side on things along with reading the documents provided by both parties, I've come to my own conclusion. I don’t see either party as really being in the right. Not Alex nor Mothy. Mothy for their poor behaviour which has been given evidence of in Alex’s document. And Alex for Ikamigami’s completely unnecessary involvement and the horrible accusation made against them with lackluster evidence. Lackluster evidence which I have a few things to say about. Now Alex or any of her friends who may end up reading this, I'm not a new enemy of any sort or looking to be one, nor do I have any particularly ill feelings against any of you, I'm just giving criticism and stating my opinions here. 1) Evidence against Ikami No.1 - The nsfw fic Ikamigami wrote a nsfw fic and tagged GarbageChocolate, who she at the time, didn’t know was a minor. But once she found out, it was publicly apologized for. And now the fic has been completely deleted from Ikami’s blog, the only reason you’re still able to see it via the link in Alex’s document is because of it being a reblog. This was resolved and closed in 2023. Information which Alex has left out both in their doc and when replying to comments, either intentionally or because of lack of proper research.

Why is it being brought up to be used as some sort of “evidence” of Ikami being a groomer? When you think about it, it doesn’t even make any sense. A groomer wouldn’t post stuff like that publically, as they would want to keep their behaviour hidden. 2) Evidence against Ikami No.2 - Ikami siding with Mothy I don’t know if people know this, but choosing to side with a friend in drama or accusations is normal.

Especially considering the friendship between Mothy and Ikami, that they’ve been there for one another and therefore will put a good amount of trust in each other. And I think that if you’re quickly able to turn on your friend at the smallest accusation, you weren’t even a real friend to begin with. That or you’re just a patsy.

Ikami herself in her own document acknowledges Mothy’s actions and says that she is not going to defend them. Though along with that Ikami provides rather important context behind Mothy’s behaviour. Context being that Mothy is someone who has immature and childish behavioural tendencies (being a 19 year old, also counting that age does not equal to maturity), and due to less than unfortunate events in her childhood expresses hypersexuality.

Something to quickly mention as well, Ikami has only really known Mothy’s side on the things which has happened inside the servers, possibly not having been told the entire truth on some things. That along with the behaviour of Mothy is not something I want to excuse and is something that i'm certain Ikami isn't exactly pleased about either. Also, this shouldn't just come to me, but do you realise how broken the logic behind this, that Ikami choosing to side with Mothy makes her a groomer too, is?  Let me lay out a hypothetical example;

What if I was friends with someone who later gets accused to be a pedophile, would that make me a pedo too simply by association?

3) - Critisism on Alex's document Now, I know this whole segment is going to sound nit-picky, but there are some things that I want to point out with Alex’s document and its content. As I can't help but feel that the document looks incredibly rushed and sloppily made. Alex's document only bears screenshots, with pretty much no context given whatsoever behind them or this situation. Like say, as an example, what the ages of both Mothy and the minors were specifically during the time it all went down, as that is very important information and simply just stating that the victims were minors doesn’t really make things clear. As anyone between 1 to 18 would be considered a minor. Along with lacking context, there are things added which don't serve anything, being rather trivial. Like the comparison made between the behaviour of Mothy, Alex herself and Alex's friend Peachpopfizz/Peachfnaf. I can understand the potential reason for this being added, but in execution it just looks like you’re trying to make yourself look better or superior and is rather useless to know.

And something which I think is plenty worthy of being pointed out as well is that we don't seem to get any screenshots of one-to-one private conversations. Or at least not ones where it's clear, as most of the screenshots are also cropped. The victims in Alex’s document state that Mothy has used manipulation tactics, used her ties to the ‘big blogs’ as leverage and not taken it too kindly when others did not want to talk to them about something or got uncomfortable, so why don't we see examples of such?

 If all of Mothy's messages come from open channels for anyone to see, it makes me wonder, as one of the main tactics of groomers is to isolate a victim and hold their own poor behaviour behind closed doors. Especially considering there were apparently other adults in the proship server who, assuming they're either not stupid or ignorant, would’ve seen and called it out immediately as Mothy was openly 19 and NSFW was not allowed as far as i'm aware. And the last point i want to make, seeing that this would become way too long if i was to add every single tiny one. Again about rather trivial info. Alex in their document, in the section about confronting Mothy, mentions of Ikami apparently talking about killing herself in the TSBS discord server, along with the harassment and slandering which has been happening between Ikami, Dana and Ceph/Twinanimatronics (in which direction it fully was in I'm not aware).

Number one, in regard to the claim of Ikami speaking of killing herself. I've gone the lengths to look through her messages in the TSBS server myself, especially around the time in which the Miku episode and Ikami’s psychotic episode happened, and have not found anything remotely close. So if Dana and Ceph, the ones who allegedly reported this to the mods, have evidence of this actually happening. I would love to see it.

And number two, the personal drama between Alex, Ikami, Mothy and Alex’s friends, i’m sorry to say this, is such a nothing burger and is frankly inappropriate to add in an allegation document of grooming. It would’ve been way better to have just stuck to the main matter of all of this from the very start, that Mothy was talking inappropriately in the proship server, anything else is not something that I will care about.

Overall, the document is a case in which the more you try to make sense of it, the more it falls apart. Whenever it’s because of lacking context, trivial information which distracts from the main point, an unrelated party which was dragged in and framed without any actual proof, ect. Or that is at least how i feel. 4) - final thoughts. Now, with everything i've said above, i'd like to emphasize, I do not want anyone in this situation to get harassed as that will amount to nothing.

All that I personally wish is for Mothy to seek help with the issues that they have, work to get better and for something like this never to happen again (which, considering their apology post. It sounds like they're not afraid to admit fault, which is a first step). For the minors to take care. And for everyone here to perhaps consider and be mindful how they spend their time online and in what spaces, as from what I've seen in my time on the internet, the proship space and those similar has many times been the breeding ground for predatory weirdos to take advantage of those younger and vulnerable.

If you have questions or anything you want to say, you are more than free to reach out to me privately, as I'm not going to clutter up my blog with replies to reblogs. Of course with that being said, keep in mind, i will not tolerate insults, slurs or threats of any kind.

Here's the links to the document posts of both Alex and Ikami so you can read and come to your own informed opinion on all of this.

Have a good day folks.

(And please, for the love of god. When it comes to allegations online, always take it with a grain of salt until both sides have spoken. I’ve seen countless times where false allegations have ruined people’s reputations and lives. And I would rather wait than look like an idiot.)

[reidsrambles]

An Invisible Locket

Chapter 3: Painted Me Golden

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader // Secret relationship

Description: You work with your best friend and your boyfriend. The only problem is, nobody knows Spencer Reid is your boyfriend of over a year. When you find out that Spencer's getting sent out on a case immediately after getting back to Quantico, impulses take over. (Content/Warnings below the cut)

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, oral sex (M & F receiving), PIV sex, unprotected sex within an established relationship, unplanned pregnancy, discussions of abortion (in a pro-choice context, though Reader ends up choosing to stay pregnant), minor mentions of alcohol and cancer.

As for the crime subplot, much of it is very canon-typical (referenced child abuse & grooming by an extended family member (non-sexual), violence, blood/gore, drugs. As always, please feel free to let me know if I miss any CWs!

A/N: This fic is obviously heavy on the Spencer and Reader relationship, but it's also got a significant Garcia best friend plot line and crime plot line. This fic also features an unplanned Reader pregnancy. Reader debates abortion and is pro-choice, but ultimately ends up keeping the pregnancy. If any of that isn't up your alley, please feel free to skip this fic!

Names used: Baby, baby girl, good/sweet/pretty girl, daddy, good boy (once), my love.

Words (this chapter): 4.1 K

Words (total): 29.1 K

Pulling up to the FBI Academy for the first time was quite intense. You had only moved to Virginia two days prior, and your apartment consisted of a mattress on the floor and stacks of boxes all over the place. When you pulled them out of the box the night before, deep wrinkles littered your white blouse and black pencil skirt. Thank god you had thought ahead and put an iron and ironing mat in with your box of work clothes. First impressions are important.

Penelope had prepped you on what to expect for your first day. Security was a lot, but knowing what to expect definitely made the process easier. Your new boss was the first one to greet you as you stepped out of the elevator.

“You must be Y/N.” He reached his hand out to shake yours, which you promptly took. His handshake was firm, but not at all aggressive; a fine line that he straddled well. “I’m your Unit Chief, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. Penelope Garcia has told us so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope!”

“Oh, of course. Everyone should be free right now, so I’ll gather them and introduce you.”

Penelope had told you all about every member of the team, both casually, before you got hired, and after, in order to prepare you. It was strange to put faces to the names you had heard so much about. Penelope didn’t have a bad thing to say about anyone, but she did give you some warnings about everyone’s… quirks.

Everyone was very kind as they greeted you, but you couldn’t help but notice the timid guy, about your age, keeping some distance and standing off to the side. Penelope had told you about one, Dr. Spencer Reid, but the image you had crafted of him in your head wasn’t matching up with reality.

Your eyes kept drifting over to him and Derek must have noticed.

“Kid, stop being shy and get over here!” he said to Reid.

To you, he whispered, “I’m not sure if Penelope has told you about our little Einstein, but he gets nervous around pretty ladies.” The way he had said it wasn’t at all flirty towards you; he was slyly ridiculing Spencer.

Spencer put a hand out for you to shake. As he stood in front of you, shaking your hand, what you had been told about him was blending into the reality of him. Nerdy, ‘Boy Genius’ meets attractive FBI agent.

His light brown hair—mostly wavy, besides a few distinct curls—was just at the length where he was having to brush it off his face. His hazel eyes, framed by glasses, appeared to subtly shift in tone as his face moved. He wore a cardigan over his dress shirt and his tie was slightly too loose; not crisp and neat like Hotch’s was.

He wasn’t even physically your type, really. The guys you slept with in college tended to be athletic and more of the douchey frat bro type.

Your high school was small, and you were the lame girl who would spend her lunches hidden away in the computer lab coding. Teenagers can be cruel, and you weren’t exactly the epitome of popular. In senior year, you’d decided that when you got to college, you’d “fake it ‘til you make it” in regard to confidence. Turns out, guys found your confidence hot; they didn’t care what your major was. You never quite “made it” with your confidence, though. You just kept faking. It was tiring.

You never dated in college because you could only keep the façade up for so long, and once you felt yourself becoming invested in a guy and wanting something real, you ran. In therapy, you’ve since worked through a lot of that, thankfully. But meeting Spencer was what got you to delve into that aspect of your past with your therapist—something you only realized later, when you started dating him.

Love at first sight doesn’t exist, but from that first meeting with Spencer, there was some sort of spark. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust. You just felt something when he shook your hand.

“Dr. Spencer Reid. Nice to finally meet you,” he said, his eyes avoiding meeting yours.

***

The door to Penelope’s apartment opens and standing before you is your best friend, already in her pajamas and fluffy unicorn slippers. Her face is a bit puffy. She’s been crying.

You lift up the reusable shopping bag you’re carrying to draw attention to it. “You go sit while I put these away and get changed, all right?”

With the ice cream in the freezer, the wine in the fridge, and your pajamas on, you regroup with Penelope in the living room. She’s on the couch, wrapped in one of her many throw blankets. The TV is playing reruns of a show you know she doesn’t even watch, but the background noise is appreciated. You reach down and grab a blanket for yourself from the basket she keeps them in and settle into the opposite end of the couch.

Penelope blankly stares at the TV, making no effort to address you. Knowing your best friend, you’d guess that she wants you to start this conversation. She hates confrontation even more than you do, somehow.

The show on the TV dances across your field-of-view, but you have no clue what’s happening on it. It’s time to put on your big-girl-pants and go for it.

“Please, just spill,” you say. “I can’t stand seeing you like this and I’ve been a nervous wreck all day because of it.” Your words come out soft. “What did I do? I genuinely have no clue what I did wrong.”

Taking a throw pillow from the couch, you hug it to your chest as if it can shield you from whatever she’s going to say.

“You and Reid.”

Shit.

An enormous sigh falls out of you, and you aren’t sure if it’s relief that your secret is finally out of the bag or that you finally know what’s wrong. Regardless, that’s enough confirmation for Penelope.

“How long?” she continues, before you can even start.

The guilt of having hidden this from her for so long has been weighing on you much more than you previously realized, and now it’s all come to a head.

“Fourteen months. A little over a year,” you say, “Penelope I’m so—”

“Stop,” she cuts you off and begins to cry as she continues. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to find out that your best friend has been lying to you about something this big? And Spencer’s been lying to me, too! Does anyone else know!?”

Seeing her this hurt is killing you. You should have told her sooner. If you had a sister, you probably would have told her a long time ago. You’re an only child and Penelope isn’t super close with her stepbrothers, so you’d determined that you must be twin flames or something like that. Soul sisters, maybe.

“You’re the only person at work that knows. Even outside of work, only his mom and my parents know. When this started, we took things slow. We were casual for like, a month or so and we obviously weren’t going to tell anyone about that. Once we started dating, we thought it made more sense to keep it between us; to avoid comments and eyes on us at work, you know? We kept things entirely professional at work. Neither of us was sure that it was going to last and, if it didn’t, we could navigate working together as exes, but we didn’t want to navigate the entire unit knowing that we were exes.”

You shrug your shoulders and let out a defeated breath. “Regardless, look at what happened this morning with your meeting. I know that the team wouldn’t let anything happen to me or Spence, but if Strauss wants to play games and threaten someone’s job…?”

You don’t even need to answer that question because Penelope already knows that an intimate workplace relationship would put a target on your back with Erin.

“But you know you can trust me. Why didn’t you trust me?”

“I should have,” you nod. “It’s not that I actively distrusted you, Pen. I swear.” You reach out from your blanket cocoon and grab her hand, which she reciprocates. “I think that, after we decided that we wanted to make an attempt at something serious between us, we wanted to be able to focus on that without any external influence, especially from anyone at work. And it’s definitely been a lot of work. I love him so much, but with our jobs and our schedules…? We’ve both had to fight to find the alone time and the space where we can just be a couple.”

Penelope starts gently rubbing the palm of your hand with her thumb and her face softens with a feeble smile.

“You love our boy wonder?”

You mirror her expression with your own shy smile as you reflect on your partner.

“I love him so much. I mean, you know how amazing he is. I definitely don’t need to tell you that. He’s such an amazing boyfriend, though, too. I always feel happy and safe when I’m with him. He’s always teaching me new things and I know the team just wants him to shut up sometimes when he goes all Professor Reid at work, but I could listen to him talk for hours. When we’re together, sometimes I just let him ramble while I knit. He’s my free audiobook,” you giggle.

The smile on both of your faces has brightened and you’ve slowly shifted closer to each other on the couch throughout the conversation. Penelope grabs your other hand and lovingly squeezes it.

“You know how much I love you and I’m so, so happy that you’re this happy. The Good Doctor has good taste too, it seems.” There’s some wistfulness in her expression as her eyes meet yours again. “I just really wish you had told me, so I didn’t have to find out like this.”

Your demeanor rapidly shifts into perplexity as you remember that Penelope never explained the discovery to you. “Wait, how did you figure it out, anyway!? You never told me!”

An air of pride washes over her. “Well, you may have fooled an entire unit of profilers, but as we both know, my dear Y/N, I’m the divine being from which no secrets can be kept …for longer than one year—give or take.”

You giggle, always pleased by how easily she can make you laugh.

“Okay, now, Miss Divine Being, tell me how it actually happened,” you prod.

She rolls her eyes and begins narrating her version of today’s events to you. “So, I was already back at my desk when I got your text saying that you were going home for lunch. I was so surprised, because I was like, ‘I didn’t know Y/N was leaving! I was going to offer to buy her lunch from her favorite fancy French café down the road as an apology for stressing her out this morning!’”

This woman’s flair for the dramatics is showing, but you can’t even complain because you’re already thoroughly entertained.

She continues, “I didn’t want to text you to ask if you had already left, in case you were on your bike. No distracted cycling for you! So, I checked the security camera that’s in the bike cage of the parking lot, and I saw that your bike was still locked up! Maybe you were still making your way down to your bike, I thought. So I totally didn’t check the very precise geolocation of your work phone, because that would totally be crossing a line and very much against policy, right?”

Your jaw drops open. Are you entirely surprised? No. Disappointed in her? Yes.

“Anyway, I learned that you were up on the 2nd floor of the parking garage. Weird, right? I pull up the 2nd floor parking garage security feed—which, I very much am allowed to do—and what do I see?”

You try extremely hard to hold back a smirk as the full picture of her discovery comes together in your mind.

She claps her hands together. “I see my best friend getting into the car of none other than Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“So, that’s it? You saw me get into Spencer’s car and your Spidey-senses just knew?”

“I put two and two together, Y/N! Well, first, I thought about the reasons you would lie to me about going home for lunch in order to go somewhere with Reid, but I couldn’t figure out where you would want to go with him.”

“Penelope Garcia!” you gasp. “Did you track my work phone all the way to my house?”

“I also tracked Reid’s phone,” she quietly admits. “Both of you sneaking off to your apartment was enough for me to figure out there was some hanky-panky going down.”

“Well, I hadn’t seen him in a week, and he was about to leave again on this case, so we needed—”

She plugs her ears with her fingers. “Nuh, uh! I don’t need to hear any more of that. I’m still processing the dating thing, so please spare me the dirty details!”

You crack open the wine and ice cream you brought while catching up on the Bachelorette, yelling at the screen whenever something outrageous happens (which is often). You skip out on the wine, though, because you’ve got to be able to wake up for work tomorrow. One glass and you’d be zonked.

After getting in bed, you and Penelope lie facing each other. You’ve worked through a lot tonight, but something still feels unsettled for some reason.

You speak in a whisper, breaking the silence. “Pen, I’m sorry I never told you. I wish that I had been the one to tell you versus you finding out like that.”

“My little pumpkin pie, it’s okay.” She gently pinches your cheek. “To be fair, I shouldn’t have tracked your phone. I should have just waited until you got back after lunch and just asked you about it.”

“Yeah, probably,” you laugh. “I’m not telling Hotch, but you know you’ve got to apologize to Spencer later, right? For tracking his phone, too?”

She nods. “I know. I’ll talk to him once you tell him that I know so I can apologize.”

You know she will. She screwed up, but her heart is always in the right place.

“Neither of us are perfect, that’s for sure. Think about it this way, though. Yes, you fucked up, but at least you came clean immediately and didn’t lie to me for over a year, right?” you joke.

Penelope laughs alongside you. “You only lied to protect your relationship. Now that I’ve had a hot minute to process that my best-friend-slash coworker has been secretly dating my other best-friend-slash-coworker,” she pauses to take a breath and you have to pull your lips between your teeth to prevent a giggle, “you know I could never, ever fault you for that.”

Only a beat passes before she continues, asking, “Can you promise me something?”

“Promise you what, Pen?”

“No more secrets,” she says, “for either of us. You’re my best friend in the whole world.” In the faint glow of pink lava lamp light contrasting the pale moonlight shining in through the window, you see the reflection of her eyes becoming glossy. “We got through this, but in the future, let me in. Let me be by your side.”

You feel your face heating as your already dim vision gets blurrier.

“Yeah. Okay. But, now that you know, we need to have more girl’s nights and sleepovers so I can keep you up to date on things. If we talk too much at work, one of us will slip up in front of someone.”

“You mean, I’d slip up, and I totally get that because I would definitely be the one to accidentally spill the beans.”

“And I’m trusting you not to. Think you can do that for me, Pen?”

“You know I can’t promise that with a 100%, money-back guarantee because I’m me,” her gentle smile is faintly illuminated, “but I’ll definitely try my best.”

You know you could never ask for anything more from Penelope. It’s the way her brain works, and you couldn’t ask her to change that without fundamentally changing who she is, and you love her as-is. If she accidentally slipped up, it would suck, but it also wouldn’t be the absolute end of the world or anything.

“Hey, I love you, Pen”

She reaches up and taps the tip of your nose.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

You both roll onto your backs. The air feels lighter.

“So, when are you gonna tell the team?” she asks.

“I’m not too sure, honestly. Things are just so good right now and I’m scared to change too much. I’m also scared to paint that big, bright target on my back, you know? I can’t have Strauss or hell, even Hotch thinking that I’m less competent at my job because of my relationship with Spencer.”

Penelope takes a moment before asking, “What about Spencer? How does he feel about it?”

“Now, I think he’s a bit more ready than I am. In the beginning, he was the one who had more to lose by telling the team, especially before we became official, official. I was still relatively new to the team then, but he had known everyone for years and he didn’t want everyone’s perception of him to change so drastically.”

“Well, whenever you decide to tell the team, you know everyone’s going to be really happy for you, right? You both are a part of the BAU family.”

“Yeah, I know. I think we’ve just gotten so comfortable hiding that the idea of everything being out in the open is scary. Thank you for everything, though, Pen.”

She reaches over and grasps your hand with hers. You squeeze back; your silent reassurance to each other that everything is going to be okay, no matter what.

***

“Dr. Spencer Reid. Nice to finally meet you,” he said.

Every time his eyes flicked back to your face, it felt raw. You had to look away. You felt naked.

After that awkward introduction, the first six or seven months of working at the FBI were uneventful, as far as any sort of relationship between you and Spencer. You primarily only left your cave of an office to go to the bathroom, to make coffee, or for case briefs, anyway.

You did see him a few times outside of work, though. Dave had invited everyone over to his place for dinner a few times, and there were a handful of times that the team got drinks at the bar after work. He didn’t ignore you and you didn’t ignore him per se, but you still didn’t interact a whole lot. You grew closer to the rest of the team over those months, but not to Spencer.

Even with that first flicker of something when you met him, you knew you couldn’t pursue Spencer, even if you wanted to. Even if he were somehow attracted to you, you couldn’t date a coworker, especially not when you had barely been there half-a-year.

You reminded yourself that you were given the chance work with your best friend and to actually make some positive change in the world. You couldn’t willingly choose to fuck that up over some guy, especially when you weren’t even sure how you felt about him. Sure, he was an attractive guy. But being around Spencer felt like looking at a statue behind glass; close in proximity, but entirely untouchable. Entirely unreachable. What did he even feel like?

Everything changed the day you were caught sobbing in the bathroom. That day, the glass shattered before you and you reached out to touch. It was early afternoon and the usual ambiance of the office had quieted, most people out to lunch or heads-down at their desk, enjoying the peace and quiet.

The large pane of mirrored glass spanning the wall above the bathroom sinks made you feel as though you were in a funhouse; you, the clown. You dabbed at the black mascara stains under your eyes as you tried to somewhat-preserve your makeup, but you couldn’t hold back the tears. It turned into whack-a-mole, but with smeared mascara.

There were two quick knocks on the bathroom door before it opened, ever so slightly.

“I’m not coming in,” the male voice declared, clearing his throat, “but, is everything– uh, are you okay… in there?”

You froze. “Reid?”

“Y/N?” he asked in return. “I didn’t know who was in there, but I heard the crying.”

“Shit.” You covered your mouth. “Sorry, I mean, uh–” Fuck. “I didn’t realize I was so loud, sorry. I’m fine.”

“Oh, okay.”

He went quiet for a second and neither of you moved a muscle. It was so awkward and the only noise to fill the silence was the buzz of the fluorescent bathroom lights.

“Do you want me to go find Garcia?” he asked.

“No. She, uh– She left for lunch a few minutes ago.”

“Oh. Well, sorry for… intruding.”

“It’s fine. Thanks for checking on me, Reid.”

“If you need or, uh, if you want someone to talk to, you know where I’ll be.”

He gave a couple seconds before closing the door, his footsteps growing fainter as he walked away.

A few minutes later, you returned to your office to a sticky note on your desk which read:

“Here’s my personal number if you ever need a listening ear. I hope everything’s okay.”

You: “Hi, Spencer. It’s Y/N. Just got your note. Do you have a few minutes to swing by my office?”

You had figured the least you could do was explain and thank him for reaching out. Your text went unanswered, but about a minute later, he knocked on your door.

You explained that you were crying because you overheard two security guards making fun of the way you and Penelope dress. You see those two guards every morning at the security checkpoint on your way in. While you were on your way to grab stuff from the printer, you heard them joking with each other around the corner.

“I know it’s a really stupid thing to cry over. It’s just clothes. I didn’t want to tell Penelope though, obviously.”

“That’s a completely valid thing to cry over, in my book,” he said, his tone completely free of judgment.

“What, like you ever cry?” you joked.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he laughed. “You’re good, don’t worry.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for checking up on me and to explain. It was nothing serious. I’m fine.”

As he turned to leave, half in your office and half out, he said something that immediately had you reconsidering how you felt about him. “I’m glad you’re better. If you ever need to chat or something though, you can always text my personal cell. And, for what it’s worth, I think you look great.” His tone was probably more suggestive than he had intended because he panicked a bit as soon as the words left his mouth. “Your outfit, I mean!”

His simple compliment felt like that first flicker; like a spark. This spark went straight into the pit of your stomach, though. When he tried to backpedal, it was like a baby deer, fumbling while trying to walk on ice; adorable.

You and Spencer first began texting that night. The texts rapidly turned into mini-essays back and forth, replying to the numerous topics of the previous lengthy text. Texting turned into nightly phone calls. What started out as a practical shift to save your fingers from falling off turned into your nightly comfort. In contrast to the quick glances you began to give each other at work, his voice, quiet and sleepy coming through the speaker on your phone, felt intimate. You knew you were getting a side of him that nobody else at work was getting. His walls fell down before your very eyes, and it was extremely hot.

Two weeks after the initial text, Spencer was in your apartment. Two hours after that, he was in your bed. Two months later (Spencer would remember exactly how many days) you had the “so what are we to each other?” conversation.

It was never just hooking up though. It had been more than that from the start and you both knew it.

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[blackgryph0n]

BillieBustUp: A Boycott?

Hazbin Hotel is implicated, too.

cw: child grooming

Short version: BillieBustUp hired a known child groomer Blackgryph0n/Gabriel C. Brown, and the lead dev Katie Nelson is digging in their heels defending him, claiming that the groomer says he's innocent, and the "haters" are all sockpuppets for his wife/victim's abusive father. The evidence against him is piling up, and it seems like BillieBustUp, a game founded on LGBTQIA and disability representation, will instead be the face of uplifting pedophilia and child grooming. Gabriel is also the voice actor for Hazbin Hotel's Alastor, but only his singing role in the pilot, the song "Insane" which has risen to some popularity.

On June 14, 2024, Twitter user dagobbiEST posted a Twitter thread that implicated the creator of BillieBustUp, an upcoming indie game helmed by Katie Nelson/KatieBlueprint, in defending the actions of the voice actor Blackgryph0n, aka Gabriel C. Brown, who voices the character Barnaby. For those who were present in the My Little Pony fandom during 2014, you will know BlackGryph0n best either for his videos or perhaps for his most infamous accomplishment, which was creeping out many fans with his overly-familiar relationship with voice actress Michelle Creber, who was 14 to his 24.

Blackgryph0n went on to groom and subsequently marry Claire Corlett, Michelle's coworker and friend (and fellow 14 year old) when she turned 20, who was then isolated from her entire family, citing abuse. (The author does not deny that she may have been abused; it is typical for a groomer to pursue a minor who has a strained/difficult family situation.)

The facts are simple: Gabriel met Claire when she was a child, only 14/15, in a position of authority over her as a sound engineer at her voice acting job. The fact that they then later pursued a relationship, even if "she initiated it", implies that there was grooming taking place over the years in between. The groundwork of a relationship was built with a minor, even if it was not overtly romantic until later. For more information on grooming, please see here.

Scads of screencaps were rapidly produced on Twitter after the initial screencaps of the BillieBustUp Discord were posted, including many tweets with proof of Blackgryph0n's inappropriate flirting with the child actresses back to when they were 15 and 16. Gabe's claims that they "became friends only four years ago" (conveniently when she was 20) were quickly debunked as lies, due to all of the overwhelming Tweet and video evidence.

A list of links with more information:

A gathering of some of the most damning tweeted evidence to dispute the "only befriended her when she was 20" claim by Gabe.

A Reddit thread from r/YouTubeDrama concerning the recent allegations and firsthand witnesses to creepy behavior at conventions. Key quote:

"To provide some context, Gabriel knew them from that age because of his work. He is the only notable brony who concurrently worked on the show, though only peripherally as a backup voice/sound engineer for the sound and music team. However, he was around early on, and thus had access to FiM's voice actors, including the then-child VAs of the Cutie Mark Crusaders (Sweetie Belle (Creber), Apple Bloom, and Scootaloo). That's why he knew her from that young age, because his job provided him the opportunity to engage with those teenagers—to a professional limit, but he took it further than that with at least 2 of them." (d_shadowspectre3, who misidentified Creber - Creber voiced Apple Bloom, and Corlett voiced Sweetie Belle)

An informational Twitter thread from 2023 by BronyFandont discussing the grooming with more screencapped evidence.

A google doc of various screenshots, including a first-person witness to Gabriel's inappropriate behavior at a Brony con.

A Twitter thread with eight screencaps debunking the timeline Blackgryph0n tries to lie about, claiming he only met Corlett for extended periods when she was 20.

A Twitter thread by user Wootmaster discussing the allegations back in 2022, in which he adds that several big fandom names - including Saberspark, ACRacebeast and PaleoSteno - closed ranks and defended Blackgryph0n at the time, including leveling harassment at Corlett's father. Saberspark coined the deeply unsettling "It's creepy, but legal" in regards to the situation.

Some of Gabriel Brown's previous brushes with racism also came into discussion, including

A full blown minstrel skit with Michelle Creber (a minor at the time) with giant afro wigs, blaccents, and the fake names "Nikisha Abagale Safron" and "Latoya Aloofa Williamson", posted by ACRacebeast under the title "Bronies React: MLP Generation 3."

Another Twitter thread with screencaps of Gabriel Brown's racism by Helluvareceipts.

Screencaps of the BillieBustUp discord, with clumsy defenses by Katie Nelson in lieu of any official statement.

More of Gabriel's racist and C*vid-denial tweet "likes" have been dug up.

A deleted racist tweet from Blackgryph0n.

A Twitter screencap of Blackgryph0n getting banned from Babscon due to racism in 2021.

During the uproar, BillieBustUp and lead dev Katie Nelson remained notably silent, which resulted in a Tweet about the game's LGBTQIA representation devolving into repeated demands for answers, which were also ignored.

There was an unofficial statement made only on the BillieBustUp Discord group on June 15th, but it wouldn't be until June 17 that an official "rebuttal" was posted on Google Docs by "Katie and Ash". The entirety of the rebuttal can be summed up with 'Blackgryph0n says he's being targeted by sockpuppet accounts and promises he's innocent, and I believe him.'

June 17 also saw a very strange, inappropriate, and immature response from Michelle Creber, peppered with "Y'all"s, emojis, and inappropriately casual slang like "take the L," considering the seriousness of the allegations. She not only stated that Gabriel Brown (a member of the US Navy) is an "incredibly brilliant but brilliant autistic bean" and thus so harmless he wouldn't hurt a spider, which errs so far on the side of infantilization it seems insulting at best, and ableist at worst. Any Twitter accounts that requested clarification or answers were blocked by both Creber and Brown.

What does this mean for you?

What this means is that the BillieBustUp and Hazbin Hotel fandoms now have to contend with the fact that their creators have knowingly and purposefully invited a child groomer into their fandoms, and given them social cachet that they might use to take advantage of minors, as he did during his job as a sound engineer on My Little Pony. The BBU dev team is also ignoring any concerns about a potential threat. This may also mean that, if there are inevitable fandom events like panels, the child groomer Gabriel C. Brown may be present where there are also children and teens, who may not be aware of his history.

The decision of whether to boycott or not is your decision; I cannot in good conscience spend money on a game that will put money into a groomer's pockets and add to his resume. The decision is yours. This post is to shine light onto what the BillieBustUp team and Blackgryph0n/Gabriel Brown desperately want to keep in the dark, and to spread awareness to other social media platforms. And, most importantly, to protect any minors who might be in these fandoms, who may not realize that their idols are not someone they should look up to, defend, or even be in private contact with.

Stay safe, and thank you for reading.

[subtlebloodshed]

Preacher's Daughter

Chapter One: Family Tree (Intro)

description- Haunted by the sins of her small-town past, the preacher’s daughter speeds down the highway, running from the blood on her hands. But when her car breaks down near the forgotten town of Ambrose, she finds herself trapped with no way out—and no one coming to save her.

word count- 6.9k

chapter cw. bo sinclair x f!reader, fem terms, religious imagery/discussion/reader, grooming/pedophila/underage rape (not a ship), discussion of SA, realistic CSA victim, complicated family issues, abortion, religious guilt, graphic violence, murder, graphic depiction of blood, vomit mention, alcohol, smoking, theft, fleeing a crime, dissociation, mental health, emotional distress, reader is basically my oc

Copyright © 2025. All rights reserved. This work, including all written content, is the original creation of subtlebloodshed/hybristosomniac. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or use of this material in any form without express written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. The characters, events, and places depicted in this work are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.

an. i spent way too much time writing this. this is the background for the reader mainly. context with this is important going forward. i hope you enjoy<3

Nothing back in Nebraska would ever feel like home again. You had given too many years of your life being judged by your father’s congregation. Other than your mama, of course—a kind but timid woman—she had never shielded you from the town’s cruelty.

Not when you were nine years old and got caught running through the fields in your brother’s old denim shorts, worn soft with age but still seen as indecent in the eyes of the congregation. That Sunday, your father’s sermon was on the sin of temptation. You sat in the front pew, the soft cotton of your dress suddenly feeling like sandpaper against your skin as he spoke of the devil’s influence. You were too young to understand why the church ladies whispered about you afterward, or why your mama wouldn’t meet your eyes when she helped you undress that night.

By the time you were fourteen, you had learned how to rebel quietly. You started sneaking out your window after dark, barefoot across the dewy grass, running into the arms of a boy who smelled like stolen cigarettes and car grease. Caleb. He was two years older, handsome in a sun-bleached, small-town kind of way, and he knew how to hot-wire his daddy’s truck. You spent most of your nights with your feet up on the dashboard, watching the flickering neon sign of the diner on the county line as you passed it by. Sometimes he pressed you up against the passenger door, his kisses clumsy and sour, tasting like the beer he had stolen from the gas station.

You loved him, or at least, you loved the freedom that came with him. You loved the way he laughed too loudly at his own jokes and how he called you his girl with an exaggerated Southern drawl, just to make you blush. You loved the way he made you feel reckless and young, like the preacher’s daughter was just a girl with bare legs and a crooked smile.

But the town always found a way to take things from you.

When you were sixteen, you finally were able to admit that an older man from your father’s bishop Isaiah had cornered you after a service the first time years ago, pressed his hands where they didn’t belong, and took something from you that you didn’t know you could lose. It took everything in you to ask for help with what had been happening. And the town? They blamed you for it.

“A girl like that? She had it coming.”

“Nothing but a Jezebel, parading around with the devil between her legs.”

No charges were filed, Isaiah still came to dinner every Tuesday, and no one ever spoke of it unless it was in whispers between hymns.

You did as you were told after that. You stopped asking questions. Stopped pushing boundaries. You had stopped being.

Then, your body betrayed you.

You didn’t know what was happening at first. You hadn’t thought about it, not after what had been happening to you. But when your skirts got tighter, when exhaustion weighed down on your limbs, when the sickness consumed you in waves every morning—you knew.

You hadn’t told anyone. You hadn’t needed to.

They had seen it in the way you held yourself. How you covered your stomach when you sat down, in the way you started avoiding the communion line, afraid that drinking the wine would make you more of a sinner than you already were. They repeated the same thoughts you had about yourself:

“How could she do this to her family?”

“How shameful, no matter how Godly the family, seems that Satan can’t be kept out.”

One evening your mama came bustling through your room, a travel bag in her hands, like she had made a decision she was too terrified to rethink.

“We’re going on a women’s evangelism trip into the city, you need to pack.”

You had done as you were told.

You had never been to Lincoln before, at least not like that. The biggest city in Nebraska, but it still felt small compared to the weight pressing down on your chest as you sat stiffly in the passenger seat, your mother’s hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She didn’t speak to you once, as if she were grappling with something herself.

The waiting room was quiet, except for the scratch of pens on clipboards and the hum of the overhead radio playing some secular music you’d never been allowed to listen to. Your mother sat beside you, her hands folded into her lap, eyes distant and almost glazed over. She didn’t tell you it would be okay, she didn’t ask if this was what you wanted—she had already decided for you.

“We won’t speak of this when we get home,” she said simply, and that was final.

The procedure itself was just a blur—cold, gloved hands, dull pain, empty murmured reassurances of a nurse who probably saw girls like you every day. You had wanted to cry, but you swallowed it down instead and dug your teeth into your inner cheeks till they bled. The taste of iron consumed the sobs, buried them so deep down where no one would ever find them.

The drive home was silent. A steady hum of the tires mixed with the wind and the road stretching endlessly ahead.

You just stared out the window, watching the sun fade out, bleeding pink and orange into the sky. Your fingers curled around the paper bag from the gas station like it was a lifeline. Mama had stopped to get you cola and some crackers, but you weren’t hungry. You still felt the nausea twisting in your gut, pulled so tight you feared you might split in two and spill.

You thought that Mama might never say anything at all. But then she did.

“Your daddy wasn’t my first choice, you know,” her eyes were fixed on the road ahead and her voice seemed steady, yet both of her hands gripped the wheel tight enough her knuckles turned white.

“But he had God’s voice behind him, and who was I to argue with that?”

Her voice was barely above a breath, but you felt it all the same.

Your chest tightened. Your throat closed up around words you couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need her to say his name.

“I didn’t want that for you.”

The car was silent after that. She didn’t cry, didn’t look at you. She just drove. The road stretched ahead of you, but you were still stuck somewhere behind it—back in that house, sitting stiffly in the pew, listening to his voice fill the rafters, preaching forgiveness with hands that had never known it.

And you knew.

She had been you once.

You hadn’t known what to feel when it was over. Relief? Guilt? Nothing at all?

But the town felt it for you.

Words, damn words like a wildfire spread nearly the moment you returned. You had been careful, you really had. Your mother never even let you out of her sight. But it didn’t matter. Maybe someone had seen you in Lincoln? Maybe the older women in the church could sense something different about you—like bloodhounds sniffing out sin.

Either way, the whispers had started before you’d even processed what you’d been through.

“She went away for a week, came back thinner.”

“The preacher’s daughter? I’d always known she was fast.”

“Her poor father, God rest his soul. How could he live with what she’s done?”

And then came the day you heard your brother talking to your mother in the kitchen.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. You had only come in for a glass of water, but the moment you heard Caleb’s name, you froze. You pressed your back to the wall just beyond the doorway, fingers pressed to the chipped wood, holding your breath.

“Left out last week,” your brother was saying, his voice low and bitter. “Didn’t even tell his mama he was goin’. Just... took off. Enlisted.”

Your stomach twisted painfully, bile rising in your throat.

Enlisted.

You shut your eyes, leaning heavily into the wall.

Your mother’s voice came next, low, like she didn’t want you to hear.

“He didn’t even come say goodbye?”

“No, ma’am.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering the last time you had seen Caleb. The way he had looked at you—the heaviness in his eyes, the way he had clenched his jaw and stepped back when you tried to touch him.

And then he left.

Left you. Not a word. Not a note. Nothing.

And you knew—you would never see him again. He would never come back.

Not for you.

Because you were already ruined. And he didn’t know how to hold something broken. So he left you behind.

Your whole world had stopped.

And the town just kept right on moving.

The Sunday after Caleb left, you sat in the same pew you always had—the one near the front, close enough for your father’s eyes to find you when he stood at the pulpit. The wooden bench had always felt too stiff beneath you, too straight-backed, too polished and unyielding. But that day, it had been unbearable.

You had felt their eyes crawling over you. The deacon’s wife behind you had clutched her Bible so tightly the cover had warped in her hands, her nails bitten down to the quick. The older men had lingered on you too long—calloused fingers turning the pages of their hymnals, but their eyes had never lifted from your back. The same men who had once tipped their hats at you when you passed by, the ones who had called you sweetheart and asked about your grades, now wore looks you hadn’t recognized. Their eyes had been hungry. Knowing.

The women had been worse.

They had clutched their pearls and whispered behind gloved hands, only lowering their voices just enough to feign decency. The same women who had once fussed over your hair after Sunday school, the ones who had praised your mama for raising such a lovely girl, now shook their heads when they had looked at you. They hadn’t even bothered hiding it.

You didn't need to hear the words to know what they were saying. You had felt the judgment in the way they had refused to meet your eyes, in the way they had exchanged quick glances when you had walked by.

Slut.

Whore.

You had stared at your lap, at the hem of your dress where your fingers had curled against the stiff, modest fabric. You had picked at a loose thread near your knee, pulling and twisting it until the fabric had puckered, fighting the urge to bolt. You hadn’t sung along when the choir had risen. You hadn’t listened to your father’s voice when he had spoken. It had been just a low, droning hum—familiar and far away, like you hadn’t even been there.

You had sat in that same spot your whole life, but now you had felt like an intruder. Like someone had come and skin you alive, draped your hollow carcass in your Sunday best, and placed you right back where you were supposed to be.

But everyone had known it hadn’t really been you anymore.

You hadn’t been the preacher’s daughter anymore.

You had been the ruined girl.

And no one had spoken to you outright. Not at first.

They had never needed to.

It had been in the way the girls you had grown up with had drifted away in clusters, casting you brief, wide-eyed glances like you had been something contagious—as if they could catch indecency. It had been in the way their mamas had gripped their wrists a little tighter when you had passed by at the grocery store. It had been in the way Mr. Allen, who had once given you a quarter for every A on your report card, had suddenly refused to look you in the eye when you had handed him your money at the counter.

But the men—the men had been different now.

The first time you had caught one of them staring too long, you had convinced yourself you were imagining it. 

You hadn’t been.

The boy who had bagged your groceries had suddenly let his hands brush against yours too many times. The clerk at the gas station had leaned too far over the counter when he had spoken to you, smiling like he had known something he shouldn’t have. When you had passed by groups of farmhands in town, they had stared you down without looking away. Their eyes had been slow and heavy, dragging over you like they were trying to commit the shape of you to memory.

You had started walking faster, keeping your eyes down, but it hadn’t mattered. They had already seen you. And it made you sick to know why.

Because you had known it hadn’t been the men who had told them.

It had been the women.

The mothers. The wives. The same women who should have clutched you to their chests and shielded you, who should have whispered, “We believe you, baby. We believe you.”

Instead, they had left you for dead.

The whispers had grown louder over time, thickening the air in the town like smoke. It didn't matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. The town had spoken for you.

You had never felt safe in that town. It had started long before you had even hit sixteen. But now? It had been like you were strung up by the neck, asphyxiating with every judgmental stare, every passing double-natured comment.

You had lived like that for two years, praying to God every night for forgiveness, asking why people ignored one of His most important teachings. Judgment had burned through you while loneliness had left a cold pit inside of you. Your father had barely spoken to you, leaving you behind on outings, raising your older brother above you as his golden child. And slowly, it had gone from not sitting next to the family in the church, to you being barred from coming at all.

“Whores aren’t permitted in God’s house. Not if I’m there.” He’d said as he had shoved you back into your bedroom when you had come out in your Sunday best. He had ordered you down onto your knees, throwing a Bible into your lap.

“Read, pray, beg, maybe someday God can grant you forgiveness.”

Your mother had never said a word, not even when you had started packing your bags. Maybe she had thought you were getting rid of old clothes, or maybe she had known exactly what you had been doing and had chosen to pretend otherwise.

You couldn’t have lived in that house, that town, that body.

The night before you had left, you had been in the kitchen helping your mama do dishes, staring at the same floral wallpaper that had been there since you were a child, when she had finally spoken on it.

“Where will you go?” she had asked, her voice hushed and defeated, as if she had known she wouldn’t get the answer she had been looking for.

“I don’t know. I just can’t stay here.”

She nodded. She hadn’t asked you to stay. Not to even write. She had just nodded, like she had known there had been no other way for this to end.

—

You had left the next day, your car packed full of what you would need and a bit of cash your mama had slipped you the night before. On the way out of town, you had made one stop: Isaiah’s house. He had lived alone, by choice he’d always said—that had been why he hadn’t taken a wife. Though you had known it had been more an issue of him preferring little girls to grown women.

You had been polite about it, knocking on the door and waiting for him to answer. When he had, he had been surprised to see you there. Isaiah had looked on either side of you for prying eyes before he had invited you in.

“Girl, what are you doing here?” he had asked, his gaze holding an air of confusion.

“I need to talk to you.” You had said, eyes dull as you had looked over him.

“Showin’ up without warning ain’t like you.” He had mused and shaken his head at you, his gait leading him back into the kitchen.

Isaiah had already been heading for the kitchen before you had even shut the door, muttering something under his breath, but you had barely heard him. The soft click of the lock sliding into place had felt louder than it should’ve—too sharp, too final—but your hands had still stayed on the knob longer than they had needed to. You hadn’t known why. Maybe you had already been contemplating turning around and walking out. Or maybe some part of you had already known you wouldn’t.

“You drink yet?” he said, casual as anything. You barely heard the words, too focused on the muted thump of the fridge opening and the hiss of the beer can being cracked open.

You stayed by the door, unsure, feet heavy and useless. You felt like a guest in your own body—lingering in some kind of in-between place, staring at your hands like they belonged to someone else.

The house smelled the same.

Cheap cigarettes and old wood. Sweat clung to the couch cushions. The faint, sour trace of whiskey hung in the curtains. You stood in the doorway, your fingers twitching faintly at your sides. The skin along your back prickled with an old, familiar heat.

“Don’t tell me you’re still playin’ holier-than-thou.” His voice came louder this time, a sneer clinging to the words. “You’re an adult now. Reckon that made you a big girl.”

You heard the beer tap against the counter twice—one, two—before you felt it press cold into your hand. You flinched without meaning to. Isaiah didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, and he just liked it.

“Here.” His eyes were hooded, expectant, the lines around them wrinkling slightly with something close to amusement. When you didn’t take it, he nudged the can against your knuckles again, firmer this time. “Go on. I won’t tell your mama.”

Your fingers curled around the can then automatically, though your hands felt numb. You stared down at it like you didn’t know what it was. You’d never even liked beer all that much. Caleb used to drink it, though. That cheap kind that made his breath sour when he kissed you. Caleb, oh, Caleb.

Isaiah nodded for you to follow him to the couch, plucking the beer from your other hand and guiding you by the elbow into the living room.

And before you even realized it, you sat down.

Right there. In the same spot you always had.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, the crinkling killing the silence of the room. He slipped one between your lips wordlessly and you accepted it because you didn’t know what else to do, your lips curling around it.

Isaiah let out a low, breathy chuckle when you didn’t move. “Come on, big girls smoke too.” He sparked up his own cigarette and leaned over, grabbing your chin so he could press the tip against yours. You pulled, getting it to light so you could get his hands off of you.

You inhaled too fast, too deep, and the smoke hit the back of your throat harsh and bitter. You coughed once, sharp and dry, the sound catching in your chest. Isaiah only chuckled again, leaning back into the couch with a lazy sort of satisfaction, his cigarette dangling between his fingers. The white curl of smoke slipped from between his lips, slow and deliberate, filling the stale air between you.

“Been a while, huh?” he mused, eyes cutting sideways to watch you. His voice was low, drawling, coated with mock sympathy. “You’re outta practice.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the cigarette in your hand, the trembling flame at the end, the small tendril of smoke rising into the dim room. You’d never liked smoking either, you still didn’t. But you took another drag anyway, the burn heavy in your chest, bitter on your tongue. The taste reminded you of Caleb, grounding you in a way.

Isaiah smiled faintly at that. Pleased. Like you were already doing what he wanted without even being asked.

His free hand slid across his thigh, slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to stop him. You didn’t. You couldn’t. You just sat there, sinking deeper into the couch, your body sluggish and foreign.

“You’re different now,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. The way he looked at you made your stomach churn, like he was studying you, inspecting you. Appraising you. His eyes trailed over your face slowly, heavy-lidded and lazy.

“Quieter,” he added after a moment. His lips parted slightly, just barely, like he was about to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl out lazily between his teeth.

“You always were a quiet little thing, though,” Isaiah went on, voice low and familiar, like he was trying to make the words sound fond, as if he was daring you to remember. “Always so sweet. So polite.” His lips twitched faintly at the corner, and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Mindin’ your manners even when you shouldn’t have.”

The cigarette wavered between your fingers. You exhaled heavily through your nose, feeling the burn of it scrape down the back of your throat.

Isaiah reached over then, so sudden and fluid it didn’t seem like you had time to react. His hand brushed against your knee, fingers curling lightly just above the bone, testing the weight of his touch.

You flinched. You didn’t mean to, but you did. You felt your muscles tense automatically, your whole leg stiffening under his grip.

He noticed, of course he did. His fingers tightened slightly, just barely, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you felt it. Enough to remind you that he could do worse.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, the room too quiet, the smoke thick and heavy in the air.

Then he smiled, that slow, lazy stretch of his mouth—like he was mocking you, daring you to move.

“Still shy, huh?” he muttered, voice low and almost affectionate. His thumb brushed slowly along the inside of your knee, the rough pad of it dragging over your skin. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t swallow.

You took another long pull from the cigarette just to keep your hands occupied so you wouldn’t have to feel the way they were trembling in your lap.

Isaiah’s eyes stayed on you, sharp and gleaming beneath the smoke-laden haze. You felt them moving over you, deliberate and heavy, following the slow, mechanical rise and fall of your chest.

His hand slid further up your thigh, slowly. Testing you, waiting for you to flinch.

“I have to use the restroom,” you muttered quickly, suddenly standing up and kicking over your beer in your stumble. The cigarette between your fingers was quickly tossed into the ashtray on the side table as you practically booked it through the kitchen to the bathroom. Your eyes caught a shine on the counter; a knife. It was no butcher’s knife, rather more of a midsized one, serrated on the end.

Isaiah followed you into the kitchen, throwing away the now empty beer can and glancing up at you. “You ran off pretty fast, angel, had me worryin’ ‘bout you,” he hummed, hands finding their way to your hips from behind. “Come’re…”

You squirmed, trying to turn around and your hands pushed at him to get him off. “Isaiah, don’t. I don’t want…”

His hand slid up your side, slow and deliberate, flattening against your stomach and holding you in place. You squirmed harder, your fingers twisting around his wrist, trying to shove him off, but he barely budged. His grip only tightened slightly, pulling you back against him with a low, satisfied hum.

“Shh…” he cooed, his breath warm against your neck, thick with stale beer and smoke. “You’re alright, angel.”

You shook your head quickly, a sharp, jerking motion, your nails biting into his skin as you writhed in his hold. But he didn’t let you go.

Instead, he moved fast—too fast. His hand shot up, catching you by the back of the head. His fingers threaded into your hair, gripping hard at the roots, and shoved you forward.

Your chest hit the counter with a dull thud, the edge biting into your ribs. Your hands shot out, palms slapping against the cold surface to brace yourself, but he was already on you, pressing down harder. His weight bore into you, flattening you against the counter, your cheek mashed against the worn laminate.

Your breath stuttered out of you in a sharp gasp. You clawed at the counter, your fingers slipping against the smooth surface, scrambling for purchase.

His other hand slid down, catching at the small of your back. His palm pressed flat, pushing down just enough to arch you slightly, keeping you still. His fingers splayed wide, spanning the curve of your spine like he was measuring it, feeling how you fit under him.

“Mm…” he exhaled softly, almost thoughtful, his breath feathering against the back of your neck. “You were real jumpy tonight. Why was that, huh?” His tone was mockingly sweet, almost pitying, like he was talking to a child. “What had you so worked up?”

You tried to push back again, twisting under his grip, but it only made him press you down harder. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, yanking your head back slightly, just enough to make your throat stretch. You let out a sharp, choked gasp at the sudden tug, your eyes squeezing shut.

His mouth dipped closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low, amused murmur.

“You grew up real pretty,” he drawled, almost pleased. His hand on your back flexed slightly, pressing down again, firmer this time. “Though, I miss when you were eager to please.”

You shivered beneath him, your stomach twisting violently, bile rising thick and sour in your throat. Your eyes flicked to the knife on the counter. You couldn’t reach it, not with your head against the counter. 

“Isaiah,” you choked out, barely above a whisper, your voice trembling. “Don’t. Please.”

His hand dragged down your back slowly, deliberately, the rough pad of his palm scraping over the back of your dress.

“Aw, now,” he murmured, his voice lilting with mock sympathy. “No need for all that.”

His lips brushed against your ear again, warm and wet, and you squeezed your eyes shut, a sharp tremor running through you.

“You came back, didn’t you?” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “That meant you missed me.”

His hand slipped under your dress and you froze. Every horrible, haunting memory flashing through your head. 

Suddenly, you were thirteen again on your knees in the church basement. Your hands were clasped together so tight in your lap that your whole body trembled. Isaiah was standing in front of you and he was guiding you through a prayer you’ve never heard before. His big hand guided through your hair while your head pressed against his thigh. 

“You’re so well behaved, angel. Open those pretty eyes for me.” He’d murmured, his hand moved from the top of your head under your chin. He tilted your head up, thumb caressing your bottom lip as you obeyed. When his eyes met yours, he let out a groan of appreciation and pressed the digit to your tongue. 

“Good girl. Open up a little more. Yeah, that’s it.” 

Then, you were fifteen, bent over the worn desk in his office. The wood was splintered at the edges, one of the legs uneven, making it wobble slightly under your weight. Your cheek was pressed against a stack of hymnals, the cracked leather biting into your skin. The faint scent of dust and old paper clung to the pages, but all you could breathe in was him; his heavy cologne, the bitter tang of whiskey on his breath, the musk of sweat clinging to his shirt. 

You could still feel the sharp bite of the desk against your hip bones, the uneven leg rattling slightly with every shallow gasp. You had stared at the wall—the peeling floral wallpaper, the faint water stain in the corner. You had counted the cracks in the plaster just to keep yourself anchored, just to feel like you were somewhere else.

Then, you were seventeen, in the seat of his car. It was the old, beat-up sedan he drove, the backseat perpetually cluttered with sermon notes and empty coffee cups. The vinyl seats were cracked and torn in places, the foam poking through in jagged strips. You remembered the smell of the stale air freshener; cheap pine, masking the scent of cigarettes.

Tears were streaming down your face as you clung to him in the driver’s seat. The other girls had bullied you out of the youth group that night. No one ever seemed to want you around. Isaiah found you crying and took your hand, leading you to his car without a word. 

“I know, angel, and I’m sorry. I know you feel alone. But I’m here.” He’d mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, letting his hands run over your back. 

And for once, he actually just drove you back home.

Maybe that’s why you thought coming here would give you the apology you deserved. 

Then, you were back in the kitchen. Isaiah’s hand was still on you, splayed wide across your lower back, his fingers digging into your skin through the fabric of your dress. You were still bent against the counter, your cheek pressed to the laminate, cold and unyielding. The sharp scent of stale beer clung to his breath, warm and humid against your ear.

And in that moment, something in you just snapped. 

Your hand found the handle of the blade in a flash and you turned as much as you could. The blade sank into him with a sickening, wet sound—a dull, meaty schluck as it punched through skin and muscle. You had aimed low and blind, but somehow, you struck true. The tip buried deep into his side, slipping just under the ribcage, slicing clean into where his liver would be.

Isaiah staggered back with a ragged, wet gasp, clutching at his side. His hand slapped over the wound, slick and clumsy, fingers trembling as they pressed against the gaping tear in his flesh. Blood seeped through the cracks in his knuckles, spilling in thick, syrupy ribbons down his wrist, dripping to the floor in uneven splatters.

He slumped heavily against the opposite counter, his knees bending slightly as his weight buckled. His breath rasped out in broken, uneven pants, shallow and wet, hitching violently in his throat. 

“Angel, baby, please, don’t do this…” He begged.

Isaiah’s eyes widened slightly, his chest stuttering with a broken wheeze. His hand pressed harder to the wound, smearing more blood across his shirt, as though he could somehow hold himself together, somehow keep everything from slipping through his fingers.

Your vision swam violently, the edges blurred and hazy, smearing together in a disorienting whirl of color. Your ears rang with a shrill, hollow static, drowning out the wet, labored gasps rattling from Isaiah’s throat. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the floor tilting unevenly beneath your feet, and for a brief, dizzying moment, you thought you might collapse.

“No, no, no, Isaiah, I’m—” You stuttered out, dropping the knife and grabbing him as he fell to the floor. His weight slumped heavily against you, knocking you back slightly as his legs buckled. You staggered, your knees nearly giving out beneath you as you sank to the floor with him, clutching at his trembling body. Your hands were slick with his blood, slipping against the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of it seeping into your skin, sticky and hot. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, don’t…God, in Heaven, be m-merciful…” You whimpered. Your hands pressed down hard over the wound, trembling violently as you tried to hold him together, trying to stop the blood that wouldn’t stop coming. It poured in sluggish, red waves between your fingers, thick and warm, slicking your hands, clinging to your skin in sticky rivulets.

Isaiah’s breath came in shallow, broken gasps, each one thinner, wetter, more rugged than the last. His chest stuttered faintly beneath your hands, the faint rise and fall uneven and weak. His bloodied fingers clutched at your arm, trembling violently, his grip already weakening.

You could feel the wet, sluggish stutter of his pulse beneath your palms. Weak. Slowing. Too slow. He was fading too fast to get help. But too slow to be humane.

And you knew—God, you knew—he was going to die either way.

Either slowly, choking on his own blood, whimpering as he suffocated…

You pulled his head into your lap, cradling it with trembling hands. His bloodied hair clung to your fingers, damp and sticky, but you still smoothed it back gently, softly, as though it might somehow comfort him. Your other hand fumbled blindly for the knife, slick with blood, your grip weak and shaking.

With a fractured breath, you brought the blade to his throat, your fingers trembling so violently you could barely keep it steady. Tears blurred your vision, hot and thick, streaking down your cheeks and dripping into his hair.

“Lord, forgive me…” you choked out, your voice breaking on the words. Your chest heaved with a sharp, ragged sob. “I’m…I’m sorry…”

And then, before you could lose your nerve, you pressed the blade down and dragged it across firm and quick.

His blood came fast, pouring over your hands in a hot, heavy rush. It was like he was giving all of himself to you, baptizing you in his life. You gasped, the air catching in your throat, and the sound of it tore through you like a sob you couldn’t hold back. Your whole body trembled, your grip on him tightening as you rocked slightly, tears falling from your eyes in jagged, uneven drops, landing on his cooling skin.

You held him longer than you should have—you knew it, but you couldn’t make yourself let go. His body was already going cold against yours, the warmth draining from him. The blood beneath you had started to thicken, congealing into sticky, clumpy patches that clung to your skin, leaving a slick, foul mess.

The room was eerily still. Too still. The only sound was the soft drip of blood hitting the tile, slow and steady, falling from your hands, your arms, as you shook. It smelled like iron, stale beer, sweat, and smoke. It smelled like him.

And then, reality hit you. You blinked, feeling dazed, your eyes unfocused and heavy. You pulled your hands from his body, slowly, shakily. The blood was so thick on your hands that it felt like they weren’t even yours anymore. Your chest hitched again, a soft, broken breath escaping as you stared at your trembling fingers, the dark, sticky smear of his blood stretching between them like a sickening string.

Your legs were stiff from kneeling too long, sore and unsteady, buckling slightly as you tried to push yourself up. Your palms slid against the counter as you braced yourself, leaving red streaks on the worn surface. The room around you swam, the walls tilting and bending, but you fought to say upright, your knees threatening to buckle again.

You didn’t think, you didn’t process—you just moved. Your body knew what to do even if your mind didn’t. You found his wallet on the counter, the old, cracked leather sticky with blood where it had fallen. With shaking hands, you pulled out every bill you could find, stuffing it in your pockets, his cash, his cards. 

Your breath was shallow, coming in quick, uneven gasps. Your chest was tight, your throat raw. You stumbled through the house, bumping into the walls, tripping over the rug. Your fingers fumbled, unable to find their way as you yanked open drawers and cabinets. You found more cash, tucked under a pile of receipts, and shoved it into your bag.

The floor wobbled beneath you as you made your way to the door, your hands slick and trembling. Blood stained everything you touched—counter edges, fridge handles, doorframes—leaving a trail of red wherever you went. You yanked the door open, feeling the sticky resistance of the knob, and stepped outside.

The air was thick and heavy, suffocating. You stumbled barefoot across the porch, your feet slapping against the dirt, the gravel biting into your soles. But you barely felt it. You barely felt anything.

Your car sat where you had left it hours ago, crooked in the patch of dirt. Your hands were slick with blood, fumbling as you grabbed for the door handle. It slid open with an unsteady pull, and you clambered inside, the door slamming shut behind you with a hollow thud.

Your fingers were clumsy as you reached for the keys, your hands weak and uncoordinated. You forced the key into the ignition and twisted it. The engine sputtered once, then roared to life with a low, grinding hum. You gripped the wheel, your knuckles white, and slammed your foot down on the gas.

The tires spun, sending gravel flying as you peeled out, the car jerking forward in a cloud of dust and dirt. Your hands were slick with blood, smearing the cracked leather of the steering wheel, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even look back.

You just kept driving, too fast, too erratic, but you didn’t care. Your mind was a blur, your vision too cloudy to focus, the road ahead just a faint stretch of darkness. The headlights cut through the night, but your mind was so far away, you couldn’t make sense of it. You didn’t need to.

You just kept driving.

— 

Bo sat on the porch, one boot propped up on the railing, the other tapping rhythmically against the wood. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the thick, sticky air, mixing with the sour scent of rain that was starting to roll in from the horizon. He flicked the ash off the end, watching it flutter away in the wind, and sighed.

Ambrose was as quiet as ever. Empty. There hadn't been a soul through this town in weeks, maybe months. Nothing but the steady hum of insects and the occasional gust of wind pushing the dust around. He liked it, in a way. The silence made it easier to hear his thoughts, but hell, there was only so much thinking a man could do before it got boring.

A storm was brewing off in the distance—clouds heavy and dark, swirling like a storm ready to eat the town alive. He could feel the pressure in the air, thick and sticky, like the whole world was waiting for something. His fingers drummed against the side of the porch, the rhythm of the storm creeping into him, making him restless.

There wasn't much to do in Ambrose anymore. Vincent was holed up inside doing whatever it was he did—Bo had stopped paying attention to him. Lester... well, Lester wasn't exactly company, but he was around. The dog, Jonesy, was more of a companion than anyone else, and even he had his moments when he was more trouble than he was worth.

Bo took another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he exhaled, watching the way it hung in the air, thick and heavy. The town was dead. There were no tourists passing through, no one to catch, no one to play with. He hadn’t seen another living soul in so long, he was starting to think they all just... disappeared. Maybe they were all part of the town’s secrets. Maybe they were never here at all.

The rain was getting closer now, the sky blackening, and the wind kicked up, rattling the trees. He flicked his cigarette away, watching it land in the dirt, and stood, stretching. A storm was always good for something. A little chaos. A little change.

But even as the first drops began to fall, it wasn’t enough. He needed something more. Needed some kind of distraction. Anything. Bo shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out over the empty streets again. It was going to be a long night.

taglist. @yongbokversion

[ozkarrzen]

I might not be the best person to answer this but for me it's like,,, if you're going to make ship content that have like iffy tropes (a lot of violence, toxic relationships, etc) I guess specify that you don't endorse those tropes in real life?? I don't know, some people enjoy certain things in fiction, but don't endorse it irl and it's a bit confusing-

There's a lot of like iffy things between the line of fiction and reality,, especially when there's minors involved

I guess it really depends on how the person makes the content and how they endorse it

Just make sure that it doesn't go too far I guess

Edit: this doesn't include Proshipping btw, that is just weird,,,

hey if anyone can sit me down and explain shipping morals and their nuance (i obviously know thw illegal ones are bad but i’m talking about blurry ones. like y’all like physically violent kist now etc. but not other subjects and i don’t know where the line is drawn) in a way that makes it clear you understand i don’t endorse any actions and want to genuinely learn.

reason i’m asking is because i was groomed for 5 years into normalizing bad things (starting at 11) so boundaries and morals, especially in terms of fiction, were never properly set. i want to know what things are bad and good in terms of nuance. because the rise of violent kist and others is confusing me and i want to know not to cross the blurred as hell boundaries of a-ok and messed up. me not endorsing it irl isn’t a good guide either because with violent kist obviously nobody endorses that but it’s a fun trope for a lot of people. where is the line drawn. ok byebye thxies

[temis-de-leon]

Day 20 - Kiss on the hand

Characters: Satan x gn!MC

25 kisses challenge Masterlist

Main Masterlist

CW: emotional intelligence chases Satan, but he's way too fast. Sudden and kind of inappropriate discussion of marriage, established relationship, Satan implied to be taller

A/N: I think this is ooc, but my brain decided to ✨stop✨, so here it is. I still like it, tho

.

“Is everything okay?”

“Hm?”

MC usually liked when Satan fixed his eyes on them. His stare almost had an academic feeling to it, like he was actually observing and trying to answer questions only he knew, but MC never found themselves being scrutinized. He still looked at them with care and fascination and the glint his eyes wore whenever they shared a moment of comfortable silence reminded them of the human sea and the sunrays bouncing on the water surface.

It was a feeling of being home that only he could bring and MC was far too happy indulging in it.

But this time was different.

He was blushing, distracted by a thought in his mind that, judging by his face, was a rather embarrassing one. He mumbled, shook his head and blushed even more. Was he… arguing with himself?

They had to admit, Satan had been acting strange the whole night. Keeping them close, but not engaging in conversation, holding their chin and staring at their lips, but not kissing them. Showing off their relationship before his peers, flaunting MC’s accomplishments with pride without looking at them.

It wasn’t anger, no, Mc would’ve known had that been the case.

Satan was embarrassed about something. Something involving them.

But what?

“What do you mean?” he asked, interrupting their thoughts.

A horrible liar, he was, cheeks tainted in a deep red and voice strained.

“You haven’t looked at me for hours and now you can’t stop staring”

“Why, can’t I appreciate my partner’s beauty?”

A faint flash of aggravation crossed his features and MC was quick to smile and cup his face.

“Something’s been on your mind” they said gently, enjoying the softness of his skin “What is it?”

The song suddenly changed to an ever slower one and he made sure to discretely move them to the farthest corner of the venue. The bride and the groom, both friends of Satan, walked to the centre of the dancefloor amongst cheers and applauses, the very few lights of the room soon focusing on the newlywed couple and leaving the guests surrounded by darkness. Even though it was a warm summer night, MC hugged Satan’s waist and swayed to the music, smiling when he brought them closer and rested his cheek on their head.

“So?”

MC felt him sigh against their chest.

“Yeah, yeah, I haven’t forgot. It’s just… them”

He slightly turned his face, probably looking at his friends, and MC felt their heart give a violent jump. What was he actually talking about?

“Relax, MC” he said when he senses their tensed body, but that didn’t calm their nerves. Their fingers were tingling, cold sweat running down their back and the uneasiness making them tremble.

Please, please, tell them Satan wasn’t going to propose to them during his friends’ wedding.

“I hope your reaction doesn’t mean you reject the idea of marrying me”

They moved away just enough to be able to look at each other, his breath still reaching them. It had a faint smell of alcohol and MC deeply hoped his words weren’t being fuelled by the influence, though he’d been acting weird since the beginning of the night, before they started drinking.

His apprehensive gaze reminded them he had implied a very important question.

“This is the first time you’ve even mentioned marriage” they said, immediately clarifying themselves to not give the wrong impression “Not that I’m saying no, but this is… this is something!”

Despite talking in whispers, the sincerity and borderline ridiculousness of the conversation brought the attention of a couple of guests. Thankfully, it wasn’t enough to catch the wedding party’s eye, but MC still looked at their boyfriend in panic.

“Yes, I agree, this isn’t the best moment, but I couldn’t get it out of my head”

The seriousness in his voice dried MC’s mouth. They wanted to be mad at him for bringing up such a serious topic in the worst possible scenario, but a part of them jumped in joy at the prospect of being with him forever. Of an official paper signed by Lord Diavolo making it clear to the rest of the world.

“Forgive me, MC, I shouldn’t have talked about it here and now”

He sighed once more, lifting their hand to his lips and kissing the back softly. His eyes stopped at their ring finger for a brief moment and MC’s breath hitched once more.

They didn’t talk much more for the rest of the party, too tired from all the dancing and the socializing and the discussing about potentially spending the rest of their lives together.

But they held each other and they kissed each other and, once they finally got home, they sat down on his bed and talked, not stopping until both of their faces hurt from smiling.

.

.

Taglist: @ourfinalisation  @owlisbuffering  @chizukimp4  @ravenredwine @darkflowerav  @craftysclown @mehkers

[captain-ravioli7321]

a little something i noticed about chocolate-box girl's song

CW: Mentions of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Trauma as a whole, sexual trauma, grooming, brief mention of suicidality

We know all of the girls have some form of PTSD. Nurse Parallel's DID is in remission, but all the others have PTSD, though in their medical records it's not classified as PTSD or C-PTSD. Disposable has C-PTSD, but in her form, it only says PTSD.

So as a result, I headcanon most of the characters as having C-PTSD. Their trauma is complex, and their songs discuss more than just a singular traumatic event...

Except for Morgan/Chocolate-Box Girl's song.

Disposable's song goes over bullying, feeling worthless and abandoned, etcetera, and she canonically has C-PTSD.

Irreverent's song goes over religious trauma; which is something she's experienced her whole life.

Splitter's song doesn't go over trauma in itself- we know she was abused, but we have no idea the specifics of it.

Faineant's song goes over living with chronic illnesses and ableism

Caliber's song is about burnout, constantly overworking yourself

Taxidermy's song is about sexual trauma, but she doesn't remember it; a majority of her trauma comes from how her mother reacted to it, hurting her repeatedly over her childhood.

Chemical's song is about feeling out of control as a result of 2 disorders (Borderline & Bipolar disorder) + a neurodevelopmental one (autism) that makes it hard for her to regulate her emotions

Refraction's song doesn't even GO OVER trauma, just her suicidality as a result.

CHOCOLATE-BOX GIRL'S song is the ONLY one in the series that focuses on a specific traumatic event; that traumatic event being the grooming and abuse he endured when it was thirteen. His journal says the same thing, she's focused on this one specific traumatic event. It has BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER, which comes from prolonged childhood trauma, and yet hes not discussing any other trauma aside from this one event.

Conclusion: all of the girls have C-PTSD except for chocobox, who has PTSD