#cw mention of trauma

[redactedkin]

Hey!! I'm sorry I don't post hcs again, now maybe I'll do it more often, it depends on my free time and my creativity!!

I have the hc that [REDACTED] hates Vivziepop (and her series) and the joke of saying "fuck" all the time every time something of her appears because of her series gave him so much fun that when he sees the TMP dolls 1 (sins) his mind tortures him by saying fuck 1000 times, but he controls it because he already scares the dolls enough to scare them more (he is a nerdy, geeky, autistic murderer with an empathy deficit, canonically masochistic with possible generational traumas due to possible family abuse and neglect/abandonment on the part of his parents along with other relatives lmao)

[luxlitemidnight]

When your OC accidentally introjects

[aphidclan-clangen]

part 2 out of 3

[teaboot]

Every so often someone IRL gets on my ass about a dumb shit thing I'm doing and it's fine usually except sometimes it's really condescending and holier-than-though and after I've tried a few times to say "yes I know this" and they haven't shut up I kinda wanna just

yanno

[libingan]

— temptations.

warnings: non-penetrative say gex, internalized homophobia, religious guilt and stuff, angst

a/n: im suck ASS at writing angst, but ive had this thought in my head for DAYS now so i decided to finally write it!!! thinking of adding a part two, but that depends on how many of yall will eat this shit up LMAO

pls forgive me if its bad im dogshit and writing but like non of my irls are interested in this shit HAHSWHSA i mean, we play call of duty mobile, but thats it, they dont care much abr the lore

commander phillip graves was a man of iron discipline and unyielding principles. he thrived on control, finding solace in the regimented life of the military. his stern demeanor and sharp gaze commanded respect and fear in equal measure. he was a man who believed in strength, in the rigidity of rules, in the necessity of keeping emotions tightly leashed. vulnerability was a weakness he could not afford, and he had built his entire life on that foundation. his devout upbringing and the stern teachings of his father had instilled in him a strict moral code, one that left no room for deviation or indulgence in forbidden desires.

yet, beneath the steel exterior, a single, forbidden desire gnawed at the edges of his sanity: his feelings for one of his soldiers.

you.

every time he saw you, his pulse quickened, his breath caught. self-loathing twisted in his gut. how could he, a man of iron principles, be so weak? love was a dangerous distraction, and love between men was an unspoken abomination. the teachings of his faith haunted him, whispers of sin and eternal damnation echoing in his mind. his father's voice, a specter of disdain and disappointment, reverberated alongside: "men like that are disgraceful." graves had built his life on those beliefs, constructing walls around his heart to keep out anything that might expose his vulnerabilities.

but you shattered those walls effortlessly. your strength, your determination, your unwavering loyalty—it was everything he admired in a soldier, everything he could never accept in himself. graves clenched his fists until his knuckles were white, willing himself to get a grip. he could not afford to lose control.

yet when you came to him that night, seeking guidance, seeking solace, something inside him snapped. the iron walls he had built around his heart crumbled, and in a moment of devastating weakness, he let himself feel.

you stood there, looking up at him with those eyes that had haunted his dreams. he couldn't resist any longer. with a trembling hand, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. the warmth of your skin sent a shiver down his spine. before he could stop himself, he pulled you close, his lips crashing into yours with a desperation that bordered on madness.

he poured all his suppressed emotions into that kiss, every ounce of his forbidden longing, his guilt, his shame. his hands roamed over your back, pulling you tighter against him, needing to feel your warmth, to drown out the voices of condemnation in his head. the room seemed to spin around him, the world narrowing down to the intoxicating sensation of your lips against his.

“sir,” you gasped against his lips, “can’t… not with... the door... open.”

a feral growl rumbled in phillip’s chest. he broke the kiss momentarily, his breath hot and ragged against your face. with a fierce, almost primal urgency, he grabbed your arm and pulled you inside his quarters. the door slammed shut behind you, the finality of the action echoing in the quiet room.

he guided you swiftly to his bed, his grip insistent and firm. as he pushed you down onto the mattress, his eyes burned with a conflicted mixture of desire and frustration. the room was charged with a palpable tension, every movement driven by a need to assert control and escape his inner turmoil.

after slamming the door shut and pushing you onto the bed, phillip’s voice was rough, almost breaking with the intensity of his struggle. “i need you so damn bad,” he growled, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and torment. “but if anyone knew… if they found out, i’d be sent straight to hell.”

as he looked down at you, his breath catching at the sight of you beneath him—eyes wide and lips slightly parted—the thoughts of damnation and guilt evaporated. the sight of you in such a vulnerable state ignited an overwhelming, burning need within him. he couldn’t think of anything else but the urgent, consuming desire to be with you.

“fucking damnit,” he curses, hands sliding down your body until they reach your hips. phillip’s gaze darkened with desire, wrapping your legs around his waist, crotch pressed up against your own. a low hiss escapes him at the contact and he shoves his head into the crook of your neck to hide his pleasured expression, inhaling your masculine scent.

he tried desperately to imagine that he was touching a woman, hoping it might help him regain control. but as the thought lingered, he found it completely unarousing. the fantasy fell flat, failing to spark any desire. the only thing that stirred his pulse was the undeniable reality of you beneath him, your warmth and vulnerability making every shred of restraint and control dissolve into nothingness.

slowly, phillip began to rock his hips against yours, his movements deliberate and measured. he could feel the tension in your body, the way you responded to each shift. he savored the needy, high-pitched whine that escaped your lips, a sound that drove him wild with desire. the rhythmic motion between you became a shared, intoxicating dance, and with every whimper you gave, his own need only deepened. “f-feels so damn good,” he mutters through gritted teeth, soft grunts filling your ears.

phillip pulls away momentarily to make quick work of unbuttoning his and your jeans, pulling out both of your cocks from its confines. he swallows the lump that forms in his throat at the sight of your body, still fully clothed aside from your…

phillip’s gut churned with a volatile mix of disgust and arousal at the thought. his blue eyes locked with yours, a stark reminder of the gravity of your situation. he was about to call it off and throw you out, but when you wrapped your legs around him, pulling his hips down and pressing the most intimate parts of yourselves together, his mind went hazy and lost all clarity.

“oh, god…” you moan, and phillip feels a surge of conflicted anger and desire. he has half a mind to reprimand you for invoking His name in this chaotic moment. but as he feels the heat of your body pressed against his, the anger fades into a raw, uncontrollable need. his grip tightens, and he’s consumed by the relentless desire to be closer, to lose himself completely in the moment.

instead, he begins thrusting, maintaining his slow and steady pace from before.

and, fuck… it feels so much better. phillip struggled to contain the noises threatening to escape him, rubbing your cocks together as if his life depended on it.

you were lost in the moment, every sensation magnified and overwhelming. the way phillip moved against you sent waves of pleasure through your body, each thrust and press igniting a deep, euphoric ache. you moaned softly, your senses completely absorbed by the intense heat and friction between you. each touch, each shift brought you closer to the edge, your body arching and shifting in response to the overwhelming pleasure. you couldn’t help but surrender completely to the feeling, your mind blanking out as you rode the exhilarating tide of desire.

“i-i’m—i’m close…” you whisper, hands clawing at phillip’s back, clutching tightly at the fabric of his shirt. he only grunts in response, hips stuttering as he feels his own orgasm bubbling within.

phillip keeps his head buried against your shoulder, unable to bring himself to look at you. the shame of indulging in such debauchery is overwhelming enough, and the thought of seeing you reveling in the pleasure only deepens his guilt. he’s desperate to avoid the sight of your enjoyment, fearing that it will amplify his already unbearable self-loathing. his focus remains fixed on the intense sensations, trying to block out the reality of what’s happening and the torment of his own conscience.

despite his inner conflict, he could not help overwhelming tide of pleasure surging through him. he could sense the moment building, an intense and uncontrollable wave of sensation. as the pleasure reached its peak, his grip tightened, and he released a ragged breath against your shoulder, the crescendo of his desire manifesting in a shuddering release. the experience was both consuming and disorienting, leaving him breathless and momentarily lost in the overwhelming intensity. your body responded instinctively, arching and trembling as you reached the peak of your desire. the intensity of the moment left you breathless, your cries mingling with the rhythm of phillip’s movements.

afterward, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, a storm raging in his mind. what had he done? what kind of man had he become? he had betrayed his principles, his honor, everything he stood for. he turned to look at you, your face peaceful in the dim light, and fury surged through him—not at you, but at himself. how could he have allowed this to happen?

“get out,” he said, his voice trembling with barely restrained anger.

you stirred, confusion clouding your features. “sir?”

“i said get out,” he repeated, his tone as cold as a winter’s morning. “this was a mistake, and it won’t happen again. and if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, you’ll be wishin’ you hadn’t.”

you stood, pain flashing in your eyes, but you didn't argue. you knew better than to challenge him when he was like this. you gathered your things and left, the door closing softly behind you.

you quickly fixed yourself up, the weight of his words heavy in the air. with one last, pained glance at him, you turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind you.

phillip sank onto the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. the room felt oppressively quiet, every corner echoing with the aftermath of what had just happened. the intensity of his emotions left him numb, and he struggled to reconcile the fierce desire he’d felt with the crushing guilt that now consumed him. he stared at the floor, haunted by the memory of your face, his faith, and his father’s voice insulting him for the man he grew up to be.

after a long, agonizing moment, he shakily reached for the small wooden table beside his bed. with trembling hands, he picked up an old, worn Bible and a rosary that lay beside it. clutching them tightly, he buried his face in the pages of the Bible, his lips moving silently in desperate, fervent prayer. the rosary dangled from his fingers as he sought solace, trying to find some measure of peace and forgiveness amidst the chaos of his own making.

[vic-does-battlecats]

Tigerstar takes in the RiverClan Rejects (again)

! click the gif for quality that doesn’t suck

[that-ineffable-devil]

Long post incoming, but I've been on and off it for days so you're gonna see it.

On Charles and Love

I think there's a lot more to Charles' reaction to Edwin's confession than what we may first assume.

Charles loves harder than anyone, but I don't think he even knows what it means or feels like to be IN love--or to be loved back. This isn't a dig at Edwin, so don't @ me. This has to do with Charles' past.

When Edwin first confesses on the steps of Hell, Charles doesn't even hesitate with his response: "Great, love you too, can we go now?" He does love Edwin, one way or another. He hasn't needed to examine that love any further. He doesn't think Edwin could mean it that way, because Edwin probably has never given any indication of feeling that for anyone. Perhaps he didn't think Edwin capable of love in that way. Perhaps it's his own repressed sexuality. Perhaps it's the feeling that he is inherently unlovable. Perhaps it's a combination of things.

On Edwin's and Charles' Repression

Look, Edwin is clearly autistic and heavily emotionally repressed--he's British, from 1916, and male. That's the perfect storm of emotional repression. But he clearly feels and feels deeply--he just doesn't always let on about it. (Which is such a nice thing to see for autistic representation, the "unfeeling alien" trope ain't it.)

And even though they've been together for 30 years, they clearly do not talk about deep emotions much, because it makes Edwin uncomfortable and Charles probably wouldn't manage to get much out before cracking a joke instead--it's his defense mechanism.

As for his own repression, Charles grew up in the 80s as a biracial kid with an abusive father. He was also at least questionably queer while alive: he was part of an alt crowd, wore eyeliner, and wore a single dangly earring. Now that doesn't mean for certain he's queer or questioning, but it IS a pretty common code in media and storytelling. And I imagine no small part of his father's excuses for abusing Charles had to do with "beating the queer out of him." Of COURSE that led to repression--how could it not?

On Feeling Unlovable

And the feeling that he's inherently unlovable? Does he really feel that way? I think so.

He wants it. He wants to be loved so badly. And because of that, he tries so hard. He tries to stay light and happy and kind, even when he's suffering underneath--he has his own flavor of emotional repression. Because if he can't be loved, he can at least be liked.

And he doesn't just want people to like him, he needs them to like him, because he needs to know he's likable. Because there's safety in being likable. There's safety in being funny and friendly and "a good sort of chap." It's proof he's not the monster his father was--the monsters his friends were. It's his shield. The shield he uses to protect himself from the world, yes, but also to protect the world from him. Or at least, who he thinks he is, deep down.

It's also, in his mind, his only chance at being loved. His only chance at staying loved. Because love is earned. Because love is the reward for good behavior. At least, that's how it was as a kid, right? And that's all he knows. He died before he could experience any other kind of love--besides the love between himself and Edwin, which is its own complicated matter.

The other difficult aspect of growing up in a household where love and affection were weaponized and where violence is an acceptable reaction to anger, is how it radically alters your perception of love and family.

You crave the love and validation you never received, but you also fear it and don't believe it's real when it comes without strings.

You struggle to identify love in healthy relationships because if it doesn't hurt, then is it really love?

And even though you crave it more than anything, you're afraid of it. You're afraid for things to get real, because real love--or your understanding of it--is dangerous.

Because love is a weapon and you can't bear for anyone to use it against you again.

Hurt People Hurt People...Sometimes

Trauma manifests differently in each person. There are some commonalities, but it's never exactly the same. I know the saying is "hurt people hurt people" and that's not entirely wrong. But sometimes, hurt people heal people--or at least try to. Charles is in the second group.

Charles never, ever wants anyone to feel the kind of love he knew while he was alive. So he paradoxically loves openly while remaining guarded. His loyalty and devotion are unmatched. He went to Hell for Edwin. But he also never told Edwin the truth about his father until essentially forced to. Because that involves vulnerability. It involves, in his eyes, weakness. And what did vulnerability and "weakness" get him in life? Well...dead.

But he craves reciprocation. He needs to feel like he can be vulnerable, safely. I don't think that Edwin has done anything to make him feel unsafe, but being that they're both emotionally surpressed boys killed by other boys for perceived weaknesses at 16 and the lack of a ghost therapist...it's not all that surprising they haven't dealt with their issues in 30 years.

I think this is why he latches onto Crystal so quickly and easily. Firstly, she's alive: he can at least pretend to ignore his own death for a bit. Secondly, she's his age (sort of) and can see him, which is an uncommon experience at best. Thirdly, again--she's alive, so it can never last--never be real. Either she'll age beyond him, or she'll die and likely be taken to her afterlife. Which he'll happily ignore for the first two reasons.

On Types of Love

I won't get too into this, because I'm in no way an expert in the wide variety of emotions attributed to love. But I will say this: Charles died at 16.

If we set aside the possibility of him being aromantic for now (which he absolutely could be), he may never have had the chance to fall in love while he was alive. If he could even recognize it for what it was. I mean, I'm in my 30s, been married and divorced twice, and I'm still not sure I've ever been in love. At 16, you're drowning in hormones and it can be hard to decipher feelings.

On Arrested Development

If you think about it, his death and subsequent ghostly afterlife are a supernatural version of the arrested development a lot of child abuse survivors experience. But his development arrested literally--he literally CAN'T grow up. At least, not physically.

He may have had 30 years to address his issues, but why would he have thought to? He doesn't have the same responsibilities or needs as a living adult. He's constantly on the job or on the run from Death, he's living with Emotional Repression the Person (my beloved), and frankly...it hurts to examine those problems. How many adults are actively avoiding their own issues?

On the Confession

Edwin, with the most heartwrenching tone of voice since David "I would like to spend" Tennant, makes clear that he's IN love with Charles. And for a moment Charles looks like he's been walloped in the gut with an iron bar, trying to process. But then the trauma-brain kicks in.

He finds the first "logical" explanation to someone (Edwin) telling him they love him: it's a literary reference, and Edwin is...maybe not "messing" with him, but maybe being extra dramatic about this? It can't be real.

But then Edwin gets upset--he's serious about this. And Charles sort of...short-circuits. He can't process this right now, not when they're running for their afterlives. Not when the Night Mother is waiting to split them up. Not when he's barely even begun to process his trauma. So he does everything he can to make sure Edwin knows that, no matter what, he loves him. Maybe not in the same way, but with the same depth.

Because they'll have time. They'll have all the time in the world to figure out what this means. Because they certainly don't right now, and everything Edwin is saying flies directly in the face of every opinion Charles has ever held about himself.

And what the hell is he supposed to do with that?

[venusandsaturnsrings]

you roll his hands between your own, playing with the metal joints connecting his fingers as he looms above you with a self-satisfied grin. rouge dusts your cheeks from the handful of drinks you’ve shared with the cowboy between flirtatious remarks and subtle physical intimacy. but now, he’s got you against the wall as he purrs something about how pretty you are in the dim and grungy bar lighting. you’re quickly giggling in response with one hand coming to rest on his chest as you bat your eyelashes playfully, telling him he’s a real sleaze for buttering up a taken women though you’re taken by him. boothills gently twirling your hair around, kissing the strands as sweet as his next words, “let me take you in another way.”

then you’re stumbling down an alleyway laughing as he expertly shoots bottles off ledges and kisses each bullet, for you, of course. the ground is wet beneath your shoes and you know very well scrubbing off the mud will prove to be a pain but you also know nothing cures pain quite like a single look at the cowboy who’s got you wrapped around his steel finger. he’s tugging you through winded pathways, twirling you under street lamps, and kissing you behind dumpsters like it’s the most romantic thing in the world and it really is when it’s him. he’s got you under one arm when he pulls you back into the dingy motel, the receptionist glaring at your three in the morning rowdiness but boothill has you convinced an extra hundred or so credits in the morning will patch that dented relationship.

you’re inside the room, back against the door as he plays with the hem of your shirt when your tipsy mind mumbles it playfully. it’s meant to be a joking jab at his protective yet playful demeanour, one that plays off of cheesy lines you’ve heard in bad adult movies or between a pair of lovers that’s a bit too hands on and slimy in public. it’s nothing tainted with malice or meant to slice open stitches made by inexperienced hands but, his reaction is immediate.

“c’mon, don’t play around with me daddy,” and he locks up before jolting away from you like a hot iron. it catches you off guard and all you can do is blink as boothill stands stiff and plainly hurt. you’re confused but stutter out an apology laced with hesitation and the delicacy of snow. but he stares. he stares and doesn’t speak a word for what may as well be hours in your formerly-tipsy-now-painfully-sober mind. then he swallows and turns around, headed for the crooked sliding door that leads to what can’t be an inspector approved balcony. he leaves the door open and you’re not sure you should follow till he takes of his hat and looks back, almost pleading.

there’s no chairs and you’re sat on the dirty wood next to him in silence. boothill moves to push back his hair uncharacteristically exposing both eyes when he finally looks your way, something heavy weighing in them. you’re pretty sure he’s going to ask to break up when he starts spilling apologies and faux curses. he sighs, and you think it’s coming, but then the story starts. you’d never heard about his life before the wanted posters and galaxy ranger status but he’s throwing it all on the table, every card, chip, and eye exposed, when he tells you he had a daughter. not one by blood but one he loved all the same, one he mourns for in words he’ll never be able to write and you try to understand. it’s not easy work but you’re pulling his head down onto your shoulder and he’s going through the motions of what should be crying but without the tears and you’re kissing his knuckles like he might disintegrate.

he doesn’t blame you. not even a little bit. but it’s sore and raw and he can’t help but feel; you’ll never tell him not to. though it’s not much, you pull boothill back in the room and promise a better future while making a mental note to commission an artisan for a decorative bullet with her name. you fall asleep together with clothes not even changed but hoping someday you’ll be able to ease all his pain.

tomorrows a new day and that’s where you’ll start. together.

[dailyfigures]

hey guys just a little heads up if you rb my posts with long detailed rape and gore fantasies about minors in the tags you will be getting blocked and also i hope you explode. just so you guys know

[arsynnotarson]

why do antis say we're "triggering ourselves" or "reliving our trauma" because we ship the way we do..... we're not..???? its fiction. not the actual figures.

and even if we were, thats none of your business, and death threats aren't gonna help us either

literally goes to show that antis dont care about victims that cope in a way thats not aesthetic to them.

fiction isnt real. harassment is.

[luvlyycy]

he gulps, hands clutching your sundress tightly as it attempts to hug on his lanky body —

"you look pretty, shiggy."

his normally pale face is bright pink as he stands in front of you, hands lifting up the dress to reveal the hyperfeminine panties you had made him wear.

"real‐really?" he questions, watching as you nod, your pointer-finger tapping the tip of his hard cock that's peaking through the panties.

"mhm, very cute." you giggle, wrapping an arm around his hips to pull him closer— dipping your hand underneath the panties to squeeze his ass as you rub the tip of his cock. his cock barely fits in the thin fabric, the sides of his balls slipping out.

he whines as he bites his lips, looking down at you. he's never felt so embarrassed and so turned on at the same time.

"do i- look— as, as, pretty as you thought i would?" he whines out, bucking his hips into your hand.

"of course, shiggy. you look prettier." you remove your hands from his lower half to rub up his stomach— to his bra covered chest.

"lean down and kiss me."

"oh-okay." he whispers as he leans down, placing his lipgloss covered lips on yours. you rub your thumbs over his perky nipples causing him to whine in your mouth— you pull away to look at his disheveled face.

"you are the most adorable boy ever."

[flowersbark]

having a complicated relationship with sex/sexual things after sa is so weird because like . it'll be 1 am and ill be switching through apps and ill be thirsting over a character and then ill open tumblr and i remember everything bad shes ever done to me

[muppetjackrackham]

starting a collection

[luck-of-the-drawings]

FOR A BEAT OF HEART, THE BREATH IS SHOT. AND WITHIN A BREATH, THE HEART IS CAUGHT. THE PIPES ARE BURSTING, UNDER GREAT STRESS, BOLTS TORN ASUNDER, MAKING A MESS. A FINAL COUGH, A FINAL RETCH, A GOREY SLOUGH, CLAIMED BY WRETCH.

[randommothsvents]

🚫Pov:🚫

My subconscious trying to decide what (unhealthy) coping mechanism to do tonight

[lostmf]