#glorified abuse tw

[beesofink]

Buddy they ain't real, calm tf down

If you don't wanna see that shit just block the tag

Listen, maybe you mean well, but the "They aren't real" advice is HORRIBLE.

Yes. They are fictional. But that doesn't mean it isn't problematic. Fiction is influenced by reality, and more often than not fiction can influence reality. Let me use an example. However, a major trigger warning for H@zbin H0tel, and mentions of r@pe. I'm not saying Ribbun is r@pey, but those two things are still mentioned in this.

Let's say that a victim of abuse watches something. And that material winds up glorifying the abuse they go through. This would reinforce that what they're going through is "okay" and "normal", and could also retraumatize them if they got out of that relationship. And before anyone says "but shouldn't they know?"

1. A victim is usually taught that what they're going through is "normal" and shouldn't be questioned.

2. "Shouldn't they know?" Unintentionally or not, is victim blaming. The fault is always on the abuser, not the victim.

Let me use a popular animated example of this: Valentino from Hazbin Hotel.

I wish I never had to mention him, but this is important. For anyone who doesn't know, he is a r@pist who abuses Angel Dust. While it could've been WONDERFUL representation of abuse in the adult industry, it is often:

- Sexualized and shown without warning (A r@pe fetishist storyboarded the scene and Vivziepop, who fetishes r@pe herself as seen on her old Zoophobia channel if you look at the playlists wrote it).

- Joked about it in a horrible manner (Vivziepop made the "the visuals the ¢ums with it" joke when advertising "Poison", a song about being r@ped. Also while this is a different character, Sir Pentious was dragged into a room to get r@ped, while he was drunk and crying out for help. As you'd expect from Vivzie, she made this a joke.)

Those are only 2 of the MANY things that are done wrong in Hazbin Hotel. I won't go into a full on rant on how terribly it's done, since:

1. It's been talked about a lot on Twitter already.

2. This is about Ribbun and the glorification of abuse, not Hazbin Hotel.

The reason I bring up Hazbin Hotel for this is because it led to a lot of victims being retraumatized and horrified. While yes, some were fine with it, Vivziepop not putting in a warning was atrocious of her. And even if there was a warning, it was still executed in an awful and disgusting way.

If you want links for proof, I'll be happy to provide them.

So what I'm saying is, even if it *is* fictional, it can cause issues, such as normalization of abuse in one's mind or retraumatizing someone. Ribbun would be one of those ships, because Jax pulls things at Gangle's expense, and like I said in my original post on this, even pulls a gun on her at one point. It would NOT be a healthy relationship, and therefore shouldn't be treated as one. I'm not saying "never write these relationships", I'm saying "if you're going to write a relationship like this, do so in a manner that properly shows why it's bad and how it hurts the victim." And before anyone else says "But what about enemies to lovers?", it is still shipping a relationship that in the original and is therefore inherently, abusive.

However, you are right about the tag thing. I don't know why I didn't think about it at first. Though there is a chance I have, and my memory is just fuzzy. Either way, thank you for the reminder on that.

[blusical]

currently thinking of how abusive some hockey coaches are and how players are supposed to act like that sort of stuff is normal

[barflovski]

who took it out on you this time?

[someweirdoreblogger]

in which, a mad beast, in the midst of his Hunt, wearing the immeasurable malice of his own wrath and bloodlust, meets the victim of a society crueler then even himself. and dare he do this, be it out of childish interest, curiosity, a playboy show of arrogance-

he-shockingly-doesn't turn his eye.

(WARNING HEAVY ART THEMES UNDERCUT; No gore, but Imprisonment, implied abuse and torture)

"...Oh?"

"What do we have here~?"

[treatsf]

Scout was screwed. Royally fucking screwed. Hands were shoved into drawers, frantically searching, shaking, sweat dripping down his skin as he desperately looked for his next hit. He knew he had to have some of it somewhere, he knew that because he needed it, because he couldn’t live without it, and if his past self left him empty handed again he might just strangle himself to give some sort of point because damnit he needed to be more prepared for these kinds of things. He threw whatever was in there out of the compartment; he threw books, he threw pencils, he threw stickers and pieces of paper and rolls of bandages and cords and needles and syringes until he dumped out the entire drawer and found nothing. He was beginning to panic, beginning to panic more than he already was before, because that was where he always hid his stash, that’s where it had to have been, and if it wasn’t there then it wasn’t anywhere and he couldn’t possibly be out because he was sick and he hated being sick and he needed to be normal and he needed to feel good again and he—

There. It was right there, in the next drawer down, a tiny ziplock bag containing all his hopes and dreams, everything he ever lived for etched into the powder held inside the plastic. He could tell there was none left for a second hit, and after this he was screwed, truly screwed: none of this frantic searching bullshit would be able to save him. But fuck if he cared. Fuck if he ever cared. Because in that tiny pouch contained his ticket to happiness, his ticket to success, his ticket to everything that would make him whole again. He would be normal. He needed to be normal, even if just for an inconsequential blip of time.

Snatching it like a falcon pouncing on its prey, he opened up its insides, hand fumbling for his spoon and his lighter before he grabbed a syringe and his cord and wrapped it around his arm. He had stolen the thing from the Engineer while the man was in one of his sporadic bouts of slumber, none the wiser to what was going on, and while of course he felt bad he knew he was doing it because he needed it so maybe it was okay. He had a bag of cotton balls he used when he wanted to be careful, when he wanted to inject the right way, but injecting the right way didn’t matter to him at that moment so he didn’t. Setting everything up was quick. It was easy. It was fine. He was going to be fine. He had a syringe full of euphoria, and nothing else mattered in that moment.

However, for just a moment, he had a sense of clarity. He was broke, ass broke, and after this hit he didn’t know where he’d find another one. Their paychecks came in 5 days, and he couldn’t wait it out for 5 days. He couldn’t be sick like this for 5 days, sweating through his clothes and shaking and yawning and sniffling and sobbing and aching and feeling like utter shit. He had just emptied out one of his drawers, and what if someone decided to come in and saw all of it, saw everything out in the open like that, with him in the center of it all? Were his doors locked, were his windows locked? Had he made any noise, any sounds, any smells? Shit, was he addicted?

But fuck, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because as soon as that needle was thrusted into his arm, as soon as he pulled the plunger until blood pooled in the syringes barrel, as soon as that brown tar entered his veins, he was in heaven. A smile danced across his lips, a heavy one, a droopy one, and he fell onto the bed, ripping the instrument out from his flesh, body too numb to remember where it went. It was like he was back at home, back in his mothers arms all the way in Boston, held and coddled and wrapped and swaddled like a baby, told it was all going to be okay. He didn’t have any more money and he was out of smack so if he couldn’t find a way to get more fast he was fucked and if that happened his coworkers were bound to realize something was wrong soon enough, but none of that mattered. None of that mattered because he felt good. He felt great. He felt like nothing could ever touch him, because up was down and left was right and water was red and fire was blue and the devil was good and god was bad but fuck, he felt amazing. None of it mattered.

@gravitytrips

[tubboatinnit]

Stop saying his name and start saying hers. He has no right to get attention from this. Instead of showing how easy it is to hate someone, show that you can love.

I'm so proud of Shubble for her confidence and I'm so glad she's in a place in her life where she has moved on from him.

[akiipockii]

something I’m thinking about after I watched one too many video essays on Lolita. The fact that the “nymphette” and “Lolita” hashtags still live on after the tag was DELETED is insane to me. They’ve come up with new versions.

——————

TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF: SEXUAL ABUSE / PEDOPHILIA / DISCUSSION OF GROOMING /EDs / ABUSE

For those of you unaware, Lolita is a book written by Vladimir Nabokov in 1955 about a man named Humbert Humbert who falls in love (is obsessed and infatuated) with a 12 year old (and his step-daughter!) Dolores Haze. He calls her a “nymphet” (later changed by tumblr/pale grunge tumblr as nymphette, much like coquette) and is obsessed with her.

Later within the book he kidnaps her and sexually abuses her shortly after becoming her stepfather to gain closeness to Dolores. He calls her “Lolita”, a Spanish nickname for Dolores.

His unusual obsession with “nymphets” is due to his childhood lover, Annabel Leigh’s, death from typhus, causing Humbert Humbert to become sexually obsessed with girls 9-14, as he dubs, “nymphets”.

He meets Dolores’ mother, a widow named Charlotte, quickly sees Lolita and decides to move in, as Dolores is a “perfect nymphet”.

——-

. I’m not going to spoil the rest, but read the book if you can. Humbert Humbert is an unreliable narrator and a horrible person. It’s a very interesting novel.

However, due to the film adaptations (Lolita; Stanley Kubrick (1962) and Lolita; Adrian Lyne (1997)) of this book, Dolores has been aged up and made to be something of attainment within some social circles, typically by teenage girls.

Within this falls a Lana Del Rey obsession, as she frequently mentions Lolita within her songs, and having age gap relationships.

Age gap relationships are not inherently bad, date whoever you want when you are fully grown, but these girls (I will not call them women they are teenagers) romanticize these age gaps, (such as 19-25, even further in age, etc.) making it a goal.

The reason why I’m so upset by the resurgence of these hashtags, like:

#lolit4 #nyphett3 #nympette

Etc..

Is because it misses the whole point of the book and can glorify pedophilia and the grooming of young girls, preteens and teenagers, and can lead to the exploitation of these children. It can also lead to an increased chance in being abused by a partner or being assaulted, in search of the “Lolita aesthetic”.

sometimes the internet worries me.

Lolita and increased need to be perfect within an aesthetic can lead to EDs, and other severely damaging consequences to something that seems harmless.

Vladimir Nabokov rolls in his grave when he hears you glorify the book oh my god. Please I am begging you, PLEASE just.. do anything else

[missazura]

trying to write a short little self reassuring comic in my head with death the wolf bc of my struggle with suicidal thoughts- I truly believe that he would want me to live longer. he wasn't even evil in the movie he was just an antagonist, death surrounds my life so often he's probably like an old friend to me at this point

[nicorfyrweorm]

Reblogging because this story bit completely changes the Cinderella story. It makes it far more real in a way it deserves to be.

Sometimes it’s okay for the ending to be happily ever after.

That gave me shivers.

What I’d give for one of the Cinderella remakes to go into how when you’re in an isolated and abusive situation, sometimes you need to be saved and you’re not weak if you can’t escape by yourself

I’ve never been a fan of bad faith reinterpretations of fairy tales, especially ones which flatten the originals into “princesses is saved by a prince and nothing else”, to then go #girlboss. The princess can save herself because she’s a strong female character! (Implying if you’re in a bad situation, it’s because you’re not strong enough to get out)

[thesoftestpunk]

I can’t wait for my coworker to finish reading the haunting Adeline series so I can stop hearing her gush about a literal rapist?????

[louieshalo]

.

[venting-town]

Fuck these retarded parents/“ parents “ that praise their partners when they go off on their kids like “ You do NOT speak to your mother/father that way! That is MY wife/husband! “

Fuck you, bitch!

YOUR “ wife/husband “ can grow a pair of balls and try to understand why the child “ acted out “ the way they did!

YOU can grow a pair, suck it up, and try to understand why as well!

Fuck your little “ put each other above the kids “ shit!

Making yourselves feel so high and mighty about teaching a child that they’re “ lesser “ just because they’re a child. That child is just as important as you AND your spouse!

Not a single fucking one of you parents get an excuse or free pass to act out to your child that way! Fuck your trauma/unknowing/emotions! You don’t get to use that as an excuse to harm somebody ( your CHILD ) that needs you/depends on you!

Your job, as the PARENT, is to prepare them to not only go out into the world/be part of them world, but to also love them, teach them ( NOT through retarded ass abusive bullshit like slandering them, hitting them, yelling at them, etc ), SHOW them how to act ( by modeling love, kindness, respect, acknowledgement, etc ), that you’re a safe space for them, REGARDLESS of how big their emotions can get, and more!

That’s not to say you won’t fuck up! EVERYBODY fucks up, whether it’s their “ nature “ or not!

That’s still not an excuse for you to gaslight your child and blame them for how you treated them. You own up to it, and be better.

That’s also not to say that you let your child get away with not good/bad behavior. You can still teach them ways to better control how they act/react and STILL not treat them like shit for it.

The moment you act out against your child, you’ve stepped out of line. You own up, apologize to your child for what you did, and try to get better.

Your child is ALSO allowed to call you out for shitty things you’ve done, and is also allowed to question what you do and why you do things.

They aren’t wrong or bad for questioning. And entities need to accept that, no matter how bad it harms them or discomforts them.

Be better.

[crocusclump]

My top correct shitty controversial music hot take opinions

[howlsofbloodhounds]

why r ppl on YouTube asking creators to make killermare with SA in it..

stop putting killermare crap on my dash when I have that shit filtered out tumblr

[yandere-daydreams]

Not-So-Scary Moments With The Yan. Genshin Boys (Sumeru + Fontaine Edition).

Characters: Alhaitham, Neuvillette, Kaveh, Tighnari, Cyno, and Wriothesley.

Word Count: 2.7k.

TW: Borderline Shitposting, Prolonged Imprisonment, Varying Levels of Emotional and Physical Abuse, Codependency, Mentions of Stalking, and Unhealthy Relationships.

Alhaitham

It took Alhaitham about ten minutes to drag himself out of bed, his staggered footsteps audible through the thin walls of his apartment.

It took twenty for him to haul himself through his morning routine – water running somewhere in the distance and porcelain clattering against marble countertops as he washed his face and tried to work some life into himself. Alhaitham usually wasn’t so lethargic, but he’d had a rough week. There’d been a sudden influx of paperwork for the Akademiya’s sole scribe, and every second he didn’t spend buried under new legislation and requests for increased budging was, instead, dedicated to one of his many personal research projects. By the time he’d gotten home last night, it’d been all he could do to make sure you hadn’t starved to death and drag himself to bed.

He usually would’ve kept you waiting for a few more minutes, but an agitated grunt marked an end to his normal patterns. In a moment, he was braced against the doorway to his own study, his eyes narrowed half-hearted towards where you sat in his leather-padded chair, your feet propped on his desk. There was an book open in your lap – one of his, something about metaphysics and ley line abnormalities and how both tied into the Inazuman politics. He eyed it wearily before speaking, his voice still deep with exhaustion. “Where did you put my hearing aids?”

His tone was accusatory, his irritation visible. You put on your sweetest smile. “Where did you put my novellas?” you signed, thinking for a moment before adding, “Bitch?”

“They aren’t ‘novellas’, they’re—” He cut himself off with a scoff. “They’re filth. I don’t want you rotting your brain with smut.”

“The plots are very—”

“The plots are half-baked excuses for paper-thin characters to fondle each other in locations you can tell the author didn’t take the time to properly research and—” His gaze flickered to you, his frown deepening. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“You’ve read them?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Finally, he let out a labored sigh. “The dozen or so I couldn’t be bothered to throw away are in a cabinet underneath the kitchen sink. It’s locked – the code is your birthday. Now, where are my aids?”

“You fell asleep with them on last night,” you said aloud, abandoning his glorified textbook and pushing yourself to your feet. His hand shot to the side of his head, finding the metallic cuff only slightly displaced by having spent the better half of the night on his head. As you passed him, you paused, pressing a kiss into the corner of his scowl and pretending to ignore the muffled groan he let out in response.

Neuvillette

Of all the sights you thought you might see after arriving in your wonderous new nation, the Iudex of Fontaine standing over your drained bathtub with a look of potent remorse written across his expression was not one of them.

You’d imagined yourself strolling through the walls of the Opera Epiclese in vivid detail, been able to picture exactly what you might’ve seen standing below the Tower of Ipsissimus or above the bottomless pit that was the entrance to the Fortress of Meropide, but even after you’d found yourself in the smothering care of Monsieur Neuvillette, you never would’ve been able to conjure this sight. He usually insisted that you bathe together, going so far as to have an in-ground tub that could’ve easily been mistaken for a hot spring installed in his (until recently neglected) personal residence to better indulge the habit. Thankfully, the trial he’d been presiding over had run long today, and you’d been able to save yourself an hour of his calloused hands running over your body, of his eyes burning into your skin with a nearly inhuman focus. You knew he’d be disappointed. Irate, even, depending on how his trial swung.

You hadn’t expected him to be so… sulky about it.

Half-lidded eyes, a slight pout tugging at the corner of his lips as he lingered idly in the doorway between your shared bedroom and the in-suite bathroom. Steam and silence laid heavy in the air – the latter you were eventually forced to break as you fiddled with the hem of your robe. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, hoping more to break the tension than to make him think you were genuinely apologetic. “It was getting late, and I didn’t know when you were coming home. I didn’t think you’d take it so personally.” When he didn’t respond, you braced yourself for the worst. “If you’re angry, please say so. I… I’d rather get this over with now, if it’s all the same to you.”

His expression softened. He let out an airy sigh and, with only a moment of hesitation, closed the space between you. “I’m not angry.” A pair of lean arms wrapped around your waist, his face soon buried in the crook of your neck. You heard him inhale, and did what you could to suppress the shudder that ran up your spine at the thought of him basking in your scent. “I’ve just been… looking forward to it, I suppose. Your taste relaxes me.”

Immediately, you went rigid. “My… taste?”

“Mhm.”

“Neuvillette,” you started, very slowly, giving your own mind time to catch up to the dread slowly building in the pit of your stomach. “Have you been drinking my bathwater?”

He was quiet for a not inconsiderable amount of time.

Finally, he pulled away from you just far enough to speak. “…no?”

For your own sake, you decided to believe him.

Kaveh

“Kaveh.”

“Not now, treasure.”

“Go to bed.”

“I will, in another hour.”

“You need to get some sleep.”

“I’ve already told you – I’m fine.” He narrowed his eyes, expression contorted by concentration. “Knight to B4.”

“Kaveh,” you repeated, leaning across the table. “You were showing me your blueprints.”

“Oh.” He blinked several times, looking over the sheet of blue paper marked with chalk drawings and near indecipherable hand-writing. “Were you impressed?”

Your frown irked, but you swallowed back your exasperation and pushed yourself to your feet. Slowly, you took him by the hand and, when he failed to protest, guided him out of his own seat and towards the room you were usually restrained to, when he wasn’t home. He’d kept himself awake for the past two nights, every moment of the past forty-eight hours devoted to finishing his proposal for a wealthy commissioner’s summer mansion before its upcoming deadline and, now that the coffee had been drained from his system and his adrenaline had been given time to fade, he was practically a shell of a man – all dark circles and hunched posture and disheveled blonde hair.

Sleep deprivation was, by far, the worst thing he could inflict on himself. At least he was happy after he drunk himself into oblivion. This was just depressing; as miserable for him as it was for you.

With a dutifulness you shouldn’t have had to show to your lover-turned-stalker-turned-captor, you brought him to his bed and watched as he collapsed onto it, what little strength he had to hold himself up immediately dissolving. With a sigh, a roll of your eyes, you turned to leave, but a hand lashed out from the crumpled heap and caught you by the wrist. “Stay with me?” His voice was muffled by layers of sheets and blankets, but clear enough. “Please?”

Usually, his bids for affection were met with bitter neutrality or, on your worse days, spiteful condensation. Usually, you would’ve torn yourself out of his hold and made sure he knew that he’d ruined any chance of living out his little domestic fantasy the second he decided his obsession was worth more than your happiness. Usually, you would’ve hated him that much more for daring to ask.

But, he could barely hold his eyes open and when you failed to immediately recoil, the sloppiest, most lovesick smile you’d ever seen plastered itself across his lips. It was his turn to pull you forward, this time; to drag you onto his bed and into his chest. With a satisfied sigh, he slotted his chin against the dip of your shoulder and draped his arms around your waist – an old position. A relic of better times you’d never been strong enough to completely dicard. “When it’s time to draw up the plans for our home,” he mumbled, only half-audible. “I won’t so much as breathe until its perfect.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t say anything.

He’d already fallen asleep.

Tighnari

He glanced once at the thick packet of ink-marked parchment you’d slammed in front of him before looking back to you, his expression disparaging. “And this is supposed to be…?”

“A custody agreement,” you answered, grinning. “Alhaitham put it together during his last visit.”

“We don’t have any kids.”

“It’s for Collei. If I ever leave you,” and, to be clear, you would be leaving him, as soon as you figured out how to get away from a man who poisoned your tea whenever you so much as suggested entertaining a future that didn’t include him, “I want weekends and summers.”

“She’s nineteen.”

“Which is why we’re letting her pick who she wants to spend holidays with.” You tapped the front page with your knuckles. “Honestly, dear, if you weren’t going to so much as read the documents, we could’ve scheduled this for another day.”

His ears twitched, his tail sweeping across the floor in irritation. “Even if this was legally binding – which, by the way, something assembled by a scribe would not be – I would never give you weekends. That’d be too much travelling for a girl in her condition, and I don’t want her to feel like she comes from a broken home. Moreover, according to Regulation #531 as passed by the Grand Sage last year, you would have to get Collei’s signature before—”

“Check page twenty-seven.”

You watched him scowl as he thumbed through the pages. A second later, his ears flattened against his scalp, and he took to muttering under his breath. “Traitor.”

“If you don’t want your aggression towards the dependent party used against you in court, I’d suggest you sign on page four, seventeen, and thirty-two.”

You left his villa half an hour later with a with a new imprint of his fangs on the side of your throat and a signed document in-hand.

Cyno

“You have kidnapped me.”

“Technically, I was only—”

“You’ve blackmailed me, imprisoned me, and tortured me.”

“You can’t still be hung up on—”

“You’ve branded me with your name, forced me into your bed, and made me play out all your delusional, fucked-up fantasies—” You took a deep breath, pursed your lips. “—but if you show up to a black-tie event wearing that, it will be the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

He looked down, as if considering his attire for the first time. He was in his usual uniform – which was to say, shirtless and barefoot, his hair windblown and a fine layer of sand still coating what little he was wearing. You could only be thankful his polearm wasn’t slung across his back, but you knew he’d make it past the door without it. “The way I dress has never been a problem before.”

“There’s a difference between hunting down rouge scholars and going to a banquet being held by a literal god. Archons, Lesser Lord Kusanali herself might be there.” You gasped, dragged your hands over your face. “Everyone who’s ever gone to the Akademiya will absolutely be there.”

For all his many faults, he could never stand to see you in pain. There was a brief delay, a moment of unsure shuffling, then his arms were wrapping around you, his chest slotting against your back has he pulled you against him. “It’ll be alright,” he muttered, speaking into your shoulder. “If anyone so much as attempts to insult you—no, if anyone tries to talk to you at all, I’ll strike them down in the blink of an eyes.”

His comfort was stale, but you forced yourself to relax. At least enough to speak. “You know,” you mumbled, letting your hands drift to your temples. “Dehya was hired by an up-and-coming scholar, a few weeks ago. I’m not sure how long her contract was, but there’s a chance we’ll see her tonight.”

There was a beat of silence, then another.

“Cyno?”

“I’ll change.”

Wriothesley

You could hear him trudging up the metallic stairs to his office; his footsteps heavy enough to drown out the soft music flowing out of his century-old gramophone. His head emerged from the curving staircase, first – his hair somehow more disheveled than its usual state of barely-tamed chaos – then his chest, his tie undone and his collar terribly mangled, as if he’d spent all day indulging the worst of his nervous habits. He was baring his teeth, his pale cheeks flushed with anger and his eyes narrowed into a pointed glare. It wasn’t quite the reaction you’d hoped for (in your wildest dreams, he would’ve managed to sink his beloved fortress before he ever reached you), but it was close enough.

You moved to stand, to greet him with the warm embrace he usually demanded, but he was already in front of you, already pinning you to the back of the lounge you’d been splayed across with a single fist planted less than a hair’s width above your shoulder. “You,” he growled, leaning in close enough for his breath to fan over your skin. “Do you know how many journalistsI had to deal with today? They were everywhere. I couldn’t go a step without tripping over some— over some glorified tabloid.”

“So, your meeting with Monsieur Neuvillette went well?” His scowl deepened, and you let out your most faux innocent laugh – a chiming, bubbling thing he’d never been able to stand. “You shouldn’t scowl like that, love. All those photographers will have to find a new model if you manage to give yourself frown lines.”

He jolted, but forced himself to shut his eyes, to let out a long, ragged breath. When he did face you again, he’d regained a degree of his composure – just enough to meet your smile with his own tight-lipped grin, more teeth than anything. “I’ll let you off easy if you tell me how you did it now. Before I decide it’d be faster to strangle an explanation out of you.”

“I didn’t break any rules, if that’s what you’re worried about.” You paused, folded your hands over your lap. “It was all thanks to our great and benevolent duke. Contacting people outside of the fortress has gotten so much more efficient ever since you decided prisoners should be able to send letters without administrative vetting.”

He buckled visibly, his shoulders falling as he lean towards you, his face soon buried in the dip of your shoulder. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.” There was a raspy chuckle, a hand on your thigh, squeezing just hard enough for his anger to shine through the playfulness of the gesture. “I think I’ve earned the rest of the day off, and I think you’ve earned—”

The door to his office swung open before he could finish, a masculine voice calling up from the voice below only a moment later. “Your grace, t-there’s a reporter here to see you! She says she’s been told not to leave until she speaks to your partner!”

“That’ll be Charlotte,” you half-sung. “She seemed like such a nice girl in her letters. It’d be a shame to keep her waiting.”

When he failed to answer, you brought up both hands and cupped his face, cooing as you used your thumbs to quirk the corners of his mouth upward.

“Just remember to smile for the camera this time, alright?”

[glykera]

Open starter

(Tw ptsd, panic attacks, sa, abuse, alcohol.)

Of course, cabin 12 had been able to find themselves booze. Of course, they were throwing a party with kids from almost every cabin. And of course, some of the kids asked her to be a glorified maid for the party, knowing she likely wouldn't protest.

Glykera looked absolutely shaken. She didn't even look fully here. One of the drunken campers had tried flirting with her and was standing a bit too close to her. So far, they were only talking to her. But that didn't change the terror she felt.

This place was far too similar to where she used to live. The party was just like the ones her master would throw. And those guests... those guests were pigs. She couldn't tell if this was the Dionysos cabin or if it was her old home. If these were campers or those old guests.

Tag list:

@the-gods-abandoned-us

@arisdaughter

@mache-of-greece

@demigod-jack-hearth

@unhinged-waterlilly

@kaiaalwayswins

@daredevil-shit

@amaiahunterofartemis

@yourlocalfallenstar

@son-of-the-moonlight

@luci-likes-dinoss

@elixs-mythology-corner

@bast-the-best26

@emdabitchass

@if-chaos-was-a-boy

@luck-is-crucial

@elionandaerith

@love-lightning-forethought @the-prince-telemachus @pink-koi-lovejoy @fire-boy-official @apollos-favorite-child @ariathemortal @cass-sees-the-future @reyna4ever