#grooming implied cw

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

finding confirmation that kirell was indeed 24 in the original game, and her being a high schooler when she died in argo's choice was a bizarre retcon, is Validating for a number of reasons (i KNEW she was a depressed mafia NEET. i FUCKIN knew it). it also explains philio's complete and total nonexistence in AC, because i'm pretty sure they realized what an Incredibly bad look their previously established relationship would be, and i am now ten times more irritated about that than ever lmao

[s0fti3w1tch]

CW: Implied Grooming

Image Description: Two panel digital Rise of the TMNT fan comic. Panel one is a close up of Leonardo, tears in his eyes, frustratedly yelling "You're not mature for your age, Mikey!" Panel two shows that Leo is standing behind Michelangelo, speaking firmly at him with his hand out. Mikey is shadowed in the foreground, hiding on his hoodie and looking off the side, also tearing up. Leo says "You're a victim!" /End Description

I wish you understood that I'm not telling you this to infantilize you. I'm telling you as someone who's been there before, that this isn't right. I'm telling you to please listen to me because you're being taken advantage of, even if you don't see it.

Please don't assume you're an "exception to grooming" or an "exception to being manipulated and sexualized by older friends." From someone who was convinced they were that exception one time before. That I was special or mature.

[rosebridal]

narrative foil antagonism at its best

[sage-thee-herbmaster]

Proof that minors are being groomed by PRATS.

This user thinks that the age of consent should be abolished, and that children of any age should be allowed to be in sexual relationships with adults and thinks you can’t be youth lib if you disagree with this. Everyone with a brain knows that, yes, pubescent minors can consent, TO EACH OTHER.

There’s nothing wrong with teenagers having sex, but it’s not healthy for them mentally, to engage in sexual relationship with grown ass adults even if it’s “consensual” as the consent that teenagers give to adults is usually the result of prior grooming (I should know because that happened with me) and there’s countless reliable studies and victim word of mouth recounts proving this.

Children can’t consent to adults, simple as that and hope that “AAM” radqueers realise this and get help.

This account also thinks that “cracker” is just as bad as a slur for white people as the n-word is for black people even though cracker doesn’t have the horrible history behind it like the n-word does, so yeah there’s that…

Conclusion: Radqueers are groomers, pass it on.

[whumpiary]

content warnings: abuse cycles, grooming, referenced noncon, referenced drugging, general dubcon vibes

-

Cass sits in the front seat with his head against the car window, hands tucked into the navy woolen sweater Christopher dressed him in this morning, watching droplets run long and silver along the glass. He has his feet tucked up, knees held to chest and, for once, Christopher doesn't say anything about keeping his shoes off the leather seats.

It’s grey outside. And cold. The heater blows soft and gentle on his face and the condensation keeps building on the glass. They’ve passed the rain now, though. Driven above it, maybe. They’d been on a steady, uphill climb for some time now, and they’d passed through fog a while back.

He doesn’t know where they’re going. He doesn’t know how far they’re driving or when they're heading back. He can’t remember if he saw anyone pack bags into the car. But that doesn’t mean anything either. It wouldn’t be the first time he thought they were going on a day trip and then they were gone for a week, two, three.

He can’t bring himself to fucking care today. He’s too angry and too tired and his body is aching too much.

Nat King Cole plays low through the speakers, the only other sound between them besides the car’s low hum. Christopher tried making conversation when they first started driving, attempting to stoke his boy into small talk and light hearted jokes. But silence is about the last line of protest Cass has to hold at the moment. So he holds it. And ten minutes into the drive, the music went on.

He’s glad, at least, for quiet. He’s glad the car is warm. The clothes he’s been dressed in are casual and comfortable for once. And if he sits very still and the road stays smooth, his body doesn’t even hurt that much. He’ll take the small wins. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Christopher tried to put him in a shirt and tie today. Thrown a fit, probably. 

Cass is focussed on watching a neck and neck race between two particularly tenacious rivulets when Christopher pulls into a gravel car park, turning the engine off. “Here we are.”

To call it a car park is generous. It’s more of a worn-down patch off the side of the road, loosely bordered with the sawn-off trunks of some old gums. Cass' eyes slide to Christopher, making no move to unbuckle, “Where? The side of the road?”

Christopher sighs, clearly tired of the attitude, but not annoyed enough to rise to it. “We’re going for a walk. Out you get.”

Cass looks out the window as Christopher steps out of the car. He can see a worn down path through the trees, low ferns and bush scrub giving away to yellowed dirt. Christopher can’t actually be fucking serious. A bush hike? When walking ten steps makes him ache?

By the time Christopher opens his door for him, he’s tucked himself even more tightly into the passenger seat.

“Out you get, darling.”

Cass stares at his hands, picking at the dead skin around his finger nails, “Get fucked.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not going for a walk with you.”

“I have something I want to show you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ve driven all this way-”

“You’ve driven all this way. I’ve just sat where you put me.”

There's another tired sigh, “Get out of the car, Cassius.”

“No.”

The sounds of the bush fill up the quiet that follows. Slender leaves brushing against each other on thin branches. The call and squawk of a flock of galahs. Fairy wrens darting in the scrub. The constant pitch of a bellbird somewhere in the distance.

Christopher sighs a final time. “Fine.”

The car door closes sharply, cutting the sound of the world off with it. The boot opens. Then it closes. And then, in the reflection of the rear view mirror, Cass watches as Christopher walks away from the car, down the worn-down path, a picnic basket in his hand and a bag slung over his shoulder. Cass keeps watching, waiting for him to stop and call over his shoulder. And then waiting for him to come back. But he just disappears into the bush without looking back.

Everything feels more silent without him there. Like the car has its own atmosphere. He can’t hear the trees or the wind or the birds. He can see the galahs, pink against the eucalyptus. But the whole world is muted. Excised by tinted glass. His ears start to ring with the quiet of it all. And he sighs just to hear his breath. He shifts in his seat just to hear the rustle of fabric. The movement shoots pain through him that makes him wince. And reminds him why he's been so pissed off in the first place.

One minute Christopher had been beside him at the party, laughter bubbling, hand on his waist like usual. The next he’d been left alone in a room with a dozen strangers, a bit of rope, and far too much fucking booze.

He still doesn’t know where Christopher had gone in the hours in between. Just that they’d left for the party right after dinner. That he'd been given a pill in the car on the way there. That someone, at some point, thought it would be funny to have a competition to make him scream the loudest.

By the time they were coming home, he had an ache right the way through him, blank spots in his memory, and the sun was rising over the trees.

And everything just felt horrible. And he felt dirty and used and awful.

Has all week since.

Cass tilts his head back and looks through the windscreen, up the road that winds up the hills and around a corner into more scrub. Were there houses up here? Maybe. It looked like a truck road, more than anything. There for carting cargo more than people.

Still, though. He could get out. Try to walk it. Find someone. Hitchhike. Run away.

He could be gone before Christopher even knows he's missing. He could be over the state line before nightfall. He could slip away. Never go back. Find someone else's bed to warm. Some other place to stay. Some other person to be. No Cassius Drake, no brother to think about, no record to work off. Just another stranger on the street.

He watches as a white ute approaches up the curving road, bigger and bigger the closer it gets. He could get out. He could flag them down. It gets bigger and bigger. Closer and closer. He could tell them he broke down. Needs a lift. They wouldn't ask any questions.

The car gets bigger, bigger, bigger on the horizon as it approaches. Bigger, bigger, bigger… and then it passes by and around the corner and he can't see it anymore. Cass looks back to the galahs. And then he closes his eyes. He's not going anywhere. Christopher knew that when he left.

The better part of half an hour passes before he sees Christopher reappear on the beaten down track. He watches him approach in the rearview mirror. Bigger, bigger, bigger.

Cass’ only movement is to shift his eyes to stare forward out the windshield, hands curled tight around his seatbelt as Christopher approaches. He braces for a fight. But the door opens and Christopher doesn't say a word. He reaches down and over, and Cass barely has time to process what he's doing before his seatbelt is being unclicked and he's being scooped up and out of the car, door shut with the swing of Christopher's foot behind them.

"Hey."

Christopher doesn't say anything, or even really acknowledge that Cass has spoken. He readjusts him slightly to have a better hold and keeps walking, back down the same path he'd disappeared down earlier. It takes Cass a minute or two to process properly what's happening. It's so far from what he expected Christopher to do he feels disoriented by it.

"I didn't ask to be carried."

"Tell me to put you down," Christopher replies calmly, still walking. “And I will.”

For a moment, Cass chews his cheek. Even if Christopher refused. It'd be as easy as naming him. It would always be as easy as naming him. But he doesn't. He tucks in close, head against Christopher's chest, hand curling in his shirt, and lets himself be carried.

They walk in silence for a little while, up a slope and down again, across a fence line that declares private property, down through denser bush. Cass eyes the swaying trees and the set line of Christopher’s jaw intermittently as they go. Occasionally a bird calls overhead. Occasionally the wind picks up. Aside from that, it’s as silent between them as the car ride had been.

He notices the break in the tree line first, sky a little more visible as the gums open out into a wider sprawl. He adjusts his grip around Christopher’s neck and looks down to see the scrub giving way to rock, tightly packed sand, and a small, still body of water.

Christopher walks them to where he’s set up the picnic under a tree on the banks and sets Cass down on it. The blanket is already splayed out, the basket unpacked: cheese, wine, a neatly wrapped lunch. There’s even a little thermos of something.

Cass is unmoved by it. Or he tries to be, arms wrapped around himself in silent, moody protest. Hell of a way to go for a picnic lunch. The view isn’t even that good.

Apart from the little dam thing maybe. The water's prettier than he wants to admit. Strikingly blue. So blue it almost doesn’t look real.

Christopher gives the elbow of his sweater a brief tug, before starting to take off his own cable knit cardigan, “Strip, darling.”

Cass looks at him with complete incredulity and scoffs a laugh, bitter and angry. A fuck in the bush is it? “Oh fuck off.”

Christopher sighs, folding his cardigan and laying it down on the picnic blanket, before moving to take off his watch, “I don’t want to fight, Cassius. Just strip.”

He kicks a stone and it skitters to a stop before it can make it to the water. “Fucking make me-”

“Cassius.” Christopher’s voice is stern enough to cut Cass off, head jerking up to look at him. He almost never yells. And it always strikes Cass through with as much fear as the sharp snap of leather.

But Christopher looks more tired than angry. And then he sighs again, hands palm up and half pleading. “I don’t want to fight. This is meant to be a nice thing. Just let it be a nice thing.”

Cass stares at him for a few beats. He considers refusing. He considers ruining the whole fucking day. He considers protesting, arguing, throwing insults. Making Christopher angry enough to slam his head against the rocks over and over until he stains that pretty little lake red.

But Christopher is tired. And if he’s honest, he is too. 

They haven’t fucked since Saturday. And they haven’t really spoken either. The silent treatment is as exhausting to give as it is to get, it turns out. If nothing else, it’s achingly lonely. He doesn’t know how Christopher stands it.

And right now, when Cass reaches out… all Christopher seems to want right now is just a truly nice day. A rest. A glass of wine. A reset. It’s hard not to give in to that.

Cass strips the jumper, dropping it in the sand at his feet, and then kicks off his shoes, his socks, the soft drawstring pants. The air is cold enough on its own but the wind properly chills him, his skin pricking with goosebumps. He wraps his arms back around himself, looking back to Christopher, half undressed himself and dusting sand and dirt from Cassius’ clothing before re-folding it on the picnic blanket.

Christopher nods to the water, “In you get.”

Cass stares at him. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“Mmhmm,” Christopher agrees. And then he smiles gently, almost playful, and nods again to the water. “In you get.”

Cass frowns, contemplating arguing for a moment or two before relenting, approaching the water’s edge like someone might an angry snake. The water is so still and so blue. Almost milky, even. It barely looks natural. He looks back over his shoulder to Christopher, who is watching him with a mild smile as he undoes his own belt. “Go on, darling.”

He takes a few more steps forward, brings his foot into to the water and-

He flinches back, looking over his shoulder with wide eyes, “...It’s warm.”

Christopher’s smile widens, and he nods. “Hot springs.”

Cass looks back to the water, fascinated. He brings his foot back to the surface, dragging his toe through the water, and then stepping in. One foot. And then the next. It’s warm as bath water.

“Is it real?”

Christopher exhales a laugh, “You’re standing in it, my love. What do you think?”

“No, I mean like… did they make it? Or is it-”

“Oh, I see,” Christopher says. “It’s natural, yes. As far as the story goes, anyway. A friend of mine owns the property. The family stumbled across it a decade or two ago. They thought about commercialising it for a while before deciding it was more special to keep it private. Their own little family sanctuary. You and I are two of about a dozen people in the whole world who knows it exists.”

Cass barely takes in the story. He’s sure it’s meant to sound impressive or interesting but frankly how the fuck is he meant to give a shit when he’s standing in something this beautiful? This unreal?

It's so, so blue. He wades into the water, over ankles, up his shins, to his knees, before looking back again to Christopher, who’s watching him with fondness. He gestures to the water, “Can I…?”

It earns him a smile, “Of course, darling.”

He dives under, a shallow skim under the surface. And when he opens his eyes the water is clear enough that he can see weak winter sunlight dappling the stones below. It’s so weird. It’s so weird and so cool and so nice. It’s like a fucking magic swimming pool, carved into the middle of the bush.

He's always loved swimming. Always, always, always. The weightlessness and the water around him. The movement and the tide. It washes him clean in a way nothing else does. Makes his body feel realer than anything other than sex. It's so easy to forget until he's in the water again.

He’d grown up by the beach. And the worst part of it was always the icy cold. And the worst part of a pool was the smell. And this place had neither. Just peace and water and eucalyptus and warmth. It’s like the rest of the whole world has stopped. Like this place erupted from the earth just for him. Just to hold him.

It soothes the ache in his body and the twist in his chest and when he emerges again from the water, for the first time all week -- all fucking week -- he feels like he can breathe.

He pushes wet curls back from his face to find Christopher seated on a towel laid out on the rocks, one foot trailing in the water, smiling soft as he watches him, “Nice?”

Cass relaxes onto his back to float and drags his fingers through the water —  warm, warm water — and laughs for the first time since the party, “This is fucking insane.”

Christopher laughs too, “Insane good?”

“This is a spa in the middle of the bush.”

“I suppose it is.”

Cass holds his gaze for a moment, feeling the thrum of satisfaction coming off of him. This is all he wanted, wasn't it? All he wanted was to see Cass enjoy this. He dares to give him a smile, “You gonna join me?”

“I might in a minute,” Christopher says. “I need a rest first.”

“Tired already, old man?”

“My arms are a little. I just carried you for about half a kilometer, didn’t I?”

 Cass flips onto his belly so he can paddle over a little closer, “Well maybe if you come in I’ll make it up to you.”

“Just maybe?”

Cass gives him a grin and splashes water up at him in a shining sheet before sinking below entirely. There’s a thrilling delight at hearing the muffled sound of Christopher’s shocked laughter through the water, right before the splashing sound of him coming in after.

-

They eat lunch on the rocks with their feet in the water, Cass wrapped in Christopher’s cardigan. The food is good because of course it is. And the wine is better because of course it is. But there is a soft glow of recognition when Cass realises that the food’s that has been packed is more or less a collection of his favourites. The crusts have even been neatly sliced off his sandwich. It’s weird to realise how well Christopher knows him.

He ends up back in the water not long after, and when Christopher settles again on the rocks, Cass lays himself back in the shallows with his head against Christopher’s legs like he’s relaxing back in a bath. He watches Christopher watch the lorikeets, his face tilted up to the pale winter sun.

“I didn’t think you liked swimming,” he comments mildly.

Christopher laughs, brows raised in mild surprise and brushes a knuckle down his cheek, “Why would you think that?”

“No pool at the estate,” Cass points out. “And whenever I go to the pool at your hotels, you tell me you’ll meet me at dinner.”

“I came with you at The Maribella.”

“To sit by the pool with a book and a drink.”

“I thought about swimming.”

“You thought about fucking me in the pool you mean.”

“I thought about swimming,” Christopher repeats. He reaches a hand up to tuck a damp curl behind Cass’ ear. “But sometimes I just want to watch you enjoy yourself. Is that so wrong?”

The phrasing almost sours things. It’s dangerously close to what he says right before a guest is over. Right before a party. But Christopher doesn’t mean it like that. He knows he doesn’t. So he tries a smile. He lets it go.

It’s like Christopher’s mind drifts to the same thing, though. Because his face gets soft and sad. He cups Cass’ cheek. He brushes his hair back, “Have you liked today, darling?”

Cass nods. It’s surprisingly easy to give him a soft smile. “Been pretty nice actually.”

Christopher keeps brushing his curls back. Gives him that sad smile in return, “I’m glad to hear that.”

Cass wants the conversation to end there. He wants that to be it. To draw Christopher back into the water for a kiss and a lazy float in the water and then go home. But of course it doesn’t.

“I know I asked a lot from you the other night, darling boy.”

Some tired, angry animal tries to wake up in Cass’ chest. He sedates it with a breath deep enough to make his ribs ache. 

“And I wanted you to know…” Christopher continues. He speaks carefully. Like he’s practised the phrasing. Perfected the sympathetic cadence. “We won’t be seeing those friends again.”

Cass doesn’t know if he believes it. And he doesn’t know if it even matters if he does or not. He stays very still, timing his breath to the strokes of Christopher’s fingers through his hair.

“And I’m glad today has been nice,” he continues softly. “I wanted to find a way to thank you. I know sometimes you struggle to find my gifts sincere.”

The tired, angry animal rolls over. Cass holds his breath for a second so it doesn’t rouse and ruin everything. “Is that what today is, then? A gift?”

Christopher laughs in a way that would probably sound self deprecating if Cass didn’t know him better. “It’s.. a gesture. To show you what you mean to me.” He smiles, winding a damp curl about his index finger, letting it lovingly loose back to its natural spiral. “I wanted to give you some of the gentleness you deserve.”

Cass doesn’t know what to say to that. He keeps his eyes on Christopher’s face, tracing the lines of it. The most prominent of his wrinkles are the ones around his eyes. Creasing crows feet that match a merry face. They frame his eyes just right. Strikingly blue. So blue they almost don't look real.

He reaches a hand up before he knows what he’s doing. He cups Christopher’s face. He swipes a damp thumb over his cheek. The shining trail it leaves almost makes it look like he’s crying. Especially when he’s looking at him like that. So soft. Full of a strange kind of longing that has no claws to it. No teeth.

Christopher turns his cheek to press his lips to the side of his boy’s thumb. He presses his cheek into Cass’ hand like a man truly looking to be absolved.

“I love you, darling boy. You know that. Don’t you?”

It’s not an apology.

But it’s close.

Cass cranes his neck up, offering a kiss. Asking for one.

Christopher’s hand cradles his jaw, firm and warm. His thumb brushes damp his hair back along his temple. His tongue slides into his mouth. It’s deep and passionate. But for once it’s not hungry. Cass breathes into it.

Maybe there was a kind of power in this. In being loved like this. In having a man like this love him.

In these moments… it feels worth it. All of it. The hurt, the pressure, the asking too much. He presses and presses and pushes and pushes but then, at the brink of things, he always knows to release. He knows to soothe and pull back and reset. He knows how much give there is before the break.

Cass doesn’t remember falling asleep on the rocks. But he must. Because he rouses as he’s being lifted from the picnic blanket and cradled against Christopher’s chest like some precious thing.

It makes him think of being a little kid. Of pretending to fall asleep in the backseat, hoping to be carried inside and tucked into bed. He can’t remember if anyone ever actually did that for him back then. He can’t remember if anyone ever held him this gently. It’s nice. It’s so, so nice.

"You said your arms were sore," Cass mumbles in quiet protest, head against Christopher's chest. He can feel the vibration of every footfall as they walk.

"I'll survive, my love."

When they get back to the car, Christopher sits him down gently in the passenger seat. He buckles him in. He kisses his hair. He even fetches a blanket from the back of the car and tucks it over his lap.

It’s The Decemberists instead of Nat King Cole on the way back down the mountain.

The heater blows soft and gentle on his face. He watches a flock of carellas careen their way over the backroads. They turn on to the main roads and Christopher takes his hand, gently kisses his knuckles.

As they roll back up the winding entry road of the estate, the sun is setting over the trees.

And everything feels alright.

[kawareo]

Have a ramble about my Durge and his issues with sex because why not

TW for mentions of sexual assault and abuse, attempted incest, grooming and mentions of underage stuff; nothing is graphic but it does get dark so please don't read if you don't feel like you're in the right space for it

Strike is a very sexual guy as I'm sure you've had the chance to notice, but honestly, his relationship with sex and sexuality is complicated to a degree that he completely refuses to even acknowledge.

His Urges and Bhaal-given 'Ectasy of Murder' make it practically impossible for him to seperate between his own desires and those of Bhaal. He was way too young when he first got them, practically when he hit puberty, and then he was immediately encouraged to 'explore' and 'experiment' with either corpses, other Bhaalists, or still living victims. Sceleritas was the one to encourage and 'guide' him and Strike stopped feeling sick about the new need that overcame him whenever he killed well. He had to practically gaslight himself into seeing it as a gift from Father, or he would dislike it, and you can't afford to dislike something your god wants when you're his Chosen.

He also doesn't really know how to say no to sex. The way I try to write him is in a similar way of how society expects a cishet guy to always be down to fuck, except it's cranked up to a thousand - he is Bhaal's seed, scion, his breeder - there is no reason for why he would ever want to say no, is there? If you asked him for any reason he could think of for him not wanting to have sex, he genuinely wouldn't known the answer.

He said no once though, only once - when the temple attempted to match him with Orin once they were in their late teens. Orin would've pushed through with it even though she was obviously less than enthusiastic, but Strike was the one to push her away that time. It wasn't the incest aspect of it that turned him off, tbh; that really isn't a value the temple of Bhaal would consider abnormal, but Strike just... Orin was always the only relationship he's had where he never felt like it could turn sexual at any moment - they've bathed together, they slept cuddled up on the same bed, they straddled eachother when beating the shit out of the other and none of it was ever sexual, for either of them. But that was the first time he refused Bhaal's will and also the first time he lied to Him - he made up that he didn't think Bhaal's blood should get even more diluted and defiled than it was in Orin's veins. After that, Orin never forgave him for thinking he was above her (as she interpreted it) and their relationshio only strained more when Strike met Gortash a few years later.

Gortash is a whole other can of worms that I don't think I have to get into right now, but Strike's religious upbringing makes every sign of weakness, such as signs of softness or affection (for an enemy, especially) a sin and having sex reduces the sinfulness of it. Holding hands, kissing? Unforgivable. Intertwining fingers during sex, or cuddling right after while they're both still chasing their breath? Not ideal, but it can happen. Not the worst thing. It's not like he was doing something intimate just for the sake of intimacy, you know?

He's very hypersexual now as an adult because of all the above mentioned things combined, and when I get to Godsbound (my bg3 timeline fic has a name now btw!) He likes to joke and flirt and fuck literally whoever, that doesn't change end after tadpoling, he still has no idea how to be close to anyone without it being sexual but also he is so horrifically touchstarved that he wakes up screaming if he doesn't have a body next to him to hold onto it. I would like to explore how much of an actual issue that is for him, especially when he has forgotten all of the excuses he told himself through the years and the decades of religious fanaticism. But then again, he does tend to push his problems away to 'deal with later', so who knows.

[chuchayucca]

/ / Implied grooming

[ID in ALT text]

Mouthwashing AU where Jimmy decides to take it upon himself to make Daisuke a man. When, in actuality, he’s trying (and successfully achieved) in turning Daisuke into a man just like him.

[farshootergotme]

Are there any fics touching upon the topic about Liu and Dick Grayson? I have read fics that deal with what happened with Tarantula and Mirage, but I haven't stumbled upon a fic that focused on what Liu did to Dick.

[anonymous-gambito]

Revolutionary Girl Utena 1997 / Innocence 2004 - Imagery

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

[lockandkeyhyena]

some more exploratory sketches. while the story itself focuses on the aftermath of the abuse, i wanted to get down my ideas for the dynamic that occurred during the abuse.

alvin is a very self-pitying character, he uses his low self esteem to manipulate others into doing things for him because they feel sorry for him. he genuinely believes he deserves to get whatever he wants because he had a sad childhood and has convinced himself of his own excuses. he believes what he’s saying in the final image, because to face the truth of his actions would be too much to bear. however he’s more scared of getting caught than at the concept that he’s hurting someone.

he would frequently guilt trip ethan into doing whatever he wanted, followed up by rewarding him with good grades and gifts. ethan really looked up to him and viewed him as one of the very few trustworthy adult figures in his life.

[wisteriasymphony]

awww ☺️ mother son bonding... so normal and not traumatizing for a seven year old...

[creekumz]

My apologies for the constant posting BUT I TOTALLY FORGOT TO SHARE MY RE8 SELF INSERT....I love him very much !!!!!

[the-axolotl-skellie]

Toothless.

This... turned out darker than expected ^^"

Tw for implied CSA, bulimia, purging/vomiting, self starvation/refusing to eat, trauma, gross food, food trauma, food issues, psychological torture, obsession with control!

☽️Reblogs appreciated!☾️

The man who spoke in hands had his ways of getting want he wanted. Rather that be sexual pleasure or an unnecessary experiment. And Lune never got what they wanted, rather it be their consent or their opinion heard.

But Lune was rebellious.

So there were punishments.

The man who spoke in hands would purposefully only serve a dish he knew Lune had a negative reaction to. For whatever reason, the 'creature' would rather starve themself than consume it.

So Lune stopped being rebellious.

They gave in.

There was a time though, when the man who spoke in hands realized that a self inflicted punishment was not a punishment at all. He couldn't let Lune get their way by obeying him, and therefore getting served their regular meal.

So he decided if he gave the food, they would eat it.

...

After three days, Lune eventually gave up their protest, choking diwn the disgusting mush in order to not die of hunger.

And later that night, they ended up vomiting it up. That was one of the first times Lune had experienced vomiting.

It was freeing. Something... about not having that in them anymore, was librarianship to them. Like the man had not gotten his way. Like Lune won.

And so that day, food became another reminder of their lack of control. Lune needed food, but they didn't want it.

As years passed, and after they were taken in by Lust, it was still a thing that haunted them.

Anytime they had to sit down and eat, their mind immediately associated it with punishment, even if the food itself was fine. Anytime they had to eat it, their mind associated it with a lack of control.

Thry didn't like that, even if they didn't fully understand it.

And one time, Lust made refried beans, which, absolutely set Lune off into what could be described as a full blown meltdown. Because they didn't want that, but they didn't know why so they didn't communicate why.

So Lust was scrambling to try and calm down Lune, who eventually fled from the dinner table to the bathroom. The bathroom was a safe place, with water and privacy.

Running the bathtub wasn't an option though, they hadn't figured out how to turned it on. So that was just making their day more shitty.

Eventually they just started sobbing. Everything was bad today, everything! The food, the lack of swimming, lack of control, everything!

And then they felt sick again.

And that reminded Lune of an old trick they learned with the man.

And that they hadn't used it here, because there wasn't a reason to rebel again Lust, he was just trying to help...

But this helped too.

Lune had mildly calmed down, and crawled over to the toilet, peering inside.

Lust wasn't even in their thoughts by the time they did it. Raised two webbed skeleton fingers. The time they started purging. Amd even if they had been thinking of their current caretaker, this wasn't anything against Lust.

This was against food.

[virtuoshosh]

Maker- Tell us about each of your fledglings

"Oh, are we talking Council business, now? How dull...ugh, fine, if you insist...well, you'll know all about Sascha, of course. Such a pretty thing, aren't they? Refined, obedient...the perfect sire, one might say—though, let me tell you, they weren't always that way. A walking disaster, really, when I first found them...simply spilling over with all this delicious despair. I made Sascha into the best version of what they were always meant to be—and just look at them now! And do I ever hear a word of thanks for my efforts, my endless benevolence? Peugh...but, that's why I have my new project. She's a captivating beauty—red hair and red lips. But damaged, with a fragile mind—like a helpless, wilted rose...and oh, the things I have planned for her will be—ah, whoopsie, I've gone and said too much, haven't I? I can't have the Council knowing about her just yet..."

[The Maker leans in and compels the Council's errand vampire] "...you're going to forget we ever had this conversation, and then you're going to walk outside and stand in oncoming traffic until someone runs you over."

@robin-thevamp

[rpcrimeboys]

anyone think about how ctommy couldn't bring himself to preen his own wings after exile? Any attempt to do so leaving feather's ripped out and him in tears? I think that dream used to do it for him. Now, any hand that runs through his feather's are Dream's. No matter who it is. ? No matter if it's gentle, or rough. All he can feel is Dream's hands, and it makes her feel sick. It's unnerving. Dream may be dead, and it may be someone else's hands, but in that moment, she's in logsted, alone with that freak, and falling into a headspace that leaves her pliant, without any control over it.

[thenugking]

For the meme!

✅😊

So first of all how dare you make me compliment myself

✅ list one or two favorite lines you’ve written and explain why they’re your favorite 

Okay so we’re going one line recently posted and one line upcoming, because otherwise I have to remember something I wrote over a month ago.

Upcoming, a line I enjoy from the childhood fic:

“And, um, wait until everyone’s got something first before you drink your blood. It’s polite.” “Why polite?” Orin mumbled, staring into her teacup. “Because it is! It’s good manners!”  “But--” “Oh, look,” said Kallian, quickly raising Gutty’s teacup to the doll’s mouth. “Gutty drank her poison before everyone was ready, and now she’s dead, so you can’t play with her any more.” She flipped the doll over, laying her face down. “Oh dear! You’ll have to play with Meaty instead! She’s being good and not drinking her poison yet!”

I love the moments that are just, Oh these guys are Kids, doing Normal Kidlike Behaviour like having tea parties with their toys and parroting The Rules without any understanding. But also because of the fucked up edgetastic environment they’re raised in, they’re serving blood and poison in the tea parties and naming their dolls after Guts. (Also, Kallian hates Gutty because she’s the doll Sarevok gave Orin, and she plays with her more than Meaty, the one Kallian gave her, and I love the mixed up mess of Kallian’s jealousy over not always being her sister’s favourite and the genuine Bad Vibes she gets from Sarevok and Orin’s relationship.)

And from the last chapter of Not A Place of Honour:

“He trapped one of his own people in Avernus once!” “What are you talking about? When did I--” [Enver] stops, remembering the bodyguard, and rolls his eyes. “That must have been almost a decade ago. If you’re going to claim you’ve never cared about me, maybe don’t dig up every insignificant employee I’ve ever let go.”

Like, it’s not one of those lines that make me go “holy shit, that’s beautiful, what an emotional punch.” It’s just--it’s the fact that it’s not a big deal here. It’s the fact that no one even uses Karlach’s name. Kallian only brings her up to score a point against Gortash, and he barely even remembers her, and refers to his act of deeply traumatic, horrifying betrayal as letting her go. And then continues the conversation, and no one mentions Karlach again, because she was just some random bodyguard and they have more important things to argue about. Just… absolute lack of care. For Gortah, It Was Tuesday.

😊 say something nice about your writing

I have been told that I’m very good at Show Not Tell. I write a lot of bastards and unreliable narrators, and I’m good at making it clear that they’re in the wrong, or avoiding acknowledging something, without, yknow, having them look at the camera and go “remember, abusing people is Wrong!” or whatever.