#guilt

[grungekitty-77]

Not that anybody asked, but I think it's important to understand how shame and guilt actually work before you try to use it for good.

It's a necessary emotion. There are reasons we have it. It makes everything so. much. worse. when you use it wrong.

Shame and guilt are DE-motivators. They are meant to stop behavior, not promote it. You cannot, ever, in any meaningful way, guilt someone into doing good. You can only shame them into not doing bad.

Let's say you're a parent and your kid is having issues.

Swearing in class? Shame could work. You want them to stop it. Keep it in proportion*, and it might help. *(KEEP IT IN PROPORTION!!!)

Not doing their homework? NO! STOP! NO NOT DO THAT! EVER! EVER! EVER! You want them to start to do their homework. Shaming them will have to opposite effect! You have demotivated them! They will double down on NOT doing it. Not because they are being oppositional, but because that's what shame does!

You can't guilt people into building better habits, being more successful, or getting more involved. That requires encouragement. You need to motivate for that stuff!

If you want it in a simple phrase:

You can shame someone out of being a bad person, but you can't shame them into being a good person.

[fakedoe]

[tragictaleofshikyou]

I think there's horror media that's really similar to this, where the character is 'guilty' of something but from an external perspective it was not really bad. In the story, it makes their situation feel more inevitable and helpless

I think a fun revivalist genre would be like, overbearingly didact medieval morality plays but with absolutely incomprehensible morals. like here's a heavy-handed fable about how if you use the past tense too many times while talking to your nieces, all of your milk will spoil

[simonn0el]

I Hope The Guilt Eats You Alive

[aventurineswife]

HEYYYYYYY if I can may I ask for Aventurine, Sunday and Dan Hang protecting reader when they get badly injured protecting them please ( I’ve been desperate for some angst and comfort recently with them 😭😭 )

“If I Fall, Let It Be for You”

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Protectiveness, Sacrifice, Vulnerability, Emotional Conflict, Guilt, Platonic or Romantic Love, Selflessness, Inner Struggles.

Warnings: Graphic injury, Blood, Violence, Desperation, Guilt, Emotional distress, Death-related themes.

A/N: Hope you like this!! 🫣

The battlefield stretched before you, a blur of smoke and chaos. You had acted on instinct—throwing yourself in front of Dan Heng to block a strike meant for him. The blade tore through your side, pain radiating through your body as you stumbled.

“[Name]!” Dan Heng’s voice, usually so calm and composed, cracked as he caught you in his arms. His eyes widened, a rare display of emotion breaking through his stoic mask.

You gave him a weak smile, your hand clutching the bleeding wound. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

His jaw tightened, and his grip on you was firm yet trembling. “You should never have done that.” There was an edge to his voice, sharp and laden with guilt.

You tried to speak, but the pain was overwhelming. Darkness crept at the edges of your vision, and you felt yourself fading.

“Stay with me,” Dan Heng ordered, his voice softer now but no less desperate. He cradled you closer, his usually steady hands pressing against your wound to stem the bleeding. “You can’t leave me. Not like this.”

He carried you swiftly to a safe spot behind the ruins, shielding you from the chaos. His spear, Cloud-Piercer, stood guard nearby, its sharp tip still dripping with the blood of your enemies. Dan Heng tore a strip of fabric from his coat, fashioning a makeshift bandage to stop the bleeding.

“Why?” he asked quietly, his gaze fixed on your pale face. “Why would you put yourself in harm’s way for me?”

You managed a weak chuckle despite the pain. “Because I care about you, Dan Heng. Even if you keep pushing people away, I won’t stop protecting you.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, his usual reserve cracked. “I don’t deserve it. Not after everything I’ve done… everything I’ve failed to prevent.”

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, your hand reaching up to brush against his cheek. “You’re worth it to me.”

Dan Heng’s eyes softened, guilt and sorrow mingling with something deeper—something he had tried so hard to suppress. He didn’t speak, but his actions spoke volumes. He leaned into your touch, his fingers brushing your hair as if trying to commit every detail of you to memory.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised, his voice low but resolute. “Not again.”

Dan Heng stayed by your side, his spear within reach, ready to defend you from any further threat. The battle raged on around you, but his focus never wavered. He wasn’t just protecting you now—he was protecting the fragile hope you had given him, the chance for something beyond the weight of his past.

And in his quiet way, Dan Heng vowed to repay the trust you had shown him, no matter the cost.

The echoes of the gunfire still reverberated in the empty corridors, a cruel reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. Aventurine stood frozen for a moment, the world around him slowing to a crawl. The usually confident smirk plastered on his face had vanished, replaced by a rare expression of raw, unfiltered fear.

You lay crumpled on the ground, your blood pooling beneath you. You had thrown yourself in front of him, a human shield against the sniper's bullet that had been meant for his chest.

“Why?” Aventurine whispered, his voice trembling as he knelt beside you, his gloved hands hesitating before pressing against your wound. His pristine, gold-adorned sleeves soaked in crimson as he tried to stem the bleeding. "You absolute fool. What were you thinking?"

Your eyes fluttered open, a weak smile playing on your lips despite the pain. "Because I knew you'd never let yourself be hit," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "You're too important... too smart to take risks like that."

Aventurine let out a bitter laugh, one that sounded more like a sob. "And yet here you are, bleeding out because of me," he muttered, his tone laced with guilt and frustration. "You're supposed to stay out of the crossfire, not throw yourself into it like some kind of martyr."

The mask he wore so effortlessly in high-stakes games and political negotiations shattered in that moment. He was no longer the composed strategist, the man who always had a plan. He was just Kakavasha—terrified, helpless, and desperate to keep you alive.

“Stay with me,” he commanded, his voice shaking as he pulled out his communicator and barked orders for immediate medical assistance. “You don’t get to leave like this. Not here, not now.”

Your hand weakly reached up, brushing against his cheek. "I trust you, Aventurine," you whispered, your voice faltering. "You'll fix this... you always do."

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he pressed his forehead against yours. "I’m a gambler, not a miracle worker," he admitted softly, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. "But if there’s one thing I never bet against... it’s you."

The minutes felt like hours as he stayed by your side, murmuring reassurances that neither of you believed. His mind raced, calculating odds and outcomes, but none of his usual strategies could guarantee your survival. For the first time in years, Aventurine felt powerless.

When the medics finally arrived, he refused to leave your side, riding with you to the emergency unit despite their protests. As the doors closed behind them and the sterile lights flickered above, Aventurine made a silent vow.

No matter the cost, he would ensure you lived to see another gamble, another day by his side. Because without you, even victory would feel like defeat.

The clash of blades and the sound of explosions filled the air, but Sunday’s focus was solely on you. The two of you had been ambushed, and though he had held his ground, one stray attacker had slipped through his defenses, aiming for his unprotected flank.

You hadn’t hesitated. You’d stepped in without thinking, intercepting the blow meant for him. Now, you lay slumped against a ruined wall, clutching your side as blood seeped through your fingers.

“Why... why would you do that?” Sunday asked, his voice trembling as he knelt beside you. His eyes, usually so calm and composed, were wide with panic. He pressed his hands over yours, trying to stop the bleeding. The glow of his halo seemed dimmer, as if it mirrored the dread coursing through him.

“You needed protecting,” you gasped, a weak smile crossing your lips. “That’s what friends do, right?”

“Foolish,” Sunday whispered, his tone a mixture of frustration and anguish. "I am the one who should be protecting you." He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, his gloved hands trembling. “You shouldn’t have to suffer because of me.”

Your hand reached for his, squeezing weakly. "You’re worth it."

Sunday’s breath hitched, and for a moment, his dignified mask crumbled. "No one is worth losing you," he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Not even me.”

The world around the two of you seemed to fade away as Sunday focused solely on keeping you conscious. He whispered soft reassurances, his usually formal tone replaced with a raw, desperate plea. “Stay with me,” he urged. “I’ll fix this. I swear it.”

Using his limited healing abilities, Sunday poured his energy into stabilizing you. The effort left him visibly drained, his face pale and his breaths labored, but he refused to stop. "I’ve seen too much suffering," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "I won’t allow it to claim you."

As reinforcements arrived and medical aid was administered, Sunday stood by your side, his presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. When you were finally safe, he let out a shaky breath, brushing his thumb across your knuckles.

"You risked yourself for me," he said quietly, his eyes softening. “But know this: I will never allow you to come to harm again. You are too precious to lose.”

In that moment, you saw a side of Sunday he rarely revealed—a man burdened by the weight of his ideals, yet willing to fight against them for the sake of someone he cherished.

[catnykit]

NOOOOOOOOO LORELAIII, JOEYYYYY >:(((((( AAAAA LORELAIIII NOOOO

Crash Out

Nimrod II

(Content: drugs, past abuse, guilt, guns, blades, female whumpee, female whumper, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper, blood, alcohol, wound care, comfort)

Listening to the radio while he was high was always risky. It put him at its mercy. On this day, no matter what station played, the notes came out dark and ominous. He was sure it was not the radio’s fault, the way his thoughts drifted. But he wasn’t there enough to make sure. Whatever played, he kept thinking of her.

It wasn’t that he was viciously scarred. From each scuffle, he never walked away too injured. But there was too little time in between them to heal and they all compounded. He’d had to limp away, one day. It was almost too much. 

The fights were bad and the moments in between were worse. He felt impatient about it. There was a great sense of inevitability, knowing it was coming, almost willing it to. Then it would. Then it would be over. Then it would be time to wait again. 

Eight years old in the doctor’s office, tetanus shot. Is it going to hurt?

Yes, yes, it’s going to hurt.

Johanna always hit back. She gave just as good as she got. He’d learned to be careful about that. If he went for her eyes — which he never would have before, would have never been that desperate — she’d try and got for his right back. Hers would heal; his wouldn’t. He had to be careful not to maim her too bad when they were fighting.

But you have to be lucky always, and I only have to be lucky once.

The inevitability was the worst. She kept coming back. It was why he only walked away with bruises, little cuts, never taken down all the way but taken down a little each time until he couldn’t fight anymore. She’d been very lucky recently. She was having too much fun with it.

They were both unarmed at the last skirmish. It’d been devolving into a street fight, when she’d just reached out to slap him like she was annoyed at him. Or maybe just because she could. Her nails raked the side of his face, leaving stinging scratches along it. The whole effect was so disorienting that it had given her the win. He’d been too shocked to move after.

He hadn’t been slapped since he was a child. And he hadn’t been scraped up like that since Delta. But at least when Delta had done it, he knew the cuts were fucking clean. He worried just how many other people’s blood was beneath her nails, what diseases they might’ve been carrying. He had scrubbed at his face until the skin was red. 

He traced the new marks, using the same arm that Delta had scratched up so bad. That arm had new injuries now, but the claw marks were still visible just beneath them. If they hadn’t healed now, they probably never would. 

He remembered how flinchy Delta had been, even when he wasn’t getting hurt. He always expected it. Paris realized just how badly frayed his nerves must have been, living with that constant anticipation. He felt a little bad. As a general rule, he tried not to inflict anything that he hadn’t experienced himself. But he’d forgotten just how jarring it was to get slapped like that. Not painful as much as it was startling. Very effective. He’d done it to Delta like it was nothing, so regularly that the bruise never left his face. 

Paris’s own flinch response was just as bad now; he wondered if it’d stay that way forever. Delta’s had never gone away. It was worst right before the end.

Paris tried not to think about it.

========

Something hit the ground hard just behind her. She felt a sharp tug at her back.

“Hey there, little lady,” in a voice right next to her hear, soft and teasing. Johanna’s hand was wrapped around the grip of the gun. It was strapped too tightly for her to slip out of. She held her steady there. Lorelai stilled like a scruffed kitten.

“Out by your lonesome, daaarlin’?” She drawled in a mockery of her accent, the same way the kids at the school had. Even now, there was something playful in Johanna’s voice. Still, Lorelai bristled. She didn’t sound like that. 

She felt the weight leave her back as the knife cut through the strap. How sharp the blade must’ve been to move so cleanly. The gun was pulled away from her body. Johanna threw it a good distance into the bush, all the way out of her sight. For a moment, nothing held her there. Lorelai lurched forward suddenly, but was quickly pulled back by the new grip on her wrist. Bruising touch. Johanna spun her back around, pushing her up against the tree. The bark pricked against her face.

“Hold still,” Johanna folded Lorelai’s arms behind her head. She felt the leather gloves traveling over her, patting down her body for any other weapons. There were none. The other gun was still in the ship.

“He’s not even here,” Lorelai said quietly, not moving. 

“Yeah, I know.” Johanna spun her back around to face her. She had a shark smile. It was scarier when she was dead, but it wasn’t much better when she was alive. “It’s just business with him. With you, it’s personal.”

Wrist grip. She should’ve known how to escape it, but the knife in the offhand changed things. Nothing stopping her, she’d been warned. Lorelai Winn was not wanted alive. Her wrist was held firm, tight, pulled back past the other girl’s hip while brandished the knife right by her face. 

“Paris gets what he gives. Not like you. You’re a runner. All those shots and not a scar to show for it.”

She squeaked. The sound embarrassed her, but the pressure on her wrist was getting bad. It got worse when she tried to pull away. She brought her free arm up in front of her, but the thought of having to protect her body with more body, of having to make the knife drive through her arm before it could get the rest of her, made her dizzy enough to faint.

“I’m not - I don’t - um - aah?” She pulled back abruptly, unsuccessfully, as the knife came up to her throat. It was all panic then. She kicked out hard against Johanna’s calves, kneeing her in the stomach. The grip didn’t release — Johanna only pulled her closer — but they did roll. Johanna threw her down onto the ground and landed just on top of her. 

Her wrist was turning purple where it was pinned above her head. Johanna cooed when she struggled. Fuck, she was strong. She positioned her body like it was a cage, bones over bones, pressure on the pressure points. 

Johanna briefly held the knife between her teeth as she trapped Lorelai’s other wrist. Once they were together, Johanna could hold them both down with one hand. She took the knife out of her mouth and spun it.

“You’re in my way a lot, y’know that?” Johanna asked, all her humor gone. Lorelai struggled beneath her, but even the minute movements hurt with how she was pinned. 

“You and that damn gun. I’ve always hated them. You don’t need skill to shoot a gun. You don’t even need to know what you’re doing. And you don’t. You don’t know what you’re doing when you’re pulling that trigger, do you?”

Incredibly, Lorelai still found it somewhere within her to be offended. Shooting was second nature to her. She was the state champion. She understood well enough. That thought was cut short as the knife skimmed her jaw.

“That’s what the distance does. Fifty yards effective range on that gun, I’d bet. How are you gonna learn anything all the way over there? You don’t know about violence. You don’t know about pain. You know what it feels like to be shot, Lorry? It doesn’t feel good!”

She tilted the knife at each word, from edge to point. Little pinpricks of blood appeared in four places. It was almost too sharp to feel. Almost. Lorelai cried out in fear, driving her knee up into Johanna’s stomach. The huntress seemed more bothered by the noise than the blow.

“Oh shut up,” Johanna let her arms free abruptly, sitting up so she was just straddling her lap.

She pushed Johanna off. Johanna fell back easily to let her up, giving her a few seconds to scramble away. Away — not upwards. The minute she started to rise, Johanna yanked her back by the end of her dress, straight back into the dirt. The knife turned over in her hand right before it slashed down against her forearm. Lorelai screamed.

“Yeah, it fucking hurts, right?!?!”

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts.

She’d never been good with pain, couldn’t handle the sight of her own blood. The candy red color of it splashed down onto her dress, spilling like a faucet, scaring her so much she could not breathe. She didn’t even know if she could move it, the sight of it now foreign to her, the whole limb made alien by the gore. She sobbed on the ground.

Johanna clambered to her feet, standing over her, spinning the knife. 

“You got me in the head sometimes. If we’re being even, I should carve out your sphenoid. But mostly you just got me in the chest. We can start there.”

Lorelai was writhing too much to get a good angle, but she still pressed the blade just by her breastbone. She felt just the tip of it enter.

But it was Johanna’s chest that got punctured through. The blade emerged from it suddenly, right through the heart with practiced grace. Lorelai watched as the sword turned inside her clockwise, as it it was a key. The flesh made a soft squishing sound as it was twisted, though she only just heard it over the sound of her own crying. 

The blade withdrew. Paris let Johanna’s body fall to the side. Her vision was too blurred by tears to make out his expression, but he knelt down on the ground beside her. 

“Let me see.” 

Her arm hurt too bad to move, too much to even clutch. She held it out fearfully, as if keeping it away from her body would keep the hurt from reaching her. He touched it gingerly, keeping the wound level to avoid spillage. He pressed the handkerchief over it. The blood soaked through immediately.

“Hold it there, please.” His voice was calmer than it had any right to be. It was all field training. 

She shook her head no. It hurt too bad. She’d get the blood on her hand.

He reached over for Johanna’s knife, cutting a strip of fabric off of her jacket. He tied it in a tourniquet above Lorelai’s elbow. She winced at the tightness. She couldn’t think of anything but the pain. 

Johanna’s body twitched a little. Lorelai yelped. Paris stabbed it again, in the same spot.

“Leave it in,” Lorelai managed through sobs. They hadn’t tried it yet. Paris left the sword wedged into the ground with Johanna’s body still wrapped around it. He quickly retrieved the shotgun from among the brambles and returned to her side.

========

The ship was in autopilot as it coasted through space. He’d climbed back into the backseat with her, cross-legged with the kit in his lap. Lorelai breathed irregularly, still holding her arm out like it’d bite her, crying endlessly.

“I’m just going to clean it. Just water. I promise it won’t hurt.” His hands hesitated around the knot. She nodded weakly. He slipped the gloves on, letting the handkerchief fall onto the ship floor. The whole thing would need to be deep cleaned after this. He unscrewed the water bottle with one hand, emptying it over the wound. It splashed loudly as it ran off of her arm and onto the floor. 

Lorelai whimpered, unable to even look at it. She sobbed when she felt fingers traced it, the towel pushing over it.

“Is it bad?” Her breath hitched badly. There was mucus in the back of her throat.

His expression told her everything she needed to know. She bawled.

“No. No, it’s not bad,” he said unconvincingly. 

She shook her head, losing it.

“Lorry, it’s not bad. I know it…hurts a lot, probably, but the cut was clean. The tissue’s barely damaged,” he insisted. 

He paused like he was searching for something in her expression. After a minute, he seemed to come to a decision. He sighed.

“Here.” He reached into the back for one of the high ABV spirits. For a brief and terrible second, she thought he was going to pour it over the wound. But he just pushed it into the hand of her uninjured arm. She took it gratefully, drinking it quickly in spite of the way it burned her throat. She wished it could kick in faster.

“I’m just putting the antiseptic on. Not the burning kind. Won’t hurt.” He concentrated back in on the wound. She felt the coldness, then the pressure as the bandages wound around her arm. She glanced back down. All of it was covered; it wasn’t as large as it had looked with the blood everywhere. Her crying slowed a little.

His fingers slid down to her wrist. It was discolored — a swollen, shifting purple. She winced even at the minimal pressure.

“Can you move it?” He tilted her palm up a bit. “I know it hurts, but can you move it?”

She sniffled. He rotated it slowly. She let out a soft cry when it moved too far to the side, but it was a dull pain. Just bruised. He let it return to its natural position. His thumb soothed over the skin on the back of her hand. He kissed her knuckles, bloodied as they were.

========

By the time the alcohol wore off, the pain was already better. She laid fully reclined in the passenger seat, holding the bandaged arm over her forehead. She held it up to examine it.

“It’s really okay?” She asked in a soft voice.

“It’ll be fine. I want to put surgical glue on it when we stop somewhere, but I don’t think you  even need it.”

“Then why did you look at me that way?” She was sure she’d seen it. The fear in his eyes. 

She couldn’t see his expression now, but he rolled his shoulder a bit, the way he did when he wanted to avoid conversations. She’d seen it too frequently not to recognize the tell. After a few moments, he relented.

“…I just didn’t expect you to cry like that.”

She frowned. For the strangest reason, she felt like she should apologize.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[incognitopolls]

"Historical atrocities" could include slavery, war crimes, genocide/massacres, residential schools, lynchings, etc.

–

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[whumpster-dumpster]

The moment of dawning horror when they register that they just hurt someone they didn't mean to (especially if it's that one specific person they swore to protect)

[ky-landfill]

[acewhowantsspace]

Why are romantic relationships valued way more than platonic relationships? You telling me I have to pretend I'm not hurt because the bond I've spent my whole life building with my sibling is being placed lower than hers with her partner?

You telling me I have to be okay with that?

[in-tenebris-et-in-solitudine]

In Darkness and in Solitude

[feral-ballad]

Craig Morgan Teicher, from To Keep Love Blurry; “Lines in the Rain”

[liakunemui]

“ Your friends are wrong about you. The person they love isn't you at all. ”

speedpaint!

[bamsara]

Not sure if I'm reading too hard into to things, but I'm wondering if there's an intentional change in the way Dream Lamb behaves with Narinder in his dreams? Like in the beginning Dream Lamb used to flirt with and mock Narinder for his feelings for Lambert back when he was still in denial. But now as we're progressing in the story and Narinder is slowly accepting that he has these feelings, Dream Lamb is instead reminding Narinder of all the bad things he did to Lmabert, while intentional or not. Basically trying to convince Narinder that even though he has these feelings, Lambert will never reciprocate them.

death cat begins to experience remorse

[davidaugust]