#implied csa tw

[nerves-nebula]

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pages 44-46

I know im being dramatic, but art is the best place to be dramatic so leave me alone. Also, commission me, i’m so broke rn.

[seamuswrynn]

Could you speak on what your siblings were like back in the day?

I was the youngest of four and grew up with two older sisters and an older brother. Their names were Moira, Eileen and Declan.

Moira was a very hard woman, but I suppose you had to be if you wanted to get by. Her being a decade older than myself made it difficult for us to find any common ground; I was a deeply sensitive child too, which did little to advance our relationship. Declan was far less fond of her than I was for reasons I cannot fault.

Ultimately, however, I do not blame Moira for her actions; to be a Wrynn is to be born doomed. I came to understand that when I learned it was not a workplace accident which reduced Declan to a crippled shell of whom he once was, but Moira's own fury. I then understood that to be a Wrynn is to be born of cursed blood; I cannot possibly fault Moira for inheriting my father's temper or my mother's desolation when there was little virtue to inherit in the first place.

I loved Eileen deeply and I still do; I know she loved me as much as I loved her. She was the most intelligent and exhilarating woman I knew. Illness claimed her when I was quite young, leaving her bedridden and occupying the only room we had when we were younger. However, I would often spend the night with her, and she would be sure to express her appreciation of my company. :)

She was a woman who was in a lot of pain, and that she decided she could share not just her pain but her love with me. She felt I was the only person who understood her, and that is the greatest honor to me. Her death was untimely, and it was only once she died that I could truly appreciate everything she did for me. I miss her deeply.

[lycankeyy]

I feel like I can only use "I wrote a fuckton yesterday" as an excuse to not write today if I actually post what I wrote, so here you go LMAO. I don't want to put this on AO3 because it feels too serious and also AU-dependant. It's basically just Pico rambling about stuff. Heed the content warnings

[giritina]

I posted a new fanfic :) well rly an old one that I cleaned up

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64081219

[gcldfanged]

“I want to know who you loved.”

[Trigger Warnings: CSAM mention, mutilation/bodily injury, disassociation, trafficking mention, implied CSA. ]

Jae had to recall that he himself had offered to finally answer all of Hewley's inquires with complete honesty. It'd seemed like a good idea at the time, he'd thought the worst of their confrontations had already passed and been deemed somewhat acceptable- Capable of a certain amount of consideration, on the SOLDIER's part.

"You want an itemized list, or...?" he asks with an entirely neutral and eerily calm countenance, the inscrutable sharpness of his features seeming to appear that much starker in the dim lighting of his apartment.

"How much do you really know?"

A pall of silence hangs between them, slowly as a cautious arachnid might descend from a single line of silk.

"First: KUMGANG is a restaurant business acting as a front for one of the largest immigrant-run operations in Midgar's underground. Of course, I'm the current Head."

There's a brief but hollow flash of a smile that makes his fangs glint a sickly golden-green in the florescence of the kitchen bulbs.

"Second: Junon and Midgar have long been involved with global trafficking rings led by various criminal networks. Shinra decided to cut all ties with Wall Market's more ambitious circles under their admittedly loose supervision, but only after they branched out into more... lucrative areas of demand. PHS systems are good for more than simple data management- They've become imperative for recording, sharing, and networking with private clients. Live broadcasts of personal 'debuts' are always heavily sought after once the producers find the right potential that they can mold, reshape into whatever content they need most. Easiest to harvest 'em young, y'know... Unspoiled and underripe."

Yoon glances down at the various ugly patches of thicker skin marring his knuckles from broken and reset bones. He flexes those crooked fingers and some of them barely even move the way they naturally should, lacking that smooth interconnectivity.

"You made such a sad expression before- When you thought it was limited to my hands," the Turk laughs genuinely, eyes now alight with the sour bite of retrospective bitter amusement.

The metal chair he's seated at screeches when he pushes to his feet. The dress shirt he normally dons for work hanging from his thinner frame is suddenly pulled open, small buttons clattering and bouncing off of the stained linoleum floor. It's a quick, but thorough process- Not a show to be enjoyed nor savored. Scars layered upon scars flex and pull at sections of yet untouched honey-olive toned skin.

They cover most of his body, a disjointed web of old lacerations spreading all over his limber physique like cracked glass. Longer fine-lines crisscross, looking more like the kinds of carefully applied scars a makeup artist would render upon a new film's haunted warrior protagonist: a perfect 'X' stretching over a forearm.

There are healed over nicks in the flesh here and there, as if shallow stabbing can be imagined as a casual activity- Deeper toned, raised keloid scars that ached and lacked elasticity. Atrophic scars from cigarette burns overlapping, 'ice-pick' holes and wider sunken pits of missing flesh and pink-reddish contractures- even gouges that had proven too difficult to cosmetically treat.

It wasn't like every scar 'told a story'. Or if they did, it was a really shitty one.

"After awhile, you start to forget how it feels. The pain, the awareness of what happens becomes more... distant, like a memory of a dream that evaporates as soon as you find the coherency to recall all the little details," he admits, running the pad of his finger along an old burn mark.

The flesh had hardened up as it healed, became shrunken like plastic wrap and eventually split open- revealing paler layers of newly grown satiny-soft skin. Kind of like being reborn, in a weird way- Searing away impurities, wabi-sabi and all that.

"Burning hair stink is the worst, though."

He crinkles his nose and smirks, in full anticipation of what he knows is coming: the dawning realization, visible discomfort upon having the naked truth of society laid bare in a perverse litany carved into his smaller body. The disgust over such knowledge that a whole sordid range of human injustices can and will happen, every day. That the most vulnerable of the herd make the most ideal and easy targets to isolate and lure astray, drag them wailing and kicking into the darkness of the hunter's lair.

[angeltrapz]

ohhh my god (uh. trauma talk in tags)

[rosarionegro]

"You need to drop your pitiful attitude, Punisher. What hardships have you even really been through? The orphanage? Growing up with food in your stomach and surrounded by people who cared about you? The experiments? Do you simply not understand how dangerous this world is? To give you such power and to allow you to serve the strongest person on this rotten planet, you're in a safer position than so many. Is that not worth a little pain? A little suffering? Easy access to food, shelter, weapons... Do you not understand how lucky we are? But you cry and whine and complain. You don't know a thing about suffering. The things I went through before meeting Him would break you. Everything I endured, but you're life is so difficult because... What? Because you grew up a little quick? Because sometimes you have to kill awful people? You're pathetic. You're weak. We should never have bothered with you; your brother is far superior."

Nicholas is ready for another speech about how emotions are unnecessary, that attachments will only hold him back. What comes next has him frozen in place, eyes wide but unseeing, a sudden flush of shame burning the entirety of his face and ears.

Legato isn't even yelling or screaming, he's not throwing things around with his powers. Just verbally laying into him deeper than any scourge or whip could on him physically. There's a cold, logical vehemence in the timbre of his voice- The kind that he recognizes. A sort of... dead quality, devoid of any reasonable emotion. There is no sorrow. There are no indignant tears.

"You don't know a thing about suffering."

He can feel them. Livio's dull eyes searing into his own, more obdurate than stone, yet veins of molten resentment and hatred burn so hotly beneath it all.

It wasn't just him, either. There had been a girl who he'd helped to come out of her shell, little by little, centimeter by centimeter. Then one day they found her huddled up into a ball in the corner of the bathroom with blood stains on her pants. Nicholas hadn't understood what it was at the time, but he'd been worried. He tried to cover her lap with a towel and his presence only made things worse- She screamed in terror, crying out apologies to a father that wasn't there, clawing at her own skin like it was covered in ants. The matron had shoved him aside and told him to leave and he hadn't understood why, either. He'd been hurt, a little angry. He just wanted to help.

The retrospective horror that dawned on him much later in life left a hard knot in his guts. So pathetic, so weak. Blissfully ignorant.

He had no memory of his parents. There was a big white nothing where people should have stood- He'd been given up so early, he didn't have any concept of their appearance or even voices. Unlike the rest, he'd been given to the orphanage in hopes that he might find a better life, with a family that had the means to take care of him.

He'd been lucky, he had been loved enough that he wasn't just abandoned or thrown out on the streets. An unkind hand had never touched him. He'd never had insecurity about when or where his next meal might come from.

And then it's over. Legato turns his back and gracefully walks away, like he'd simply kicked an errant stone aside with his foot, or trod upon an insect and wiped his heel on the grass.

He stands there, motionless, for what feels like an eternity. He wasn't even sure if his lungs were still holding air. His back hits the wall and he fumbles for a cigarette, fingers jittery and a bit too rough with his lighter. The first hit of tobacco is like morphine flowing into his veins, a calming clarity in his addict's brain.

[awesomeuchuu]

Leo - ✘ - Do the...things that happened to you in your past ever make Intimacy difficult now? Are you honest about that with partners?

"How do you kno--"

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Head turned away, arms hugging himself, he's the very image of someone who does not want to speak. Not about this. Not now, not ever.

But he can't seem to keep quiet.

"I don't understand why you know, but... This is super rude. Okay? I don't like it! But... But... Yeah, well... Duh! Of course it's difficult! It's a fucking nightmare! ...And I can't talk about it. I mean, how would I even start?!"

"...And if they don't believe me, then..."

[astrateiaa]

I submitted a request for an ask game hosted by @streetlight-halo . But then I realized I wanted to do my own version too, so have song #38 on my Revolutionary Girl Utena playlist with Nanami. The song is “I Bet on Losing Dogs” by Mitski, but I think everyone knows that already lol

[arielluva]

the director

still images under the cut (tw for allusions to csa)

[sanriopupwife]

Please Don't Randomly Call People AFAB/AMAB

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB As Medical Terms

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB As Female/Male

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB As Vagina/Penis

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB As An Adjective

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB On Others Without Consent

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB Without Knowing Its History In The Intersex Community

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB If You Don't Support Intersex People

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB If You Don't Listen To Intersex People

Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB If You Can't Be An Intersex Ally

TLDR; Please Don't Use AFAB/AMAB If You Can't Love And Support Its Original Community, Please Don't Use It As Something Other Than A Descriptor For An Event, Please Don't Be A Dick

And Most Of All: Remember AFAB, AMAB, AXAB, just AGAB in general originated from intersex people describing the label the doctors gave them at birth. It's not an identity, it's an event. It's not an adjective or descriptor, it's a noun. It's not a replacement for female/male or vagina/penis or anything like that, it's what label intersex people got slapped onto them when they were born, and in CAGAB's case the one they were forcibly assigned through unneeded medical intervention to mutilate their intersex body.

You've heard 'listen to your queer elders' a thousand times. Listen to your queer intersex elders, please. I'm not an elder by any means but if you want people like me to be safe and happy enough to live to become one, PLEASE. Listen to intersex people.

(oh, and remember i'm a child. I'm upset. i'm venting, i'm complaining, i'm ranting. don't get fucking rude.)

[gcldfanged]

Jae tried to block it out, but he could still hear it- the especially mordant little hisses of whispered conversations between the others. He was keenly aware of his surroundings, especially being forced within close proximity of fellow team members. They weren’t his friends, but he would protect them. They hated him, but he didn’t mind it. This mission wasn’t about them.

They were angry because they didn’t want to be ‘saddled with the load in the kiddie-suit’, a mere boy of a ‘rifleman’ carrying a water and shock-proof hard case. If it weren’t for the rollers, Jae-hyo would have earnestly struggled to find a high vantage point to set up. Fifty-three inches in length, protection for up to one-meter fully submerged with a rubber gasket lining, padlock adaptable fittings, included pressure equalization valve. It snugly housed the weapon parts themselves, along with its buffer tube, optics, rangefinder (though he didn’t really need one), scope rings- Even empty or simply filled with the three-layer deep foam padding, it weighed around twenty-five pounds. 

The ‘Turk-Lite’ was viewed as little more than the Director’s rabies-afflicted pet project. Some wretched thing the ‘old man hadn’t had the stomach to put out of its misery’. Did they think he was truly that ignorant? On the other hand, he supposed that someone had died that night. His old self was no more than a rotting corpse, probably still clinging to Masanori's heavily-tattooed forearm spotted by brackish-blue track marks and expecting him to just wake up, as if being gutted (but at trachea level) into the human equivalent of an open can was a mild oversight.

That’s why his superior had sent him to the front lines- Right into the scarred and bleeding heart of live combat. Jae normally had entire weeks to stalk and familiarize himself with his prey. Learning their habits, routines, how they took their coffee, if they had close family or friends that could be used for possible instances of ‘gentle persuasion’. The teenaged boy with his dark eyes and blank face easily memorized body language, slang or colloquialisms used, the crooked offset to a hastily knotted tie- Until predator and prey nearly joined as one singular organism, though his role was more that of an unseen and unnoticed parasite.

He’d always had the luxury of distance.

The last time Yoon had engaged in close-quarters fighting, it had been the usual song and dance. Find a seedy bar, pick a reasonably drunk target. Despite being too young, it was always the eyes that drew them in- Some strange tell, like a birthmark or physical tic. It was truly visible once he got closer, a familiarity that had steeped for too long within the soul. He existed in a time and space far beyond the meager number of years attached to his body, as if time had never been a linear progression to begin with but a confluence of infinite moments all occurring simultaneously- Branching apart and rejoining at major historical outcomes. 

He’d died. A hundred-thousand times, but they were only ever little deaths- Like that Wutaian phrase ‘Death By A Thousand Cuts’, but each one had left a stain, some corrosion and weathering on what should have been left intact and untouched.

It was practiced. Others his age attended dance rehearsals, he lured targets into dark unpopulated corners and dim back-alleys to beat them into submission. It’s not a fond memory, but one of failure staining his otherwise perfect track-record. He’d picked the wrong sort, a man all too familiar with pain, but only from the vantage point of giving it. All he remembered was being thrown, literally- Up and through the empty space between where he once stood and some old metal shutter keeping an auto repair shop closed. Hit it at a bad angle, hit the ground at an even worse one that knocked every speck of oxygen from his lungs, seized his limbs into rigor mortis. Made some wounded animal noise, like a fawn being struck with an arrow except it was a size twelve steel-toed military boot lodging itself straight into his organs. And in that moment, it was like Ji-ho’s mummified remains had clawed its way out of the casket and breached topsoil- Sending him into a strange, passive state that could do nothing but emit frantic apologies like some wrinkled Han throat-singer’s religious mantra chanted over and over until the words lost all meaning. Blood had hit his face in a warm spray, the silencer muffling the sound of the nine-millimeter bullet surgically exiting the side of the skull into something softer- Barely more than the discharge of a hardware store nail-gun. Verdot had looked maybe a touch distressed, or he had been hallucinating the entire thing. Either way, it was an abysmally unsuccessful mission.

Public Security had managed to narrow down traits of potential canine partners during the first year of their lives, putting them through basic tests to gauge responsiveness, length of attention span, and that ever coveted and hard-wired hunter’s instinct. Rifle being sent to Wutai was the last stage of that- Proof that the pup had an innate taste for blood, not simply the obedience to maul a grown man’s leg off when ordered to.

The General had called to him from his perch beneath the hanging fronds, Jae having managed to somehow wedge himself into a narrow fissure within the side of the rock face. It eventually opened up into rain-soaked earth and many useful examples of plant cover- A more than appropriate place to mask the presence of his high-powered sniper rifle. Hidden behind enough clustered foliage, but not so dense as to obstruct his line of sight- It really was the perfect spot for him to keep a literal eye on everything. Valentine at his prime had set the record, and even beaten it by the time the war had escalated in earnest: Three-thousand, five-hundred and forty meters, the longest confirmed kill of agent history. Would he be the one to surpass it?

After ensuring his long-ranged firearm wouldn’t endanger the group (assuming a SOLDIER cadet didn’t purposely mess with it), the Turk carefully scaled down the jagged layers of water-carved rock ledges and clay to regroup with the rest of the unit. Dinner did, admittedly, smell great- He hadn’t expected much, even less for their resident cook to get impressively bold with an ingredient as pungent and generally disliked (by Top-Platers, anyway) as garlic.

He couldn’t help casting furtive little glances in the General’s direction. When he’d been in early training- the very apex of skill, the best of the best- had obviously been Verdot’s former partner. Being in the presence of a living legend who was even stronger than Vincent Valentine was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Rifle hoped that he would be able to learn immensely from such a skilled combatant. 

When he was offered a portion of leftovers, the young Turk accepted the extended cup with both hands. “Thank you, Sir-” he managed to tack on at the last minute, suddenly finding the table surface visually magnetic. 

Distracted, though on his absolute best behavior as he was, when the silver-haired First Class abruptly stood to reach for his weapon- So did Jae-hyo. His dominant hand immediately fell to the holstered side-arm concealed inside the belt and waistband of his tailored slacks, releasing his issued pistol into a clearly familiar and confident grip.

Like a young hound having caught the scent he needed to track, the young man was alert, but not visibly nervous (yet). Perhaps it was a mixture of adrenaline and anticipatory focus fueling his responses, but he nodded firmly (easily) in response to General Sephiroth’s order. 

“Yes, sir!”

With that, the SOLDIERS moved into formation, leaving the agent to take his own position while minding his surroundings and maintaining visual acuity of their leader.

he was made for war , but he does not desire it. does a toaster have the desire to warm bread , a vending machine to dispense hot coffee of mediocre quality? of course sephiroth was no machine , and machines did not have thoughts nor emotions , yet he was treated as a machine. they wished it of him , but did that sentiment extend to his comrades? nothing kept him up at night. nothing plagued his mind , yet sephiroth wondered with each interaction what did his comrades really think of him?

what did this young one , jae-hyo @gcldfanged , think of him? sephiroth's serpentine eyes stared — stared too deeply. he forgot the impact his gaze had on people , and he consciously had to pull away from the turk's side. anyone who considered sephiroth a mindless sadist knew nothing after all. they did not need to know who sephiroth was to be efficient workers , but they had to be prepared to learn ; learn everything there was to be loyal to SHINRA.

suddenly sephiroth exhaled loudly with the slightest hint of mirth in his breath. a warmed cup of beans and meat was nestled in his gloved hands. roasted meat , garlic , and burning wood were in the air. the cup was studied as though it was foreign before he set aside in a half offer to the young turk. eat , you look like you need it. sephiroth was always looking for for his men , but no one really noticed that.

the smallest of tremors disturbed the smallest particles on the ground. it was subtle enough that the other turk and SOLDIERs hardly paused in their conversation. one or two stopped to exchange glances while sephiroth immediately stiffened. there was no volcanic or tectonic activity in the area. this sixth sense for battle kicked in , and his tremendous boots made a clamor as he marched to his resting masamune.

he didn't need to tell the turk to move into action. they moved as one apparently. sephiroth didn't have time to admire to the turk's keen sense , though his eyes did narrow in a way of quiet communication. the second tremor hit by the time they both exited the tent of the makeshift camp , and this time it was enough to send burning embers onto the boots of the resting men. the smell of burning became more intense. dirt and gravel gave way under the heel of his boot as he turned to his men.

❛ and that is our answer to the cease fire. ❜

serpentine eyes gazed at all their faces and lingered longest on jae-hyo.

❛ stay and wait for my signal. ❜

[angeltrapz]

warning for implied csa under the cut. seriously I'm in the process of remembering smth its not pleasant

why do I remember chains why do I remember them connecting to something around my neck why do I remember something soft like some sort of cloth on the inside of the handcuffs so that it didn't rub my skin raw because someone might notice why why why

[eugenoid-draws]

Thinking about how little bodily autonomy Daan possessed his whole life

[bpdmaxxer]

“But he was just a child”

So was I

And I’m suffering and he’s not

[plusfortesensemble]

"People can depend on us anywhere!" Isha argues as if it's the most obvious and annoying thing. Why did it have to be Noxus? Because they had shit enough luck to be born there? She used to think that too. She hasn't for a long time, but it's just a matter of convincing her best friend to her side. "Don't you wanna see the world? Not have to worry about... being a perfect spy? Don't you wanna know who you are without that place breathing down your neck?" She throws the insulting term back at Maddie. Why was Noxus the only land that deserved their loyalty? They could be helping anyone, noxian or not.

She grabs Maddie's hand, the touch nearly forceful but not without care. "Come on," she eggs on with a smirk. "You've never wanted to find yourself on some far flung beach, not a single thing to give a shit about?" It's not the real reason Isha wants to leave, but maybe if they can give all of the pros for leaving, she would just... agree to go with them. They know its not that easy though, they've spent years vaguely dropping hints and they're starting to get desperate. They can't do this anymore, but they won't leave without Maddie.

"With me?" they asked, their hands moving in a hesitant, insecure way. "We could just go. No one would miss us." But Isha would miss her. Their shoulders sage and their eyes fall to the floor, huffing. "I'm fucking tired, Maddie." They'll never be able to wash off the sheer amount of innocent blood on their hands, but maybe they could balance it out. Help those in need instead of forcing them to give up their land and their lives for a blood thirsty, war mongering empire that didn't even care for their own kind?

Isn't Maddie tired too? Isha never understood how Maddie was just... okay after everything that happened to her. The few times Isha hadn't been able to fight off larger people who just wanted to use her body, she'd never really gotten over it despite her brave face, but on the flip side, Maddie had sought it out and used it to her advantage. So Isha had put her everything into learning how to defend the two of them and put food in their stomachs as frequently as she could, but it was never enough. She just wants everything to be... different, normal, okay.

@strxngertogether said ; x

" we don't need anybody. " Yoooo au noxian Isha that grew up with Maddie

// for a second, maddie considers ignoring what isha said like she hadn't said it. doubt isn't something she normally likes creeping into her mind, for as hard as noxian streets were, she wouldn't want them to have been any other way.

if she could go back in time in any way, she doesn't think she would change a thing. noxus' shaped her for the better. sometimes, when she's really down in the slums, she imagines growing up inside of piltover instead, now that she's been here for a few years, but that's a selfish thought that she prefers to bury.

it's been clear to her for a while that isha clung to her more than she does to the emporium, but it's always something that kind of.. confused her. as a child, back in the streets of noxus, it was rare for her to find anyone that wanted her for anything more than what she would offer in exchange for some coin, or food.

of course, isha was closer to her in age, so it makes a little more sense, though for her to stay with her for all these years and never ask for anything in return leaves her baffled, a lot.

glancing around, as if afraid someone might listen in, she finally looks back at isha, biting her lip. " I know what you're- trying to say with that. we're not leaving the emporium for this- place. " the way she refers to piltover is obviously derogatory.

" nor.. nor am I just running off. people depend on us. "

noxus didn't rise because people would run off and desert it. ( like they don't abandon their children often enough. she doesn't think about that hypocrisy. )