#it's glorifying self harm???

[technofeudalism]

every single comment on this post has been nuked by reddit.

per what reddit mods have said, they are apparently cracking down on anything glorifying Luigi Mangione or "promoting violence".

so we're absolutely clear on reddit's opinion of "promoting violence":

r/CombatFootage, which regularly shares high definition, extremely graphic war footage, including drones dropping grenades on prone soldiers in Ukraine/Russia and people having limbs being blown off by explosions, has 1,761,375 subscribers. It is one of the top 500 subreddits by subscribers and in the Top 60 NSFW subreddits.

The Columbine Shooters have a subreddit for discussing the Columbine Killers and their families with over 33,000 members. It has been active since May 5th, 2020.

The Sandy Hook shooter has a subreddit dedicated to discussing him with 3,551 members. Here are some of the posts, in addition to pictures of him as a child. It has been active since December 3rd, 2021. he is also described by a mod of the subreddit as "not a pedophile, but an ephebophile."

The Pennsylvania Weis Markets shooter has a subreddit dedicated to discussing him with 500~ members. It has been active since April 15th, 2022.

The Apalachee High School shooter has a subreddit dedicated to discussing him with 260~ users. It was created the day of the shooting, September 4th, 2024.

if you dig through the frequent contributors to these subreddits, you will find that the vast amount of crossover from the users occurs in communities such as r/teenagers, r/highschool, r/roblox and a wide variety of subreddits dedicated to self harm, severe mental health struggles and other mass killers or topics related to them. totally normal stuff that reddit allows.

this is without seeking out all of the alt-right rat nests that have buried themselves underneath somewhat innocuous-looking community names pushing dog whistles and avoiding overt calls for violence.

every last one of these social media platforms, including the one that we are on, overtly allows glorification and deification of the most notorious, mentally unwell, violent, extremist mass killers in modern history. but if you show any kind of approval of what Luigi Mangione is accused of doing, you are censored not in days, but hours.

i sincerely hope this opens the eyes of people who previously didn't see the forest for the trees. this is what is meant by “they got you fighting a culture war to stop you fighting a class war.” not that our cultures aren't significant or that we don't have differences, but that ultimately, the divide among us lies in wealth, not in skin color.

as long as the "poors" are killing each other, there's no reason for alarm or concern. it's only when the roles are reversed that we see action taken or examples made of people like Luigi Mangione.

[ittybittyfanblog]

for once i am small (in your arms).

Summary: His hands are stained red, blood and viscera—but they hold you gently. You’ve never known comfort like this. Word Count: 6.5k A/N: Happy Easter ?? 😭 Also sorry for the emotional whiplash I get it  While in the middle of proofreading, I wasn't sure whether to even post this fic here or not :') It's a little fucked, and I implore you to HEED THE TAGS before continuing. It's a concept that's been on the drawing board for a while now. It turned out to be less gratuitous, more tragic than I expected it to be…. This is cathartic, for me. It's not going to be for everybody else. Please don’t force yourself to read if this isn’t your jam, or if anything here might be triggering for you. Alright? Alright. Tags: angst/whump, smut, anger issues, mental issues (BPD), heavy themes alluding to past child abuse + CSA, dissociation, introspection, self-harm, implied age gap (NOTHING ILLEGAL, but left vague on purpose, reader POV is unreliable), age regression, pseudo-incest, dub-con, dysfunctional relationships, canon divergence, inspired by the premise of catch-22 but that’s it (also the movie léon, the whole preacher’s daughter album, and, uh, nicole dollanganger’s blue moon motel song lol).

Sylus enters the safehouse where he and his ward are currently holed up for the time being. The place no more than a glorified shack: four sagging walls, a rust-eaten stove, and floorboards that creak like old bones underfoot. Certainly not one of the better dwellings you’ve had, but the aftermath of the last encounter left him little to work with. This would have to do.

Still, this is merely transitory; he’ll move you somewhere better soon—somewhere with your own room, and perhaps a shelf with a lock for the collection of memorabilia you like to keep. 

He comes in through the larger window, the one with the knobby latch that screeches when lifted too fast. It’s the same one he taught you to slip through if you ever hear someone by the door who isn’t him, or if anything feels off enough to send you running.

I can find you, he reminds you. Prioritise your safety. Get somewhere secure. I’ll come to you.

The room greets him with its usual dimness, with only the spillover light from a streetlamp cutting across the floor in washed-out blue. It’s enough. His eyes adjust quickly. 

You’re where he expected you might be; in the farthest corner, knees drawn up to your chest, gazing vacantly at the empty space in front of you. For how long, he couldn’t say for sure, but he can infer from the untouched plate he left on the end table before he left that it’s been over fourteen hours since your last meal.

There’s no outward indication that you’ve seen him, but he knows you’re aware of his return. He’s made enough noise coming in, deliberately so. The soft thud of his boots on the floor, the familiar creak of glass shutting behind him—all the little tells he’s trained you to listen for.

Still, you remain motionless.

The silence inside presses in, save for the muffled sound of distant traffic and the restless voices of the next-door neighbour bleeding through paper-thin walls. He’s used to your selective muteness; it always takes you a while to process your emotions, especially after an outburst like the one you had earlier.

He supposes he could do more to cut through the silence, beyond just giving you the time and space to ruminate. Offer a kinder word, maybe, one that might actually reach you. But you’re a flighty, anxious thing, and he’s not nearly as well-versed in emotional rearing as he is in disposing a body. 

So for now, he lets you be.

The sound of rustling plastic breaks through the stillness. Sylus transfers the warm, convenience store-bought chowder into a bowl, pleased it hasn’t gone cold after the hour he spent walking back through the biting chill of the world outside.

He knows your propensity for soft foods—if it were up to you, you’d eat nothing but mush: soft, creamy things like soup, custard, and runny egg yolks. Not so different from a child, in that regard. 

(In many regards.)

He adds a spoon to the dish, swirling the sauce to help it emulsify, then saunters over to where you sit – idly noting how you hunch yourself smaller at the sound of his footsteps. 

With practiced care, he lifts the plate of now-stale food from your right. The smell hasn’t soured, so it’ll do for him. He’ll have that for dinner.

Sylus sinks down beside you, nudging the strewn lampshade aside with his foot. He settles close enough to hand you the bowl, but gives you just enough space so you don’t feel cornered. An olive branch, if nothing else.

It takes a few seconds, almost an entire minute, before you acknowledge this. He waits patiently, letting you make the first move.

Eventually, your head lifts from where it’s been resting atop your bruised knees. (He makes a mental note to bandage the fresh cuts—angry, surface-level lines, one across your thumb.) 

Hesitantly, you glance at the proffered arm, then at him. Your stomach grumbles.

He knows better than to make any sudden movements when your fingers reach for the food, and only once you’ve taken your first bite does he retract his hand.

The two of you eat in silence, only the sound of clinking steel keeping you occupied. There’s nothing wrong with the silence—precious in its own right—but he thinks he prefers the moments when he can hear your voice. Whether it’s to talk his ear off, or spit words viciously at him during one of your ever-ephemeral shifts in mood. 

He’ll admit he’s more partial to the former; if only for the reason that he doesn’t like hearing the hurt masked behind the venom, or the guilt-laden silence that comes after an unpleasant episode.

Finally, you set the spoon down, smacking your lips absently. “You want me gone.” 

You say it like it’s a fact you’ve already made peace with, something resigned beneath the forced neutrality. He stifles a sigh, keeping it buried so you wouldn't think he isn't taking this—you—seriously.

Instead, he leans back and places his empty plate to the side. 

“I want you to communicate with me when you’re feeling neglected,” he says. “Before taking it out on the furniture.”

He lets the silence stretch, then breaks it with a half-hearted attempt at levity. “And next time, put away the mess properly. I’ll help.”

You don’t answer.

Sylus knows you’re waiting, bracing yourself for a reprimand that will never come, already familiar with this song and dance. You interpret gentleness the same way Sylus interprets softness: warily, with too much mistrust and a confounding lack of understanding. It could mean nothing, but more often than not, it signifies the quiet before the storm.

There’s little he can do with his own issues, but since taking you in as his ward, he’s assumed responsibility for your well-being. That includes your states of duress, your erratic moods. Your bouts of mania. Sylus has been well-aware of this since the first night you followed him home. 

He knew where you’d come from—and the decision to let you stay took him less than a second, made the moment he registered the forming bruise beneath your eye.

He figures he’ll find a place for you soon. A better arrangement beyond the temporary fostering, one that can offer you stability and a much more normal environment. Something else than a life on the run.

Tomorrow will mark the sixth month since you’ve been with him.

“Okay,” you whisper finally, setting your bowl down in the empty space beside you. Without much ado, you crawl closer to where he sits, uncaring of anything other than the comfort his warmth brings. You figure you can handle anything after. “…I’m sorry.”

Sylus already expects this, wrapping his arms around you without second thought. “I know.”

“I don’t like being angry,” you confess quietly, voice muffled against his collarbone. “It hurts.” He feels your hand move, settling somewhere near your abdomen. “Here.”

He tightens his hold on you. 

“I know,” Sylus whispers into your hair. “You have plenty of things to be angry about.”

Life has been cruel to you, he thinks. Be angry. It’s alright. 

“Not you,” your voice wobbles, and he catches a faint tang of saltwater in the air, along with a certain dampness spreading across his shirt. “I don’t– I don’t know why I get mad at you. You don’t deserve it.”  

“Better me than directing it inward,” He assures you, swiping a thumb across your cheek. “I can handle it.”

You get it from your father. The same anger. The poison that runs in your veins, the corruption in your blood. Your mother was afraid of him – and of that same rage – so you understand why she kept her distance from the rotten fruit she bore unwillingly into the world. Monstrous, in your own right.

“You’re a very difficult child to love,” your mother once said—cold as your bare feet, bleeding from the sharp little stones on the asphalt road where she found you, the first time you tried to run away. She said it so matter-of-factly, that it didn't leave much room for you to question its truth, branding your flesh with the indelible mark of being unwanted. 

Odd, how Sylus doesn't seem to struggle with it at all. Maybe he’s just better at loving you than she ever did. 

He smells of bergamot and smoke—something you’ve long associated with safety. So different from the stench of alcohol and bile that once clung to the walls of your childhood home. His words are gentle, playful. They don’t ring in your ears after they leave his lips, never a decibel higher than yours. Not in the way that frightens you.

You clutch him tighter, overtaken by a primal desire to sink into his skin completely.

It blurs—the way you see him. You imitate him, the same way a child imitates a parent. He takes care of you like how fathers take care of their daughters. Or at least, how you’ve seen it on some primetime show on late night TV.

You can’t help but think of how his fingers would feel buried inside you.

_____ You’re in the middle of a stakeout; both of you bearing the sweltering brunt of the midday heat beneath a cloudless summer sky. 

Sylus reminds you, once again, that you could just wait inside the diner on the ground floor, instead of sitting up here on a rooftop with nothing but a floppy boater hat to shield you from the sun’s rays.

You don’t really think you offer much assistance. You can’t shoot to save your life—your aim dismal, even from a vantage point. You’re not quick with solutions. Nothing of help that he couldn’t already manage on his own.

Still, you insist. Even if it’s only to hand him the .50 cal rifle he’s assembled beforehand, or to offer some benign, mindless chatter to fill the boring in-between.

Don’t leave me alone. 

He could always refuse. He brings you along anyway. I won’t.

“Eleven o’clock. Left of Kebab Palace, near the alleyway.”

You speak up suddenly, peering through the rim of the tactical-grade binoculars he handed you for recon. There’s something akin to glee in your voice, and his lips twitch involuntarily at the sound. 

“Enemy combatant is—oh, he’s on the move.”

He squints toward where you’re pointing, catching sight of the mark in question. “Ah,” Sylus drawls, all mock lament. “Looks like he’s successfully liberated the contraband. How unfortunate.”

“Best to cut our losses,” you say decisively, eyes still glued to the eyepiece. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

Your suspect – small, furry, and feline – leaps onto the fire escape and scales the side of the building until he vanishes from sight. 

You lower the binoculars, glancing at him with a small, satisfied grin. “That’s the fourth one.”

He reaches over, tucks a stray hair behind your ear. “Good job,” he murmurs. Quiet, but sincere. Genuine in his praise, despite the frivolous nature of the task. 

You shiver, delighted by his approval, your heart thudding in a sick rhythm of childish pride and want. You duck your head, the grin on your face refusing to fade, thighs pressing together of their own accord.

The two of you play three more rounds of I Spy before a flicker of movement catches his attention. He pauses, eyes narrowing as two black-cladded figures come into view, rounding the corner past a nondescript pawn shop. 

Hired muscle, flanking a taller man—leaner, dressed to blend, but too poised to be local. The real target of today’s excursion. 

He instructs you to wear the earmuffs around your neck—pink, upon your insistence—and to look the other way before he lines up the shot.

_____

You were six when you lost your first tooth.

The first one came out naturally, uneventful as they come. You showed it to your mother, full of childlike trepidation and timid pride, cradling the small thing in your palm. She threw it out without looking.

You fished it from the bin afterward, fingers sticky with juice pulp and something spoiled. You didn’t understand why it made your chest hurt—only that it did.

The second time was even less kind.

Your bottom incisor was knocked out when your brother pushed you down the stairs. You don’t remember the fall, only the taste—blood and bile, mixing with the little white thing you spat out. Your eyes burned, more from an inside ache you couldn’t explain than from the bruises mottling your skin like purple ink blots.

“Why are you so angry at me?” you had asked your brother, your mother, anyone who would listen, with all the hurt confusion of one that wasn’t yet familiar with the pain of tough love. Why are you so angry? Why am I– why do you hate m—

They never gave you a straight answer. You still haven’t gotten one, and you’re starting to accept that you never will.

After that, you started holding onto them. Your milk teeth. Each one that fell out, or was knocked loose, you saved. Tucked them away in old matchboxes and scraps of tissue. 

You can’t quite explain the possessiveness you feel toward the tiny enamels. Only that they belonged to you. That they came from you.

You collect other things now. Little pieces. Things most people would mistake for trash. A bottle cap in your favorite color. A pretty marble. A loose button from the dress of a toy doll you used to own. Sparse, stupid things no one but you find value in.

Every night before bed, you count them.

Three times. In the same order. Just to make sure nothing’s missing.

Sylus never questions it.

He doesn’t mock you or tell you to hurry. He just waits, and when you’re done, he asks you one last time if you’re finished. And you know with him there’s no trick behind the question. No wrong answer. No cruelty waiting if you say the wrong thing.

So you say yes and bid him good night, and he simply nods before turning the lights off. _____

There’s a girl by the stairs of the rundown motel. Maybe seven or eight, leaning against the edge of the planter box out front, hands stained candy apple red. She watches the both of you with bored curiosity, sucking on the end of a melting ice pop. Sylus is a step ahead of you, keys in hand, his back to her as he unlocks the room he got for the night.

The girl squints. “Is that your husband?”

You don’t blink.

“Yes.”

It slips out easy. Natural. She nods, like she expected that, and skips off down the corridor.

Sylus doesn’t turn around. But you hear the soft exhale through his nose, that faint hitch in his breath. You can’t tell whether the sound is amused or exasperated. Maybe it’s both.

You follow him inside, the door closing behind you with a quiet click. The room smells like mothballs and bleach, the low hum of a sputtery air conditioner reverberating through the small space. Somehow, it feels louder in the hush that follows your entry.

You perch on the edge of the bed and bounce once, toes curling into the carpet, sneaking a glance at him as he checks the blinds, the corners, the locks on the window.

He still hasn’t said a word. But that's fine, because you said it. 

You said it, and he didn’t correct you.

And because you want him to be yours. Because he is. In all the ways that matter. 

He watches over you. Protects you. Tells you when to eat, when to sleep. Tells you you’re good. Keeps you safe.

That’s my husband, you think. That’s my husband, and I belong to him.

That little girl knew. She saw it.

You flop onto your back, arms flung wide, smiling at the ceiling with a strange warmth bubbling in your stomach.

-

-

-

Later, after the sun's dipped low behind the grimy motel blinds, you find yourself fidgeting.

You’d said it. Called him your husband. Claimed him like how a kid stakes her place in a game of pretend. And he still hasn't said a word about it. 

So now you want to earn it.

You refill the ice bucket before he asks. You fold your clothes properly, the way he does it. It’s clumsy, a little uneven, but you do it with a great deal of care. You put away your shoes neatly by the door. 

Proper. Obedient. Good.

Every now and then, you glance his way, searching for that flicker of approval in his eyes—the kind that makes your chest puff out. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you from his side of the bed, closer to the window, one hand curled loosely against his mouth, the other resting flat on a dog-eared book.

His gaze is unreadable. Neither hard, nor soft. Merely observant. 

You stand in the center of the room for a moment, rocking on your heels.

Then you cross the distance between you, crawling onto the bed without preamble. You move slowly, deliberately, flirting with a boundary you hope he wouldn't enforce. 

And when you lie beside him—not touching, but close—Sylus doesn’t stop you.

So you rest your head near his thigh, tucking an arm under your cheek. And he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give any outward reaction. Just the slow turn of a page, though you know he’s not really reading it. You can feel it in the stillness of his body. The way his breath has evened out, but the rest of him stays perfectly motionless. Hasn’t moved since you curled up beside him like that.

You stay still, face pressed into the crook of your arm, watching the light from the muted television flicker across the ceiling.

You’ve been good.

So good.

(And maybe it’s enough. Maybe he finally sees it.)

After a while, he closes the book.

The soft thud of it landing on the side table makes you flinch a little, but not from fear. Just anticipation. Expectation.

His hand finds your hair, fingers gently brushing through the strands like he’s smoothing down static and some stubborn flyaways. You melt into it instantly, your body going pliant the way it always does when he touches you like that.

“Mmh,” you hum, content.

His palm lingers a moment longer, thumb tracing a slow line from your temple down to your jaw. He does the motion three times before leaning back again, silent.

But you don’t miss it – that soft, tired exhale.

Not annoyed. Not angry.

Just... quietly resigned. Like he knows exactly what this is. Like he’s known for a while now.

You pretend not to notice.

You stay curled beside him, small and safe, a quiet feeling of triumph blooming in your chest. Your eyelashes flutter shut, and your tongue curls around the word again—not aloud this time, just in your head.

Mine.

You fall asleep like that, clinging to a fantasy he doesn’t take away from you. _____

It’s the eighteenth of the month.

You’ve been waiting for this day, ever since he shared it with you. Holding on to it, like a dragon hoarding a well-guarded secret.

The red negligée is cheap and a little too small. Something you saw draped over a mannequin in the back of some boarded-up boutique, half-covered in dust. The straps are twisted and the tag is torn, but somehow it’s still perfect. Like it was meant to be found by you. Like it had been waiting.

It’s in his favorite color, after all. The same red as the lining of his holster. The same red as the folded handkerchief he keeps in his pocket.

You’ve never worn anything like it before, and it doesn’t exactly cover much. The fabric is thin without give, nearly translucent. You keep tugging at it, trying to make it sit right, but it won’t. 

So you leave it – hiked up your thigh, constricting in all the wrong places.

You’ve taken a sip from the bottle of moonshine he left on the upper shelf of the cupboard, and it’s as vile as any other spirit you’ve tasted, burning a path down your throat. But it gives you what you need; that extra shot of courage. Just enough to quiet the paralyzing fear that threatens to break through if you spend too long thinking, second-guessing your decision.

There is nothing else you can offer him. You barely like looking at your own body in the mirror—but maybe he’ll find some use for it. Maybe he’ll find pleasure in it.

You think you’d like it if he did.

(A small, ugly part of you wants to be taken, to be bent over, for it to hurt.) 

“Happy birthday,” you purr as a greeting—voice low and sweet, just like you practiced—as soon as he walks in. You’re stretched out on the bed, mimicking a pose you saw one of the women do in your father’s Playboy magazines. 

(You want him to have his way with you, with the brand of violence you know he’s capable of.) 

You hold your breath. Muscles drawn tight beneath your skin, high-strung and tense. 

There’s a pause. You watch Sylus’ eyes drag over you. But—

There’s nothing on his face. No hunger. No fire. Just a blank detachment.  

He doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t touch.

Instead, he turns and walks towards the dresser. Opens a drawer. The sound of wood scraping against wood, louder than it should be.

His back to you. As if you’re not there.

He’s ignoring you, you realize belatedly, humiliation rising under your skin. It climbs up your throat—burns the corners of your eyes. How dare he.

It stings. More than it should. 

“Don’t you wanna fuck me?” you snap, the words half-choked, thick with fury and shame. You don’t know if you’re trying to tempt him or punish him.

He says nothing.

You lurch upright, the sheer fabric bunching in your fists, the lace digging into your palms. Your skin feels too hot, too tight, like it’s crawling. You can’t breathe. You want to disappear. You want to be seen. You want–

“You know you want to fuck me!”

You scream it now, voice cracked and shaking. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, and it tastes worse than blood or bile. 

You can’t stop. 

There’s nothing left in your head but the ache of being unsought, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts more than any blow that’s ever landed on your skin, more than fists, more than belts, more than words spat at you from doorways and dinner tables and years you never got back. Your nails dig into your arms, scratching, tearing, needing something to feel, because this pain isn’t visible enough. Because you want it to show and if it bruises, then maybe he’ll see it, maybe he’ll see you–

But his hands are there.

Strong. Unyielding.

He catches your wrists before you can shred yourself further, pulling your hands away—firm, but with a certain gentleness that’s entirely him.

Unattractive welts already bloom across your skin; half-crescent moons, angry and red.

"Fuck me," you sob, uncaring of how desperate you sound. Uncaring of how ugly you must appear, a snivelling, trembling mess at his feet.

He pulls you into his arms like you haven’t just made a scene. Like you haven’t just begged him to desecrate you. He cradles you so gently as if you're something fragile.

…And if you weren’t so far gone, maybe you’d hear the way his breathing falters. Maybe you’d notice the last of his self-control beginning to fray.

Instead, you’re somewhere else – locked deep in the marrow of your memories. 

You look up at him, eyes swollen and wet. "Please, daddy,” you hiccup, craving to be set free from your own fucking head, to be validated by him, the man you look up to, the one who turned to be a much kinder father than the one you had. “Please, fuck me."

His eyes darken, the red in them cooling into flint the more you plead. Tension lines every inch of him—from the tick in his jaw, from the way his shoulders are drawn taut. There’s something brewing underneath. Something dangerous. 

Something irrevocable.

He’s caught in the split between indulging you and the immorality of what you’re asking him to do—between what he wants and what he knows better. And you keep fucking staring at him, all glassy-eyed and irresistible, like he’s the only one who’s capable of understanding. 

And he—

You see the exact moment he breaks. It feels like absolution. 

That night, Sylus fucks you like he’s making up for lost time.

His mouth finds your cunt and drinks from you like it’s water in the desert, tongue moving in a devastating rhythm that nearly drives you insane. He doesn’t stop until the sheets are soaked beneath you, until your thighs are shaking and your voice gives out from the sheer pleasure of his ministrations.

"I want your cock," you demand, drunk on the feeling, looking up at him with a dopey smile. You think you’re in the place to make demands. Knows he won't say no to you, not with this. Not anymore. 

And it's liberating, this feeling of control. Of being wanted.

He picks you up like you’re weightless. Hoists you up and sinks you down onto his thick length after making you cum two more times: once more on his tongue, another on his fingers. You ache in a way that's unfamiliar. The way sex brings pleasure instead of pain—without the residual shame, without the nauseating feeling that follows after being soiled. 

He swallows every cry with an open-mouthed kiss, like he’s starving for them. His touch saying more than words ever could.

And in that moment, with your lips pressed to his and your body trembling against him, you think you could die by his hand, and you’d die happy.

-

-

-

Daylight breaks through the windows in long, muted streaks.

You’ve been awake for almost an hour now – lying on your side. Still. Frozen. Not from fear of the man beside you, but from the fear of the aftermath. 

You ruined his birthday. Just like everything else. 

Your thoughts spiral downward, splinters and nails in your skull. He didn’t like it. He doesn’t like you that way, why would he, disgusting girl, disgusting piece of shit–

His arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you back into his chest, kissing the top of your head. “Go back to sleep.” _____

You give him the most genuine smile he’s seen on you later that afternoon, wide and toothy.

Sylus thinks it’s blinding. Figuratively, literally—it’s all the same to him. And it looks just right on your face.

He marvels at it, still somewhat surprised to find himself on the receiving end of such a thing. It makes the budding guilt a little more bearable.

You skip away to the bathroom, and along with that, the brightness. 

Sylus breathes slowly, leaving the moment behind as he eases back into the present. He feels the echo of you etched on his own lips – borrowed, despite himself, for the time being. _____

But then, with the highs, come the lows.

The feeling is familiar. A prickling at the edge of your scalp. The slow dissociation between thought and action. 

It’s like watching yourself from the outside, a silent spectator in your own body. Someone else curling their fingers around the hilt of Sylus’ knife—his favorite one, the one he always keeps in pristine condition. 

You don’t even remember reaching for it. One moment, it was tucked inside a snakeskin sheath, buried in one of the Cordura bag pockets. The next, it’s in your hand.

You remember the first time you stole from your father. Not out of malice. Just guiltless curiosity. Perhaps a cry for attention, with all the childish naivety of a girl at that age.

The consequence came down on you, fast and brutal. You returned what wasn’t yours before the day ended, but it didn’t matter. 

The punishment had you leaving his study limping – your backside split raw.

You hold the knife up, waiting for Sylus to react similarly. For the spark. The fury. The familiar fire—this time in his eyes—so that it makes sense to you, for him to finally make sense to you. 

You know his hands are violent ones, stained with blood. 

And yet.

Sylus only glances at you with fond amusement. 

“If you wanted one of your own,” he says lightly, “you could’ve just asked, sweetie.”

It confuses you. 

You lower the blade. Slowly.

(It’s okay. You’ll figure him out soon enough.) _____ The carnival is a mess of color and noise, bright paint faded by rust and time, garish music looping over itself through tinny speakers until it fades into the background. 

Every corner smells like caster sugar and engine oil, and you walk through it with sticky fingers clutched tight around a slushy drink that stains your tongue blue. Definitely a little too old for a place like this, but Sylus doesn’t seem to care. He’s the one who brought you here, after all. Paid for the overpriced wristbands and the bag of rainbow popcorn you’re currently munching on.

He lets you drag him from booth to booth, humoring your wide-eyed wonderment to your heart’s content – with nary but an indulgent smile, and the patience of someone who’s long given up trying to say no to you.

At the ring toss, you pause.

He follows your gaze to the prizes strung up like gutted prey, eyes landing on a dragon—a red, ugly thing. You love it instantly.

“That one?” he asks, raising a brow. You nod. 

He pays. Three rings, three hits. Wins without effort. The stall attendant barely has time to feign enthusiasm.

He hands the stuffed animal to you without ceremony. You bury your face in it.

Some woman—older, wearing a sunhat and a pair of mom jeans—walks by with a juice box in one hand and a toddler in the other, smiling at the sight of the two of you. 

“Your daughter’s adorable,” she says to Sylus, not unkindly. “You’re a lucky dad.”

Sylus laughs. Actually laughs. 

“Oh, I am,” he replies smoothly, voice tinged with mirth. “She’s one of a kind.”

You glow with pride.

_ 

Later, in the dark of another drive-in motel, the dragon lies curled against your chest. One of its eyes is sewn in too tight, the other too loose. Seeming to know more than it should.  

You turn your head to look at him where he sits, back to the headboard, thumbing something on his phone.

“Thank you for today,” you say, voice catching in your throat. “Um… I could–” A beat. You swallow. “I could suck you off, if you want.”

He snorts softly.

“You’ve had too much sugar,” he tells you, rustling around for the blanket before tugging it over your legs. “Have you brushed your teeth?”

You mumble an affirmative. He taps your nose, twice, and turns away to let you drift off—remnants of candy on your breath, and want curdling low in your belly.

You stare at the dragon’s crooked grin and wonder what it thinks of girls like you. _____ It happens one fateful night.

He comes home late. Not later than usual—but off. Off in the way his jaw is set, his shoulders stiff with something volatile. You know this version of him. You’ve seen it in small glimpses before; cutting through the iron-clad control, the mask he wears so carefully around you.

You know this tension. You've tasted it before. It thrums in the walls. It bleeds into the air like a live wire—signalling something that's coming. Something bigger. Cataclysmic.

(There’s blood under his fingernails. You wonder if it’s his.) 

It makes your mouth water.

You know that you have to tread carefully – if you wanted him to break. So for the remainder of the night, you match his silence with your own little provocations: a dropped glass, the volume turned too loud, a gun gone missing, et cetera, et cetera. 

You watch his patience begin to fray, with all the sick thrill of a bystander watching a fuse burn down, gasoline in hand.

(You need to unravel him. You want him mean.)

And for your final act—

You pad up to him barefoot, silent across the floor. You press in close. Innocent. Maybe even smiling. Then, in a voice laced with mock sympathy, you goad—softly, sweetly:

“Night didn’t go so well for you, huh?”

It’s a whisper, barely that. But it lands like a bullet.

Sylus stills. Vermillion eyes flash as it cuts to you, and it reminds you of some ancient thing—part-man, part-beast. A praedator.

Then he moves.

You’re bent over the bed in seconds, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto. His belt clatters to the floor. His grip bruises your hips, anchoring you in place like some mere possession. 

When he impales you in one punishing stroke, it’s hard enough to knock the sound out of your lungs. He fucks you like he wants to rip you in half, like you’re the only outlet left in a world that’s stripped him of everything else. 

His gaze bears down on you, cold and unrelenting. You can’t see it, not directly, but you feel it—the weight of it, the violence in it. The insatiable need to ruin and consume. 

To be the creature on the other end of it is to be everything. Immortal. Seen.

You sob through it—half laughter, half wail. Your body trembles with every rough thrust, your throat raw from exertion. And still, you beg through the violent ecstasy. Not for him to stop—never, never—but for more. More of him. More of this. 

More of the familiar pain, more of the feeling of being loved, and owned, and wanted.

-

-

-

You don't understand why he can't look you in the eye the next day.

His gaze keeps skimming past you, never quite landing. His mouth opens once, twice, like he wants to say something—but nothing comes out. 

He’s careful with the distance between you. It makes your stomach twist.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask, voice small.

He flinches. 

Something shutters in him. You see it. You feel it. 

You hate it.

You hate the way his face closes off, guilt woven sharp across his features. Guilt for something he wanted, for something you gave him freely. 

You hate the way he recoils from it now. Like the festering entirety of you – everything you are, laid bare for him to see – is something that's shameful to want. 

You hit him—once, twice, again and again—fists raining down against his chest, needing him to feel even a fraction of the anguish burning through you.

“Say something,” you spit, choking on the lump in your throat. “Why won’t you just–”

“Stop,” Sylus says, catching your wrists. His voice is low, rough. Wrecked. “Sweetheart. Stop.”

But you’re shaking now, tears hot and ugly on your cheeks.

“I hate you,” you hiss, fists still curled. “I hate you, I hate–”

He pulls you in.

Cradles your face in both hands like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Kisses you like he’s drowning in it—desperate and aching. Tasting the salt on your lips, not knowing if it’s yours or his.

“I know,” he grits out, voice hoarse. He shuts his eyes like it hurts to look at you. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You don’t want him to be sorry. You don’t know what you want, exactly. You just wish he’d stop looking at you like you’re a mistake. _____ You don’t shower for three days. You’d go longer if he didn’t intervene.

You sit shivering in the grimy tub, arms curled tight around your middle, as Sylus bathes you in silence.

Neither of you speaks.

_ “God,” your father had snarled, flecks of spit catching at the corners of his mouth. He reminded you of the stray dogs across the block—wild-eyed and mean, always looking for something to tear apart. “Good for nothing bitch! You can’t do anything right!”

His hands flew up, and you flinched before the blow had even landed.

You were kneeling on the cold floor, eyes downcast. You had no choice. You had to hear it. Had to understand how you were born into this world unwanted by your own creator, even if all you ever did was give, give, give—everything you are, everything you can—

I wonder, you’d thought then, what it’ll take to break me.

You were surprised to learn it didn’t happen at that moment. Perhaps you are stronger than you give yourself credit for. (Perhaps you can take more.) 

If I could live through this—you surmised, watching from the outside where your child self was dying—I wonder what else I could survive. _____ There’s something rotting inside you. A moral rot. An onset decay festering, and it's only time until he realises this.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Nothing's wrong with you.”

You'll take what you can get until he leaves.

“I’m tired.”

He carries you in his arms—your body, bruised blue against his. Still, he holds you with a kind of gentleness that feels entirely undeserved.

(He doesn’t say it, but he’d carry you like this forever. You don’t need to do anything but to simply exist. Everything else is secondary.)

“Sleep,” Sylus whispers.

“Can–” you swallow, closing your eyes. “Can you tell me you love me?” 

His hands tighten around you—an aborted, reflexive motion. He doesn’t answer right away. And maybe you’re imagining it, but there's a wetness on your cheeks that don’t belong to you.

He whispers it into the hollow of your throat. Over and over, until the words lose meaning. Until sleep takes you under.

Perhaps not everything in the world is meant to be cold. _____ It’s been a month since he let you tag along with him.

To visit an old acquaintance, he says. Someone trusted. You don’t ask. You watch the way the light touches the sharp planes of his face, sticking closer to his rib as the sun sets westward.

Nothing much is said. Just the brief introduction, the polite niceties. He holds you longer that night, and you let him. You don’t ask why.

You already knew.

So when you wake the next morning and find nothing but the indent of his body on the mattress, you don’t get up to look for him.

The bed is cold. The door left unlocked. He’s long gone by now.

You sit there in the quiet. Nothing else to say. Nothing else to do.

You reach for the dragon—the cheap, red thing from the carnival, almost a lifetime ago, with its peeling fabric and crooked stitching, stuffed too tightly and smiling a little too wide—clumsy in your arms. You press it against your chest, holding it the way you were held no less than a few hours ago. It still smells like him.

Heaven is brief. Soft. It leaves you warm enough to miss it.

Hell is what comes after.

You always think they are one and the same.

[applepixls]

please join me in imagining:

a sitcom starring the 4 Gs with their creaking neighbour as a frequent visitor and everyone else as side characters we see a lot. and they have super powers.

just imagine, cleo is a necromancer who on the daily has to deal with her sassy zombies and hide them to avoid dealing with the issues of them being undead (fitting 2 extra people in their already cramped flat, taxes, insurance,,, grown up things.) scott is supposed to be super powered but all he does is turn into random barn yard animals impulse can teleport but its not its all cracked up to be (once he sneezed and got accused of robbing a bank) pearl just has a tendency to do dolphin elytra hopping in the living room cause she never has enough room in their cramped flat. ft. their silly neighbour bigb (appears about as much as the landlord in one day at a time if you're familiar.) shows up for family breakfasts and dinners, helps fix things and brings his silly little creaky guys as enrichment for scott when he wants to be something other than a chicken

their neighbours include: 3 college aged guys (who mostly put up with each other and start gradually liking each other better as the show goes on.) who live in the flat below them, one sleeps at any time of day and tends to slow time down to be funny, one runs really fast and freezes water he steps on and the third bounces high with glorified farts and owns a really fancy meat tenderizer. (and is cousins with their other neighbours including a violent ginger girl, a guy obsessed with fast and furious and a guy who seems to be stuck as a 1910s carnival barker-) their 3 upstairs neighbours who more or less keep to themselves and have pet birds, one of them has been asking the landlord if they can build a rooftop rollercoaster (in lieu of a garden) and can.. sit on stuff.. and punches really hard and you ouch if you punch him, another one celebrates every day he lives and is able to go invisible. the third struggles to keep the other two alive and is able to blind others in a vicinity and briefly vanish making her effectively an enhanced cuttlefish. (she is married to their downstairs neighbour and therefore spends as much time as possible in their flat instead of her own. wise choice) then there's the 2 neighbours who are really into roleplay? one of them is nosy and peeps through peep holes cause he can hear everything he sees, the other one borrows peoples identities (no harm done tho mostly just to raid his neighbours fridges without getting yelled at by their roommates) the snooper accidentally trash compactors himself trying to escape the carnival barker and the identity thief is now looking to move in with someone- finally, the main 4's mortal enemies, a guy with a fancy car who can jump on air and a girl who frequently has out of body experiences in which she can talk to the dead. they've recently adopted a silly guy with a waffle who does all of the above but only one at a time on a 6 hour or so time frame. he recently lost his roommates (both in trash compactor incidents, tragic really. one got too close and got eaten the other was leaning out the window trying to see where it was and fell out. self defenestration. rumour has it it was actually one of his buddies but that guy's innocent until proven guilty. these two are ironically now cleo's goons) and couldn't pay the rent himself so he's had to move in with the torettos

i would watch it

[alastor-x-reader-stories]

"Bite Me" - Alastor x Reader - Part 3

prev first

“Hey, Alphabet.”

Alastor’s eye twitched. He swiveled his head around 180 degrees, grinning down at the short king that had approached him.

“Hello, Lucifer! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The king leaned more heavily on one leg, spinning his cane with his left hand. “Charlie’s getting kind of worried about one of the residents, so she asked me to look into it.”

“Aaaannd?” Alastor said, snapping his neck as he tilted his head.

Lucifer said your name. Alastor’s ears twitched.

Something was going on with you? Charlie was worried? What had happened-

“So what the fuck do you want with ‘em?” Lucifer said, raising an eyebrow.

“Pardon?” Alastor straightened up his posture as he spoke, turning to face the king completely.

“You’ve been stalking them for the past, like, two weeks.” Lucifer said. He spun his cane back towards him, nestling it under his arm as he motioned with his hand “Let me remind you: you’re not allowed to harm residents of the hotel.”

“I wasn’t aware I was attempting to.” Alastor said, eye twitching yet again.

“Then why are you following them- oh.” Lucifer cut himself off abruptly, seemingly having an epiphany. The fallen angel’s eyes widened, light gleaming in them “Oh! OOOOOH!”

“….what?” Alastor said, not following the king’s train of thought.

Lucifer was bouncing on his feet, grinning so wide it rivalled the Radio Demon’s. His eyes were practically sparkling “I know what’s going on~!” He sang, elbowing Alastor in the side “Y’gotta be straightforward, bambi!”

Alastor took a large step back and took a good amount of joy watching the king fall into his face. He cleared his throat, tilting his head slightly “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re implying.”

Lucifer rose from the floor, propping his chin up on his hands while kicking his feet behind him “You, y’know, want their attention!”

“That’s absurd.” Alastor hissed.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“None.”

“You sure?”

“Lucifer if you continue this pointless back-and-forth I will rip out your wings and grill them.”

Lucifer actually paused, letting the side of his head hit the floor as he studied Alastor. There was a bright flash of sparkles and the king appeared on Alastor shoulder in the form of a snake (with a hat). “That kind of sssoundsss like a threat they came up with.”

Alastor chucked Lucifer off of his shoulder. The king poofed back into his usual self mid-air and hovered there. “SooOooOooo…. Do they… y’know?” Lucifer giggled, fanning his hand outwards as rainbow-colored magic filled the space between them “Inspire you?”

“This conversation is pointless and I’m leaving.” Alastor scoffed, making true of his statement by immediately shadow-ing away.

Lucifer landed on his feet and put his wings away. Seems Bambi either doesn’t realize or is too stubborn to admit it out loud. Well. If there was one thing Lucifer learned about the glorified bellhop…

Is that man was made of 105% spite.

Later that day at dinner, Lucifer forsook his usual seat in order to sit next to you. While some of the residents were mildly confused by this (as usually people never ventured from their self-assigned seats), no one particularly cared.

You paid him little extra attention either, simply moving on with the meal as per usual. However, seated across from you, Alastor’s eyes were narrowed intently at the king. Lucifer grinned and dusted off the old charm.

“Heeey, y’know, I was wondering…why are you in Hell to begin with?” Lucifer said, propping his chin up on his hand “Surely an angel like you just got lost?”

Charlie spat out her drink on her end of the table and keeled over while coughing violently, Vaggie frantically rubbing her back to get her situated. Once she was all right (giving a shakey thumbsup), you gave the king a bemused look.

“It’s rude to ask a person of indistinguishable gender what got them hell-bound.” You hummed.

Lucifer paused in his response, too concerned with Charlie’s situation. She gave him another thumbsup and he hesitantly turned his attention back to you.

“Sorry, can’t help myself.” He lidded his eyes, leaning slightly closer “I simply can’t help but want to learn all about you~”

You put a hand over his face and pushed him back “Personal space.”

“Fair.” Lucifer said with one finger up, his voice muffled by your hand.

You retracted your hand and rolled your eyes “Well, I’m not a super share-y person…I mean I’ll do it during Charlie’s redemption activities but that’s about it.”

“And that’s okay!” Charlie chimed in, “I appreciate your efforts!”

You gave her a thumbs up. Lucifer took the pause to glance at Alastor, to find the deer man only paying half attention. Well. That wasn’t what he was aiming for. Absentmindely, Lucifer picked a fry off your plate and chomped down on it.

“Dad! That’s not your plate.” Charlie said, motioning awkwardly.

Lucifer was going to apologize (he’s a bit of an airhead, he knows…) but you made the funniest goddam squeak he had ever heard in his life. Never had he seen anyone so comedically offended by someone eating their fries.

He couldn’t help it- he laughed.

“Dad!” Charlie squeaked “Don’t laugh at them-!”

“S-s-sorry Char-Char but that SQUEAK- Oh my lord…”

He wasn’t the only one laughing. The spider person was joining in, throwing arm across your shoulders in a friendly manner while you seethed in silent resentment. Bar cat chuckled a bit under his breath, Vaggie and Charlie were both trying to suppress their giggles, and Nifty was howling with deranged cackling. Alastor took a drink from his mug but didn’t react much more than a slight snort.

“Lucifer I am going to fill your socks with mayonnaise when you sleep.” You muttered out.

Everyone burst into more hysterical laughter.

Except Alastor.

Who broke his mug in his hand like it was made of crackers.

At the sound of shatter ceramic, everyone’s attention shifted to him.

“Whoops!” Alastor grinned, shrugging non-chalantly as blood dripped down the hand that now had shards of ceramic in it.

“OhMyGosh, Alastor!” Charlie yelped, jumping to her feet “I’ll get the first aid kit-“

“No need, Charlotte!” Alastor hummed, getting to his feet. He reached over the table and picked you up by the back of your shirt like a kitten, tucking you under one arm as he walked off with you. “This one is responsible for the mug shattering, this one will take care of the wound.”

“Wait- Alastor-“ Charlie took a step to follow, but you waved her down and gave her a reassuring smile. Charlie hesitated a moment before sitting back down.

The table fell into an awkward silence. Lucifer was vibrating in his seat while grinning. Nifty was doing the same thing. The rest of the table-people wondered if they were somehow communicating this way.

Meanwhile, for you, Alastor had you held like a suitcase as he entered the kitchen, setting you on your feet.

You dusted yourself off and made for the cabinet the first aid kit was in. Alastor, frankly, had no plan other than to get you away from that joke of a king. So he was left standing their awkwardly as you patched his hand up gently. (He could’ve done it himself, it didn’t even hurt, he just did not want you wasting those ‘threats’ on that stupid lawn-gnome looking bastard)

“There you go.” You said, putting the unused first aid materials back in the kit and the kit back in the pantry.

Your name left Alastor’s lips.

You looked back at him, head tilted slightly.

His treacherous mind abruptly shoved forward the memory of you biting him. Teeth sinking into his shoulder, his blood on your face and the cold look you gave him afterwards. His heartbeat started to race. It was so different from now, your big eyes looking at him softly as though you could warm his entire soul with your gaze alone.

How amusingly two-faced of you…

“Alastor?” You said. He jolted back to the moment, tilting his head.

“Aplogies. Thank you, my dear.” He hummed.

“uh. Sure.” You said, tail flicking in irritation. “You’re a weirdo, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told!”

=============================================

Deer man's in denial.

[genericpuff]

look i know i've talked about it before but it was more from the angle of analyzing how this plotline could have been about persephone legitimately overthrowing hades, and not from the angle of how this one scene completely undermines all of rachel's manufactured attempts to "create a dialogue" about sexual assault and consent

and i'm specifically referring to THIS SCENE.

honestly hades is a toxic piece of shit himself who deserves jail for life but like. the tonal whiplash of this comic often has me feeling torn between "persephone is a victim of grooming who became what she once despised" and "persephone was actually always a deeply insecure and manipulative person and that's why she and hades get along so well" 💀😭 regardless of whichever conclusion you come to, neither of them are exactly indicative of a writer who really understands consent or healthy relationships, because despite whichever scenario makes the most sense, rachel still tried (and in many ways, succeeded) to convince her audience of girls and women alike that these two are healthy couple goals and that her extremely limited 10th grade understanding of consent and sexual health was "helping people"

and yes this further cements persephone as rachel's self-insert

because while she's gone on record to say she's never been sexually assaulted, she has admitted in interviews and social media posts to being in similar situations where her autonomy was being invaded upon

including a literal REAL LIFE STALKING SITUATION

like. that is an incredibly shitty and horrifying situation to be in. and i wanna make it clear, i'm not trying to use this against her in any way. this is something she didn't deserve to go through and reversely, does deserve to move on from.

i bring it up though precisely because it's incredibly telling that she, as a writer who claims she wants to use her platform as a means to "help people", is not capable of actually practicing what she preaches, and thus her characters aren't capable of doing that either. she's still exhibiting and glorifying behaviors and traits that align with the people who have harmed her, because HADES LITERALLY FUCKING STALKS PERSEPHONE AND IT'S PLAYED UP FOR COMEDY-

THIS SHIT WAS IN THE PILOT VERSION OF THE COMIC TOO, BEFORE IT WAS EVER AN ORIGINALS SERIES. HADES HAS ALWAYS BEEN WRITTEN LIKE THIS AND IT'S ALWAYS BEEN ROMANTICIZED AND PLAYED UP FOR GAGS.

LIKE I'M SORRY, IS THE "DECONSTRUCTION" HERE JUST SUPPOSED TO BE RACHEL TURNING HER OWN TRAUMA INTO COMEDY INSTEAD OF GOING TO THERAPY ???

FUCK.

[moonstruckme]

So, obviously you don't gotta do this request if you are not comfortable, and you can totally delete it, don't feel like you gotta, really.

I was wondering if, you could write some like angst-comfort-fluff type thing with poly!marauders? Where they have been dating reader for a hot minute now, but during (and long before they started dating) reader has been on-and-off cutting herself? And the boys don't know?

Like I said you do NOT have to write this, and just like any request do NOT feel like you EVER have to write a request.

Have an amazing day <3 <3

Hi lovely! I appreciate the disclaimers. I was a bit hesitant to do this because I feel like I'm not always sure where the line is between comforting/validating people who experience this and inadvertently glorifying self-harm, but I hope the general message of getting support and help comes through. Thanks for requesting and hope you're having a good week <33

cw: self-harm scars, mention of current self-harm

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

James doesn’t see so much as feel them, hands roving under your clothes as has become his favorite pastime when you’re both feeling lazy. A series of neat, raised lines starting at the skin of your hip. Curiosity moves his hand upward, following the rows up to your waist. It’s impossible to tell how many there are. They just feel like vague ridges to James’ touch. 

His heart takes on a too-familiar heaviness, and he strokes the lines absentmindedly as he thinks of what to say. 

In the end, he doesn’t have to. You’d been on the precipice of sleep, your form lax between James’ legs, but suddenly you’re startling, an almost imperceptible jolt and your hand covering his own. 

“What’re you doing?” you ask dazedly. 

You sound panicked, and James hurries to placate you. “Sorry, I should have asked before touching you there.” Your alarm attracts Remus’ attention, and he peers over the top of his book from where he sits on the opposite end of the couch. James isn’t sure what to do. He wonders if you’d want this to be a private conversation (based on the fact that you haven’t brought it up yourself, he doubts you want it to be a conversation at all), but he can’t just not mention it and have you think he doesn’t care. He does what he can to keep the wariness from his voice. “Do you want to talk about it, lovely?”

Remus lowers his book as you slide down James’ torso, shrinking yourself. “Talk about what?” he asks, concern already infiltrating his tone. 

James won’t speak for you. You’re quiet for a few long, heavy moments, and he can feel you growing tenser with each one. Finally, you say, quietly so that Sirius can’t hear from the kitchen, “It’s okay. I was going to tell you at some point.” 

“Tell us what?” Remus asks again. 

James sends him a look that begs for patience, bringing his hand to your shoulder to knead tenderly at the taut muscles around your neck. “Okay, thank you sweetheart. Would it be alright if I pulled your shirt up a little?” 

He knows he’s handling you in that extra-gentle way that sometimes frustrates you. You resent kid-gloves, and he can’t tell for certain if this situation is an exception or if you’re just too embarrassed to say anything. You only nod, and James pinches the hem of your top between his fingers, bringing it up to just below your ribs. 

The lines look thinner than they’d felt against his fingertips. Remus sets his book down, forgetting to save the page as he leans forward, palm moving up your leg as if to keep you in place while he looks. He fingers the waistband of your shorts, looking to you for permission before drawing it down until the lines stop where your hip bleeds into your upper thigh. 

“When—” He swallows, voice painfully quiet. “When were you going to tell us?” There’s a sound from the kitchen which signals Sirius has finished preparing his snack. 

Your eyes are almost frightened. James can tell there’s a myriad of placations vying to be the first to leave your tongue, but what makes it out is  “Please don’t be mad.”

“Ooh, what do we have?” Sirius hears and comes running at the first whiff of trouble, perching on the armrest and sidling up to Remus. “A secret tattoo or—” You turn your hip into James’ thigh, and he doesn’t try to stop you, but you’re too slow, and Sirius’ voice seems to run out of air. Usually mirthful gray eyes flit up to yours looking almost betrayed. “Baby.” The word sounds as if it’s been hooked from some wretched part of him and dragged forcibly out. “When did…how long has this been going on?” 

James can feel your ribs expanding and contracting faster as your breaths come quicker. You feel cornered. He puts his hand over the marks on your waist protectively, and you flinch. 

“Hey,” he shushes you. “You’re alright, darling. Nobody’s upset with you, okay?” He lets his eyes flit up to meet the other two boys' warningly. Okay? “We’re just a little worried.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and your tone is so fraught James’ heart very nearly shatters. “You don’t need to worry about me.” 

“We don’t mind worrying, love.” Remus’ voice is still quiet, but the gentleness in it is more apparent now. “But whatever you’re comfortable sharing, we’ll take it. Has this been going on a long time?”

You nod. James begins stroking up and down your side. 

Remus’ lips pinch, but he doesn’t waver. “Is it still going on?”

Your shoulders stiffen and your breathing stops. James’ insides fill with concrete, but he forces himself to peer around the back of your head to see your face. You’re biting down on your lip, hard. 

“Even now?” Sirius sounds devastated. Remus reaches behind him, setting a pacifying hand on his knee. 

Silver lines your eyes, but you take a slow, shuddering breath, and your voice comes out calm. “I’ve almost got it under control,” you say. “I’ve slipped up a few times, but…but I’m working on it.” 

“Alright,” Remus replies, giving Sirius’ knee a squeeze and you a kind, if thin-lipped, smile. “Is there anything we can do?” 

You shake your head immediately, but Sirius shoots you a look. “Don’t,” he says, and his voice is so uncharacteristically stern that even James startles, hand faltering on your side. It’s quiet as Sirius can manage, though still strained with emotion. “Don’t try to shelter us by keeping it to yourself. There have to be things we can do.”

James recollects himself, wrapping both arms around your middle and drawing you closer until the back of your head rests against his collarbone rather than his stomach. “Maybe,” he suggests, “you could let us help by telling us when you think you might slip, and we could try to find ways to distract you. Does that sound alright, lovely?”

You turn your head to look at him, and James steals a selfish kiss to the skin just near your eye. The corner of your lips twitch, and he hits there too, the little peck aiding the spread of your smile.

“That might help,” you say, quiet, tentative. Your smile fades as you turn your gaze to the other two boys. Sirius’ eyes have gotten stuck again on the scars lining your side, but he looks up when you speak. “Are you…do they bother you?”

Remus’ eyebrows stitch together, but he lets Sirius answer. The raven-haired boy looks almost surprised. “The marks?” he asks you, and despite James’ sympathy for the shock of all this, he sort of wants to kill him. He couldn’t make it easy on you, could he? Your hand finds James’ where it rests against your side, fingers worming between his, and he gives them an encouraging squeeze. You nod. “Baby, of course not,” Sirius says, ardent, and James swears he can feel you relax against his chest. “It bothers us—it bothers me that you’ve been upset, and that you’ve been dealing with it by yourself for so long, but I couldn’t give less of a shit about the marks. I care about you, your pain, not how it—how it looks on your body.” 

“I agree,” Remus says, smiling a little as he pats Sirius’ knee like settle down. “Honey, so long as you’re doing what you can—and letting us do what we can—to help yourself feel better, the scars don’t matter.”

“Thanks.” Your voice is quiet, but more bashful now than ashamed, which James considers to be some improvement. “It’s just awkward to talk about, you know?”

“It’s not,” James tells you. “Or, it doesn’t have to be. Listen, we don’t have to talk about it like, every day, but you should be able to tell us when you’re feeling down, okay?” You rest your head against his shoulder, and it feels nice, but James gives you a playful little jostle to let you know his question wasn’t rhetorical. “Okay?” 

“Yeah, okay.” The words leave you in a sigh, and Sirius rolls his eyes amusedly while Remus watches you with a knowing look. You were on the brink of a nap before, and the weight of this conversation has thoroughly tuckered you out. 

“Good,” James says, mock stern as he tucks his chin into the juncture of your neck. Wordlessly, Remus pulls Sirius down from the armrest and into his lap, picking up his book again. Your breathing slows, and James’ thumb strokes at your side underneath your shirt, indiscriminate between smooth skin and scars.

[motorghost]

john watson, tenderness, and colonialism

one thing I like imagining about the brand of masculinity that Watson (can) represent is tenderness. this isn't actually a natural quality of his profession; army surgeons were more benevolent butchers back then, even if the simple desire to heal is what started watson down that road in the first place. there is not a lot of room for tenderness when you have to make split-second decisions regarding another soul's flesh, when you have to listen to their screams and their threats and their pleas and still do what your mind knows is the best course of action to save them. i imagine watson writing little stories as an escape from the horror as well as from his own (often pointless) role in it. perhaps he had his fill of being the decision-maker early on. and perhaps he yearned for tenderness at the hospital, confined for months to a bed and to his pain, perhaps seeing tenderness in his carers but also, perhaps, seeing the same resignation and emotional distancing he knew was necessary in medical practitioners in order to make good decisions, to think clearly. on top of that, the many immortal lessons of war. one of which: there is no god but what we make on this earth, for ourselves and for each other.

i imagine him arriving in london a flayed thing. snarling inside of an old costume that no longer fits: that of a gentleman (he's not, he's of the new middle class, and poor besides,) of a noble soldier (the cause was a sick joke, the honors not earned,) and of a skilled physician (what skill, when his hands barely answer his head and his heart jumps at every abrupt sound?) self-obliterating through gambling and drink. lingering in pointlessness with no way out. going on simply because it would be immoral not to, and he has endured enough shame already.

then: holmes. here is someone who has made an art form of the same detachment watson had to employ during the war. though he is dazzled by holmes's intellect and exhilarated by this scientific method of crime-solving and impressed by his iron will, he also sees the burden holmes bears. the proximity to mankinds' worst elements that lowers holmes even as he conquers heights unimagined, not to mention the pains his own otherwise magnificent mind afford him, as well as the invisible pain of loneliness (of living as Othered; of living in the city, as existential depression rises alongside industrial progress.)

as anyone who suddenly discovers their raison d'être—their reason for living—watson enthusiastically throws himself into offering the thing he most wanted to bring to his patients but could not: tenderness. in response to holmes's pain, watson offers gentleness and kindness and years of unquestionable, indefatigable loyalty.

colonialism relies on the strict differentiation between Us and Them, good and evil, black and white. it demands that actions be judged so that they can either be glorified or condemned. "there is so much that has to be denounced, and also so much that has to be praised."* watson praises holmes in print, and condemns those who harm the vulnerable, but for holmes himself, watson gives tenderness. tenderness is not a fist around a gavel, it is an open palm. holmes believes that watson is better than any british jury because he is tender. and perhaps holmes doesn't even understand the value of watson's tenderness until he's spent three years alone in eastern lands, away from the dominance of western, imperialist thought, and away from the man who helped him in ways he didn't recognize until he was gone.

perhaps watson learned that true healing can only be done at a level unreachable by physical instruments. in more ancient times, doctors more resembled priests; the treatment of the body and the treatment of the soul were not so separate. and maybe he learned that true healing is impossible in this life; that while there is much to live for, there is also forever pain. and the only way to mitigate that pain is through tenderness. and what is more tender than a little story about a great man who solves impossible problems, written in such a way as to stick out in the mind of readers for over a hundred years? even if it only distracts you from the pain for a few hours, that is surely enough.

[thelov3lybookworm]

Journals

Summary: everyone is happy

•○●⛦●○•

Tw: heavyyyy angst, sad lil fic (literally what i named this before i came up with a title), mental health issues, depression, feeling unworthy of love, panic attack, self harm, self hate. thats all i can think of right now, but let me know if i need to add anything

A/n: based on this and this poetry by @gardenofrunar 🤭 you couldnt tell it was me could you pookie?

also, there is not really a bat boy our reader is supposed to be with, so im tagging this as all three of them. there will most probably not be a second part to this, but still, lemme know hat you all think

AND, im not trying to glorify what reader is going through in this fic. if you are going through something, please talk to someone. you are not alone, my loves ❣️

anyways, enjoyyyy!!

It was happening again.

The breathlessness was starting to creep up again on her.

And the worst part wasn't the fact that she felt like she was dying.

It was that she was alone. Again.

No one was coming. No one cared. No one would even realise she was gone until it was too late, and maybe that was a miracle.

Click.

The haze cleared slightly, and gasping for breath, Y/n stood, somehow making it to the stairs leading to her bedroom before her lungs constricted again.

She had no other option as she crumbled on the stairs, the hard wood digging into her sides and thighs.

She could not breathe.

She could not think.

She could not move.

She could not breathe.

A cruel laugh broke through her consciousness, the sound so familiar yet so foreign, Y/n could not help but sob.

You deserve this.

Azriel. It was him, no doubt. But the longer she sat there, other voices started joining in.

First Cassian. Then Mor, Rhysand. Amren.

Feyre, Nesta. Elain.

"Stop." She whispered, her hands shaking as she rose them to her ears, pressing as hard as she could. But no matter how much she tried to ignore it, the clearer the words became.

You deserve this.

You don't deserve us.

It's your own fault.

In an attempt to get away, to get some peace and quiet, she reached out, clutching the stair. The wood grains whispered against her palm, their sound lost to ears filled with taunts and laughter.

Still, she dug in her fingers, her nails screaming in protest, her heart yelling back in a horrific screech, beating loud enough to almost drown out her family.

Almost.

Pulling herself up, she reached out her hand, ignoring the pain as she did her best to haul her dysfunctional body up the hard terrain, trying to make it to her bed before she lost herself fully to the dark depths of her mind, losing all sense of her being.

Somehow, having no recollection of the climb, Y/n collapsed at the landing, her breathing erratic as she stared at the blurry paintings on the wall, gifted to her by Rhysand's mate.

Had they always been this blurry?

In the back of her mind, she realised that they were never blurry. There were just tears in her eyes, but she didn't think too much about that as she crawled forward, miraculously crossing the threshold to her room, the familiar smell of flowers Elain had gifted her last week pulling her out of her misery for a moment, enough to let her get up and stumble into the plush material of her bed before tears again erupted in her eyes.

They then came back, screaming in her ears about how much of a disappointment she was, how she deserved no happiness.

And she agreed with them.

But still, it hurt her heart to hear the people she cared for voice thoughts she only limited to the darkness of night, under the gentle presence of the moonlight.

You don't deserve happiness.

She knew the inevitable onslaught of her self hatred was about to break over her head, knew it was unavoidable and would probably have her moping for days.

Her mind started wandering, which in itself was alarming because as much as she wanted to stop thinking about her miserable life, she knew that any and all thoughts she had at these times would only work against her.

Rhys's tear stained cheeks, his bloodshot eyes and his quiet sobs as he clutched Y/n's hands between both of his, Y/n's soft cooing as she tried her best to soothe his wounds after his mother and sister's death.

As she held him after his return from under the mountain.

This was going to be a long night, she was sure.

Cassian's grumpy self refusing to eat after one of the Illyrians had again bullied him for not being good enough. Y/n's cheeks aching from how hard she was trying not to smile as she tried to convince the overgrown illyrian to eat something.

Azriel's shaky hands as she held onto him after a particularly bad nightmare that usually started keeping him up around the time his hands were burned, the anniversary o the time where an innocent little boy realised that the world was filled with cruelty.

Y/n being the first one to find out about Mor's liking in women and helping her sneak out to meet her lovers.

Y/n dragging gallons of fresh blood to Amren's apartment under the cover of the night when she knew the ancient being hadn't had the time to feast.

Her hands scrambled to find something to tether herself to, to remind her that this was not real and that it would pass. That her family did love her, and that they would never hurt her or want her to think this way of herself.

They would never hurt her the way she hurt herself.

They just wouldn't... would they?

Rhys's wide smile as he admired his mate while she spoke to a grinning Cassian, who in turn turned to Azriel to tease the blushing Illyrian. Mor, giggling over her glass of wine as she mumbled something to Elain, Nesta and Amren conversing in hushed tones next to the window, happiness shining on both their faces.

And Y/n watched on, huddled in her own little corner as she gulped down another glass of champagne, trying to focus on the burn in her throat as the liquor travelled down. Trying not to think of the way her breathing started coming in shorter pants, her lungs constricting in the too small rib cage that were set on killing her.

Trying to ignore the tang of copper in her mouth as she bit her own tongue, not wanting to speak and draw attention to herself, to ask for help because she was too unused to suffering in silence. Her family had always been there, and she had never had to go even a day without their constant nagging. She always had at least one of them guiding her through the worst of her days.

Trying not to think of how no one even glanced up as she exited the room, tears prickling her eyes, feeling like she was nothing but an intruder, watching from outside the warmth of the house, standing knee deep in the cold snow as she tried her best to keep warm by looking at the happy faces of her family, no matter how much she was freezing on the inside.

Her fingers curled around the lumpy material of her comforter, and she pushed forward, trying to ignore the tears that rolled down her warm cheeks and buried her head in the soft fabric.

And then let out the ear piercing scream she had been holding in, uncaring that she had let down the sound shield around her room.

She knew no one was around to hear.

She knew no one would come.

They were all too happy to worry.

Her stomach was grumbling, and she was glad it was because otherwise it would've been the cause for concern, considering she hadn't eaten in almost a day.

She was still so tired and wanted to do nothing but lay in bed all day and cry, but she needed to eat too.

And so here she was, chopping up some vegetables in a daze, not really paying attention despite wanting to focus on something that took her mind off of her thoughts.

It was not easy to stop thinking, so when suddenly the fog in her mind cleared, she glanced down.

The red of her blood was bright, and the longer she stared, the quicker the pain came, but it was only a tiny sting, nothing more than the bite of an ant in the shape of a knife.

She stared, and stared.

And then, she lifted her eyes, her gaze settling on her dagger, unprompted.

She smiled.

Writing was one of the parts of Y/n's responsibilities. Writing a letter to help the relations between the courts. A report for the high lord.

It was one of the things that broke her out of her own mind's torture, one of the things that made her feel like she wasn't entirely useless.

So here she was, just scribbling away senseless words in her journal, knowing she would hide it away before anyone saw it. Saw the blood stains.

For the first time in weeks, she was smiling, no tears to be found in her eyes as she lay on her stomach on the bed, her legs in the air behind her as she began doodling little flowers in the corner of the page, her inkpot next to her and her dagger in her other hand.

She went to dip in her feather pen in the ink, frowning a little as it created spots of ink on the crumpled paper, mixing with the dark red liquid that still dripped slowly from her fingers, little rivulets running down from her wrist.

As she continued, a tap on her mental walls had her pausing, and after a brief conversation with Rhys, she got up, closing her journal and beginning to clean the cuts on her wrist and around the journal and then donning a flowy, simple white gown.

It wasn't long before a knock sounded at her door, and she hurried to open it to find Cassian standing on her front porch, smiling.

"Hey Y/n, Rhys asked me to pick you up-"

Y/n nodded. "Yes I know, let me just grab my things and then we can go."

He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe.

She ran up the stairs and to her bedroom, grabbing the little bag she had put all her pens and previous reports into, deciding to carry them with her just in case.

She hurried back out within a few moments, but she saw that Cassian had moved, standing near the gates. Which was suspicious, but not too alarming as she stepped onto the porch.

"Let's go."

Before she shut the door Y/n turned and glanced around the house for the last time. Why, she didn't know. But she couldn't shake the feeling in her gut that something was wrong.

And she had known to always trust her gut.

But she turned around, locking the door before leaving.

Not realising her journal was missing from the table.

"I really don't want to pressure you too much Y/n, so if you don't want to be a part of this research, I understand-"

"Rhys, this is no burden. I'm actually honoured you even considered me for this project."

His brows furrowed, his smile turning confused. "What are you talking about Y/n? You're one of the smartest people I know. Of course you are included-" he trailed off, his eyes filling with understanding. "How have you been Y/n?"

Y/n blinked, pretending not to understand what he meant by that. Of course Rhys knew she struggled with feeling worthy of her family, and of course he made that connection.

"I've been good, Rhys." Y/n mumbled, an easy grin on her face as if Rhys's concern was ridiculous.

"Have you had any recent episodes-"

"Guess what I found!"

He paused, both their heads turning to where Cassian's booming voice floated through the cracked door.

Y/n's whole body ran cold, and before she could even question the reaction of her body to something that wouldn't have concerned her before, she was stumbling out the door, following Cassian's voice to the sitting room, where everyone else was gathered.

Cassian was grinning as he explained to them how he had gone to pick Y/n's up from her house, and how he found-

Her secret diary.

Y/n's eyes widened, her legs refusing to move as her gaze locked on the book Cassian held in his hand.

"Oh, look, she's here too!" He turned to her, his expression carefree and inviting. "Never knew you had a diary Y/n. What will I find if I read through it? Your secret lover's name? His-"

"Cass." Y/n warned, finally getting herself to move forward as he danced back, his hands beginning to crack open the book.

"Will I find your secret fantasies-"

He stopped dead in his tracks, all the emotions gone from his face as he stared at the page he had opened, his features hard. Y/n waited with bated breath, her head turning to gauge everyone's reaction.

Mor sat with Nyx in her lap, bouncing him as she glanced between Y/n and Cassian. Feyre and Azriel exchanged confused glances before Azriel stood, stalking towards Cass.

Panicked, Y/n jumped forward, but before her hand could wrap around her journal, he pulled away, face pale.

"What is this?"

"None of your business."

Azriel had stopped, his eyes wide as he stared at Y/n.

That's when Y/n realised he had smelled the blood she left on the pages.

Damn it.

Y/n stepped back towards the exit as she felt all the eyes on her, panic starting to dig its claws in her gut and begin its ascent up her throat as the shadows curled around Azriel's ear and his eyes went to her wrist, covered by the long sleeves of her dress.

Y/n turned to find Rhys standing in the doorway, his eyes filled with tears.

"Why?"

She glanced once at everyone, tears starting to fill her own eyes, her face flushing in embarrassment, mad that she had started crying over nothing, and pushed past Rhys, running towards the front door.

"Y/n!"

They will be mad.

You deserve it.

Y/n fled the river house, ignoring the concerned looks thrown her way by the people on the streets as she ran straight to her house.

They hate you.

The door slammed shut behind her as she leaned against it, gasping for breath as her lungs started contracting painfully, refusing to let her breathe.

The breathlessness was starting to creep up again on her.

It was happening again.

Acotar Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686

@cassie6392 @kennedy-brooke @tele86 @miluiel1

@hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter @piceous21

@mybestfriendmademe @saltedcoffeescotch @eve175 @starsinyourseyes

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @byyalady @lilah-asteria

@girlswithimagination @gardenofrunar @girlswithimagination @sunnyspycat

@artists-ally @riddlesb1tch @milswrites @berryzxx

Azriel Taglist: @darthdumbasss @foreverrandomwritings @azrielsmate3 @celestialend

@stqrgirlies-blog @tele86 @bakananya @xyzmeh

@st4r-girl-official @caraaaaugh @nacho-nat @allllium

@fandomarchiveilyd @nickishadow139

Cassian Taglist: @moonlwghts @samslittlespoon @nickishadow139

[glitter-stained]

Look, I'll say it: Zurr isn't a magical demon that took over Bruce's body, it's a vilifying, demonizing take on induced DID. I can't keep seeing people fight to defend Bruce's honour in Gotham War by saying "it wasn't actually him so it's not his fault", reject the Lazarus Pit Madness headcanon because "Jason and he alone did his crimes and he has no excuse", and then we're talking about how Bruce's or Dick's trauma is what made him a hero, one post later on my board it's "the lazarus pit madness headcanon is unnecessary because Jason's behaviour is completely explainable and logical if you just take in account that he has cptsd" (or bpd depending on the post) and then that fanfic I had to stop reading because a character literally was screaming at Jason "so what you died get over yourself but you weren't magically controlled by the pit so you have zero excuse and justification for being angry" and then a post about "wow why is Batman punching down on all these mentally ill people", and then in the replies "are you dumb it's because those crazies are bombing orphanages..."

I'm still thinking about that moment in "dumpster slasher" where Batman is like "the killer is still free while poor Elmore [a homeless guy with substance use disorder and major neurocognitive disorder] is being shipped off to Arkham... This doesn't sit right" yeah buddy I'm sure if you ponder that for a while, the reason why the fact the only mental health facility in your city is also a prison for dangerous criminals with no apparent mental illness doesn't sit right with you will appear to you eventually.

Maybe it's time to confront the fact that the difference between a hero and villain in dc is often whether their mental illness is demonized, glorified or minimized. Or the fact that attenuated circumstances and responsibility exists on a gradient and there is such thing as "altered responsibility due to mental illness" in a trial. Maybe it's not "oh it was this evil Zurr/Batman entity, not Bruce/Batman, so there is no responsibility to be taken and anyone condemning those actions as abuse is talking in bad faith" maybe it's "this is a terrible representation of something that exists and should be treated respectfully" and "I don't have to accept this terribly harmful rethoric and fucked up depiction into my conception of my fav's characterization in such a dislocated, often incoherent canon if I don't want to."

And also maybe it's "if we accept this event/depiction as canon it doesn't mean that we have to either bash the character completely or erase his mental illness into something vaguer/mystical that would somehow absolve him of his place in this situation".

And maybe it's "what does accountability for your harmful actions looks like when your judgement was heavily impaired by mental illness, and what judgement can be placed upon you and who decides where people are placed on that continuum of responsibility and how do we acknowledge and go forward into repairing things when severe harm/abuse was done under impaired judgement and also how do you reconcile all of this with your sense of self, (especially in conditions like bpd/cptsd and especially did where the sense of self is already so altered/complicated) with what your values are, what you want to be, what you are capable of doing and what you thought about yourself before the bad thing happened." I don't know any simple, correct, good answer, especially not a one size fits all. All I know is: the desire to be a good person, and be able to distinctively separate people between bad and good, is profoundly human and, at times when lines of responsibility get blurry, profoundly unhelpful. Most people who are going to hurt you aren't mentally ill. Most people who do terrible things aren't mentally ill, and sometimes people are mentally ill and hurt people and the two have nothing to do with eachother. But it is also a reality that sometimes judgement is impaired and behaviour is altered due to mental illness, and then you need to figure out where to go from there. Acknowledging this while also fighting stigmatisation is a complicated business. It's messy. Mental illness often is. I'm weary of any rethoric that pretends it's simple.

[yanderefarm]

Honestly Silvan is so cute, i cant help but think about a master who treats him like their own little dress up doll, the maids might be the ones to bath him, but his master is the one that puts him in the prettiest frills and silks, who does his makeup flawlessly, and styles his hair just so, you mentioned him hurting himself either to get you to drink from him or to punish himself so i can imagine this types of master would do things like expressing disappointment whenever he harms himself before punishing him with isolation, of course putting him in a straight jacket along with his padded cell so he doesnt damage himself any further, maybe if he's particularly bad you'll strap him down to a chair, table, or even locking him in a coffin like putting a doll in their case so he has no choice but to be there completely still, alone in the dark until he understands what he did wrong

doll silvan

cw;; objectification, abuse, hypnosis, angst, questionable comfort, self harm, blood, cruel reader

haha this is so fucked up i love it so much it tickles the part of my brain that says to ruin that twink. the urge to treat silvan like a stress ball.

like i know he'd be so fun to absolutely ruin his sense of self and break him down until he doesn't even realize he's human anymore. and all because you love him! he'd be so grateful.

silvan looks good in anything. he could wear the ugliest colors and still somehow it would compliment his eyes you're sure. not that you would ever allow him to wear something ugly. even when he first arrived in his glorified potato sack you immediately set upon getting him something better. but no matter how many clothes you bought for him it was never enough, he needed more. at this point your tailor had taken up residence in your manor.

every day before breakfast you would go to silvan's room and help his maids wake him up, today was no exception. your tired pet would blink at you with a sleepy smile and a cute blush on his face before you would usher him off to the bath. while he bathed the maids would clean up his room and you would begin the process of picking out his outfit. it was a long and laborious process, plagued with indecision because nothing was perfect!

as soon as your lovely doll was out of the bath you'd set upon him. you stood him in front of the full length mirror, his body shifting as he tried not to get aroused. as much as you love him the fact that he's not one of your other lifeless dolls can get annoying sometimes. you end up compelling him to get him to behave properly, there's always a sick pleasure in watching his eyes go empty and his body become soft and pliant in your arms. you keep him aware of what's being done to him but he can't control his own body, his mind distant and foggy like watching from underwater. you start with wrapping his ribbon for the day around his neck, the ribbon you pick always sets the mood for the rest of his outfit. today you picked a soft pink ribbon which immediately inspired you to grab some matching pink and white babydoll lingerie. your pet always spends the whole day embarrassed and aroused when you make him wear nothing but lingerie, it makes him taste better.

you tie the ribbon around his waist tight like a corset, his breath hitching softly. you run your fingers along his cheek as you admire your perfect doll in the mirror.

"so pretty... dolls don't need to breathe do they?" you're so tempted to tighten up the ribbon too but you can't risk leaving any marks on his skin.

you released your compulsion on him allowing him to return to his normal self. immediately his heartbeat picked up and his face turned the same pink as his ribbon. you offered your pet your hand which he graciously took, his cheeks a burning red as you led him out of the room.

today was special, you were having a few guests for dinner and they were specifically interested in your notorious doll collection. that's why you had been fasting for a week now, any teeth marks on his beautiful skin would be disgusting and unsightly. it was hard to have him sitting there in your office especially with his heart racing every time a servant would come in. a lesser vampire would have cracked but your preference for aesthetics beat out your hunger. he was supposed to be perfect for the evening event.

you should have been keeping a closer eye on him honestly but between work and your admittedly stupid trust in your toy you thought it would be fine. he had somehow found himself a piece of broken glass to make a cut on his arm. that's aggravating. in trying to bring you his gift because you had to be starving he had gotten his blood on his outfit. that's infuriating. and his eyes looking at you pathetically like he knew what was coming. it took everything in your power not to hurt your little doll in anger, choosing instead to squeeze the door knob so tightly the metal bent and the door was pulled from its hinges.

you threw the broken door to the side and grabbed his uninjured arm, still careful not to bruise him. he was sobbing, begging, pleading for you to stop as you dragged him towards his isolation room. his fists weakly beat on your arm as he tried in vain to apologize, soon his wailing was going to start. god he made you mad. you were almost to the tower when you grabbed silvan's face, covering his mouth as you pressed him into the wall.

"you are a beautiful perfect doll. dolls don't scream. dolls don't cry. dolls don't stain their clothes." every word was like venom from your lips.

his tears were pouring fresh from his bloodshot eyes.

"i had plans for you tonight. you were going to do a lovely show. your pretty blood was already going to run." you let go of his mouth and eased away from him.

"but no you just can't help yourself. you enjoy ruining your body. do you hate me?"

"n-no!"

you grabbed his face again this time forcing him to look in your eyes. "do you hate being my beautiful doll? do I not treat you well?"

"master-! im-im so so so sorry im-im so bad i know im not im not good enough im-"

you leaned down and gave him a gentle kiss. "shh... I'm sorry for getting so angry with you, doll. it's ok."

"ca-can i still-still be your pretty-pretty doll? please. please i can i-"

"i could never find a doll as beautiful as you. but you can't go around misbehaving like that. you're going in your case for dinner and then you'll spend the night in your room."

he started to sob again his words failing as he tried to beg you not to do this to him. you gave a heavy sigh as you forced him back down into your compulsion. his tears stopped as his body fell limp in your arms, just like a doll.

you carried him gently to your dollhouse room where you kept everything you used to make your pretty lifeless dolls. you set him gently on the table and he blinked at you like he wanted to start crying again. you shushed him. instead you focused on finding him a new outfit, something white to match the straight jacket he'd have to wear. you found a cute pair of wedding lingerie and a pearl necklace to replace his ribbon. you hummed to yourself as you undressed him. your tone became sour when you got to his still bleeding wound, you licked the excess blood before you got to work cleaning his wound properly.

"this is really ugly work. do you know that I really hate doing this to you?"

blink. you gently wrapped his arm up tightly.

"mhm i hate it. you keep making me do this though. do you realize how much pain you cause me?"

blink blink. you gave his freshly bandaged wound a kiss before you made him sit up straight.

"arms out. i don't like making you miserable, you're my most precious doll."

you gently slipped him into the straight jacket and pulled it tight until he couldn't move his arms at all.

"you're too beautiful to be forced in your box, you know? but if a toy breaks you have to throw it away."

blink blink blink. a single tear fell down his blank face. you sighed again as you pulled his lacey white panties up his thighs.

"we don't want you to break. just accept your punishment like a good boy."

blink. you helped him down off the table before leading him to another full length mirror. you gently placed the "bloody" pearl necklace around his neck.

"if i let you go will you quietly go in your case?"

blink. satisfied with that answer you left him standing there to pull out his case. a coffin with a glass window in the top that allowed you to see whatever was inside. you unlocked the heavy coffin and pulled it open. the interior was a deep maroon and it was extremely well cushioned with an extra pillow for the head.

you released your compulsion on silvan who immediately began to cry again. you clicked your tongue at him.

"there's no reason to cry, doll. come get in your case."

"ple-pleash- hic don-dont throw-throw me aw-away- hic" he was sobbing so hard he couldn't breathe.

you pulled him into a hug. "you're not broken, are you?"

"im im ba-bad hic an-and im ug-ugly and hic- i can-cant be-be go-good-"

you rubbed your hand on his back. "you're not a bad doll, you're so good at being my doll. you get confused sometimes and think you're still human and that's when you're bad. but i forgive you. even if it takes me 500 years I'll train you into the perfect doll."

his head nuzzles against your chest as he sobbed and whimpered and hiccuped. his words were too broken to understand anymore. you held him for a long time, letting him get all his tears out onto your shirt. when he finally calmed down enough to breathe properly you guided him to the mouth of his case.

"please- please come get me tomorrow ma-master..."

"I'll get you first thing in the morning. we can even go out tomorrow if you don't misbehave anymore tonight."

he nodded as he sunk into the comfortable coffin space. his heartbeat immediately picked up as soon as the lid closed over him, a sense of claustrophobia washing over him. you could hear him trying not to panic even as you locked the coffin tight.

"be good."

[roryknightwrites]

My Aventurine Self-Destruction Headcanons

It's late and I just want to ramble about all my thoughts about how Aventurine hurts himself

TW for substance abuse, sh, and sa. Not trying to glorify anything, just talking about it.

• One of my strongest Aventurine headcanons is that he has a binge drinking habit. Aside from all the nods we're given in the game, I just think it fits his character a lot. Since I also headcanon him to have BPD and I also imagine he would have an insanely addictive personality (because of the lack of dopamine I'm sure he suffers from), and it just makes so much sense to me. Guy with ridiculous trauma, ridiculous identity issues that haunt him every day, constant nagging guilt, PTSD flashbacks, I mean- it just makes sense to me that he'd end up being a drinker. He'd dabble with it at a party and realize how good it could make him feel. But, he can never have just one drink, even though he thinks that he can. So, after work everyday, he has a glass of wine- which turns into a bottle, which turns into a trip to the liquor store, which turns into shots, which turns into him rallying anybody he can find to party with him, which turns into him waking up in a back ally or in some strangers bed with 10 missed calls from Topaz asking him where the fuck he is (because it's definitely a weekday). He comes to work late every day, extremely hungover (or still drunk) but he never gets fired because he's so damn good at his job, everybody just kinda knows he's a fucking mess and they let it go. I HC that Jade knows and just doesn't really care because as long as he's doing his job and bringing in money, it doesn't matter how he's doing it. But I think Topaz would notice how sick he always looks / how often he leaves to go throw up in the bathroom / how much weight he's lost over the months, and she'd try to catch him before he goes home and invite him over to play with Numby.

• I also HC Aventurine to have a coke habit, mostly because it just fits so well with his character: filthy rich mentally ill guy who has a visceral need to feel happy + flex his money because it's obviously a testament to how happy he is? He's got coke addict written all over him. That just leads him into more issues though, because when you start messing with harder drugs, you get involved with rougher crowds, and you end up in tougher situations.

• Combining these two, I think he goes out on extensive benders. Like, he throws parties like he's fucking J Gatsby just to prove to himself 'look, all these people like you and want to be around you' (which he knows isn't true, but he numbs those thoughts with the substances, silly!) and he's like, battling with the thoughts of 'i am a fucking loser failure whose mother would be so disappointed with him, i am a fraud and i am perpetually guilty for fighting so fucking hard to stay alive and stealing so many lives for my own just to end up wanting to die' with 'but let's not think about that, let's think about how rich and successful and cool i am and i can keep numbing all those feelings with drugs and liquor and attention!'- these benders usually end 3-14 days later, with him either arrested + passed out in a bush somewhere with Topaz looking for him before Jade figures out what he's doing, because despite Aventurine being a reckless jackass, she still loves him and doesn't want him to die.

• Also going off my BPD headcanon, I think he'd eventually get into self harming because of the intensity of the emotions inside him. Combining the constant identity disturbances, the guilt, the resentment, the anger, the self hatred, I think at some point the substances wouldn't be able to stifle the feelings enough and he'd start hurting himself for the physical release. To feel the feelings physically leave his body + to visually see it would turn into another addiction because of his addictive personality, and it would be another thing he'd be ashamed of and have to try and hide from everybody at the IPC. Walking into work late, hungover and sick as hell, the inside of his suit jacket getting caught on the cuts on his arms, just feeling so fucking shitty trying to keep up the facade until 5 o clock, when he can start his spiral all over again and get a hit of dopamine for at least an hour or so.

• I also hc aventurine to have extensive sexual trauma, mostly because of how obvious it is that he was subjected to that in slavery, I think that combined with the thought that he's only worth 60 tanba left him with a complicated relationship with his body. I think he uses sex to get things he wants + to feel desired, but after its over, he feels even worse than before. I think because of how many identity issues he has / how empty he perpetually feels, he likes showing himself that people can still fall for him and want him. It just ends up making him feel worse though, because none of those people actually know anything about him.

• Ratio is who he ends up texting the most during all of this. When he's really trashed he'll send him some text that's just not decipherable at all, and when Ratio sees him at work the next day, he knows why. Ratio does step in sometimes, he'll try to track his phone to find where he is or he'll try to call him to talk him off the edge, but sometimes, I think it's too painful for Ratio. As someone who doesn't spend a lot of time nurturing the emotional side of his brain, I think his feelings for Aventurine mixed with his feelings of frustration with how Aventurine treats himself would be exhausting (hence, why I wrote that fanfic lol). I hc that at least once, Aventurine ended up late for a meeting stranded at a strangers house and called Ratio to pick him up, and Ratio had a really rude awakening to how Aventurine really tends to treat himself: clothes half on, viciously hungover, hickies everywhere, hair a mess, bloody nose, gagging into an empty dunkin donuts bag, desperately trying to fix himself in the passenger side mirror before they got back to the office and god forbid Diamond saw him looking like that. After that, I think Ratio would make a habit of sending him good night texts (subtly of course, disguised as Ratio being his normally cynical-self: the goal is just to get Aventurine to respond at all so he knows the gambler is still alive, though he only ever responds half the time)

• And finally, i think he's ambitious in nature and if he got a taste of positive reinforcement, he'd try to get better. But when you're traumatized to that level, you end up building this weird resentment and entitlement because you're mad that normal shit is so much more difficult for you. So I think when things get a bit too difficult, he'd always end up falling back into old habits, because he knows that they'll help. Are they the right choice in the long run? Of course not. But how long is the run going to be, anyways? When your entire identity is based around being a flamboyant disaster, you might as well lean into the role as much as possible, right?

that's all for now. ilu aventurine

[turbulentscrawl]

Most-to-Least Protective: Survivor Guys

I had less time to write before work today, but some good inspo so I whipped up this example for the ranking requests I take! For this one I just used the ten who came to mind and who im probably most familiar with

This is meant in general terms, not just for in Matches. The primary situations I considered for this are heated arguments, physical altercations, and near-death experiences. The ranking considers their responses to these situations, as well as how strong their protective feelings are.

MOST 🔻

Naib would do just about anything in defense of a loved one. Argue, fight, kill, anything. It’s not like he hasn’t done it all before anyway. Naib refuses to lose anyone else, it’s not even an option to him. If someone tried to make it happen anyway? He’s enraged beyond giving his usual mercy of a quick death. He’s gonna make it hurt.

Andrew is not super likely to argue on your behalf, unless you count cussing someone out as “arguing.” In which case it’s like 50/50. He’s more willing to step in physically. He doesn’t want to be a glorified meat-shield, but if your life were in danger he would 100% crack someone over the head with his shovel. He won’t intentionally kill someone for you but it may happen, depending on how that shovel lands. He won’t feel bad about it either way. He’s already an angry guy, and it’s even more intense when you’re in danger.

Kevin would initiate an argument on your behalf. Also very willing to throw hands on your behalf and doesn’t care if he gets hurt. He really doesn’t want to kill anyone, but if there’s no other choice he will. Your safety as his loved one comes before anyone else’s, even his own. Surprisingly, he becomes more level-headed and calculating as the danger to you increases. In other words, he’s at his most emotional in a verbal argument.

Norton mostly trusts you to handle your own issues, but if you’re obviously uncomfortable or intimidated he’ll place himself between you and the threat. Might get into a fight for you if it were serious, but his preferred way to handle things would be dealing petty revenge behind the scenes. (or, during a personality flip, violent revenge.) He would kill someone for you if there was no other way. His feelings are more intense than his actions normally suggest, but he’s concerned about going too far like he did in the mining accident.

William is a large, strong guy, who’s very rough in his sports but not so much outside them. He’ll gladly speak up for you if someone’s being a jerk, but he may or may not make the best arguments. He’s happy to be your shield and willing to throw a punch or two if someone else strikes first but, again, he’d rather wrap things up before getting to that point. If he had to, he’d probably kill to protect you, but it would haunt him for the rest of his life. He’s very hot-headed in regards to your safety.

If Victor is one thing, it’s brave. He’s not likely to speak on your behalf, or try to hurt someone for you, but he’s more than willing to place himself in harm’s way if it means he has even a chance of getting you out of it. He always lingers close by if there’s tension in the air so he can pull you behind him at a moment’s notice.

Luca is very likely to step into an argument on your behalf—though in his case it’s more him trying to end the argument rather than engage it. He’s willing to step into danger to guide you out of it, but not to attempt violence. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he knows he’s too weak to be helpful in that way. He’s quite calm up until your life is in immediate danger, at which point he would beg his more-capable friends to save you.

Aesop is not protective in the moment at all. He won’t step in to argue or fight for you, and isn’t very likely to step into life-threatening danger, either. His self-appointed role is healing and comforting you after the fact. And, secretly, plotting revenge. No one ever suspects Aesop as being the type to hold a grudge. But I stand by what I said in his general HCs: if we go by canon, he’s easily one of the most dangerous people in the manor.

Edgar is pretty unhelpful. Listen, listen…you’re supposed to be the tough cookie in this relationship. Edgar has venom for days; he’ll run his mouth off if you want him to, sure, but he’s not throwing himself into danger just because you can’t handle it. If you almost die…well, you’re one of the few things he cares about anymore, so the line must be drawn. If they’re within reach, the culprit ought to watch their backs for a while. And maybe not eat or drink anything they didn’t prepare themselves.

Joker is a lot like Aesop, but there’s like a 90% chance of it being without the revenge bit. He does, in fact, hold grudges, but he’s still not likely to attempt anything against someone. If they did something really horrible to you he’ll look into whatever form of public justice can be dealt to them, even if that just means trying to rally the other members of the manor into shunning them. Unlike Aesop, he’s somewhat likely to try to stop a verbal altercation, but he’s not very assertive and ends up not being much help.

LEAST 🔺

[yonpote]

i feel like newer and younger phannies dont rlly grasp how dan's like old random and often offensive humor went a little hand-in-hand as just a part of culture at the time? i guess the main thing that "xD llamas placentas" humor and "weird rape joke" humor have in common is that it's unexpected. you see these timid-looking guys on your computer screen talking about northern english slang and then they're talking about getting SA'd in a ginnel, it's quite shocking (at least if you haven't been completely desensitized the way a lot of us have.) and that edgy type of humor is still all over online but nowadays it's mainly associated with alt-righters, but some remnants of it are still present even in left wing millennials like dnp. i feel like nowadays emo culture itself is seen as quite innocent, but a lot of it was just straight up about self harm or glorifying self harm. on one hand you could argue that it was a way to cope and connect with people who have been through a similar thing as you, but at the same time i do know people who genuinely would hurt themselves in order to be seen a true emo. so emo culture was also very much steeped in that edgy mindset (i mean it still is but i think a lot of ppl nowadays just look at the less harmful aspects of it) and ESPECIALLY the queerness of emo culture. like at the time, if you were an emo guy you were just kinda assumed to be bi or at the very least you kiss boys to attract emo girls. being seen as queer was part of being counter culture, and it kinda is still but in particular w like mcr (who. we know gee is queer. we know this.) like the Guys were kissing on stage and stuff BECAUSE it would get booed by straight guys, like to be queer was edgy! supporting gay people WAS edgy, as much as yelling slurs in an ironic fashion was. but that came with the understanding that it wasn't safe to ACTUALLY identify as queer, so people would either hide behind the label of bi or state it in "above the belt" vagueries without actually confirming anything. i mean, there was a time where being an edgy atheist meant going against puritanical republicans and all of their beliefs, but then white cishet male atheists realized actually it's in their favor to side with the christians on the rights of marginalized people. but like other ppl who are much smarter than me have talked abt how ppl fell down the 4chantroll to maga hat pipeline years ago so yall dont need to hear it from me lol.

anyway was there a point to this? uhh yeah just like understanding that dnp Especially 2011 dan come from a time period where edgy humor meant anything from making ironic sexist comments to shouting placenta in the middle of the street

[adventuringblind]

Joint Coping

Lestappen x Reader

Genre: Angst

Dialouge: "Help me understand."

Summary: Max helps his partners learn to cope in healthy ways

Warnings: Selh-harm, unhealthy Coping, blood, Ferrari, Max being the sane one of the group

Notes: I would like to emphasize that this is a thing that does happen. I know because I've done it. This specifically is not something to be glorified at all. Self-harm done in groups can become competitive. This is a pretty toned down version of things I've experienced and it's less toxic. THIS IS NOT REACHING OUT. Just wanted to clarify :)

This is part of my 1000 follower celebration! Requests are still open if you'd like to participate (the link will take you to the request form).

Masterlist

Max knows something is wrong with his partners. It's like an itch in his brain he can't scratch. A sixth sense, if you will.

The two Ferrari drivers are struggling with their team. Every problem is their fault. They have become the Ferrari scapegoats. When they do poor, it's the driver. When they do good, it's the team and the car.

He's coming to the end of his patience. If he has to hear them self deprecate one more time he might actually consider making them stand in the mirror and say nice things about themselves. Can he fuck it out of them? Is that a possibility? He really doesn't know but is desperate and willing to try anything.

They both DNF at the next race. Max is a man on a mission through media and debrief. He needs to see that they are okay. At the very least not sitting through some kind of lecture a parent gives to a child.

He sprints to the Ferrari garage and runs into Carlos. Despite his injury that took him out of the season, he still comes to support his team and teammates.

"Carlos!" The Spainard spins around to face him. "Have you seen-?"

"They already left over an hour ago. Did they not text you?"

There are warning bells going off inside of his head. Something is clearly wrong and they aren't telling him about it. He's about to sprint away when Carlos stops him.

"Before you go, you should that there were some awful things said by their engineers and they looked really upset about it."

"Thanks Carlos."

Max is back at the hotel as fast as he can manage. He tried both their cells with no answer. It's killing him from the inside out with anxiety. He's probably just overthinking, but it'll feel better when he sees they are okay.

He keys the door open and doesn't bother taking off his shoes. The lights are off aside from the one in the bathroom. Maybe they decided a nice relaxing bath would do the trick. Max could also go for one. He pushes that thought aside for now.

He knocks gently on the door. "You two in there?" No response. Or at least - not one to him directly. There are a few hushed whispers, but nothing loud enough for him to hear.

He waits Aproximatley ten seconds before he can't handle it anymore and swings the door open. He expects to see fogged mirror and water on the floor. Instead he's met with the sight red wrists and thighs.

He's lost. Max Verstappen has no idea what to do.

They are stripped down to undergarments. Legs dangling over the side of tub. A switchblade in the hands of Charles. They both look teary eyed and doped out. Are they enjoying this?

God, he feels so stupid. Weeks of having Sex with no lights on, sweatshirts in hot weather, no swimming and doing private ice bathes away from trainers. He should've noticed. Max could've stopped this sooner. He wants to rewind and tell them to come to him instead of relying on this to get the through.

"Guess you caught us." Charles let's out a half assed laugh. "You gonna stare at us all night? Or can we get the yelling part over with? Last three partners left us when they caught it. I understand if it's to much. Not your burden."

Max had been a later addition. The two in the bathtub had been together since their teenage years. Had they been Coping like this for so long?

"Sorry about the mess. Relapses are hard. We made it all season until a month ago." She leans her head onto Charles' shoulder. How can they make this type of environment endearing? This is unreal and they need serious help. Which Max will eventually get them when he can get his act together.

He kneels on the floor in between them. Max is just now registering the tears on his cheeks. They'd been in pain for so long. It hurts him just thinking about it.

"I'm not going to yell-" he looks at one. "-I'm not going to leave-" he looks at the other. "But help me understand. I want to help."

"It's easier to do with someone else around. It's more therapeutic." The lopsided smile on the female's face is not helping Max. He has to many questions.

First, he gets them cleaned up. Neither of them flinch when he disenfects the wounds. They don't look at him as he wraps them in whatever gauz is in the first aid kit. They look ashamed as he puts the knife in his bag and rinses the tub.

The one that gets him, however, is the look of pure confusion when Max hugs them both so tightly. It's like they don't know how to respond.

They sit in a circle on the bed. It's comfortable and Max can see both their expressions clearly.

"I know the struggle." He starts. "Punishing yourself is better then someone else doing it, right? But I had Daniel there reminding me to reach out."

"It's just easier this way."

"Easier isn't better. Look at the state you're in. I'm not leaving, but I am getting the both of you help."

He followed through with this the next morning. Then looked supposed to see him when they woke up. He, and his childish mind, kissed all the cuts and scars. Every single one of them received proper treatment.

The female cried and thre her arms around Max. Charles had looked away in shame. The reasons they started this are still foreign to him, but that's not his priority.

He gets them help. All of them, mind you. They do group sessions as the three of them to find healthier ways to cope with each other.

Reasons seem to fade into the background because they don't matter as much. The important thing is that Max caught it in time. That he didn't lose them to their own minds. They are partners, and Max would be devistated to lost someone he loves to those dark places.

He rests easier now that the itch has been scratched. His partners are doing better. They smile and laugh at his stupid jokes again. A bit of confidence regained.

And Max reminds them daily that nothing is worth it if you have to destroy yourself for it. Drivers or not, he loves them regardless.

[shrimpkini]

Who's lex dark and why's that anon so pressed about you hating them? Hate to your heart's content!

CW: discussing CSA, pedophilia, and problematic content

Lex_Dark is a popular nsfw artist on twt. I want to get it out of the way that I at one point followed them for a brief time. This was until I saw some of the art they made. They’ve drawn porn of teen soukoku, endorse ships like Chuuya x Oda, Mori x Dazai, and Ranpo x Fukuzawa. They are a pro shipper who, surprise, surprise, takes things too far by glorifying and sexualizing pedophilia.

One of their pieces has Mori walking in on skk after they had sex. Like Dazai doesn’t have pants on and still has cum dripping down his legs and opens the door to greet Mori. They don’t depict teenagers having a sex life, because I do believe that can be done in a way that is needed for a story or self discovery. But that is not what they are doing. They are drawing a teen Chuuya and Dazai and making them “sexy” for the audience.

They have 60k followers and I’m really disappointed they have a platform. When it comes to sexualizing fictional children in art, it is incredibly harmful. It actively hurts real life children. I should know as a victim of csa myself. Normalizing the sexualization of teenagers is disgusting. I think we should ask ourselves what do they find attractive about the teenage version of those characters? Why are they so keen on shipping children with parental figures or adult characters who met them when they were kids? It is so important to mention that Oda met Dazai when he was 16. Oda is 5 years older than Dazai meaning he was 21. He watched him grow up and viewed him as a child in the light novel. BECAUSE HE WAS. Teenagers are CHILDREN. Same with Fukuzawa and Ranpo. He met Ranpo when he was a kid and essentially adopted him. To put it in real life perspective — could you imagine lusting after a child you adopted and raised? My little sister is around that age. Another example is as a 21 yo, even though it’s legal, I wouldn’t go after an 18 yo who is still in high school. We are at different points in our life and they are still very much a kid despite being “legal”. Morality and what makes a moral relationship doesn’t just lie in age.

That is why I say if you are making content like that you are either a pedo, making content for pedos, or apart of the problem. And that is why I hate the content Lex_Dark makes. Hopefully that made sense. If there’s any confusion or things that you want more clarification on - I’d be happy to oblige.

[wolfertinger]

"(Anon please)

Salem blocked a person who notified him that he interacts with Bravobunny, someone who drew porn of a 12 year old

"

"salem just blocked someone on bluesky for telling him that he is following an artist who drew snuff of a 12 YEAR OLD. and then he is posting about how its a callout against an innocent trans artist (the user who drew the snuff art is bravobunny on bluesky) https://www.tumblr.com/wolfertinger666/781417124695621632/trans-women-are-being-persecuted-left-n-right-so (post implying about it)"

"Some poor soul tried telling salem they're following fully admitted pedophiles and salem blocked them and went on a huge rant about queers and their oppressed kinks. At this point I'm just going to assume salem is pro-para/pedo/zoo given the hoops he goes through to bend over backwards for all his diddler mutuals. I know accusations like that are dicey but salem is aware he follows pro map people and blocks those who notices."

"// anon

we just looove downplaying shit dont we!

Salem you are mutuals with self-admitted pedophiles and zoophiles and you have glorified rape in your art. sure, maybe "anatomically correct" furries arent the end of the world, but you are still in contact with people who have harmed children and animals and you are friends with people who fantasize about harming children and animals.

you have drawn corrective rape and you seriously didnt expect people to be disgusted?

are we gossiping or are we bringing up behavior that serves to glamorize and normalize sexual abuse?

"controlled fantasy" buddy just say "fiction doesnt affect reality" and go"

"i listed that cat girls age and it was 12. I have a little sister around that age" i sincerely hope, this is not in reference to bravobunny. jesus christ.