#shit's weird

[existencebringsonlypain]

what is gender

[genericpuff]

oh yeah that's a real "sensation" you got on your hands, webtoons LMAO

i'm pretty sure even LO's stats in its launch week weren't this tilted

YEP I WAS RIGHT LMAO

literally Who Stole the Empress? which was MASSIVELY panned and rate-bombed for its gross abuse of the female main character has better stats relative to its sub count than BEE

"webtoon sensation" more like "webtoon sen-ds these sites money to hype up their worst series in an attempt to astroturf"

[emmg]

The Suckerpunch-that-doesn't-really-get-into-the-whole-gist-of-Suckerpunch Raphael x Tav AU I rambled about the other day lmfao. Originally tossed onto ao3, but I've decided it's gonna hang out here instead, on my silly lil tumblr, since I likely won't be continuing it.

Psychoanalytic therapy in Avernus with Dr Raphael. They chat, they fuck, they gossip about Freud, Lacan, and Faust. Shit is weird, shit veers more closely to psychological horror, nothing makes sense, all lines are blurred. I guess this can be considered part of kinktober lol

---------------------------------------------------

It's very hot in Avernus. It always is.

She hesitates, her fingers resting just shy of the cup of tea Raphael has placed before her. It steams faintly, a burnished liquid that doesn't smell like anything she knows. Raphael is gracious. Raphael is a good host. But she never drinks the tea. 

His claws tap in that rhythm of his, a soft clippity-clap, clippity-clap, like the measured hooves of a steed on marble, punctuated by the occasional clank as his talons strike the edge of the chair. When he flips a page, though, the sound shifts, the tap softening into a velvet hush, parchment brushing against parchment. It isn’t a book, no, not a book—a file, a neat stack of yellowed papers tied with a silk ribbon.

“My dear,” Raphael’s voice lilts, “I do so abhor the boorishness of our little rituals, but... well, your past transgressions have made my attention ever so necessary.” 

There’s a silence in the air, pregnant with unspoken threat. She swallows and nods, her throat suddenly dry. “Of course.” 

“Wonderful,” Raphael beams, too wide, too perfect, his fanged smile catching the light. With a flourish, he places the file down and reaches instead for a small, ornate box, its mahogany surface twisted with carved, snarling faces. He drags his chair closer, the legs scraping across the stone like a knife on bone. 

There’s a stain on his crisp, white lab coat—a smear of tea—and before she knows it, her hand moves, absentmindedly reaching to wipe it off. His tail—long, sinuous, and idle just moments ago—rises, curling through the air. It coils around her wrist, hot against her skin, gently but unforgivingly guiding her hand away. 

"I am ever so grateful for your attentions," he purrs, the sound rich and decadent, making her pulse stutter. His tail releases her wrist but lingers in the air, a constant, looming presence. "But now... now is not the time for such... ministrations." 

He presents the box as though it holds the most precious of treasures, lifting the lid with reverence. Inside, the same contents as always—but today, there's something new. 

“Ah, yes. I know, I know," Raphael sighs, "They make you stumble, don’t they? But you must take them. You must.” His voice takes on a sing-song lilt as his claws hover above the items. “The Quetiapine should help with the... complications. Yes, a little more tired perhaps, but..." His hand slides along her jaw. "At least my little mouse won't go tumbling off the balcony and into the Blood War below, hmm?" 

She should be used to it by now, but something about the ritual is always deeply, deeply wrong. Inside, the same familiar pieces: a soul coin, pulsing faintly with the trapped whispers of damned souls; a potion of healing, glistening a sickly red. And... something else. 

An iridescent white feather, gleaming like a fragment of moonlight. 

Raphael watches her closely, amusement flickering in his eyes as he plucks the feather from the box with his free hand, twirling it lazily between his fingers. "A feather of a Couatl," he muses, brushing it against her nose. She giggles. He does it again. The sounds escapes once more. He smiles. "Purification for the soul. Something to balance the EPS from the Haloperidol, yes?" His voice dips lower. "We wouldn't want those hands of yours trembling, now, would we?” 

He places the box into his lap, freeing his hands. Then, with the gentlest pressure, he tilts her chin down, guiding her face to meet his, and his voice—oh, how it curls into her like smoke, seductive, insidious—whispers softly without saying anything at all.

Without waiting for a response—because he never needs to—he uncorks the vial. 

It smells like cherries and flowers that should never bloom. He tilts it to her lips, slow, careful, and the liquid flows down her throat in a sickly wave, pooling, filling her insides with its awful warmth. She tries to choke it back, but he drags her head just right, fingers trailing her neck as it slides down. His thumb gathers the moisture from her lips, and for a moment—just a moment—he lingers there. 

"I am so sorry the Quetiapine makes you sluggish," he sighs, wiping her mouth as if consoling a child. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “But you’re still the prettiest mouse, even when you cannot answer." His breath fans her face, intimate, too close. "I do like it, sometimes. Yes, I do like it when you do not protest." 

Next comes the soul coin.

"Open," he commands and she does. 

The instant it is placed onto her tongue it begins to melt, sweet and hot and coppery. The metallic taste spreads until she winces.

"My deepest apologies," Raphael says and he sounds sincere. He taps her chin lightly, making sure the coin, or what remains of it, slides fully down. "The Haloperidol does leave you stumbling through your own body, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, little mouse. I’ll always catch you when you fall. Or watch you crawl." 

The feather, already in his hand, is used to tickle her nose. He drags it slowly across her face—her nose, her cheekbones, her collarbone—the sensation light, maddening, every stroke like the ghost of a breath too intimate to bear.

She giggles, ticklish. He does it again. She giggles harder. The feather lingers, just below her throat, before he pulls it back, his hand quivering, a faint tremble that she can’t tell if it’s his or hers.

He sighs, a long, drawn-out sound of disappointment, before dipping it into her tea. The liquid darkens as the feather begins to dissolve, swirling in the cup like ink spilling into water. 

"A little anticholinergic," Raphael explains, blowing at the rising steam. "Though I fear it may dry out your mouth." Only once he's satisfied it isn't too hot does he offer it to her. “But no matter, no matter. I will lend you my tongue.” 

Ah, how generous.

She drinks and she smiles.

Raphael taps his knee, says, "I do believe it's time for our session now."

She rises, stepping lightly, and perches on the edge of his lap. But of course, that’s not enough for him. His hands, quick and nimble, pull her closer, and she feels the slither of his tail wrapping around her waist, tightening. His arms bracket her in, caging her in that familiar way as he turns them both toward the table. 

There’s a quiet click—his glasses appear on the tip of his nose, balanced just so, a caricature of professionalism. He leans over her shoulder, close enough that his breath grazes her neck, and with a smooth motion, pulls a fountain pen from the pocket of his white coat. It gleams in his hand, ready, poised.

Her eyes drop to the file in front of them, her very own, its pages spread wide, waiting. At the top, in bold, angry red, the word CONTRACT stares back at her, shouting in her mind, louder than it should be, pulsing, like it’s alive. She can almost hear it screaming. She swallows, hard.

"Ah," Raphael sighs, and he almost sounds genuine, pained, “if only you had delivered the crown to me. If only you had been... cooperative. We wouldn’t be here, would we, darling? In this... predicament.” 

"But you look so much better without it," she murmurs, trying to sound playful, her fingers drifting up to squeeze his wrist, as though that could somehow anchor her, as though charm might save her now. Her smile feels plastic, stretched too thin over something broken. 

Raphael doesn’t even glance at her; she doesn't need to see it to know it. His smile is gone, she no longer feels it against her skin, replaced with that cold, clinical focus as the pen scratches across the paper. Scribble, scribble, the ink bleeding into the fibers, leaving marks that feel like scars. Diagnosis by possession.

She frowns, feeling the word crawl over her skin, but he’s already moving on. The pen dances in his hand like it knows more than she does. 

"How have you been feeling?" he asks. 

“Well,” she answers, her voice automatic, rehearsed, puppet-like. “So well. You’ve been so good to me.” 

He sighs against her skin, the sound dragging out, heavy, almost mournful, but laced with something twisted. His forehead rests on her shoulder, the weight of his body sinking into her, holding her there. Too long, far too long. “But you have not been good to me,” he whispers, the words sliding from his lips like a confession, or a curse. “No, no, no... you haven’t been good at all.” 

She doesn't answer. A shadow on the wall seems to wail, voiceless, twisting.

"Gouging out your eye, replacing it, prying that tadpole from your skull—so messy, wasn’t it? But I did it for you. I did it for us. I’ve given you a nice private room, haven’t I? Making sure those delicate hands of yours never have to scrub the floors, keeping you soft, so you can play your little lute, sing your little songs. What more do you want?" 

"I want to leave," she says immediately.

“Leave?” he repeats, incredulous, as though the word itself is some sort of tragic joke. His tail coils tighter around her waist. "But, darling," he sighs, "then you would have to catch a bus." His voice dips into a condescending whisper. “And it is so very hard to get a ticket in Avernus. You see, Zariel—bless her little tyrant heart—hasn’t exactly been keeping up the infrastructure. Not much of a road system, I’m afraid.” He clicks his tongue, a mock gesture of sympathy. “No roads, or worse, very bad ones. Potholes the size of balors—where are the taxes going? You might find yourself stuck in a river of lava. Or, heavens forbid, your wheel might get caught... rolling over a lemure.” 

His glasses slip down to the edge of his nose, the shimmer of fire from the pits below casting shadows across his face, giving his devilish features a grotesque refinement. He taps the pen once more, each strike on the paper like the sound of hoofbeats in her mind. "What a foolish thing to ask," he muses, the nib of his pen sliding across the page with furious strokes. His hand moves faster, more erratic now, as if he's trying to contain something wild within the ink. The paper beneath his hand bleeds with scratches, jagged letters forming in crooked rows. 

She reads; he doesn't conceal any of it.

"Loss of power triggers delusions of grandeur. Rebellion against authority—a defensive response. The tadpole incident… ah, yes." His lips curl into a smile, soft, sympathetic, but wrong. "The prying, the pulling, the cutting it free from your mind—" Raphael laughs, the sound disjointed, manic. "Messy, yes. But necessary, my dear. The tadpole, a symbol of your repressed fears. It wanted to control you, but I stopped it, didn’t I? I saved you." 

His fingers twitch, scratching out more words, rewriting the diagnosis over and over again. Nothing is stable. Nothing is true. Nothing is enough. 

"Psychotic features with delusional attachments—episodic, of course," he mutters, eyes flitting over her as if she’s a textbook entry, a collection of symptoms wrapped in skin. "Do you hear the Absolute in your sleep, even now? I imagine you do. Auditory hallucinations. Residual effects of the mindflayer influence. So very classic." 

She can feel the pages piling up around her—his frantic rewriting, his endless annotations. And yet, somehow, none of it sticks. He erases, rewrites, diagnoses her again and again, each time more chaotic, more unhinged, as if he’s chasing some perfect version of her illness, a disorder that’s just out of reach. 

"Delusions of escape," he whispers, leaning in close now, his breath hot against her cheek, his words sharp. "You think you can leave, but that’s part of the pathology. You see? It’s all in your head, little mouse. You can’t go anywhere." 

Then, he falls into silence.

She stares at the wall, but her focus falters, slipping, her attention drifting to the shadow cast on the stone. It’s growing—no, it’s changing, becoming more obscene, more brazen. It moves in ways shadows shouldn’t move, mocking her. One hand raises, flipping her off, but at the same time, another beckons her closer. She blinks, tries to shake it off, but it watches, always watching. 

And Raphael—he waits.  

What did the Crown of Karsus look like? It was... regal, yes, but she can’t quite grasp it. 

Raphael's hands begin to move, slowly at first, a creeping exploration. They glide over her own, his fingers lacing through hers, bizarrely tender. Then, they wander—slipping from her hands to her thighs. Higher. Find the hem of her shirt. Slide beneath it. His fingers splay out, counting her ribs, before retreating. 

"You know," he says and he sounds entirely too calm, "there’s a psychosexual theory that suggests memories can be unlocked through physical therapy." 

"Oh?" she breathes, her voice barely more than a sigh, caught between disbelief and the warmth spreading inside her. There’s a heat building in her belly, creeping up her spine, making her limbs feel heavy and weightless at the same time. 

"Perhaps we can unlock these memories of yours together. Perhaps we can find where you stashed the crown yet."

His fingers find her middle, slipping deftly beneath her waistband, and she doesn’t resist as he undoes the laces of her pants. There’s no hesitation in his touch now—just intent, freeing her from the confines of fabric. He pulls her panties aside, his fingers slipping beneath, and when he touches her, it’s with a deliberate slowness that makes her heart pound. 

"Freud, Jung, even Lacan—they all understood the subconscious holds more power than we give it credit for. Memories, desires, shame, power... all tangled together in the mind’s darkest corners." 

She clenches her thighs tight, but his other hand grips her knee, forcing her open. She exhales sharply, surrendering with a shaky breath. His fingers swirl over her slick skin, coaxing her wetness before he thrusts inside her, dragging painfully slow. Her breath catches at the sight of his claws, though they don't hurt—just a reminder of his control. His fingers curl deep, his thumb pressing against her clit, teasing in circles. The wet, obscene sounds—squelch, squelch, squelch—echo in her ears. Her panties keep tangling in his movements, and with a low curse, he shreds them, yanking out to flick her clit before plunging back in, this time with three fingers. The stretch burns, almost too much, and a rough moan escapes her as her head falls back onto his shoulder.

“Freud, dear Sigmund, would have quite the field day with you, I think,” Raphael muses. “He’d chalk all of this up to repressed desire, probably blame your id for hiding that crown away." His hand retreats, showing her how thoroughly she stained him before generously returning and she begins rocking her hips, fucking herself on his fingers. "After all, wasn’t everything about sex to him? It’s either that or an unresolved fixation on your father.” 

She can feel him hardening beneath her, the press of his cock against her back becoming unmistakable. He pushes her down against him, his fingers curling deeper, coaxing more slickness from her until it begins to pool between her thighs, the rhythmic squelching only fueling her need. 

Again, he pulls away, pushing her forward as he reaches leisurely for his tea. His fingers, glistening with her juices, dip into the cup. “Mmm,” he murmurs, swirling the liquid slowly, “I do believe this needs a bit of honey.” He takes a slow sip, savoring the taste, as he rests his chin on her shoulder. Only when he’s done, setting the cup aside, does he return to her cunt, plunging his fingers back inside without warning. 

“Jung—Carl Gustav—would have loved to dig into your shadow self. All those dark little urges you keep tucked away. Perhaps the crown represents your anima, the part of yourself you’re afraid to let out, afraid to confront.” He clicks his tongue, feigning concern. “Such a shame, really. Jung would probably have a lengthy dialogue about integrating that shadow, about owning it, about becoming whole... but where’s the fun in that, hmm?”

Raphael shoves her up just enough to free his cock, the thick, hard length slipping between her slick folds the moment she drops back down. He doesn’t push inside—just lets it grind between her swollen lips, hot and teasing. He starts rocking her back and forth, the friction building with every slow, torturous thrust, while his fingers keep pumping deep inside her, dragging against her walls. She reaches down to rub her clit, and each time her fingers graze his cock, he groans into her shoulder, the sound rough, hungry, and desperate for more. 

“And then, there’s Lacan,” he adds, almost offhandedly. His fingers slip out of her soaked cunt, where they’d been guiding her touch to match his relentless thrusts. She whines at the sudden emptiness, needy, but he shoves them against her lips. She parts instantly, sucking them clean, breathing hard as he traces the sharp edge of her teeth. "He’d tell you the crown is a symbolic lack, something you desire but can never truly possess. A constant reminder of the gap between your desires and reality. That sense of never quite being complete. A real tragedy, wouldn’t you say?” 

With his hand no longer sticky, he urges her off. She drops to her knees without hesitation, turning as he spreads his legs and pulls her between them. His cock is already standing at attention, the tip slick with precum, and he grabs the back of her neck, pushing her down. She starts slow, teasing him, dragging her tongue along his shaft, coating it with thick saliva. She circles the leaking head, tracing that ridge underneath that always sends a shiver through him. Maybe, just maybe, she can make him come like this—without having to choke on him. But he’s not having it. He lets out a low “tut-tut” before shoving his cock fully down her throat. Her eyes water instantly, her jaw aching as she takes in his girth, but she keeps sucking, cheeks hollowing with every bob of her head. Her hums vibrate around him, spit leaking from the corners of her mouth as her lips begin to crack. 

Sometimes, he grips her head tight, holding her still, stopping her rhythm just to fuck her face, thrusting deep and hard while filth tumbles from his lips. The salty taste coats her tongue as he keeps pounding into her, her nose pressing too close to his base, his coarse pubic hair scratching against her face. She almost can’t breathe, choking slightly as he fills her mouth. The taste of him is thick—musk, sweat, the raw scent of a long day, pungent but not unpleasant. 

Other times, he grows lazy, letting her take over, moaning low as she works him. When her pace slows and her mouth tires, he doesn’t mind—he makes her pump him, forcing her hand into the mix. Eventually, she lets it drift lower, cupping him as his groans fill the room. 

Raphael lets out a satisfied sigh, his hips jerking upward as the head of his cock pushes past her molars, making her gag. "But me? I like to think I’m offering you a more... practical therapy session," he murmurs, his hand gently caressing her head. He brushes her hair back, keeping it from sticking to her face or getting caught in the wet mess of saliva and precum coating her chin. "No need for all the psychobabble when a little physical exploration can do the trick."

He comes with a deep groan, no warning, spilling hot and thick down her throat in heavy spurts. She’s forced to swallow, choking as the flood overwhelms her—too hot, too much, too fast. His seed fills her mouth, almost too abundant to manage, and for a moment, she feels it threatening to rise up her nose before she finally gulps it all down, struggling to keep up with every pulse. 

“Good girl,” he praises, tapping her cheek as she finally pulls away. The last strands of saliva stretch and snap between them as she exhales heavily. She stays on the floor, still panting, trying to catch her breath, while he calmly tucks his cock back into his pants. 

"Pass the file, dear," he says, his tone returning to its academic neutrality. She retrieves the gilded instrument that always rests on the table, handing it to him. He goes nowhere without it. 

With the calm precision of a surgeon, he takes it from her, inspecting the edge of his claw with meticulous attention. "I’ve noticed this one’s been making you uncomfortable," he mutters, as if he’s discussing a minor inconvenience, not the clawed fingers that had just been inside her, threatening to shred her to ribbons. He runs the file over the sharp point, dulling it with a few decisive strokes. The scrape-scrape-scrape fills the silence, like bones grinding together. 

Then, without looking up, he shifts his focus to the jagged edge of his left horn, still absentmindedly filing away. Those horns, spiraling black and gleaming, twist out of his skull like a grotesque crown. Why does he have need of another? He’s smoothing the imperfection on the tip as though this bizarre grooming ritual is the most natural conclusion to their encounter. As though filing his claws and horns after coming down her throat is just another part of their everyday routine. 

Wait, she thinks. It is. It actually is.

“What are you doing next Tuesday?” he asks, his voice airy. 

“Nothing,” she replies, her voice hollow, automatic. Of course, the answer is always nothing. 

"How fortunate," Raphael croons, his lips curling into a smile that’s a tad too wide. "Would you accompany me to dinner with that sex fiend of a bedlamite? I’m afraid I completely forgot I’d accepted his invitation." 

Her mouth twitches. "Which one?" 

"The bore. Sigmund."

She swipes her tongue along her lips, tasting the faint, drying remnants of him still lingering there. There’s something obscene about how natural it feels to be talking like this while cleaning his cum off her mouth. 

"Will Faust be there?" she asks, more out of boredom than genuine interest. Her tongue flicks over her lips again, chasing the last trace of warmth. 

“Heavens no,” he answers, the words slipping out a little too quickly, like he’s trying to cover something up. "That would imply Mephistopheles would attend, and we all know how insufferable he can be." His laugh is hollow, the sound of a man trying too hard to seem unaffected. "I do not need Daddy Dearest there for Siggy to psychoanalyze us in real time." 

She chuckles softly. "Pity. Faust is good company." 

Raphael cocks his head, still lazily running the file along the edge of his horn, his eyes sparkling with that unsettling blend of amusement and calculation. She notices the wretched stains on his white coat—her stains—and it makes her stomach twist in an odd mix of disgust and something else she can’t name. Arousal. Desire. Self-hatred. He catches her noticing and smirks, not breaking the rhythm of his grating, scraping sound. 

"I suppose we could pay Faust another visit. Ask after Marguerite. I hear suicide suits her." 

"Oh, no, no," she interjects, her tone sharpened to a razor’s edge. "Let's not, Raphael. I’m not as gullible as you seem to think. I know exactly why you like her." Her eyes narrow, glaring at him as she shakes her head. "Last time, you let her drone on endlessly about angels and music, about how they could 'lift the soul' and 'uncover hidden memories.' It was like being slowly smothered with a velvet pillow." 

She rests her hands on his knees, gazing up at him. "She tried to play all friendly, showing off her jewels, talking about how precious they were. And then, wouldn’t you know it? She starts hinting that maybe I have something just as special. The crown, of course." She tries to shake off his touch when he laughs, when he reaches to pet her face. "I don’t remember where it is, Raphael, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. Just like I did last time."

"My dear," Raphael murmurs, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, "you cannot fault a man for trying alternative therapies when even clozapine has failed you so spectacularly." 

The file screeches across his horn one last time, the sound reverberating in her skull. "There," he says, satisfied, inspecting his work. "Much better." He tosses the file aside with a casual flick of his wrist. "Now then. Shall we continue our session?" 

"I suppose," she agrees, slowly rising. "Let me get a glass of water?"

"Of course, little mouse," he replies, his tone syrupy sweet, almost mockingly polite. His tail snaps playfully at her ass as she walks away, moving toward the curtain that separates the room from his private sanctum, where she knows he keeps liquor older than her memories—but also fresh, ever-cool water, the kind that tastes like a drowning. Exactly what she needs. 

The moment she pushes past the curtain, it’s like the world turns inside out. The fluorescent lights above her blaze unnaturally bright, searing her eyes with their cold, sterile glow. She blinks once, twice, but the light only intensifies, burning her retinas like the afterglow of some unforgiving nightmare. Her hands fly to her face, pressing against her eyes to blot out the brightness, but it feels like the light has already scorched its way inside her skull. 

"There, there," comes a voice, too soft, too soothing, like a whisper in the back of her mind. "Haloperidol does occasionally cause photosensitivity. Poor mouse, always getting hit with the side effects, aren't you? Why don't you sit down?" 

Hands guide her—strong, insistent—and she finds herself pushed down onto a sofa. Her head spins, her eyes still aching from the light as she rubs them, trying to make sense of the world around her. 

When she looks up, Raphael is sitting next to her. Not the Raphael from the balcony, not the devil in his infernal, seductive form, but Raphael in his human guise, the doctor. His pristine lab coat is now spotless, free of the stains from their earlier encounter. A nametag gleams on his chest, the letters swimming before her eyes. She tries to read the last name, but it refuses to take shape, morphing and shifting until all she can see is Raphael, Raphael, Raphael.

She does hate how he switches between faces.

Her gaze drifts to the diplomas hanging on the wall. There, too, his name appears in the same relentless repetition. Raphael, printed in delicate black ink, stretches and warps across the certificates like a spreading disease.

Raphael tilts his head slightly, brushing back his perfectly styled hair. There are no horns now, nothing to snag on. He looks so human it’s almost laughable. She wonders how many fall for it. He offers her a cup of tea, the porcelain delicate in his hands, his fingers too clean, too poised. 

"I’ve adjusted the light for you, Tav," he says softly, his voice almost too gentle. His smile is indulgent, wide, the kind of smile that stretches too far across his handsome, tanned face. The light above them dims, and with it, the room seems to settle into a false sense of comfort. 

"Thank you," she replies, her voice flat. Now that the light has softened, her eyes drift to the shadow on the wall behind him. It moves strangely, just as before—dark and obscene—but this time, it’s unmistakably Raphael’s, no longer pretending to be human. She watches it carefully as it twists and contorts, one hand flipping her off just like before, the other gesturing like a devil’s lure. And then the tail appears, swaying in the background with irritation, flicking back and forth like an animal growing impatient. 

He notices her staring and chuckles softly, his hand gently brushing her shoulder. His glasses slide further down his nose. "Oh, don’t mind that. Shadows have a life of their own, you know. Especially in places like this. At any rate, I believe we are done for today." 

It is unbecoming, perhaps, but he's done it so many times that she barely notices it.

Raphael’s fingers glide through her hair, as if the act of braiding is something sacred, an intimate ritual that binds them. His touch is precise, too precise, each motion measured and exact, tugging the strands into place with a tightness that makes her scalp sting. He hums softly under his breath, the sound vibrating through her, a sick lullaby of sorts. The ache spreads, not just in her scalp but deeper, into her bones, her mind. She knows this—too well, knows what comes next. 

"Up, up, little mouse," he murmurs softly, his breath warm against her ear as he finishes with the braid, the weight of it pulling down against her skull. It’s a command more than a request, spoken with the lazy authority of someone who has said these words far too many times. She obeys without thinking, without hesitation, rising to her feet as he guides her, his fingers lingering, brushing her neck as he finishes adjusting the final loose strands. 

He leans closer, the heat of his breath on her ear as he whispers the rhyme, he always gives her a rhyme when they are done. 

"Marguerite and jewels, so fine and bright, She treasures them close, though lost in the night. Her memory’s gone, like a fleeting thought, But still, she brags about things she forgot. Shining gems, a hollow boast, Lost to the one who needs them most."

Raphael's hand, firm but deceptively gentle, leads her back through the halls, his tail flicking behind him in idle sways on the wall. The air is heavy with the fading echo of his hoofbeats—click clank, click clank—the strange rhythm growing fainter with each step until he disappears, leaving her at the doorway of the common room. 

The shadow lingers a beat too long before chasing after its master.

[goredoesstuff]

some dumb little sketches of the continuity dreams i keep having

beware the not-bird

idk what their deal is but it sure is SOMETHIN

[eldrai]

the number of things i do with the same level of nausea as someone two seconds from throwing up on the floor is. interesting.

[carcharadroid]

officially jotting down on my calendar that I’m gonna be seeing an MS specialist later this month

won’t lie gamers it feels a bit weird

[honeyboychangbin]

sometimes u have to humble urself by telling ur friends weird symptoms of ur mental illnesses to put shit into perspective

[glassfullofsass]

I have painful headaches for days at a time, but I'm not photosensitive, don't see an aura, and can stay relatively functional, so that couldn't possibly be migraines, right?

No. I'm fortunate to have a great GP. I'm on sumatriptan now and it fucking helps.

Other symptoms I do have with migraines:

Sensitive to smells (ie, candles, cologne)

Increase in back pain (it's chronic, but migraines make it worse)

Difficulty sleeping

Trouble focusing

Nausea

here's your regular reminder that if you consistently, regularly get headaches, you are almost certainly having migraines, not regular headaches.

MOST recurrent headaches are migraine headaches.

"migraine" does not mean "extremely painful headache." it is a type and source of pain, not a degree of pain. migraines can also include some or all of the following: fatigue, sensitivity to light and sound, visual auras, nausea or vomiting, dizziness, cognitive impairment, etc. these symptoms can be mild or severe and it may actually be difficult to determine if you have them. (who wants a bright light in their eyes during a headache?? i thought that's just how headaches were lmao.)

this is important because while aspirin, NSAIDs like ibuprofren, and other over-the-counter pain meds can effectively alleviate migraine pain, getting diagnosed with migraines allows for a wider range of treatments and preventatives.

it's also important because, in my opinion, your average general practice doctor is not equipped to diagnose you with chronic migraine. don't go to one expecting them to. a neurologist with migraine specialty is a better option, although a regular doctor can still be useful if they listen to you lol.

my life would be miserable and unmanageable without sumatriptan. and i never would have gotten a prescription for sumatriptan if i hadn't gone to my GP and said, "i have migraines and want to try migraine medicine," even though at the time i wasn't 100% sure that was true.

if you have chronic headaches, they're almost certainly migraines. if no one has said that to you before, let me be the first. start treating your migraines.

[junajunajunajuna]

Seeing your body fall into disrepair and not having the urge, willingness or motivation to do anything about is definitely one of the vibes of all time

[zillychu]

AS I WAS SAYING!!!!!

[dilsdoes]

youve heard of do it scared now get ready for: do it weird. is it normal to go to the movies alone? who cares. do it weird.

credit to @hellodaekko for this art and their own post also making this same point which is here

[allthatispeculiar]

[wanologic]

sorry danny, sam will never think you’re cool

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[wild-saber1337]

MY GOD WHAT HAVE I FOUND XD

I'm not sorry for having you know this exists XD

[g3othermal3scapism]

rose tyler visiting home wearing tshirts from artists and tours that havent happened yet or tv shows that dont exist yet and everyone thinking she just has weird obscure music taste and is rly weird. its 2006 rose tyler walking down the street and everyone who glances at her shirt is thinking ‘who in the fuck is olivia rodrigo and where did this girl get a 2024 tour shirt’