#snuff film reference

[salomeslashes]

Expendables - Chapter 4: Carver

(Masterlist is here.)

Y'all, this one is worse. (Dead dove, do not eat.)

Contents: male whumpee, immortal whumpee, nonbinary whumper, captivity, humans as property, dehumanization, collar, threats, decapitation reference, snuff film reference, brief fear of noncon (that doesn't happen), blood, knives, gore, murder, begging (including for death).

--

Avery took a deep breath, willing the stinging in his eyes not to turn into tears. He knew if he cried that would be all the reason they needed to take him apart. There were dozens of ways they could kill him and still have him ready to go in the morning. He inched forward, closer to the bed. He wanted to replace the towel around his waist with the new clothes. 

Carver lifted the stack and set it behind them, then patted the mattress at their side. “Have a seat, Avery.” 

His fist tightened around the fabric of his towel. Every molecule of his body was on high alert. He’d died before, probably dozens of times in his life. But if Carver meant to kill him now, this would be his first true murder. This was the first time it would be done with intent, forethought, malice. Usually, if he died, it was either an accident or an act of convenience. 

There was nothing convenient about the way Carver was looking at him now. 

“Avery,” Carver’s voice snapped him to attention. “Now.” 

He walked to the bed and sat beside them, careful not to touch their hip with his. The towel was still wet, he knew, and he would rather not soak the blanket, but he had a feeling a damp duvet was best-case-scenario for how the evening could go. 

Carver rested their hand on Avery’s thigh, right on the edge of the towel. When their skin touched his terror coursed over him like electricity. 

“Don’t,” he whispered. 

“I didn’t want our first time to be in front of cameras,” Carver said. There was a hunger in their voice that made Avery feel sick to his stomach. “I wanted it to be just you and me when I pop your cherry.” 

A fresh fear overtook him now. His fingers curled in his lap, tight fists with nothing safe to hit. “I’ve…” He stopped. “I mean I’m not-”

Carver laughed, and when he looked over and met their eyes a small part of his body unclenched. “I’m not going to fuck you,” they said. 

Avery could still feel his body quaking. “What are you going to do?” 

Carver stood up. They had surely been taller in Fallon’s heels, but something about their body language towered over Avery as he sat on the bed, waiting. Anticipating the blow, or the cut, that would fall on him. He was agonizingly aware of the collar around his throat, the one he’d ignored so diligently as he scrubbed around it in the shower but that held within it the power to sever his head at the twitch of their fingers. 

He also knew Carver would never make it so easy. Not when they had him all to themself. 

“Just for tonight,” they said, “I want to be the only person in your world.”

Avery swallowed bile. “Please, don’t hurt me.” 

Something glittered in his periphery, and he didn’t want to look, didn’t need to look to know exactly what it was. But of course he looked, and his eyes landed hard on the small, sharp blade he’d seen them wield onscreen less than an hour before. It had been cleaned, of course. Who knew how long ago “Jeremy” had died by its edge? 

“Are you still thinking about him?” they asked.

“Jeremy?” Avery asked without thinking. He immediately knew that was the wrong answer. The edges of Carver’s mouth downturned, and the blade raised in their hand.

“I don’t want to hurt you too badly,” Carver said. “Not the first time.” They stepped in front of him, then climbed onto him, straddled his lap, hand firmly gripping him by the back of the neck. 

Avery couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t lay back. The way Carver was sitting was a precarious balance, and all he could do was grip the blanket on either side of him and pray that they weren’t lying. 

“Who are you thinking about now?” they asked. 

Avery’s eyes were wild. “Please, Carver, please no, don’t, I-”

“Shhhhhh…” The tip of the blade danced down Avery’s jaw and he fell silent against the sheer, horrifying cold of the thing. “Hush, now. Tell me I’m the only person in your world.” 

“You are,” he said, and in that horrible moment, it was absolutely true. “You’re everything. Everyone. Please, Carver. Please!” 

“Tell me what you want,” they said. 

Avery’s breath caught. He could feel the blade still, it had traced over his neck, down his chest, and was resting just below his navel, between their bodies. Carver’s hand was still cradling his skull, forcing his eyes to lock onto theirs. 

“Mercy,” he said. 

“No, love,” Carver replied. 

The blade entered him. 

Avery could make no more words. Pain split his core and his jaw slackened, the keening he heard leave his mouth felt like a whisper next to the enormity of what was happening to his body. 

Carver’s eyes didn’t leave his as they pulled the knife upward, parting his skin against the curve of the blade. Their hand tightened in his hair, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. 

Avery didn’t fear death, not anymore. He hadn’t for some time. He was afraid of pain, but that was a fear he was accustomed to. 

What he saw when he looked into Carver’s eyes, though…that terrified him. 

He watched, panting, as they set the knife on the bedspread and smoothed his hair off his brow with bloodied fingers. The gesture was tender, but their expression was all hunger. They inched their face down, pressed their cheek to his, and murmured sweet as a lover.

“Will you scream for me?” Their fingers traced up the open wound on Avery’s belly and he gagged up a mouthful of blood. “You can scream, no one will hear you.” 

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, Carver, stop.” He could feel their fingers easing into him with unbearable softness. “Please!” 

They gripped something inside him and twisted, and the grisly snap of it finally drew out the scream they wanted. Black spots danced in front of Avery’s eyes as he screamed and screamed. Surely he was close enough that he was hurting their ears, but they didn’t draw away from him. Instead, they pulled their hand back, tugging something warm and wet out with them to fall into his lap. 

“That’s good,” Carver said. Their mouth was so close to Avery’s ear. “You’re doing very well.” 

Avery sobbed and spat out more blood. He let Carver lay his body back on the bed, violently trembling under their touch. He couldn’t bring himself to let his hands relax, even though he now realized that the fabric he was clinging to was no longer the bedspread, but Carver’s cotton shirt. When he was flat on his back, Carver glowed in his vision like a god. 

“You’re beautiful like that,” they said. They wormed their hand back inside him. 

Avery could barely breathe. “Please,” he whispered. 

“Ask for what you want,” Carver said. Their hand stilled inside him, and he was left struggling around the invasion. In the terrible moment of quiet, Avery knew that what he wanted and what Carver wanted was briefly the same. 

He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Please. Kill me.”

A smile slowly warmed Carver’s face. They leaned down and brushed their lips over his clammy brow. “I’ll see you in the morning,” they said. Then their hand closed around his heart.

[scpaesthetics]

SCP Aesthetics: 5751 (requested by anon, written by HarryBlank)

There's a tactical use for this anomaly, I just need to wrap my head around it. [Sokolsky, Dr. D.]

(monochrome, physical media, skeletons in the closet)

[anipwrites]

Me, stupid: why is it so goddamn impossible to find footage of a bear charging directly at a camera without the footage being shaky as fuck? Me, taking a moment to think about it: nevermind

[fairuzfan]

I hate hate hate seeing people call the videos of Palestinians being killed and martyred referred to as "snuff films" I've seen people refer to it as that since October last year and it is deeply disrespectful and ignores the fact that the people recording are Palestinians themselves like I cannot stand you guys who pretend to advocate for Palestinians only to actively demean them by referring to their videos of martyrdom as "snuff films/trauma porn." I don't like sharing graphic images on my feed for a variety of reasons but you all do not need to be so disrespectful and downright dehumanizing when talking about those videos. They're asking you to bear witness not to call them "unnecessary" and "trauma porn". Just stop talking about it if you don't know how to criticize it respectfully and keep your mouths shut when you see it.

[gladiatorcunt]

- FEARS TO FATHOM | XIV.

i can thrill you more than any ghoul would ever dare try

cw: kinktober prompt (roleplay), fem reader, early criminal minds, background hotch x reader x spencer (age gap, reader and spencer in their early-mid 20’s), knifeplay, degradation, murder fantasies, necrophilia fantasies, snuff films mention, blood play mentions, part of the roleplay is that hotch is your daddy (open to interpretation on the exact meaning), one mention of sadomasochism, knife (handle) fucking, dead dove do not eat, under negotiated kink but hints of you and spencer being secretly disturbed freaks, spencer referred to as ghostface for most of the fic, one face slap, fantasy fulfillment (bc spencer is a soft dom TO ME), off screen recording

please do not repost, translate, or feed this work to ai

kinktober 2024

“Spence, come on, I’m gonna fall asleep by the time you get ready.” You shout at the closed bathroom door, if only to stave off your own nerves and lingering excitement.

The beginning of October was a snooze fest, you, Spencer, and Aaron had so much work, back to back cases that ran longer than anyone thought. Elle couldn’t stop ranting to you, and you to her, about how fucking aggravating things have been. None of you could even afford to make lazy plans for Halloween, the office already minimally decorated with tiny plastic pumpkins and purple-green-orange streamers here and there.

Until the angels granted you mercy, Aaron bargained some time off for the rest of the team in exchange for him spending hours eye level deep in paperwork.

You and Spencer each gave him a brisk but heartfelt thank you kiss before you headed home, to the house owned by a man who wouldn’t be accompanying his partners tonight.

Spencer calls back to you in between awkward bangs of his knees against the wall, shuffling his work clothes off and getting into the costume. “Just a second, you’d think you’d appreciate the lenghts i’m willing to go for you.”

You definitely do when after some more bumbling about he comes out in the ghostface costume, his gangly body in the long black fabric, holding the mask in his hand. Because of course you can’t do a more normal boss and secretary type situation, no, you have to have your boyfriend dress up like a horror movie serial killer, one of your favorites, and act like he’s gonna do the same to you.

You also wanted to see Spencer let go a little bit, be darker in ways your toes curl thinking about, Aaron was the one that bought the costume anyway. You were too shy to do anything beyond mentioning off handedly that it would be hot, and Spencer wanted you to squirm.

“Aaron waited 45 minutes for the employees at Spirit Halloween to find one in the back because they were sold out. The least we do is put it to good use since we’ll be working on the actual day.”

Your cold feet turn freezing, “This is so stupid and weird, we can just lie when he comes back and say we used it-”

Now here you are, breath caught in your chest as you gaze up at the handsome looming figure, Spencer huffs out a laugh at your shyness and flicks the hood up. He puts the mask on and fastens it around his head, now nothing but his gait and his voice signify the man behind the mask being your boyfriend. You can almost see his amused small smile, the knife he swiped from the kitchen block taps a tune along your jawbone, humming a note on every point of contact.

Your eyes flutter shut, setting the scene and dimming the lights, a cold and black gloved hand shoves you back onto the bed, pushing you right into the deep end.

“Please, I- I’ll do anything, I don’t wanna die, sir.” Your voice actually cracks on the tail end of your sentence, putting your all in your amateur-porn-without-a-camera performance.

“Shh.” Ghostface whispers but it’s jagged with long held back arousal, “You’re not going to die yet if you give me something for my trouble. You let me waltz right in just because Daddy’s not home, and now I'm supposed to pass up a pretty little lying whore like you?”

You whimper, “I’m not a whore, I just- He doesn’t have to know, please, I’ll do whatever you want, I swear.”

“Oh so you admit you were lying to him? How do you think he’s gonna feel when he comes home to see his precious baby’s guts spilled all over the bed she wanted her secret boyfriend to fuck her in. You were so giggly when you told me it was his.” He cocks his head to the side, teeth no doubt gleaming white under the mask. “What’s wrong, sugarplum? Not so proud of being a slut anymore?”

“Spread your legs, I have the perfect game in mind. Your pussy can’t lie like your mouth can, and I have just the thing she wants.”

You tremble, letting tears gather in your eyes so you really look afraid for your life. You sink into the mattress, your upper inner thighs glisten with your juices, already wet and he hasn’t thrust his knife inside of you let alone his cock. Your head says you should just lie there and feel the overhead fan blow gently on your exposed pussy but your clit wants to scream at Ghostface to go in blade first.

“See, look.” He taunts, parting your folds with the chilly tip of his knife, “She’s co cute, glistening and puffy, she’d look so good being fucked on the hilt of my knife, don’t you think?”

It’s not quite what you want but you nod, letting your legs go lax so he can get a proper look at your juicy cunt. He hums in approval, the soft sound raises your hackles and causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up.

He slaps the tip of the blade against your clit, and it’s the miracle that you weren’t cut that has you pleading up at him with your eyes. To pretty please at least thrust the hilt in so you can feel like you’re getting stabbed on something, Ghostface tilts his head again, his long body bending to the side, considering giving you what you want.

But wasn’t the point of this whole charade to turn you into a whiny bitch who’d risk her life for a serial killer’s knife, lusting after it possibly more than his actual cock?

“Oh, fine. I guess we’d better be quick if we don’t want your daddy to drop in on us too soon, I'd hate to have to gut him too, baby.” There’s a false hint of concern, you can picture a slight pout under the mask, his fingers tighten around the handle.

You eagerly scramble back on the bed, and Ghostface follows after you. His knees sink into the mattress on either side of your hips, one gloved hand shooting out to steady himself by your head and the other keeping a firm grip on his knife. He makes sure you can always see it, not because you actually need a reminder of the threat your (and your daddy’s by association) life is in, but because it entices you into being good.

Not that he’d mind a brat, but he doesn’t have the time today to break you apart piece by piece. He waves the knife in front of you, dangling a carrot in front of his dumb bunny, and reaches down under his cloak to unbuckle his belt.

“Aw, you perked up as soon as I started fiddling with my belt buckle, huh buttercup? Don’t get too excited, that little heart might burst and we haven’t even been able to watch any scary movies together yet.” Ghostface teases, shuffling back so his pants can fall to the floor.

You weren’t touching yet, but you still whine. His eyes must be crinkling under the mask because he giggles and climbs back up your body to hover above your face. He boops the tip of your nose with his knife, the edge gently scrapes against your chubby cheek and your jawline as he drags it along the contours of your face. Mapping it out so he knows which cuts to make without making you too ugly, as long as your holes can tighten enough to hug something, he doesn’t mind.

“Are you scared? Aw, I hope so, it’s only gonna make you tighter, you might even bleed without me having to give you a single cut.” He laughs when you pout at that, dragging the tip of his blade under your shirt before cutting it off and doing the same to your bra, a lacey thing you may or may not have bought specifically for this occasion. Blood red and now in tatters on your daddy’s bedroom floor, hopefully you can pick it up later before he comes home if you’re still alive.

“Mmh, don’t hurt me, please, I’m doing what you want aren’t I? I’m being good for you, that’s all I want, just wanna be good for you so fuckin’ bad.” You plead, gasping as he cuts away your mini skirt too.

And you do, it’s why you want your boyfriend to let go and carve you up as if all you’re good for is to be a monument to how much you adore him. You love him like this, slipping into the role of a guiltless killer who just might snuff the life out of you no matter how stellar your pussy game is, and you’ll love him afterwards when he needs round 3 (because you want one round with him in your pussy and one in your ass) to be gentle and sweet, his hung skinny boy cock stealing the breath out of you even when his strokes are languid and honey fueled.

“I know you do, I wouldn’t be giving you a chance to live otherwise, you whore. You’re just a sweet girl who got tripped up as soon as it was looking like you were gonna get dick, right? Doesn’t matter what happens after, don’t sweat it, you’re gonna get everything you want.”

You mewl, and your eyes flutter shut as he pushes your clothes off of your body. His knife’s blade shocks you a little when he drags it along your skin, making a path towards your dripping pussy. Your clit throbs in anticipation, Ghostface’s cloak shifts as his shoulders slightly shake from laughter.

“Greedy girl, I'm gonna put it in okay? Feel free to cry and scream all you want, I'd prefer it actually.” Is all the warning you get before he positions the black knife handle in front of your pussy, and starts pushing it in.

You whine at the stretch, and he doesn’t give you any time to adjust beyond that, slamming it in until the blade is just outside your hole. He grunts in pain, wrapping his hand around the sharp edges, his gloves are too thick for his skin to be sliced through, but you notice his cock twitch under his cloak.

You gush around the hilt of the knife, feeling too dizzy to look down at where it disappears into your body. It doesn’t do anything but split you in two, there’s no special spot it hits and the smooth bumpy ridges are too slight to provide any stimulation. It’s the brutality of the act that turns you on, a masked man looming above you as he plunges his knife into you, stabbing you from the inside.

The blade makes itself known every so often, poking your folds, imitations of sharp pecks as Ghostface thrusts the hilt inside your sopping wet pussy. The mess on your daddy’s sheets takes on more fluid, growing into a small puddle, you’re so embarrassed and your heart is beating faster than a hummingbirds as you stare up into the eyes of his mask. Black sinkholes surrounded by bright white, elongated and macabre, you clench around the handle. This could be the last sight you ever see, a ghostly specter getting off on desecrating your body and settling you on fire with your own shame.

You drool at his long fingers, curled so tightly around the blade, he must be in tremendous pain. Your clit jumps, listening for muffled pained groans held behind clenched teeth. It’s not your own suffering that gets you going apparently, this deranged man’s desperation to make you cum from being hurt that he ends up getting off on hurting himself is all you care about. Your daddy would forgive you, you just couldn’t help sniffing after a big soon to be bloody cock, maybe if you’re left alone afterwards he can put you back together. Kiss your wounds and gently guide you through a soft orgasm, a pink frothy ring permanently tied around the base of his cock.

“Is this knife a good enough dildo for you?” Ghostface sneers, he can tell that you’ve started to drift off, getting so caught up in the moment you can’t even be present enough to ride it out. “This pussy’s so tight I can't fit anymore of it in, guess you’ve been a good whore, I’m sorry I can't cut up your insides, carve them up like my special little pumpkin. Round and sweet and so fucking easy to squash into gooey pulp.”

You whimper and rock your hips down, desperate for the blade to somehow slip inside and absolutely mess you up. You want to bleed out around his cock and stare up into the eyes of his mask as you shatter around him, sharing the experience of cumming together while the light leaves your eyes. You don’t even know what he’d do, if he’d pull out right away and leave a sea of blood and other bodily fluids surrounding your corpse, if he’d snap a pic or two before sauntering right out the front door, whistling an old timey love song as he runs through his options for what to watch when he gets home.

Or maybe he’d stay, jostle his softening cock inside of you, softly bouncing your cooling body until it becomes too stiff. If he’d tear up just a little behind the mask and brush the gaping long oval shaped mouth over the lips on your face, your first kiss, only in death. He’d die someday and pull you down to hell so he can tell you his name and do this all over again, kissing the sweat off your philtrum and huffing the sulfur and brimstone from your bush.

“That’s it, clench on my knife handle, I know that’s what you’re after, but you’re still drooling… don’t tell me you want my cock now? We were just getting started…”

“I- I want your cock, so bad please, I wanna cum on it, wanna make you feel so good you’ll come back to finish me off later.” You beg and play with your tits, rolling your nipples in between your fingers so you’ll be even wetter.

You want it to be amazing for him, to be enveloped in so much liquid he’d only have to close his eyes and imagine it was your blood. You hear a groan coming from above you and you smile, “It’ll be so good, you can keep pretending you’ve killed me so we can do this again and again and again and again. I can be your perfect murder victim, a toy that never breaks for good, your cumsock. Please, Mr. Ghostface, we can even make a movie together if you want.”

Amateur porn, snuff, erotic-sleazy-trashy slasher gore porn, cheap horror, you’d do it all.

“God, you really are such a freaking freak. I thought I told you I wouldn't make a decision until I've ruined every one of your holes for anybody else. I guess this can be your audition, you wanna be my little star so bad then you can prove that you can handle what that’s really gonna be like. Gonna rough you up and leave you scraped raw, bully this pussy with my dick and choke you out when it’s time for bed.”

Your clit throbs painfully, and you almost cum on the now uncomfortable chafing material of his knife’s handle when he abruptly yanks it out, leaving your hole hungry and empty. More wetness dribbles out, some of it falling right on the black hilt and into the grooves, staining it in a way, you hope he sniffs it and jerks off while he kills some less lucky girl later.

He drops the knife right by your hip, and you wince as it knicks you. Ghostface braces himself on either side of your head and reaches down to ruck up his cloak, clumsily unbuttoning his pants with one hand and freeing his rock hard cock. You don’t get to marvel at it, to live with the knowledge that you know what the infamous serial killer terrorizing your town’s penis looks like. He doesn’t allow you any prep time now either, you’re not empty for long before he’s impatiently thrusting his bare cock in your puffy pussy.

It makes the most sickening squelch when his balls swing to hit your ass, like an organ you forgot existed just burst.

He gets so excited that he smacks you clean across the face, panting like a rabid dog mounting his prey.

“Fuck, virgins have the best pussies. Does this hurt, my fat fucking dick breaking you down into nothing? You look like you’re gonna cry, baby, it’s okay. You’ll like it soon, or not, this isn’t about what you want anyway, right? This is what you wanted, opening the door for a stranger only to get destroyed by his raw cock in your daddy’s bed.”

You’re still reeling from the slap but you have enough sense to nod, sobbing as his thrusts become harsher, sending you up the bed and spreading the burn of his length forcing itself to fit all throughout your abused body.

The smell of sex is going to take forever to come out, seeping through the walls and into the foundations of the house, an invisible scarlet letter for his future starlet.

Spencer’s phone beeps hours later, once, then twice, then a few more times before it falls silent.

I let you play without me this one time, don’t forget that.

Make sure to bring her room temperature water. Cold water gives her headaches. Two painkillers, not four unless she asks, she gets dizzy otherwise.

Take a shower if you’re feeling up to it, she’ll get fussy if she’s sticky and you’ll get fussy if she’s fussy.

Send me the video, last one on this floor of the bulding by now. Gideon went home an hour ago. I want pictures of you in the costume too.

Love you both, I’ll do my best to be home sometime tomorrow. No cockwarming if she’s too fucked out, just slip a plug in. You know her favorites, don’t get smug if she picks the pink heart shaped one again.

[probablyasocialecologist]

The broadcasts follow prison officials into detention centers to document the mistreatment of prisoners, which seems to be something that the officials — and apparently the viewers — find satisfying rather than revolting. The airing of these snuff films is a demonstration of societal sadism.  As Yumna Patel has recently reported, several rights groups have sounded the alarm over the widespread and systemic abuse that Palestinian prisoners face at the hands of the Israeli authorities. These groups’ calls have been unintentionally buttressed by Israeli soldiers’ unapologetic videos of themselves torturing or demeaning Palestinian detainees, which they boastfully post on social media. Now, it seems that the phenomenon has expanded to mainstream Israeli television. The two aforementioned reports on Channel 14 (threads with subtitles can be found here and here) contained footage of actual interrogation sessions during which torture was used. The Channel 13 report did not, but it exposed some of the worst prison conditions to be broadcast to the public. These conditions include forcing prisoners to live in inhumane conditions and subjecting them to torture and harassment.

[...]

“Here, we see the cells in which the Nukhba terrorists are held,” the narrator says. The “Nukhba” refers to elite Hamas-led fighters who carried out the October 7 attack. In the cell, viewers notice metal bunkbeds without mattresses, and instead of a toilet, there is just a hole in the floor. The room is almost completely dark throughout the day, and prisoners have their hands and legs chained together.  We hear attack dogs barking constantly as prisoners are made to kneel while bound and blindfolded, their heads touching the floor.  “This is how it should be,” a guard says. “This is how a Nukhba prisoner should be…what happened on October 7 will never return.”  In another scene, a guard shouts at prisoners as dogs continue to bark incessantly. “Heads down! Heads on the floor!” he yells.  “There are many prisoners here that I personally saw at the [October 7] events,” a prison official says, taking pride in humiliating them. “The difference is that this time, he is afraid, shaking, with his head on the floor…no Allahu Akbar, nothing. You won’t hear a squeak from him.” “They have no mattresses,” says a warden shift commander. “They have nothing…we control them 100% — their food, their shackling, their sleep…[we] show them we are the masters of the house.” Even without knowing the background to that phrase, to hear him say it is chilling.  “Masters of the house” was the election slogan of Itamar Ben-Gvir, the Jewish Power leader and current Minister of National Security. Ben-Gvir declared war on Palestinian prisoners long before October 7, and this has included shutting down bakeries that supply bread to prisoners — described by Ben-Gvir as an “indulgence” — and drastically limiting prisoners’ water use. So now it’s become much worse. 

[sparkbeast20]

A random idea of a noble devil, one that is into film making. Hear me out.

Cinephilia - is the term used to refer to a passionate interest in films, film theory, and film criticism.

You'll see him filming the devils in battles and commenting on their battle tactics or going to dark idea, he'll film angels being tortured and he either the one who does the torturing or he ask the other nobles.

These "films" of his would be Snuff film or a documentary.

For the region he would affiliated with, is either Abaddon with how unethical these films are, or Abyssos with fit that region's night life vibe.

Of course he would film smut of him and MC when they'll have their sex :3

[lesbianalanwake]

the way Remedy games skirt so close to the fourth wall without committing the sin of being ironic about it is good. like, Casey does not exist in his own right as a character. from the Doylist perspective, he's there as narrative scaffolding for Saga and for Alan, one of several unifying vertices they share. from the Watsonian perspective, Alan unknowingly pulled details from Casey's life for his writing, and it freaks Casey out. he is so mad and so insistent that he's not a character to be yanked around, because he's having to contend with the growing fear that he is - that at least some of his life is not his own.

and that is true. from the Doylist perspective, if Saga and Alan's stories didn't require him to exist, then he wouldn't. there's also the fact that he's a thinly-veiled reference to Max Payne, a character from a different game. he is entirely formed out of these other characters.

so we've got this character who is upset about his perceived role in the "story." in the Watsonian story? sure, he exists outside of it, and he's right to insist that he's his own person beyond it. but in the Doylist story? he's right to worry that he isn't his own person at all.

in a way, he's aware that he is a secondary character in a video game, without the game having to wink-wink at you about it. and the tension from this narrative overlap and contradiction is treated very earnestly, even when it's in the middle of goofy metatextual musical numbers and missable short snuff films and a running joke about how he looks like that one guy in real life.

[squidgiepdx]

Hey there! Some people are open to moving fics to your archive but they have a question about why the "no dark content" rule for photos exist. As I'm sure you're aware, many are wary of websites that may turn on a dime for NSFW artists. Given you've been at this for 30 years, I assume you're not an anti and I know the US has stupid laws surrounding anything requiring credit card processing but just for clarity sake I just wanted to ask to pass it along to people looking to support a place that is actively against AI. 🙏

Do you mean our "No snuff" rule? We don't have a rule against no dark content. What we have is a rule about no CSEM and no snuff. Snuff seems to trip people up these days, but here you go: Snuff refers to the filming of killing a human being. Yes, it's out there. Yes, snuff films exist. And while we have rules against it, I expect those rules to stay in effect because there is no artistic value of filming or taking pictures of one person using force against another human being to take that person's life from them. None.

[durbikins]

Neil Druckmann making a video game like “yeahhh so it’s industry standard for us to act out sex scenes in mocap 😜 it adds to the narrative 😏 did you know violence and revenge is bad? here check out these snuff films for reference”

[swifty-fox]

what’s the filthiest thing john thinks gale does in your little beasts series? is it his pit kink? or does he get filthier?

i can see john loving it though because he feels how gale wants to literally eat him alive, savor his taste, drink in what he has to offer, and he feels so wanted 😅

and vise versa what does john do that gale is like *holy* *shit* (everything tbh)

The filthiest thing John thinks Gale does is read straight-up vintage snuff porn. I think that reference went over a LOT of people's heads in Amoretti but yeah. Gale's out here reading stories that banned snuff films are based off of and justifying it as 'religious and historical interest'

It's probably the pit kink in terms of physical stuff that they do. Shoutout to Little Beasts, Pit Kink Gale is canon in most of my fics now LOL I could see them going filthier but idk whats the line of losing followers I know the foot stuff was pretty out there for some people LOL

John does love it. I think we forget that armpit licking, sniffing, sucking is like a HUGE and COMMON kink in the gay community. What they're doing is pretty standard tbh and John as someone with a large sexual appetite would have been exposed to and consumed a lottt of pit kink already.

Everything is correct lol. But it's def every time he calls him Father in bed

[salemontrial]

I dont trust anyone whos least favourite song off Preacher's Daughter is August Underground. The vocals?????? The crash????? The real world reference to the snuff film August Underground and the implications of what Ethel Cain's death looked like????? The droning moans of agony??????? The fact that you can hear Isaiah walking around and muttering after the instrumental ends?????????? I cry and have a nervous breakdown every time.

[palms-upturned]

People have got to stop calling footage of Palestinian people being massacred “snuff films.” That is NOT what snuff film means. People are not filming their dead/dying loved ones and neighbors for ANYONE’S gratification or profit. They are forced to film and share these things just to be believed, or more like to have a rebuttal to those who are trying to deny/downplay what they’re being subjected to. It’s fine to just say “I can’t stomach watching this graphic footage” instead of referring to said footage in such a derogatory way. For Christ’s sake there is already so much racist conspiracy theorizing about “Pallywood” and saying that the footage is staged or fake without us casually throwing around the term “snuff film.”

[offbrand-valk]

Two Knights

Hey remember Tungsten Rose? I wrote an opening for it i actually like!

Let’s start at the Mausoleum Church of Judgement. A 68 ton warmachine stands before a mosaic of the rape of Sankta Alina, its head bowed low in prayer.

Approximately, 400.631 kilometers away at the opposite end of the kingdom, inside a smaller and less storied church stands another warmachine; praying before a painting of Sankta Sabine being boiled alive by her husband.

Technically, these two events happen about a week and a half apart, but let's, for the sake of simplicity, and to acknowledge the will of God, pretend they are happening simultaneously.

Besides, on the celestial scale, 10 days is less than the blink of an eye.

Of course the similarity in the two rituals is neither coincidence, nor divine plan. One is openly modelled after the other.

The painter of the Sankta Sabine piece was given a difficult task: To create something as evocative and memorable as perhaps the most well-known image in all christendom, and made an admirable attempt. 

Without the emotional rawness that comes from having access to a snuff film of the saint’s murder to use as reference, the painter has had to rely on abstraction. By using tricks of light and perspective, the skin seems to melt off Sankta Sabine’s skin as the viewer moves closer. By twisting shadows her husband, his friends and his captain have been given devil-esque features: hair stood up to look like canine ears, eyes blurry to make it seem like they have two pairs each.

The warmachines, and the human component within them are exhausted, kept going by military stimulants and their own heavily altered physiques.

Since the ritual began a month ago, they have gone through every kind of simulated battle. They’ve had to learn, to improvise, to lead and to serve. They’ve been beaten, tortured, and shot more times than they can count.

And there’s still more to come. This moment of prayer is a merciful respite before their final trial.

They don’t know what awaits them, only that it's a furiously guarded secret, and that it above all else determines if they are worthy of knighthood. They would not have gotten this far if they were not ready for the final trial, but if they fail it, then they will die to keep its secret.

In a few moments it will be too late to back out, they will have consented to whatever happens.

The unknown doesn’t scare them, it has been part of their training since they began at only four years old. When the ancient enemy returns, there is no telling what weapons they will bring with them. That doesn’t mean they aren’t considering backing out; there’s no shame in retreat, what’s shameful is dying senselessly.

Part of expecting the unexpected, is figuring out what it might be, so of course they have theories as for what awaits them: A divine encounter, some grand revelation, a particularly challenging battle, a puzzle, or a final surgery to complete their integration with the machine. Nothing is off the table after the month they have had.

Independently of each other, both warmachines arrive at the same worst case scenario: One in which they are expected to already know the solution. It would not be the first task in which they were expected to cheat to succeed. After all, war has no victor, only losers and survivors. And to their credit, they have both tried to cheat: they have kept meticulous notes on every trial they’ve faced, looked for any stray clue or overlooked note, and stopped just short of assaulting clergy for information. A show of restraint they are now regretting.

As they are called to the trial, they are given a single instruction: “doff your armor.”

Very well. Wires click free of spines, and controls pull apart like the leaves of a flower as the human components emerges from their shells of tungsten and resin; all the while mentally adjusting their expectations for the trial to come.

The room is kept sparsely lit, only enough to show the group of senior knights and clerics gathered to carry out the trial. In the center of the room, a sword hilt sticks out of a grid in the floor, both prospective knights instinctively know they’re supposed to stand behind it and await further instructions.

The instruction comes a moment later, as orange flames spew forth from the grid, enveloping the sword completely, the knight commander utters the chivalric oath: “In the name of the people!”

Neither hesitates, if they had, they would have failed the test. “In the name of the people.” They reply, stepping forward and reaching into the roaring fire, grasping the red hot metal with both hands.

“In the name of the people.” The assembled watchers chant in unison.

The skin has already burnt off their fingers. Beneath it, their subdermal armor does what it’s supposed to, distributing the heat across the body to reduce damage.

“In the name of the people!” They roar back, keeping a firm grasp on the sword, with no concern for the fire, as their altered bodies begin producing and distributing painkillers through the bloodstream.

“In the name of the people!” The watchers call once more.

“In the name of the people!” They respond as the skin on their shoulders begin to boil from heat carried by their subdermal armor.

“In the name of the people!”

“In the name of the people!”

“In the name of the people!”

“In the name of the people!”

Finally, the fire subsides, only then do our two heroes let go of the sword.

The skin has burnt or boiled off the flesh from their hands, almost all the way across their torsos, but beneath their subdermal armor, the damage is minimal. The fire is a test of devotion, not a way to reduce operational effectiveness.

“Don you armor knight Connor 19-1.” The knight commander orders. 

400.631 kilometers away and 10 days later another knight commander orders “Don your armor knight Karnstein 01X.”

Both do as instructed, barely able to maintain their composure now that their ascension is over and they are back in their complete bodies.

A nun in one case, a monk in the other, approaches the newly minted knight, carrying an embossed steel plate and a rivet gun.

The knights bow, proudly presenting their dominant arms, and wait for the cleric to attach the ancient scripture that signifies their ascension to knighthood.

“This machine kills fascists.”

[sloshed-cinema]

Red Rooms [Les Chambres rouges] (2023)

There is something to be said for an uncomfortable silence. Whether in the courtroom of the trial of the Demon of Rosemont or in groupie Kelly-Anne’s high rise apartment, this masterpiece of tension relies on the tone of the room it’s in. Every mundane detail, small gasps or coughs, emphasizes the banality of the courtroom as the prosecuting attorney puts forth her opening statements, laying bare the shocking scope of Ludovic Chevalier’s crimes. It’s gut-churning in its directness—eyeballs slit, limbs severed, guts dug out—and all the more so for the subtle hum of air in a space from which all oxygen has suddenly been removed. Returning to her home when not sleeping on the street to be close to the courthouse, Kelly-Anne is content to sit in darkness, nothing to break the silence but the clack of keyboards or the occasional input of Guinèvre, her Alexa-like AI assistant. But as the trial goes on and Kelly-Anne spirals into ever more naked psychosis, the world becomes too much. Sound explodes, overbearing and harsh, almost too much by design. Sound is our only avenue into the snuff films that form the dreadful centerpiece to the trial, screams and cries and the buzzing of power tools or the sharpening of knives. The coup de grâce comes when Chevalier finally notices Kelly-Anne, the woman dressed up in a grotesque cosplay of one of the victims, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a school uniform and faux braces. The music explodes into a passion, blended perfectly with the screams from the video, a combination of pleasure and pain that the monsters consuming this sort of filth and dreck crave. It’s as close to histrionics as this film ever gets, breaking the stillness and chilly demeanor for a moment of mutual recognition through glass.

It’s perhaps this lack of shock value which makes Red Rooms such a gutting film to experience. Juliette Gariépy has shark’s eyes through the entire film, harsh and blank, utterly lacking in empathy. She watches the same video that shatters groupie Clémentine’s perception of her hero, both of their faces bathed in red, one woman’s sobbing, the other’s barely even blinking. Decisions, moments, acts, are all portrayed in a matter-of-fact light that grants the viewer an intimate look at Kelly-Anne’s life while keeping them at a remove from the internality of the model and poker player. She describes to Clémentine how she succeeds in online poker by exploiting the weak, taking all from them, and she approaches the stalking and home invasion of one of the victim’s families with the same blank demeanor. Aside from a growing sense of paranoia at being caught for her illicit activities on the dark web, the only emotion that Kelly-Anne ever betrays externally is when she wins the auction for the snuff film of the final girl. This is a shattering look at the heart of internet darkness and solitude that makes any Fincher film look like baby shit.

THE RULES

SIP

Someone says 'Rosemont' or 'dark web'

Dual monitor action

An online poker game starts

Arthurian reference

BIG DRINK

Faces bathed in red

A news report begins on the television

The DuckDuckGo home page gets pulled up

[gooopy]

I need outside validation for every single one of my feelings. Chat do you think this counts as a ptsd flashback type thing (under readmore bc um. Its gonna be a long rambly wordvomit mostly to get the thoughts out) (also sex and sex trauma will be mentioned) (and shitty moms)

Okay so my mom (will be referred to as pamela bc i dont consider her my mother) (parents divorced) wouldnt let me have my phone at her house. She was abusive and neglectful and it feels fraudulent to say fhat but i cope with everythinf by forgetting it so whatever. When i was somewhere around 16 i tried to reconnect with her after cutting her out if my life for a while and i began to trust her, enough so that i opened up about my sexual trauma and how i felt like i was beginning to cope with bad stuff by resorting to sex and that i worried it was unhealthy for me. I clarified that when id look for porn, i would mostly look for art as opposed to real people. She immediately concluded that i was looking at lolicon stuff and started talking about how she modded a few subreddits for sex addiction and that i had a problem and that i would begin seeking out more and more extreme porn until i was watching snuff films. All while im trapped in a car with her and told her id been groomed (and she SAW some instances of me engaging in sexual acts online as a kid, thats part of why i couldnt have a phone! Which lead to me sneaking my phone! And having worse sexual encounters!) This and some constant surveillance (would try to log into my accounts without me knowing, would peer into my room when i was asleep, had 'pet cameras' installed that stayed on, probably more i dont recall) is some of the uh. Major stuff for me.

All thats a preamble to say that earlier i saw something raunchy, enjoyed it, ans then all of a sudden i was terrified that somehow pamela knew that id enjoyed porn and that she had access to my phone again and that i was in trouble, and even typing this i feel that weird tightness in my chest inagining her calling me to sit on the front porch and try to defend what id done. But i didnt see like, images of her flash in my mind, and its hard to look up ptsd stuff for me i struggle to parse it and who knows if i actually do have ptsd. Anyways um chat is it a ptsd flashback if you feel certain that your abuser has power over you again lol