#tw spiraling thoughts

[itsdefinitely]

the distortion

[youraverageventblog]

It really hurts when you realize you aren’t their closest friend anymore.

[orioncals]

[crow-with-a-pencil]

Hi @naffeclipse I'm very normal about your fic. Have some frantic midnight sketches as extra kudos along with some tag rambling :)

[sneakyhotdog]

im feeling empty. hollow. like there is a hole in my chest and i can’t seem to do anything at all.

[mymp3]

ideation

[honeycollectswhump]

Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

Mireille hadn’t put too much thought into it, not really. But she didn’t need to. The moment she lay eyes upon the initials carved into the jewelled perfume bottle in the home of one of her suitors, it was decided. 

Henri was a good man, certainly as good as he could get, though not without some imperfections. He was of good stature, broad shoulders, though unaware of how to present them, always slouching slightly, as if the weight of his own frame was too much. And really, that wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of perfection. Maybe Mireille could make him great, could make him her own and teach him how to be proper, but maybe this was the best he could get and she’d just waste her time. Honestly, she’d rather be certain of her efforts, but he didn’t need to know, for his presents still made lovely decor. 

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long. 

All that matters now though, is the sunlight catching in the glass carvings of the bottle, the image replaying in her mind. She wants it too, and she wants it now, and Mireille knows just the possession perfectly suited for this:

Her little ashtray.

There is no thought in her mind of where to do this, who to ask. None of them would see the vision in her mind, the exact way it’s supposed to look. They’d all mess it up, ignorant of the gracefulness she lent to her ashtray. No, this is a personal project.

It is too easy to acquire a proper knife without suspicion. These men –the useful ones– – would bend over backwards just to get a chance at pleasing her. Sometimes she’d go as far as calling it boring, but what else was she supposed to do when all it took was the batting of her lashes, looking up at them with big, dumb doe eyes and slightly parted lips? Her body spoke a language none of them could resist, none of them were ever more than prey to fall in worship. 

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

No one else understands that not only does the result need to be flawless, but every single step needs to be immaculate, from the tools to the cutting to the one performing. An image has to be created, a scene, and none of those lowly things could ever understand her vision. That was what has always made her inherently different, inherently superior, and deserving of rightful worship. 

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her. 

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering. 

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

The servant nods, not worrying their stupid little head about her meaning, teasing what's to come, and rushes out as quickly as they came. They look frail, purposeful like porcelain, probably why she bought them, though their name or number had left her mind long ago. An unimportant piece of information abandoned along the way, replaced with something of value. 

Only minutes later, the same servant returns, gripping the ashtray’s golden leash too tightly. It’s barely noticeable but nonetheless doesn’t escape her all-seeing eyes; the way their knuckles drain of colour disturbs the otherwise pristine scene. They are followed by two guard dogs, muscular and well rested, their posture straight and imposing, their gaze hard and cold like unmoving stone. 

The ashtray looks perfect as usual, the thought both pleasing and stinging in a way that does not fit her image. So Mireille pushes it aside, a worry for later or preferably for never. They can’t have taken long to get him ready. And yet…

“Undress the ashtray. I want his chest to be free” Mireille orders, snapping her fingers. The servant quickly complies, buttoning the fine blouse the ashtray was decorated with open, pulling up away from him and folding it with learned precision. 

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

The ashtray gasps and for a single, disobedient moment looks up at her with big panicked eyes. The way his blue eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier does nothing but strengthen her resolve. Maybe, in another world, the view in front of her would be a painting she saw at an auction, a beautiful angel wrapped in gold captured by beasts of stone, unknowing of his fate. And like a painting, it is only natural for her to leave her mark.

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for. 

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it. 

Slowly, she stands up, taking the silver case from the table as she passes it, positioning herself right in front of the ashtray. It opens with a satisfying click, revealing polished metal, sharp edges, red velvet and her initials finely engraved on the handle. Mireille can just about stop a laugh from bubbling up. 

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching. 

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around. 

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed. 

In a final decision, she lays the knife’s edge on the first line of the M, watching the ashtray’s breath hitch in horrible anticipation. Not even a wince has broken through his training and Mireille is more than curious to test how far she can take it. 

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Instead, she presses it into his flesh, cutting down slowly, precisely. Once, then twice. The ashtray’s breath gets laboured and it only fuels her. She knows what she wants; an ornate engraving, decor on his skin, a signature on her masterpiece.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

Mireille moves carefully, taking her sweet time, her lips opened slightly, imitating an artist. Position, press, slide. His flesh parts beautifully, like he was made for this. For a moment, she looks over to the servant, who is pressing the case against their chest, their face showing sloppily concealed horror, and it makes her smile. They would probably call it brutal, ignoring the gentle way her knife slides through his skin, not meeting any resistance. They’d call it violent, not comprehending the second artwork the rivulets of blood form through the hand of fate itself. They lack the mind of an artist and the nature of a human.

By the time she reaches the A, the ashtray is barely holding back sobs, letting out silent, crooked whimpers –a sound so ugly she should punish him for it–, as she etches her mark deep enough to hit the bone. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t strain against the unforgiving grip holding his arms, against her carving following the twirls and flourishes. 

She doesn’t admit to herself that it is more challenging than she thought, to follow the rounded lines with a tool that craves sharp edges and straight incisions. The curves of the B make the knife catch on the bone and the ashtray lets out a soundless gasping scream, blue eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The tears he could barely hold back before now run down his face in a disobedient river, mixing with the blood on his chest, destroying her artwork. 

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

Only the word Worthless seems to get through to his stupid fucking pet brain. There is a reason he was made into a thoughtless object instead of anything else. His beauty is his only strength, the only reason they didn’t mercy-kill him, punish him for stealing space and air and atoms from anything with more use. 

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

At last, the ashtray doesn’t act up any more, stays motionless and silent as she finishes the B. When she pulls his skin taut, she can feel him tremble with the effort to keep still. Seems like his training had some use after all. 

Finally satisfied, Mireille lays the bloody knife aside, giving herself some time to analyze her work. Briefly, she turns to the servant to order a towel, before devoting her attention back to the signature, quickly overflowing with blood. It’s beautiful, but her interest lies somewhere else. 

She digs two fingers into a line of the A, pulling the incision apart. The ashtray only manages a whimper that she gives no regard to, as she digs deeper and deeper through the tissue, against the continuous blood flow. Then, against the intense red, her own personal gold shines through. 

Bone. 

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done. 

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know. 

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! if you did, i would be very thankful if you considered donating to @whumpcloud's gofundme for their top surgery (of course only if you are financially able to!!!). it would mean the world to us both <3

[hersurvival]

Something heavy rests upon my chest.

Debilitating dread bordering on paranoia.

Something bad is about to happen.

You're going to ruin everything.

Lose it all, end up all alone.

Violent waves of intense sadness

Crash into me, drag me out.

Drowning before I can understand

How I ended on shore.

Detached, dissociated

In the middle of the night.

Woken by nightmares I can't recall.

Static courses throughout my body,

Numb yet shivering

In puddles of cold sweat.

What's real? What's happening?

Thoughts howl,

Calling for blood on the bathroom floor.

"Situational. Normal."

[zombie-boygrrl]

Splitting on a Favourite Person feels like grief personified.

Even when they claim they love you, the reality of the situation is that you are too much for them, and they can never provide you with what you actually need to survive.

So when they say, or do, the wrong thing, it feels like fucking betrayal, abandonment, an admission of your failures as human being.

And every time they fall from grace, I pick them back up, to place on that throne.

But I cannot keep doing this.

It is fucking killing me, and I know I will still be writhing in agony when they leave.

[graveyarrdshift]

the sexual tension between me and relapse

[nerves-nebula]

gender adventures leo feat my most unexpected PTSD symptom

[orioncals]

[sunset-peril]

I thought too hard about my Werewolf Link lore and all the genetic modification that the Sheikah/Yiga did to make that man, like all the genetic mapping and sequencing and splicing that had to have been happening to make such a large scale project work

Under the cut for people who don't want the transcript of my crisis

Like they probably had the entire genome/genotype, the entire genetic makeup down to every last mutation, of each of Link's ancestors. Talk about identifying information!

They had to have had a list of what genes and traits and mutations were considered Wolfbred or not because obviously Twilight was Hylian and his children are all Hylian so if we're going to classify them as something Other Than Hylian we need to know exactly what makes them Not Hylian.

Like if Purah could access those files and records from 10,000 years ago she could probably recreate a very likely genotype for Link without ever taking a sample from him because the reason he's considered 'pedigreed' is because all this man's ancestors were registered into this system and so even with having no idea who married who after getting exiled, you still know almost exactly what makes up Link, sparing spontaneous mutations that occurred post exile.

Yeah, so, I sent myself into a philosophical/moral crisis

[menlove]

okay this is morbid so bear w me and NO ONE send asks asking if I'm okay bc the answer is, as always, no never but yes materially. and a big tw for suicidal ideation BUT LIKE......

anyone else w chronic depression always have suicide on the table as ur fallback to comfort urself? like. you're not SERIOUSLY considering it but it's different from regular passive ideation bc it's more like "okay I'm fine bc if things get really bad I can always just 😀🔫" and it does genuinely calm u down. like. there's no need to worry bc if things get SO unbearably bad....... well........ you've got ur friendly backup plan that's been there since middle school. do you know what I mean. is this even slightly relatable

[oilith]

Short fic. Tw for panic attack, ptsd and hallucinations

Lilith is severely traumatised because EC is a militarised cult.

——————————

Her heart was beating rapidly.

Her chest was tight, her breathing fast and shallow.

It was getting increasingly hard trying to not to choke.

Lilith stumbled a bit as she hurriedly made it through her front door and slammed it shut. She threw her white cloak in the direction of her couch, not caring that it didn't land.

Her own heartbeat was the only thing Lilith could hear anymore.

Her desperate tries to get air into her lungs fell quicky as shadows began to creep into her vision, emerging from the space around her.

Back against the wall.

Get your back against the wall.

She kept repeating herself that, as she practically ran into her bedroom and wrenched the sheets off her bed.

(When was the last time she'd slept in her bed?)

Lilith wrapped herself in the thick sheets, scurried onto the bed and backed into a corner, the wall behind her still thankfully steady.

It soon wouldn't be.

The shadows were everywhere. They knit thightly over her and she could barely see anymore. She tried to gasp for air.

She fell into a coughing fit as the choking feeling around her throat intensified. She lifted her hand trying to ease the pressure on her throat and-

Lilith stopped.

Her hand was shaking in front of her face. Her hand, covered in blood and dripping black tar, sharp claws stained red.

Suddenly everything was red.

Red ground, red shoes, red dress, red, staining her face and making her sword glister, red magic burning her, red, tasting on her lips and making her disgusted with herself because she enjoyed it.

Lilith stumbled over the edge of her bed and retched. She was desperately gasping for air, and her head felt like it was splitting in half, the sound of marching booming through her skull. Her stained hands had found her hair and were now grasping long strands of dark locks.

Everything was too much, she couldn't breathe and her lungs were on fire, the shadows having taken over, all her surroundings twisted, and still drowning in the thick red liquid pooling in her mouth, to her lap and onto her bed.

Lilith screamed.

She sobbed, curling into a tight ball and attempting to cover herself in the thick warm bedsheets, but no matter what she did the red wouldn't disappear, all the while she could feel his cold blue eyes on her.

[thunder-wolf64]

My dogs and I are each other's emotional support when it comes to having company over

Yay anxiety!!