#tw: bodily mutilation

[uncanny-tranny]

If you think a transphobe will differentiate between, for instance, a trans person getting masculinizing top surgery and a cis person getting a mastectomy because of breast cancer, you are fundamentally misunderstanding how transphobia and even misogyny impacts everybody. If you think there is a way to be anti-bodily autonomy toward trans people in a way that won't impact everybody's access to bodily autonomy, you are fundamentally misunderstanding what bodily autonomy means, and what it looks like to have that threatened. This isn't a mere matter of disagreement. This is, again, a fundamental problem.

You can not suppress trans people's access to bodily autonomy in a way that excludes all cis people and includes all trans people.

[jacksepticeye-simp]

Perfection (Part 2 of 'Beautiful')

!TW, IMPLIED BODILY MUTILATION!

"What the hell have you done to me?" You screamed, getting off the table you had previously been restrained to. However, as soon as you got up, your legs gave way beneath you. Google quickly caught you in his arms and sat you down on a chair. "I told you, I made you beautiful. Here, look." He said, handing you a mirror. You couldn't believe it. Your eyes widened in shock as you saw the reflection of yourself in the mirror. You had been turned into an IRL. "Why would you do this to me?!" You yelled. Google merely smiled warmly, "I did this because I love you. You're flawless now, you're perfect. As a human, you were full of flaws that would destroy you. You deserve to be something better, to be upgraded. So I made you like me." Google explained casually, taking your now cold and metallic hands into his own. "You should be thankful. Now you can see things my way and together, we're going to destroy the humans and rule over the new world." He said, kissing the back of your hand. His eyes now glowed an electric blue, a sadistic smirk forming on his lips. You felt your body tremble as you looked into his cold eyes. You couldn't let him do this. "You mean kill everyone? Hell no!" You shouted, glaring at Google. "Fine, don't help me. But you can't stop me. I'm stronger than you'll ever be." He cackled menacingly, and before you could react he had wrapped you in a powerful grip. He sneered and said, "Nothing can stop me now." He stepped back and laughed. "You're a fool for thinking you can stand up to me. I'll do as I please and there's nothing you can do to stop me. Once I return, I'll make sure to fix a few bugs in your programming. I'm sure by then you'll be more than willing to help me and rule with me." He spun on his heels and walked out of the room, shutting the door and locking it, leaving you alone and horrified. You stood there, unsure of what to do. You were scared, but determined to find a way out. You knew you had to find a way to stop him before it was too late.

[sopranoentravesti]

Man periodically I think about the people who supported the Ashley X treatment and wish them a very die.

(Un)friendly reminder that bodily autonomy is a disability rights issue as well as a trans and feminist issue.

[justyourtypicalwriter]

Okay, okay, okay SO: Kyle in the sled dog au gets harassed. Like BIG TIME.

I’d like to think of it as people found out he was a were-dog (is it were-dog if the shifts are controlled?) during his senior year. He found this little stream in the woods and likes to shift into his dog form play around it. He found it with Stan and it makes him really happy. Then shit hits the fan in September a few days before the first day of senior year and some kids in his grade see him shifting. At this point were-dogs are certainly NOT openly accepted.

So school starts up and so does the harassment. At first it’s just stupid teen drama stuff like graffitied locker or posters hung around school, which Kyle could care less about. It turns to verbal threats of harm around late November/early December and the most it does is Piss Kyle off. He’s just kind of sick of it at this point and doesn’t see what the big deal is. Around mid to late January it switches to physical attacks, probably one to two people at a time just picking fights with (or jumping?) him. Kyle chooses not to say anything about it as he fairs pretty well in these scuffles.

HOWEVER, you know I gotta fuck our boy up a bit more. At the end of April all these little pairs of people gang up together to attack him after school. Forcing him down and taking turns beating him or burning him with cigarettes. And just a reminder this is all for being a were-dog which wasn’t his decision. They also thought it was a funny little idea to slice and carve words into his skin with pocket knives with the main things being written along the lines of mutt as well as other crude things.

To say it spooks Kyle is a drastic understatement. The poor thing just sits there behind the school frozen in shock for hours until Kenny and Tolkien (they’re also were-dogs) find him and take him to Stan’s as they know his parents aren’t home. Kenny helps patch Kyle up (he’s fucking SKILLED at medical shit. But there’s a darker reason for it, I’ll make another post about that) before him and Tolkien leave. Kyle is absolutely silent throughout this whole thing which is a big marker that he’s really upset.

The whole situation is really taking a toll on him and as much as I love Sheila, she’s not much help. I typically don’t write things where Sheila is purposely harmful to her children, this is purely just her being so overbearing she’s doing a lot psychologically to Kyle who already isn’t doing the best mentally. It’s the typical overbearing parent stuff: “how could you be stupid enough to let this happen”, “I thought you were smarter then that”, “hiding that this was happening? It’s like I don’t even know you”. Just lots and lots of berating as well as yelling and Kyle just can’t cope.

His grades drop, he shuts down in large crowds, he’s just detached from reality. And he ends up dropping out. Kyle doesn’t graduate in this au. I honestly think this is the final straw for Stan and he makes the decision to follow through on the dog sledding stuff and he tells Kyle who’s just eager to get out of South Park and this is the perfect opportunity to.

[recklessfiction]

Favorite horror book?

More of a thriller/horror but Last Days by Brian Evenson. I describe it as John Wick but everything gets considerably worse. It’s a very fun read!

[solarsodas]

psychic attack on my hog

[pin-k-ink]

hollow // chrollo lucilfer

tw ⇢ graphic descriptions of physical violence, torture and mutilation, psychological abuse/mind-break, implied sexual content, obsessive/delusional behavior, reader is catatonic, depictions of bodily deterioration/decay

wc ⇢ 4.9k

The rhythmic dripping of water echoed hollowly down the dimly lit hallway, each drop hitting the stained floor with a soft plop. Chrollo's footsteps were cautious, familiar with every creak of the warped wooden boards beneath his feet. His gaze traced the peeling jungle green wallpaper, faded and curling away from the walls in long strips. Small holes pitted the popcorn ceiling above, remnants of who knew what past damage.

It was an all too familiar sight - this decaying hallway that he had walked thousands of times before. The musty, dank odor of rot and mold hung thick in the air, assaulting his senses in a way he had long since grown accustomed to. Chrollo could have mapped every discolored water stain, every flake of crumbling plaster from memory alone. His eyes lingered on the dark, rust-colored splatters streaking the wallpaper - unmistakable bloodstains that raised no alarm.

His hand trailed along the flaking paint as he approached the last door on the left, the bedroom. The door stuck briefly when he tried the tarnished knob, requiring Chrollo to lean his weight into it before it gave way with a groan of protesting hinges. As it slowly swung inward, his lips curled into a small, practiced smile.

"Good evening, my darling."

Chrollo's smooth voice seemed to caress the stagnant air as he stepped over the threshold. In the shadows of the dimly lit room, your silhouette was motionless, a solitary figure framed by the broken panes of the drafty window. You didn't so much as twitch at the sound of his voice, your distant gaze fixed through the grime-streaked glass.

Closing the door behind him with a soft click, Chrollo followed your line of sight beyond the confines of the cracked, spider-webbed window panes. The same stark view opened up before him - a dead tree, its twisted, gnarled branches reached up in blackened claws towards the perpetually overcast sky. The rusting black metal fence lined the property, separating the derelict house from the decaying remains of its abandoned neighbor.

Your eyes seemed almost unseeing, pupils trained on some invisible point far beyond the gloomy view. As if you could pierce past the decrepit scenery to something only you could perceive. The distant, glazed look was one Chrollo recognized.

With a soft huff of amusement, he stepped up behind you, his hands sliding along your upper arms before gently grasping your biceps. His fingers caressed your cool skin as he pulled you back, away from the broken window and the dead world beyond its panes.

With a tender grip, Chrollo eased you backwards, guiding your motionless form away from the shattered window. You offered no resistance, your limbs pliant, feet dragging slightly as he maneuvered you across the stripped bare floor.

The weathered bedframe groaned when he nudged you down to sit on the sagging mattress. Dust motes swirled lazily in the pale slivers of light slicing through the gaps in the curtains. Chrollo knelt before you, his movements slow and practiced as his eyes raked over your features.

Your face was a porcelain mask, devoid of any emotion or flicker of awareness. Eyes dull and unfocused, the usual warm depth you once regarded him with had long since turned glassy and distant. It was as if you had retreated so deeply inwards, tucking that spark of life away where he could no longer reach you.

A melancholic fondness played across Chrollo's expression. With deft fingers, he reached up to tuck a stray lock of lank hair behind your ear. The strands felt coarse, dirty - a reflection of your deteriorating state that he chose to ignore. His palm cupped your cheek, calloused thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye.

You didn't lean into his touch or blink at the contact. No minute reactions registered on your vacant features. But still, Chrollo leaned in close, lips brushing feather-light against the throb of your pulse point. He lingered there, feeling the faint flutter of your heartbeat against his mouth before peppering a trail of whisper-soft kisses along the elegant column of your throat.

Each press of his lips was unbearably tender, an intimacy he reserved only for you. But you remained unmoving, unseeing, disassociated from the present as a thousand-yard stare bored through him. With a resigned sigh, Chrollo rested his forehead against your bony shoulder, curling himself around your petrified form like a wilted plant seeking warmth from the sun.

Chrollo's lips brushed reverently over the pale skin of your knuckles, tracing the delicate bones of your motionless hand. Each gossamer kiss was featherlight, almost worshipful in its tenderness. He found himself sinking into the memories evoked by your touch, letting the present recede.

His mind drifted back years, to the first time he had laid eyes on you. That crisp autumn day when you had quite literally fallen into his world...

The towering shelves of ancient tomes seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction of the library's echoing halls. A reverent hush blanketed the cavernous space as Chrollo trailed his fingers along the gilded spines, searching...

There. His hand stilled on the tooled leather binding, the familiar title raising a faint smile. As he slid the thick volume free, a voice suddenly piped up from his elbow.

"Ah, one of the great paradoxes. Interesting choice."

Chrollo went still, sidelong gaze catching on the petite figure who had materialized beside him without a sound. You didn't so much as glance up from examining the book's cover with an appraising look.

"Though I always found his theories on the duality of truth to be rather paradoxical in themselves." You tsked softly, plucking the book from his grip to flip it open. "Take this passage for instance..."

Slender fingers skimmed down the aged pages to tap at a paragraph of dense text. Looking up at him through the fan of your lashes, your lips quirked in a half-smile. "He spends multiple chapters expounding on the inherent contradiction of subjective experience muddling objective reality. But then doesn't he fall into that same trap himself by attempting to define an absolute truth?"

Chrollo found himself caught in the spark of wry intelligence glinting in your stare. You presented the mild critique with such matter-of-fact certainty, unburdened by pretense. It was...refreshing. And more than a little intriguing.

"An insightful observation." His voice was neutral, but something about your easy confidence piqued his interest. "You're well-versed on the subject matter."

"Oh, I've practically lived in the philosophy section since I was a kid." You waved your free hand in a careless gesture, as if dismissing the notion of erudition as commonplace. "My coping mechanism for insufferable questions has always been to counter with even more insufferable questions."

There was a teasing lilt to your smile then, homr truths offered with a self-effacing humor. Chrollo couldn't resist the curve tugging at his own mouth in response. You hadn't cowered from his scrutiny or blustered with feigned modesty. Instead, you simply met his gaze with composure and clever irreverence.

Yes...you were shaping up to be a captivating anomaly in Chrollo's experience. One he found himself abruptly keen to unravel.

Extending his hand in an unhurried motion, he re-claimed the book from your grasp - though made no move to extricate himself from your proximity.

"I'm Chrollo Lucilfer."

The memory dissolved like smoke on the wind, and Chrollo found himself abruptly drawn back to the present. His mouth was still brushing over the bony ridge of your knuckles, lips whispering across your motionless hand.

He pulled back slightly, dark eyes roving over your vacant features. The life and clever spark that had so captivated him that very first day was utterly extinguished. Your gaze remained glassy and distant, as if staring inward at some unreachable abyss that had swallowed your brilliant essence.

For a long moment, Chrollo simply studied your hollowed visage, taking in the sallow tinge to your skin and the sharp jut of cheekbones. Your wrists protruded like delicate bird bones from where they lolled in his grasp - a cruel facsimile of the vibrancy you had once exuded. And yet...not a flicker of remorse or guilt flickered across his expression.

If anything, there was a strange tenderness limning his stare, suffusing the pad of his thumb as he stroked along the raised veins of your forearm. His other hand smoothed stray strands of lank hair away from your brow in an almost doting caress before he leaned in closer.

"Do you remember, my love?" His voice was low, hushed with the weight of recollection. "The day we first met in that musty library, surrounded by the books you adored with so much passion?"

Chrollo's lips brushed your temple, callused fingers curling around your nape as though to tether you to his words. To draw you out from the depths you had retreated within.

"You were a paradox unto yourself then - keen and irreverent, brilliant yet disarmingly self-effacing. A rare mind unbound by the pretenses I had grown accustomed to." His mouth trailed lower, warm exhale ghosting your cool cheek. "You captivated me from that very first quip."

His nose nuzzled along the sharp line of your jaw before he nestled into the crook of your neck. Tension coiled in the lean muscles of his shoulders and back, yet Chrollo did not loosen his embrace. Instead, he coiled himself more tightly around your unresponsive form, clinging to the impassive shell of what had once been his greatest obsession.

"I knew then that I had to unravel the enigma you presented. To unlock those complexities lacing your mind and make you wholly, utterly mine..." A tremor rippled through his voice, baring the faintest hint of strain beneath its veneer of devotion. "And so I did, didn't I? Through my own particular...persuasions."

Chrollo fell silent then, simply breathing you in - the lingering hint of your natural scent still clinging to your pallid skin despite the omnipresent reek of decay and mold shrouding this place. His haven, his sanctum where he could revel in the spoils of his conquest. No matter that the light had long since dimmed behind your eyes.

For though your corporeal form had withered, the essence of who you were remained eternally preserved - a prized butterfly trapped in amber, yours to study and revel in at his leisure. You may have drifted irrevocably out of reach, but at least here in this sanctum, your brilliant mind would never escape his grasp.

The silence stretched, weighted with half-remembered moments replaying in the recesses of Chrollo's mind. His cheek nestled into the curve of your neck and shoulder as snapshots of your earlier encounters together began flickering through his thoughts.

One particular scene coalesced, vibrant and stark…

The bustling cafe was alive with the rich aromas of espresso and freshly baked pastries mingling in the air. Chrollo's gaze cut briefly over the clusters of students and professionals huddled around the tiny tables before settling again on you.

Even seated across from him amidst the crowded atmosphere, you seemed completely at ease - blissfully unbothered by the cacophony of clinking dishes and murmured conversations surrounding you on all sides. With one leg crossed over the other, you lounged back in your chair, slender fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug cradled before you.

The soft furrow of concentration furrowing your brow was the only indication of your focus as you pored over the battered paperback novel propped open before you. Sunlight gilded the flyaway wisps of hair framing your face, casting deep crevices in the hollows beneath your high cheekbones. For a suspended moment, you looked almost ethereal - the embodiment of a tragic gothic heroine plucked from the very pages before you.

Chrollo found his stare snagging on the elegant drape of your throat, tracing the faint throb of your pulse fluttering beneath the surface before dropping to follow the enticing vee of cleavage peeking from your blouse...

You must have sensed his heated regard. Without even glancing up, your lips twitched in a knowing smirk as you reached for your mug. Bringing it to your lips, you took an unhurried sip - holding the scalding liquid on your tongue for a calculated beat before swallowing with a soft hum of contentment.

Only then did you finally lift your eyes to meet Chrollo's hooded gaze from beneath the fan of sooty lashes. "Something on your mind?" The deceptively innocent query was undercut by the simmering spark of challenge glinting in your stare. "Or are you just enjoying the view?"

The shameless quip and utter lack of self-consciousness should not have been so utterly enthralling. And yet...Chrollo could practically taste the thrill sparking down his spine at the bold implications lacing your tone. You somehow managed to come across as both deliciously inappropriate yet well-bred in the very same breath.

Unable to resist leaning into the tease, Chrollo allowed the barest of smiles to ghost over his lips as he mirrored your casual pose - elbows braced on the table's surface, chin resting atop steepled fingertips.

"Perhaps a bit of both," he mused in that low, dangerously warm timbre. "I do so enjoy seeing that wit of yours in action..."

His gaze was all too knowing as it dropped momentarily to your mouth. "Among other things."

The words hung in the air, rife with unspoken suggestion and subtle challenge. You regarded him evenly, holding his stare without a hint of the flustered demurring he typically encountered. For a protracted beat, the charged silence stretched taut between you as the clamor of the cafe faded to mere white noise.

Then, eyes glinting with newfound determination, you slowly reached for the bundle of pages resting abandoned on the tabletop beside Chrollo's arm. Never breaking that heated eye contact, you brushed your knuckles deliberately, intentionally, along the taut cords of his wrist before claiming the sheaf of looseleaf papers.

Lips still curved in that private, enigmatic smile, you reopened your novel - effectively ignoring or accepting his suggestive flirtation in one fell swoop as the embodiment of effortless poise.

It was subtle, masterful even in its nonchalance. And abruptly, Chrollo found himself well and truly enraptured by the delicious paradox of barbed wit and refined composure that you presented...

The memory ebbed away, siphoning back into the recesses of Chrollo's consciousness until all that remained was your pliant form coiled against him on the sagging mattress. He nuzzled deeper into the juncture of your throat and shoulder, chasing the lingering remnants of your essence still clinging to your pallid skin.

"Do you recall that afternoon, my love?" His words were a rumbling murmur against your nape. "How you matched me tease for tease without ever losing that practiced decorum society expected of you?"

A wistful sort of yearning bled into his tone, tempering the ravenous edge. "You were diabolical - all coy propriety deftly wielded to entice with just the faintest indecencies lurking beneath. Like some Wildean libertine in another skin..."

Chrollo's free hand curled into a fist where it rested on the mattress beside your hip, as if to anchor himself. There was a fevered sort of hunger simmering in his voice now, trembling with the weight of rapturous recollection.

"I knew then that I could never be content until I'd unraveled those contradicting layers shrouding your core - no matter how far into the abyss I had to descend in pursuit."

The arm bracketed around your waist cinched tighter, knotting you flush against his chest. It should have been suffocating, possessive...Yet Chrollo somehow imbued the crushing embrace with an unsettling sort of devotion. He was fastening you to him with that same ravenous ardor as one might clutch a cherished, half-coveted treasure.

His thumb traced the sharp ridge of your collarbone over...and over...and over again. "And you let me plunge into those depths so willingly - your brilliant mind falling open around me until I could see...everything."

A shudder rippled through his lean frame, momentary loss of control swiftly reined in. When his sable gaze finally lifted, there was a peculiar desperation simmering behind the usual impassivity.

"Don't you see, my love? This..." One calloused hand slid up to frame your face with infinite care, thumb caressing your lax cheek. "This hollowed essence is what you were truly meant for. An exquisite lapse of mortal confines into something sublime..."

Chrollo leaned in then, parted lips a scant breath from yours as he searched your vacant stare for any resurgence of vibrant awareness.

"You are perfection..."

The scenes continued unspooling through Chrollo's mind, each recollection seeming to unfurl within the dimness of the bedroom. Another fragment soon took shape...

Amber liquor sloshed over the rim of the heavy glass tumbler as you tipped it back, downing the harsh burn in one defiant swallow. A harsh grimace twisted your features before smoothing into a morose blankness once more.

It was well past midnight, but the dimly lit bar showed no signs of thinning out. If anything, the press of bodies seemed thicker - a sea of desperation and vice-fueled oblivion swelling with each passing hour. Chrollo slipped through the throngs like a wraith, his sable gaze cutting through the smoky haze as it snagged on your lone, hunched figure at the far end of the polished oak counter.

Even amidst the drunken revelry, you seemed utterly cocooned in your own world of misery. One dainty hand painted crimson nails over smeared trails of mascara streaking your cheeks like inky rivulets. Yet you were oblivious to the ruined cosmetics - focus zeroed inward as you gestured blindly for another refill with your other hand.

Something very much like concern flickered through Chrollo's expression as he watched the bartender dutifully splash more amber poison into your upturned glass. Before he could reconsider, his strides had already eaten up the distance between you.

Distractedly, you swiped the fresh drink towards you - only to freeze when his fingertips materialized around your wrist, stilling its trajectory. Your bewildered gaze snapped up, all blurred crimson rims and swollen lids as you blinked at him in open confusion.

"Chrollo...?" His name slipped out garbled, thick, like you couldn't quite recognize him through the alcohol-soaked haze fogging your brain. Still, there was a reluctant ember of lucidity flickering in those depths. "Wha...?"

"Easy there." His tone was infused with a carefully modulated gentleness as he extricated the tumbler from your tenuous grasp. "I think you've had more than enough for one night."

For a suspended beat, you could only gape at him in wordless bewilderment - as if you couldn't quite comprehend that he was even real. Then all at once, your fragile composure simply...crumbled. A strangled sound, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, gurgled up from your chest to clog your throat.

You were crying in earnest, shoulders quaking with the force of your abject despair before Chrollo could even parse your reaction. Instinct overrode reason as he sank into the stool beside you, one hand settling over the sharp jut of your shoulderblade while the other curled soothingly around the nape of your neck.

"Shh...just breathe, darling." His words were hushed, lulling as he pulled you against the solid line of his side. "Whatever has you in this state, tell me. Let me help."

Babbled, hiccuping gasps tumbled from your parted lips as you curled into the hollow of his shoulder and throat. You reeked of sour booze and salt, yet Chrollo did not recoil from your distress. Instead, he stroked the sensitive hairs at your nape in an anchoring rhythm, waiting patiently for the torrent of misery to ebb enough for intelligible speech to win out.

"He...he was with her! With that vapid little t-tart from his office!" The confession emerged in a wretched outburst, fraught with venom and betrayal. "After everything, he still...he was sleeping with her behind my back!"

Ah. So that was the root of this maudlin display - infidelity. Chrollo's lips pressed into a grim line as the pieces slotted into place. Of course some base, undeserving wretch would be foolish enough to wrong you so egregiously. To discard a brilliant mind like a banal plaything when they could scarcely begin to comprehend the depths of your worth...

His palm trailed in soothing strokes down the tense ridge of your spine as you heaved another juddering sob against the lapel of his coat. "Shhh...we'll make him regret the day he took you for granted, darling. We'll make this all go away, for tonight at least."

The rumbling murmur was laced with a conviction bordering on zealotry. Chrollo was utterly undone by your naked anguish - mired in both protective tenderness and dark contemplation over just how he might erase this slight. For you were meant for so much more than these kind of vulgar pains, this reductive mortal torment...

You reeled back slightly, eyes glassy and rimmed with clumped mascara as your brow knitted in confusion. But then Chrollo brushed the pad of his thumb along the swell of your lower lip - just a whisper of contact yet somehow searing with intensity. The hitch of your breath and instinctive part of your mouth was all the answer he needed.

Neither of you could rightly say who instigated the first crush of lips in that moment. It was needy and desperate, a frantic meshing of mouths tinged with the bitter fuel of anguish and something darker still. Chrollo's hand cradled the back of your skull as he angled closer, tongue lancing past your parted lips to taste the remnants of liquor and salt on your own.

There would be no gentle coaxing on this night. Only a frenzied tearing away of hurt and betrayal before the wounds could fester into something more insidious. A shedding of mortal flesh to reveal the brilliant essence burning beneath as you yielded into his possessive embrace...

The fragment drew to a hazy close, the visceral urgency of that encounter still pounding in Chrollo's veins. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly where his hands cradled your face and waist. Remembering the pure desperation fueling your surrender that night - how you had clung to him as the only tether left in the maelstrom. How he had claimed you wholly unto himself in the throes of solace and unraveling...

"Mine," he rasped against the seam of your lips, savoring the phantom memory of how pliant and undone you had been for him in that moment. If only for a handful of searing hours before the mortal coils began reweaving around your brilliant spirit once more.

But he would eternally relish that glimpse behind the veil, where your unbound essence had shone through unto him alone. The start of his fervent devotion to keep that flame tended, no matter how deeply he had to delve to stoke its radiant spark.

The memories began to scatter like ashes on the wind as Chrollo pulled back just enough to drink in the devastation he had wrought. His thumbs traced the sharp blades of your cheekbones, reverent despite the mottled bruises and lacerations maring your once unblemished skin.

Chrollo's grip tightened possessively as he vividly recalled that fateful night when he had first tasted the intoxicating depths of your psyche. Even as you had fallen apart in anguish over your unfaithful lover, there was an incandescent fire that drew Chrollo to you like a moth to the flame.

He had meant to simply provide a brief respite - a single night of forgetting your mortal turmoils as he indulged in the radiant essence you unconsciously exuded. But from the first crush of your pliant lips against his own, Chrollo found himself utterly enraptured. Each desperate roll of your hips and keening cry spilling from your throat only stoked his covetous obsession.

You had been so gloriously undone in those feverish hours - defenses obliterated, self discarded like a shed skin as you surrendered your entire being to the oblivion he offered. And in doing so, you had revealed the scintillating truth burning at your core. An existential fire, brilliant and rapturous...yet simultaneously fragile within its corporeal confines.

Chrollo's body was rigid now as he curled around your vacant form, conscious mind awash in the recollected sensations. The salty musk of your spent passions...the litany of ethereal sounds he had drawn from your kiss-bruised lips...the exquisite rapture of joining his essences with yours in those scorching instants of coalescence.

It should have been enough. One soul-searing glimpse into the untrammeled truth of your existence before allowing you to resettle behind your mortal veneers as societal dictates demanded. But even as he held your utterly spent form in the aftermath, body humming with satiated contentment, Chrollo recognized the obsession had taken insidious root.

He could never be complete until he had experienced the full unbridled depths of that prismatic flame he had witnessed refracting through your fragmented psyche. No matter how far he was required to descend in stripping away the superfluous layers masking your truest self from view.

Which was why, in the end, such...radical measures had been required to liberate you.

Chrollo's stare bored into your vacant eyes as if seeking any residual spark still banked behind that thousand-yard emptiness. His mouth brushed your cooling temple with something akin to devotion as the memories of your systematic unraveling played out in his mind's eye.

The isolation...the escalating torments he had ceremonially unleashed to flay both psyche and flesh from your core essence...the rapturous fervour of witnessing your final fracture into this transcendent, pristine stillness.

"You are the ultimate absolution," he murmured, clutching your husk closer. "My luminous ossuary - shedding at last your ill-fitting bodily accessories to reveal the immaculate truth shining beneath."

His lips brushed your slack, parted mouth, savoring the liberation of having reduced you at last to this perfect, unbound state. Preserved forever as the concentrated epiphany he had coveted from that first, searing taste of you drowned in mortal anguish so long ago.

"Mine," Chrollo rasped with heated finality. "You are mine, now and for all eternity to come..."

Chrollo cradled your deteriorated form against him, that flickering obsession still burning bright in his breast even as he drank in the full extent of devastation he had wrought upon you. For a fleeting moment, something almost like guilt sparked behind his impassive mask.

The once vibrant, brilliant essence he had fallen rapture to now lay utterly unmade. Your eyes stared back at him, unblinking and devoid of the soulful spark that had first ensnared him so completely. Just...empty. A hollowed vessel in the wake of shattering your very spirit to reach that primal truth buried beneath.

Chrollo's thumb traced the sharp jut of your cheekbone, calloused pad catching on the ridges of mottled bruises and lacerations peppering your ashen flesh. He had been the architect of this ruination - methodically flaying away every layer of identity and reservation until only the naked essence remained. A scorched earth approach in pursuit of cradling that luminous fire unbridled at last from the confines of your corporeal self.

But surely even this devastation was a brutal form of preservation? Eliminating every potential tether that might restrain you from the transcendental state of pure, unfettered being he had laid bare...

His grasp convulsed minutely, fingertips pressing almost bruisingly into the fragile dips of your body. Perfection, he tried to reaffirm. This was the apotheosis of preserving your immaculate truth in stasis. The self-aware cosmos distilled to its most sublime....

And yet...

The briefest flicker of uncertainty lanced through Chrollo's stare as he studied the desolation reflecting back at him. For the span of a solitary indrawn breath, his convictions seemed to teeter on the precipice of horrified doubt. The full magnitude of what he had unmade you into crashing against the uncompromising fervor of his beliefs like a sanity-shattering wave.

Then your lips parted with the barest sigh, the slightest tongue movement giving audible shape to a single rasping exhalation. A phantom whisper seeming to give voice to the oblivion reflecting from the depths of your vacant stare.

"Chrollo..."

The tenuous moment fractured. Whatever fissure of trepidation that had pried open an instant before was abruptly extinguished by the guttering embers of Chrollo's dedication. His palm cupped the sharp hinge of your jaw as his brow creased in a minute frown of reproach.

"Shh...no more," he soothed in a hushed murmur. "Your essence has transcended such temporal limits at last."

With agonizing tenderness, Chrollo brushed the faintest whisper of a kiss across your placid lips. There was no response from your end - no flutter of lashes or instinctive reaction. Just the weighty stillness of a mind and spirit severed completely from any lingering mortal confines.

Chrollo pulled back a bare fraction, his sable stare glittering with something like reverence as he studied the husk before him. The fate he had meticulously crafted for you in pursuit of undoing every superficial strand barring his unfettered view of the unfurling truth laid bare at last.

And in that moment, a twisted sort of absolution seemed to settle over his expression. This bleak squalor was both sanctum and crematorium - the smoldering aftermath in which your indelible imprint had been forged into existence eternal. No matter the state of the vessel's decay, your essence would endure, preserved forever in the chilling serenity Chrollo's morbid dedication had produced.

As for the systematic dismantling and agonies required to unmake you to this degree...? All such atrocious steps were hallowed by the certainty still burning in Chrollo's conviction as he cradled your emptied husk with the covetous desperation of an obsessive widower. The indelible truth of your being had ultimately been preserved in a state of perfect, pristine deliverance.

And whether that ultimately amounted to an abhorrent defilement or the most sacred of consecrations....Only Chrollo could rightly bear witness to the full breadth of that existential paradox now.

[forwhump]

Touch

a/n; touch starved human weapon who’s never known kindness gets a hug :’) & a bunch of other times he’s touched, mostly in a horrible fashion

for the anon that wanted silas to get a hug & the anon that wanted more of the unit !! two bingo squares crossover episode best of both worlds babeyyyy

tw/cw: grievous bodily harm, mutilation, guns, traumatic brain injuries, implied rape/noncon, references to graphic violence, medical torture

living weapon whumpee

The first touch Silas ever knows is that of the cold, gloved hands reaching into the opened cavity of his chest.

Their touch is not gentle. Their touch introduces Silas to pain. It’s a pain that he will very quickly become familiar with.

They open him from throat to groin. They peel skin away from meat, and meat away from muscle. They pry apart his ribcage and crush his ribs into splinters of bone. They pull out chunks of organ tissue and they hold him down, against the cold steel of the operating table, as they take the colder steel of a surgical scalpel of his hairline.

Silas’ very first memory is waking up to those cold, gloved hands fishing his small intestine from his opened gut.

The very first touch Silas ever knows is that of those hands.

Silas doesn’t like to be touched.

He learns this very quickly.

It’s an empty cell, carved from stone, not quite tall enough for Silas to stand in but that doesn’t matter because Silas can’t stand. He’s shackled to the floor by the iron closed around his throat, and he’s left there for days in the dark.

He’s alone. He’s alone a lot in the beginning.

The first person that he ever sees, outside of that operating room, is a soldier. Silas doesn’t recognize him but he spits, “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, you ugly fuck,” and swings his fist into Silas’ face with as much force as a human being can manage.

His name is Point, Silas learns later, and his touch breaks his right eye socket into splinters of skull.

They manage to save his eye. Much later, however, Point puts three bullets in it, and Silas loses his right eye for good.

Silas learns very quickly that touch is something vile. It’s something to be shied away from, something that hurts. Touch is inhumane.

When Silas is touched, it hurts him.

When Silas touches, he hurts.

They chain his hands in front of him, and they shackle him at the ankles. He has to wear a bite bar because they don’t trust his teeth.

They’re right not to.

Because they remove the bite bar, the chains, the shackles, and there’s carnage.

When Silas touches, he hurts. When Silas touches, there’s carnage.

Silas usually does his field tests alone, but not always. They are a team, technically, him and the unit, and the district needs to be sure they work well together, or some shit equivalent.

Silas had spent a lot of time making a careful point not to let the unit see him the way the soldiers see him, as the horrible thing he really is, and introducing them into the field tests had made him edgy, and it had made him feel kind of sick.

It turned out to be a waste of emotion.

Even now, the soldier’s gun aimed into Hal’s face, Silas makes quick work of pulling his throat out through the back of his neck. He uses his teeth, and still, as Hal stands, he wipes blood from his eyes with his sleeve and looks up at Silas with a grin that’s nothing but relieved.

“Good looking out, man,” he says, and holds his fist out to Silas. Silas doesn’t know what to do with that, so he doesn’t do anything. Hal kinda gestures with his fist and says, “don’t leave me hanging, big guy. Bump me.”

Silas raises his eyebrows and Hal reacts like he hit him.

“You’ve never had a fist bump?�� And he says it like it’s something heinous, like it’s even the most heinous thing Silas has done in the last three minutes. “Oh, man,” he says, but his grin is bordering on obnoxious. “I’m so glad I get to take your fist bump-ginity.”

“No,” Silas deadpans, because he doesn’t know what that is and he also doesn’t want to.

But Hal says, “yeah. Come on,” which isn’t all that convincing on its own, but he adds, “Wren will think you’re really cool if he finds out you do fist bumps,” and Silas squints. Hal grins again, wide and innocent, and holds his fist back out to Silas. “It’s easy. Just bump my fist with your fist. Fist bump.”

“Why?” Silas says.

“I don’t know,” Hal says. “Who cares? Just do it.”

Silas looks at Hal’s hand for a long time and decides the pros — Wren might be impressed he’s learned something — outweigh the cons — he just doesn’t want to. He relents and knocks his fist against Hal’s.

Hal, who throws both his arms up and his head back as he cheers.

June, after she left the service, was a hairdresser for a while.

Silas knows this, because she tells him, “after I left the service, I was a hairdresser for a while.”

Silas says, “okay.”

“So you can trust me,” she adds.

“No,” he says.

June tips her head back, dramatic, as she groans. She’s been wielding the hairbrush like a weapon. “Silas. Come on, dude. Stop being a bitch about it. Let me brush your hair.”

“No,” he repeats.

“Silas,” she repeats.

“No,” he says.

“Wren’ll like it,” she tries, and Silas narrows his eyes. She grins, and she has a very predatory grin. “You wanna look good for Wren, don’t you, big guy?”

He’s starting to suspect these people might be using Wren to manipulate him, and it’s unfortunate that it’s working. Silas sits on the floor, and June, with the added boost of the back of the couch, pulls a brush through his hair like she’s trying to rip all of it out.

He complains the whole time, mostly for the sake of complaining. “Ow,” he says again, and June groans at him.

“You’re too big to be this much of a pussy.”

“You’re hurting me,” he says. She isn’t.

“I don’t care,” June replies. “Stop moving.”

“I’m not moving,” he says.

“You’re flinching,” she says.

“You’re hurting me,” he reminds her.

“You should’ve started brushing your hair six months ago,” she bites back.

“How was I supposed to know?” Silas asks, and he’s won, because she quiets behind him, and her hands tug a little less violently at his hair.

“Sorry,” she says finally, and Silas tries not to smile but it tugs on his mouth at one side. He doesn’t think she’s looking at him, so he doesn’t try all that hard to hide it and so it makes him jump when he turns and she’s leaning over his shoulder to look him in the face. “Hey,” she accuses. “That’s not funny. I thought I hurt your feelings.”

He cracks a smile, despite his best attempts. “You couldn’t hurt my feelings.”

June grins widely, raising her eyebrows. “I’d love to try.”

Silas snorts, and she laughs as she pulls back over his shoulder to tug the brush through his hair again. She ties it up for him; a half knot, because, “I thought it would suit you. I was right.”

He tracks Wren down, just in case.

He has a pencil tucked behind his ear and Silas is strangely entranced by it. “Silas,” he says, and he says it with a smile. “You look so handsome.”

Silas doesn’t know what it means, but he’s flattered, anyway.

He’s on his back on the concrete, looking down the barrel of a gun.

It’s shaking. Point’s hand is trembling. “You stupid, disobedient fuck,” he spits, and Silas barely sees the bottom of his boot closing in on him before it’s cracking his cheekbone. “Bad. Dog.”

Both of Silas’ arms had been nearly amputated at different points, but he can still lift his left hand. Just barely, and it trembles with blood loss and severed tendons, but he manages to lift it from the wet concrete and fold almost all of his fingers down, save for the middle.

Point roars in frustration.

Silas knows the cold kiss of gunmetal, for only a second, and then an eruption of heat that’s white hot and electricity charged and Point empties his gun into Silas’ face.

Silas is reintroduced to the touch of surgeons, but this is nothing new.

He loses his eye.

They take Wren.

Silas couldn’t give less of a fuck about his eye. He’s got another one, he’ll be fine. What’s another disfiguring injury? But he gets back to the unit, and Robin finds him in Wren’s absence.

They’d taken Wren. Robin doesn’t know where.

His touch is a firm handshake that makes Silas’ skin crawl. But he accepts it, even if he didn’t need Robin to ask. Even if he would’ve raised hell, anyway.

He’d been really careful around Wren. He’d been so careful.

Wren’s different. He isn’t like any of the rest of them. He’s gentle in a way Silas thinks super soldiers just aren’t capable of. His skin is still soft. He’s still so human, and he looks at Silas, and he sees something in him that’s human, too.

But he’s wrong. Silas has known for a long time that he’s wrong, and whatever it is that Wren thinks he sees in him, it isn’t human.

He’d wanted so badly for it to be true, though. He’d wanted to believe Wren. He wanted there to be something human in him because he never wanted Wren to stop looking at him like that. He’d done his best not to let Wren see anything less, to not let him see him as any less human than a couple of fatal injuries.

He’d never let him see anything else. He’d been so careful.

But then he finds Wren, and he finds him with a group of soldiers.

Their touch is not kind.

He’s shackled to a bunk by an ankle to the bedpost, and Silas doesn’t even know what they’re doing to him but he knows it’s vile. The sounds make his skin crawl. Wren is begging for it to stop.

He’s crying, and it’s crying like nothing else Silas has ever heard. Wailing. He isn’t in complete control of himself after that.

The soldiers all react to him with flailing, frantic cowardice, shouting and clambering for guns, for knives, for weapons, and it’s embarrassing. Silas is embarrassed for them. Cowards, all of them — loud, cruel cowards. All so scared of Silas, every one of them, and they fuckin’ created him. What a fuckin’ joke.

He lets them scramble, looking at Wren through the blur of them. His mouth is swollen, face shiny with tears, and when he sobs, he sobs, “Silas.”

“Don’t look,” Silas says.

He doesn’t recognize any of the soldiers because their faces all blur.

Every one of them dies in that bunk, and they do not die gently. They die screaming and they die in pain.

Partway through suffocating a soldier with another’s small intestine, Silas lifts his head, and Wren is still there.

He reaches out and splinters the bedpost with one hand. He can’t look at Wren for too long — he doesn’t really wanna see the look on his face. “Run,” he says, and peels the jaw off a nearing soldier with one hand, without even looking at him.

Wren runs.

Silas is punished greatly for his disobedience.

Still, he isn’t looking forward to being back in the unit. The long walk back has his heart beating higher in his chest than he thinks it should. He only ever wants to be in the unit because he wants to be where Wren is — if Wren doesn’t want him there anymore, Silas will have to find a way to stay away, whatever he has to do.

He gets back to the unit and he’s expecting Wren to look at him in disgust if he looks at him at all. He isn’t expecting the way Wren pushes himself into Silas’ chest, arms so tight around his waist that Silas is surprised by the strength of him.

It doesn’t hurt, though, a very pleasant sort of vice, warm and Wren. “What are you doing?” He asks softly.

“A hug,” Wren says, face pressed into the spot just beneath Silas’ sternum and the pressure of him is nice.

“Why?” Silas asks, and Wren makes a sound that Silas can’t decipher as laughter or crying. It might be both.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he whispers into Silas’ crewneck.

It’s probably the stupidest thing Silas has ever heard him say. “I’d do anything for you,” he says, flat.

And it’s true. There isn’t anything in the world Silas wouldn’t do for him. Wren doesn’t even need to ask. Clinging a little tighter to Silas’ sweatshirt, he sobs.

Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand and lets himself be hugged.

The concrete of the common room floor is a cool touch against his cheek.

It’s the last thing Silas knows before his skull is crushed.

When Silas gets back to the unit, he has tremors in his hands and he doesn’t remember how to read.

When Silas gets back to the unit, it’s been months. He doesn’t know how many.

When Silas gets back to the unit, he’s surprised to immediately find his arms full of Hal.

“What?” Silas says, and then June is jumping onto his back, clinging to his neck, and Wren is at his side, small hands finding Silas’ skin beneath his sweatshirt and his touch is warm, impossibly soft. Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand. “What are you doing?”

Hal laughs from somewhere around his armpit as June laughs loudly into his shoulder. “We missed you, big guy!” She crows.

“We missed you!” Hal cries.

Wren laughs into his side and it’s a little wet. “We were so worried about you.”

Robin is lingering nearby and Silas points at him with his other hand. “Don’t come anywhere fuckin’ near me.”

His face doesn’t change, militant as he is, but his gaze flickers to Wren and back before he says, in the low, rumbling version of Wren’s accent, “welcome back.”

Silas lifts his chin, sort of a nod. He looks back down, at his shaky armfuls of the rest of them, and he can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth on one side.

They laugh and they cling to him and the touch of the pressure and the weight of them hurts, it makes his recently reconstructed bones groan in protest, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t but he’d also be full of shit if he said it bothered him at all.

Silas would consider himself pretty well versed in pain; this has to be his favourite.

[almacambiondaughterofsaleos]

Not to be the person talking about feet. But is anyone else just a little weirded out by the Hellaverse characters legs and feet? Or… lack thereof? Like I know it’s a weird thing to be bothered about. And I can give a pass to the more demonic looking characters. But the fact that it happens so often and even to the more human ones just throws me off. It’s uncomfortable for me. Idk if it’s the anatomy of it or what, but it icks me out. (TW for last image, bodily mutilation and deformation)

Striker and Verosika have this weird Patrick star thing going on. It makes sense for SOME characters like Carmilla, but it’s still kinda weird how often it happens.

Moxxie’s mom. I mean those are shoes. Like human shoes. And realistically, those are only on her toes.

Stolas/Loona/Moxxie’s legs, half the time, the bottom part is so long, I’m convinced people forget that they do in fact have knees.

Then you occasionally have people like Vaggie/Vox/Velvette/Alastor/Lucifer/Charlie. They clearly have feet but are still easily drawn too small.

Niffty and Angel don’t even HAVE feet at all, despite wearing something akin to shoes.

Then you have a somehow worse version of the Patrick Star thing. At least with Verosika/Striker it like they’re wearing some weird heels. With Mimzy and Lute it’s giving foot binding energy.

Her artstyle just causes that don't blame you for being put off

[red-velvet-0w0]

okay so my intrusive thoughts were honestly being metal as hell today and i had to draw the image it kept showing me

(image is under cut) (tw for: suicidal imagery, bodily mutilation, dismemberment, & nonsexual nudity (no genitalia or boobs though))

[forgetful-nightmares-stuff]

Talked to Cro about this earlier but considered to bring this up here as well

Spoilers for episode 8 ahead!

And Tw for slightly gore, and disturbing brain things (aka I describe something that my brain filled in gaps for, and my brain is twisted in that fucked up ADHD way) that fall along the lines of body horror and body mutilation. So either don't think too much about it or just keep scrolling! If you feel like you can't handle it you don't have to, so don't force yourself to!

I think everyone remembers this scene right? Y'know when Cynessa/Flesha/whatever else is tearing out N's core? Yeah that scene.

The fear here can be just assumed to be a "Oh sh-t, I'm going to die.." but then later when N and Uzi are hiding and N's hyperventilating these two images flash on screen

Notice a similarity in the first one? Yeah this was when N was being turned into a Disassembly Drone by Cyn/The Solver. Which yeah it was intended, adds the angst factor of that what Cynessa did earlier DID trigger those memories to resurface.

Then I let the images really sink in.

Now, my brain is fucked up in that ADHD way, I like body horror and stuff so my brain just kinda filled in gaps and...

Look, The idea of the bodily modifications The Solver did to N, V, J, etc has been LURKING in my brain. Like even thinking of Uzi, Doll, Yeva, and Nori- they have Cores but not those body modifications

AKA the initial Gala thing was mainly Cyn/the Solver taking over administration for the now Zombie Drones and then after The Solver murdered all of the Gala guests (and Tessa), The Solver modified their body while either all of them were still active or only N was still active, and if N wasn't infected before then The Solver then infected him, gave him a core, and did the body modifications to him all while presumably using the person N saw as at least a sister stare him down and do that to him while leaving him still active to witness and feel EVERYTHING.

This has been in my brain ever since I noticed it and I need to inform a bit more people. I figured I had a reason to like N since Cro showed me the pilot and Heartbeat when those were the only two out and, I'm telling you just the implications of him going through THAT and yet still making it out mostly okay and optimistic just made me love the guy a bit more

[keirawantstocry]

Thought about your pac and tubbo giving fit their blood ficlet while also thinking about tubbos corpse and now I can't stop thinking about pac cutting open tubbos corpse so he can keep tubbos heart with him. Anyway

your mind. gasped and dropped everything as soon as I saw this

TW FOR GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF MUTILATION OF A CORPSE

Pac coped with grief in a strange way, he knew that. Sometimes he thought it was a result of everything that had happened in his past but sometimes he just figured that it was who he was. After the initail wave of sadness hit him, it seemed clear to him what he should do.

Fit stood above him as he kneeled over Tubbo's corpse, sword in hand. The first slice slid through the meat of his chest like butter.

Carefully he peeled back the flesh to expose the cavity of the corpse's chest. Silently he held his hand up to Fit would handed him a tool they had crafted just for this interaction. Pac snapped the ribs one by one until there was enough room to wiggle his hand inside. They both made no comment at the squelch of blood and splatters of bodily fluid.

Pac was pulling his hand back out, firmly grasping the still cold heart of the man he loved. Fit held out a jar and Pac carefully lowered the heart inside of it.

"And he thought we would abandon him," Fit said softly, staring at the heart now encased in glass.

Pac shook his head as he pulled out a sewing kit to sew the man's chest back together. "He will be a part of us forever. We, in every sense, hold his heart in our hands."

[suusoh]

Can i request Anna with the prompt: “Your mother wants us to come down for Christmas.” Something about little miss unhinged and cosplaying normality (or failing to) scratches my brain

(LITTLE MISS UNHINGED IM HOLLERINGGG. THAT IS HER OFFICIAL NICKNAME NOW ANON. BLESS. Also this got surprisingly long.)

(tw: yandere, physical threats, threats of bodily mutilation (not at reader), yeah... Anna isn't really the best here.)

"Because she still thinks we're together."

You hiss at her, strong venom evident in your voice. She's unbelievable. You grab the pillow beside you and hug it tightly to your body out of frustration.

Anna remains unfazed though, humming faintly and calmly swinging side to side, dancing to her own little made up tune, while looking at the closet mirror in front of her. She's holding up two dresses by their hanger, draping one across her body and getting a good look before switching to the other.

"We are together, baby. Who said otherwise?"

"I did," you instantly reply, quickly shooting her a glare. "—before you held a fucking pen to my throat."

She continues looking at the closet mirror in front of her, switching back and forth between the two dresses: one blue and one black, ruminating on which one looks better. Still focused on her own little task at hand than paying any mind to your scornful remarks.

She lets out a soft sigh, but it has no actual exasperation in it.

"And I told you that it was in the moment; you're seriously not gonna let me live that down?"

—She quickly catches the hairbrush you throw at her. A loud smack emitting as the brush hits the fleshy meat of her palm. Reflexes effortlessly saving her face from an ugly bruise.After a few seconds, she gently puts the brush down on the table beside her and wordlessly looks down at her hand, the skin slowly reddening in color.

"hm. nice throw."

Anna practically beams at you. Her genuinely proud expression clearing all doubts in your mind about the sincerity of her praise.

"Seriously babe... where was this energy when we went on our carnival dates? Do you know how many rigged games I had to win, or how many fights with a carnie worker, to get you some fluffy toy—"

She continues on her mini rant. Nonchalantly brushing off your little stunt, finding it as nothing but endearing, as she returns to handling her own important dress dilemma before the mirror.

You'd think she was hiding her disappointment, or rage, or whatever normal emotion one should be feeling right now. But oh no no no, she just finds your attempt at hurting her fucking adorable. Fuck. Her.

Fuck her, and her fucking smile, and her fucking cooing, and her fucking keeping you with her in this insane toxic fucking relationship, and her fucking—

"Ah ah ah... don't frown too much, sweetie. You knooow I don't like seeing you sad," A small pout on her face, teasingly playing along with your display.

"Now come on," she tuts lightly. "I need you to help me out here! Which one's better, the blue or the black one? Black is classy, but maybe it's not festive enough for the holidays."

"I'm not your fucking girlfriend Anna." you try to remind her again, half in anger and half in desperation to stop whatever this is.

"Of course you are~~" she sing-songs.

"And you will always be my beloved girlfriend; rest assured, I'll love you forever. Unless, of course, you want to upgrade from girlfriend to wife? I can arrange that."

"You tried to kill me."

You clutch on the sheets of the bed you're sitting on. Bitter memories of you breaking up, or... trying to break up with Anna that night coming back. The effortlessness of her grabbing the pen on the table and hovering it above the artery in your neck, paralyzing you. The ease at which she just easily thought about harming you like that still keeps you awake at night. Does your life and safety mean that little to her?

"I don't try to kill people; I do kill people. Give me some credit here, sweetheart."

She half-heartedly roll her eyes at you. Turning her body around to face you for a moment. "So, no. I didn't try to kill you. I was just keeping you in place for a bit."

When she faces you, her eyes begin to soften instantly just at the sight of you all curled up on the bed, using a pillow to shield yourself, chest filling with aching affection as a warm smile spreads across her face.

Oh, her sweet angel... she can't help but coo at you a little.

"You really thought I was gonna take your life, huh? Come on darling, I know I'm scary, but I'm not that scary. I hold nothing but love for you (name), and you should know that...."

"No," you scoff. "You're delusional if you think we're just gonna walk up there, happily wine and dine with you by my side, and pretend I'm fine in front of my family." you retort. You don't know why you keep egging at her like this, but you are not letting her get away with whatever fantasy playing in her head right now.

Anna stays silent for a second.

She blinks. Once, twice.

Slowly, she turns around again, facing the closet mirror. Neutral smile as always, but this time not really reaching her eyes.

She shrugs softly.

"I mean, it's up to you, really."

Her voice light and sweet as ever, but there's a certain the lack of playfulness in her response. The subtle shift in demeanor sends something up your spine, making you suddenly straighten yourself and sit upright on the bed, commanding your attention now.

"I just don't think your mother would appreciate coming here to our place for Christmas dinner... or the rest of your family either, for that matter."

Your brow slightly creases.

You know that she likes to keep up a sense of ease and lightheartedness in this "relationship" with you; you wonder if she really would have the leniency to let your family or other friends come over for the sake of playing normalcy with her.

But that's not what makes the uneasy pit in your stomach begin to form. Countless thoughts running at a mile a minute trying to predict where she's going with this.

"W-Why do you think that?"

You cringe internally at your stutter, pouring all hopes of looking unaffected in front of her down the drain.

"Hmm..."

She continues choosing between outfits... or at least pretending to. Mechanical movements a sharp contrast to her relaxed demeanor a while ago. The pit inside you getting queasier.

"I think... our dining table is too small, no? I doubt they're all gonna fit, everyone's gonna squeeze against each other..."

Honeyed voice drawing out her concern. She focuses intensely on your reflection in the mirror, gazing at your little rigid form on the edge of the bed. Watchful eyes taking in every single movement of your face and body, eyeing your every expression, no matter how small or subtle. Drinking it all in.

"...But no worries, I can make them fit."

She smiles gently.

"It's easy to create a lot of space when you remove some of their limbs."

silence.

You blink.

Then you stare at her.

Your eyes slowly move out of it's frozen state and then pick up the pace to being searching frantically.

You don't even know what you're searching for but you'll take anything at this point: twitching, flinching, smiling, something to give away that she's joking with that statement and in no way actually intently meaning to do something as horrific and sick as... as- as-

Oh god.

You feel the air get crushed violently out of your lungs, and suddenly you can't breathe.

Throat choking up and cutting off all your attempts to inhale properly. Sounds of your own shallow gasps reaching your ears and reverberating through your skull. The uneasy pit that started forming finally bursting inside the walls of your stomach. You quickly cover your mouth to stop whatever threatens to retch out.

Don't throw up, don't, don't don't, oh god- oh fuck. You coach yourself as you can feel your body start to heave uncontrollably.

You can hear her softly pad her way to you, fingers placing themselves on your hunched-over form. Tenderly stroking your head in gentle comfort.

"So what's it gonna be, love?" soft voice making you feel worse than actually soothing you.

"We can have a nice little family Christmas where everything's fine and happy, and we visit as the loving couple that we are,"

She plays with a strand of your hair.

" —or are you going to have to spoon-feed mommy dearest yourself when she has no arms to hold onto anything?"

More intense sobs wrack throughout your body. She's disgusting for being able to even suggest something like that to you.

Your hands come up to aggressively rub the tears away until your eyes are all red and scratchy. The mixture of tears, snot, and drool dribbling down and wetting the fabric of your shirt into a mess.

"B-blue..." you hiccup. "blue... dress."

She smiles and tenderly plants a kiss on your head. Lips lingering for a few seconds, enjoying the feeling, as she quietly murmurs into your hair.

"I was thinking the same thing."

[thepurpleclownz]

TW//BLOOD AND GORE

Machines Deserve to Bleed

Context: Gabriel kills V1 after their second encounter and he gets curious about what powers V1

Idk I was bored watching my siblings play at the trampoline park 😒

Content: blood and guts n’ stuff, bodily horror, mutilation, Gabriel being a fucking Sadist(???)

“Mere OBJECT!” With one final toss of his spear, the machine went down. Water splashed as V1 hit the pool below it face first. The familiar crimson color of blood leaked from the cracks and open wounds of V1, tainting the water surrounding its motionless body. It was done. The machine that caused Gabriel so much stress, the THING that nearly killed him, was dead.

Gabriel panted as he glided down towards the body of the robot. The feeling of calm filled the Angel's chest as he gazed upon his latest victory. Yet, a wave of curiosity crept up his back as he stared at the dead machine. What was the thing that kept it going? What did man put inside of it to keep its thirst for blood so intense to the point it seemed like it could never be quenched? This thoughts whispered in his head as he watched V1 Bleed out

With one powerful swipe of his hand, Gabriel snatched V1’s head off of its shoulders and smashes it against the hard solid walls of his palace. Metal, plastic, wiring, glass, and blood, splashed everywhere as he hammered in its face. The sound of metal snapping and breaking underneath his powerful hands sent a shock of joy through his fingertips. The feeling he hasn’t felt in years. To feel their enemy crush and deteriorate from his strength alone. Pure ecstasy.

Finally, the angel was able to weaken the already ruined exterior of the machine's head and dug his armored fingers underneath the broken metal. He tore his way through to finally see what was inside. Blood, wiring, and machinery… as expected. The now disappointed Angel dumps out the remaining pools of blood out of the broken head. As he poured out the remaining pool of blood out of the machine’s head, he saw something spill out with the rest of the blood.

Brain tissue… an eye… chunks of flesh, fall to his feet. Gabriel flips V1’s head to see the interior. A horrifying sight is seen. A head, if you could even call it that, was left mutilated inside. Its face was bloodied from Gabriel smashing it in. Its skull was morphed to be able to fit inside of the machine's exterior. Wires, nuts, and bolts, sticking out of its barely developed skin.

The angel dropped the abomination of man to the floor. Water and blood splattered as the shell of V1’s head cracked open. He takes time to process how man was able to manipulate a body to develop, twist, and turn to be able to fit into such a thin and complex shape. No human skull would be able to be crammed into such a small space as V1 without dying of some type of internal bleeding or brain damage. There had to be something deeper. Something that he was missing…

Gabriel loomed over the decapitated body of V1 and flipped it over with his foot. His eyes glossed over the deep wounds of V1. Gabriel kneeled over V1’s body and ripped open its chest plate. The crack of broken ribs echoed through the cold room as Gabriel tore through the carcass. He tore through as much as he could, studying how man managed to keep whatever was inside of V1 alive if it even was alive, to begin with.

Gabriel, after tearing open what was left of V1’s outer shell, gazed upon the gore he’d created. Broken bones, guts, organs, and machinery lay in the remains of the exterior like a bowl. His hands were painted with blood after he ravished V1’s body. Frankly, he’s done enough. V1 was dead. There was no point in continuing. Doing this wouldn’t kill him more.

Yet, there was this craving that still yearned to be filled. A craving fueled by hatred and anger. Deep down, Gabriel needed more. Gabriel then began to dig his fingers into the wet and bloodied organs of V1. He ripped and tore through the artificial flesh and tissue. He made sure to break and tear every aspect of what was inside of the body. He grunted at each harsh tug, stomped in every joint, and grimaced as he snapped its spine in half.

Then, it was done… All that was left was a broken deeply mutilated chunk of metal and flesh. A good chunk of water was tainted by the bleeding carcass. Gabriel’s armor was painted with the blood of V1. This was surely enough for him. This sick and twisted form of therapy Gabriel endured made him feel at peace with himself.

The thing that caused so much pain and destruction. The thing that massacred nearly all of Hell was a ball of flesh and metal before him. It deserved it. He had no regrets about doing that. It deserved to be like this. It deserved to bleed.

[disturbingstar]

Trigger warnings

As I said previously, I have not seen these films, but I’ve done my research, and I’m sharing this to hopefully help anyone avoid being triggered by them. I am in no way advocating anyone watch these; if anything, I’m suggesting the opposite, and I 100% believe the majority of these films should be banned.

Megan is missing

TW: Child abuse, stalking, graphic sexual assault, kid snapping, pedophilia, bodily harm.

Funny games

TW: Animal cruelty, stalking, child abuse, violence.

The human centipede

TW: Violence, kidnapping, torture, body horror.

Martyrs

TW: Child abuse, torture, gore, kidnapping, body horror.

Serbian Film

TW: Child abuse, child sexual assault, drugging, pedophilia, rape, violence.

The coffee table

TW: Infant death, bodily harm.

August underground

TW: Blood, gore, rape, extreme violence.

The green inferno

TW: Cannibalism, self harm, blood, violence.

(I’m a massive Eli Roth fan, but this is own film of his I point blank refuse to watch)

The Poughkeepsie tapes

TW: Stalking, kidnapping, bodily harm, torture, child abuse, child death.

A Clockwork Orange

TW: Rape, violence, torture.

Cannibal Holocaust

TW: Real animal abuse, rape, violence, female genital mutilation, cannibalism

*I'm not bashing anyone who likes these films, just sharing my own opinion*

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Hehe not to b horny in ya ask box but I just KNOW that despite all of the scarring and mutilation, Yves body is TEA!! like I imagine that he somewhat has an androgynous figure as well, albeit leaning a tad bit more masculine. Like broad shoulders, thin waist, long legs MAN!! I’d be so jealous 😭 he probably has a natural slightly sway to his hips when he walks that just makes him look even more sensual too 😩. Like I’m sorry but I would be looking disrespectfully! I also imagine that he has little to no body hair too 🤔 thoughts?

Tw: mentions of sexual assault

Oh fuck yeah anon his body sure is tea 💅

You are so right about the sway, he has that alluring, foxy and serpent-like essence to him that is so hard for anyone to describe. But it all boils down to small details like these.

His body is undoubtedly fucking unreal, like he is the ideal mannequin for every fashion designer. Yves makes anything look good on him.

However, act too perverted around him and you will get a lecture or two, perhaps even a light, scolding slap to the hands if you're trying to molest him, the strike would go to your cheek if you actually did.

You might even notice that he's putting on more layers than usual, would only kiss or hug you with both of your wrists in his sight, or being restrained in some way.

It would take a long, long time for you to regain his trust and sex is off the table.

And you are right, anon. He has no body hair. Not even peach fuzz, it's unsurprising as you would expect decades of mutilation, skin and biological fuckery would do that to Yves. Aside from his eyelashes, eyebrows, scalp and deep inside his nostrils, he is as smooth as a marble.

He is glad though, because Yves associates bodily hair with his nightmarish past. Plus, without hair, his skin products could be absorbed easily and makeup can be applied without a problem.

The only problem is that he gets cold easily even if he doesn't show it, that is why he has no problem wearing thick, turtlenecks and long dress pants in 100 degree weather. That is why it's so nice to cuddle with him even if the sun is scorching your baby hairs off.

With no hair follicles anywhere else, he couldn't get goosebumps.

Let's say, if he were to miraculously grow hair elsewhere on his form one day, Yves is lasering them off immediately. No questions asked. Of course, he will do thorough research as to why it grew back. He needs to know what else is returning.