#you are crying wolf for nothing

[nientedal]

imagine you were mauled by a bear.

you were mauled and it was awful. it left scars on you that may never fully and completely heal. maybe it nearly killed you. bears are now a trigger for you. full on panic at the sight of a bear.

now imagine some people in your town enjoy dressing up as bears. they put on homemade costumes for fun and occasionally meet up. most people are just there to play dress-up with other folks who enjoy wearing bear costumes, but maybe a few of them also play pretend with each other. nobody gets hurt-- they aren't real bears, and they wouldn't want to be! it's just fun to play pretend.

but you were mauled by a bear, and one day you're out walking, and you see some of these people on the other side of the road, and you freak out. most of the costumes aren't even very realistic, but you start screaming at them anyway, throwing rocks, grabbing other people and pointing, trying to get them to throw rocks too, because what the fuck? what the hell? what kind of sick freak pretends to be a bear? don't they know bears are dangerous? and what if there's a real bear in one of those costumes! or what if they're dressing up as bears because they want to maul people! throw rocks! harass! throwing rocks at people in bear costumes is good and righteous! you were mauled by an actual real bear and this is all definitely a reaction to an actual real threat and not at all a trauma response!

meanwhile, the people who enjoy dressing up as bears are trying to explain it's just for fun. they just enjoy playing dress-up. even those who do enjoy pretending, are only pretending. it's just acting. and look-- Ted over there was mauled, too! he likes dressing up as a bear because it gives him a situation he controls. but nobody is trying to actually be bears. that would be fucking deranged.

but it doesn't matter. you were mauled by a bear, and people in bear costumes feel the same to you as bears. it doesn't matter why they dress up, they OBVIOUSLY deserve to be attacked like bears. and anyone who disagrees with you must also be a bear, because omg don't they understand bears are dangerous and people in bear costumes are basically the same as bears!!!

if you react to works of fiction the same way you react to harm done to a real live human being, you are failing to recognize that human beings are separate from works of fiction. whether you're experiencing a trauma response and can't make the distinction, or you were told this was the best way to support people who are traumatized, i don't know, but the result is the same. you need to understand that people are not the stories they enjoy. stop throwing rocks at people in costumes.

[patolemus]

Stiles sits in the front row at the funeral.

He’s next to Mellisa, who hasn’t been able to stop crying since she got the news. Stiles’ dad had organized the whole thing, talking with the funerary home and picking up the coffin and the arrangements. He’d only asked Melissa what she wanted on the headstone.

Raphael had showed up the day after. For the first time in his life, he’d looked a mess, hair everywhere and clothes wrinkled as he stormed into the house asking what had happened to his son, tears already gathering in his eyes before he even got a look at Melissa’s face. Stiles hadn’t made fun of him. Stiles hadn’t said anything at all. Raphael sits on Melissa’s other side now, and she grips his hand tight enough it turns white. He hasn’t been back for five years.

God, Scott hadn’t seen his had for five years, and now he’s dead. Scott’s dead.

Stiles thinks it still hasn’t sunk in. He’s in the middle of his best friend’s funeral - it’s closed casket because his body was so mangled up that the EMPs could barely recognize him. Stiles had heard his dad on the phone with one of his deputies talking about it, before he’d realized just whose body they were talking about - and it still hasn’t clicked that Scott won’t be coming out of his casket, that this isn’t some kind of sick practical joke for getting him out of bed the night before school started.

Stiles is not crying. He hasn’t cried once since hearing the news. His dad is crying, sitting on his other side. Scott’s like a second son to him.

Was. Scott was like a second son to him. Was because he’s gone now. Because he’s dead.

Scott’s dead.

His best friend since preschool is dead. His brother is dead. The kindest, most caring person in the world is dead. Stiles goaded him into going to the preserve to look for half a dead body - and God, he’s such an asshole. A dead body? What was he even thinking? - and now Scott doesn’t even get to show his face at his own funeral because whatever killed him barely left any of him to bury.

If only he’d stayed. If only he’d told his dad Scott was with him that night instead of leaving him there. But no, Stiles hadn’t wanted Scott to get grounded because he dragged him out of bed, so he’d kept quiet. Even when he’d seen the pair of red eyes and that— that thing in the corner of his eye. Stiles hadn’t said anything. He thought they’d laugh about it at lunch the next day.

Now Scott’s dead.

Scott is dead.

And Stiles knows exactly what did it.

(He’s going to fucking kill it.)

[unluckyprime]

“i want you to treat everyone in this world like you treat your brother, okay?”

[lightbulb-warning]

so has anyone figured out WHY there is the Need To Share our Artworks™ or is it just the vibes and our Soul apparently

[14faber]

x | a few words from cooley’s support system

[abluehappyface]

It's been a while since I've been growled at...

[cryss-heart]

for shits and giggles, i said if i got Lighter, i'd draw lightjane and. uh. i got M0S1 Lighter (with a bonus Lycaon and his sig, which brings my Lycaon to M1S2) within 200 pulls. so..... whoops.

[hauntingblue]

Castlevania is interesting but tell my why we get three episodes of internal conflict in the dracula castle (good) while the main characters are on a library and do fuck all. Well they have three scenes of relationship building that are supposed to mean something when they come out but they are so little and superficial imo

[buckybarnesss]

been in one of my melancholic eras for the past month or two. is it spring time yet?

[godofstupidsentences]

If Liam really ends up dating a 17/18 years old girl you will never hear from me again because my soul will leave my body

[mudstoneabyss]

music will make you have art idea for Kevin homoerotically gutting and/or cannibalizing a man

[itoshikinozomu]

Ok I know that my main coping mechanism has always been to surround myself with people who have it worse than I do for the sense of perspective, but then I don't know how long I'll be able to repress and avoidant of my own situation.

[fear-ne]

made the mistake of listening to little oblivions while thinking about laudna

[famewolf]

I've used Garrus in every mission since I recruited him and it's so hard to leave him behind.

[batqueers]

wolflex separation anxiety vs lone wolf distancing issues FIGHT

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Cult. [M]

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Raw Dogging, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Implied Unwanted Pregnancy, Power Imbalance, Big Dick! Ghost, Soft Dom! Ghost, Cult Leader! Ghost, Submissive (and Breedable)! Reader, Implied Abortion Attempt, Fem Reader, Profanity.

He’s filthy in the way he treats you, like a common whore, spreading you out over his desk – once-varnished mahogany, now bleached with weeks’ worth of spend, of tears, rubbed raw in places, the phantoms of many a night relentless under your leader – and bearing your body like it’s his god-given duty.

In essence, it is. Albeit, a god he created – fabricated – to lead lambs into a wolf’s den. And with the primal, savage way he forces himself into you, his tip pulsing and throbbing with the many hours he’s subjected you to, you can very well believe he is the very image of a predator.

“Won’t stop ‘til you’re full – ‘til it’s– fuck– ‘til it’s taken,” Simon pants, his shadow cloaking you, the sweat from his broad chest dripping down onto your sodden back. Your cheek is pressed into the desk, and in the corner of your vision, between the narrowed eyes you fight to keep open amidst the electric annihilation sparking between your legs, just below your stomach, you see him with bared teeth and dark eyes that glint with some unholy purpose. A purpose that only makes the feeling writhing inside you stronger, heavier.

With a deft hand – his other planted by your head, a cage – he finds your clit and presses it between two fingers as if it were the stub of a cigarette. He squeezes. Hard. 

Your lips quiver around him and a strangled moan escapes you, euphoria becoming you, possessing you as something had him. 

You keen on his hand, desperate for contact, for friction, despite him already filling you utterly and without mercy. Your arousal drips into his hand, pools in his palm. It takes all his will not to drink it then and there.

“I know, Doll–” ‘Doll’ – the name he’d given you, the name that reminds you you’re his to use as he pleases. His fingers squeeze your clit between them, a flesh vice. You’re gasping. He doesn’t stop, subjecting you to a pleasure so carnal you know only he can grant you it.

His free hand finds your shoulder, slips down your soaked back – a collage of brutal love-making, of animal rutting, of feral and incessant breeding – leaving goosebumps in its wake. He finds your rump, squeezes it, his hand flipping further between your legs until he finds your epicentre.

You’re so sensitive, and so swollen. He’s done this enough times to know that you’re red there, too.

He finds the spot where you’re connected, the modest sliver of his shaft that hasn’t been consumed by your wanting hole – where your combined arousal slithers out of you, dripping down his tightening ballsack – and plays at the edges of your lips, those that create a milky ring at the base of his cock, those that twitch with the almost overwhelming orchestra of sensations he is subjecting you to, playing you as his instrument.

Your hips twitch, pushing back against him, inadvertently impaling yourself on the inch or two he’d spared you from. 

He’s swollen – painfully so. Plugging you, preventing you from getting away. Something you realise all-too late as you try to pull away, to ease the searing ache in your lips, in your womb.

You’re crying, he’s grunting, throat raw with hours of praise, of nothing short of feral growling – curses to something other than his god.

You whine as he withdraws his hand from between your legs, instead coming to cup your breasts and pull you flush against his chest.  Squeezing around him again, the bulge of his cock inside you becomes ever more apparent when his hand slips up to your throat and he shunts you forward with his hips.

You’re weak – a ragdoll against him – and you’re pushed back down against the wood. He presses your stomach to the desk, your head now handing over the edge.

“D’you feel it, love?” he rasps. “Gonna give you a baby – put it right there.”

You do feel him, like an eel, slithering into any space he can, any space he hasn’t already occupied. You feel your heartbeat pulsing between your legs, and you feel his in the head of his dick, rabid. You want to sob, want the pleasure coursing through your every fibre to overwhelm you, to send you hurtling into a high nobody else can give you.

But you know this will have consequences.

You know there’s no morning after pill strong enough to overcome Simon’s seed, none strong enough to stand a chance against the sheer amount of his spend. You know this because you’re already pregnant.

You’d originally tried using a multitude of contraband substances – pills, medication, anything you could get your hands on – to stop the inevitable. To prolong it just long enough for you to find a way out of the hole you’d dug yourself into.

When Simon had found them – no doubt with the help of one of his disciples, one eager to please and who would settle for the simple pleasure of being the dirt beneath his boot – he made absolutely certain to undo all your hard work.

For days afterwards, when he gave his sermons, you had to stand, hands clasped in prayer, with his cum rolling down your thighs beneath your compound-issue garments.

 And despite how you know you don’t want this destiny he’s imparted upon you, you still urge your hips against his. Especially as you feel him twitching, your hole leaking and almost squealing with his semen and the memory of the many times he’s already pumped you full this same night. He’s ready to bust at any moment, ready to find and create any excuse to empty his load into you, his favourite disciple.

You finish first in a fit of euphoric fury, an outpouring of devotion, a static explosion that leaves you utterly spent and entirely limp, unable to move as Simon continues to pummell you, using you, not stopping until you hear him give nothing less than a guttural roar, throwing his head back as he empties every ounce of his spend into you.

Any chances of escaping, any hopes of the world beyond the company you’d embroiled yourself in – they’re all gone now. Knocked clean out your head and from your reach, your mind nothing but a post-haze. You feel full almost to the point of bursting, but your body settles for a ballooned discomfort in your middle. One which you know will only grow bigger and heavier over the coming months. And no doubt beyond that when Simon deems you capable – worthy – of bearing him more offspring.

Simon is panting behind you, hands planted either side of you, head hanging between heaving shoulders. As if he’s impregnated you with his very soul.

His hand slips across the desk down to your front, where he manages to levy his fingers between your exhausted form and the hard wood beneath. And, as if by divine intuition, he gives a hum. Presses a languid kiss to your exposed neck, uttering a “Well done, love.”

He’s going to be a father.

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