#muscle CSA

[ratwithahatonamat]

So for the most part i actually don’t remember my childhood or most of anything that happened in it

But then at random times I just shots the worst most horrid memory my brain could possibly give me and I just have to stand there for a moment to process it

#this is about many things but this was triggered by one that just happened lol #I had a fever as of recent and in my mind I wax convinced I was dying and I was calling out to my mom and boyfriend and i was delusional so #I thought they where both there with me (they weren’t) and they just chose to not come to my bed side and I remember just sobbing #that’s a feeling beyond beyond pain and I just god damn why did I think that?? #this and also just my CSA memories like brain do you need to do this??? #fever? is that a Frankenstein reference #I’m sorry #‘hey remember that time ur mom broke a brush over your head?’ #‘hey remember that time your dad made you bike home with your knee completely skinned to the muscle???’

[ficbrish]

Smoke Rings

[AO3 Link]

[Here we go! @flufftober Spring Edition 2024! Thank you for the prompt 🥰 March 13th - Spring Cleaning]

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

tw/cw: Sexual content, cptsd, blood, alcohol, weed/mushrooms, smoking, sex while high, post-battle scenery, gore, death, hanging reference, an unserious small dick joke, vague reference to past incest and CSA

After the game, but before the epilogue, Astarion and Vistri find a new home in the Underdark.

END GAME/POST-CANON SPOILERS!

Exhausted and ragged, they looked at each other in disbelief and clasped hands.

Their last enemy had been cut down; the fortress finally won.

“I believe we have a home now, darling.”

Astarion’s voice was strained from shouting, and moisture clouded his ruby eyes. His words echoed hollowly, but they were real.

A home, in the Underdark. That kind of life had been snatched from Vistri at the vengeful end of a serving fork. Dear Uncle Hurzeth really should have learned to shut his mouth, but like most religious men, he wasn’t known for his humility or impulse-control.

Vistri’s name and birthright burnt to ash upon his funeral pyre; stuffed in the gullet of his perverse corpse. In seizing justice, retribution wrapped around her own throat like an executioner’s noose, diminishing her to the life of a wandering Surface vagabond. Never to have a home in the violet gloom again.

Until the Nautiloid came along playing matchmaker and diviner of fate.

Their homecomings were each other’s exiles. As she reunited with the permanent dark, Astarion was banished to it. All that illithid nonsense allowed the sun to lovingly grace his skin without burning it to cinders. Now sans tadpoles, or the sacrifice of seven thousand other vampire spawn, his bright star once more turned to poison.

Luckily, Vistri was all the sun he ever needed. She dwarfed the real one in comparison to how she brightened his days and left a pleasant tingling on his skin. Its daylight cast shadows, while her spotlight chased away all shade. Its radiant touch whispered and dissipated rather quickly, hers shouted and echoed endlessly.

And even when it was the other way around, Astarion turned Vistri’s prison into a sanctuary. Maybe it was Sune herself who blessed them, for the love they found taught them the true meaning of home.

Standing back to back in the blood-soaked corridors of their brand-new ancient fortress, all they’d really gained was an address.

And a place to keep their stuff.

And host parties at.

…And for teaching and protecting all the others who’d broken from Cazador’s heavy chains.

Tiredly they turned and fell into each other’s arms, bracing themselves against their weariness. The rush of battle still flared through every muscle as their heightened senses filled with nothing but the other. Relief vibrated into a livid need, so furious at death that it came alive.

Her whimper wouldn’t have been half as charming if she wasn’t so completely oblivious to it building in her throat. He dwarfed it with a moan, taking her lips tenderly between his.

Breaking apart, she sighed and swore, “I’d let you take me over these corpses.”

“Wouldn’t be very sanitary though, would it?”

She giggled senselessly and twirled from his embrace to survey the room. Unsuccessfully clearing the ecstatic happiness from her lips with a smirk, she said, “It’s a fucking dump.”

Astarion threw his head back and laughed with such relief it sounded like sobbing.

Having carved a path of carnage all the way from the gates to that final corridor, they had a clear way back to the others. The halls seemed a lot longer when they were fighting their way through them. And populated with more vampires.

At some point along their macabre stroll, Astarion suddenly stopped them. “But where are all the spawn?” he asked warily.

“Perhaps they’ve met up already?”

Uneasy shivers skirted his neck. He felt them despite being just out of reach. It was enough of a warning for him to suggest they continue carefully, slowly. Even if there was nothing to worry about, a little caution couldn’t hurt.

The reason for his misgivings became apparent as soon as they approached the courtyard. Apparently everyone had met up already. A veritable feeding frenzy played out before them. Ravenous spawn were covering the cadavers like carrion. It was like the Shadowfell had descended, warping them into a Domain of sickness. The risen dead devouring a small village.

They thought they’d learned everything to know about the Dhampir, but clearly their education was just getting started. Astarion was one vampire, and that’s all they were used to. This was a horde. No stranger to the sight of him ripping off a bandit’s head and drinking from it like a chalice, Vistri still froze in fear at the scene before them.

Growling instinctively, Astarion stepped in front of her. Territorial feeders, the spawn were spaced like pieces on a freshly set lanceboard. Even so, the crowd was denser over by the gates, where most of the carnage was concentrated. His siblings feasted among them. He couldn’t help the sense of superiority that dawned on him at the sight.

He might not have ascended at Cazador’s death, but in observing his brethren’s lowly acts, thought himself lord of them all. The blood they supped on was dead and dull, no matter how fresh and warm. Astarion had Vistri. He didn’t steal, because she gave. She came to him willingly, and her blood ran with drow and dragon, so vibrantly full of life it was as powerful as a storm.

Vistri pitied them. How hungry and desperate, how alone they all were. She looked at Astarion in a new beloved light. He was the one who brought them together, the one who would guide them all to be better. 

Astarion was the first one to get away, to learn to control his nature. He was the one who killed Cazador. He was the one who broke their chains, giving them another chance. He was the one who had something to teach all the rest.

He felt such a bitter disgust; none of them should ever be this desperate, this starved. Feed, he thought proudly, looking out, Feed to your fill. They’d do better than animals and cooling corpses soon enough.

Realizing they were senseless of anything but the bleeding bodies stacked in front of them, Astarion scooped Vistri into his arms like a bride to carry her across the courtyard.

“You will not be afraid in your own home. I’ll make sure no one gives you a reason,” he said it so surely, it was more a statement of fact than a promise.

As he walked past the growling, slurping spawn, Vistri hid her face in his breast like a nervous child. The world was dangerous and threatening, but she was safe in his arms. Still, the relief she felt was full-bodied when they passed under arches and retreated into the fortress.

He carried her though the blooded halls of time-forgotten stone, unsure of where he was headed. Just somewhere else away from the others, away from the marks of battle. Astarion searched until he was satisfied he’d found a corner that could be entirely theirs. It took him far down the corridors, climbing stairs where he saw the opportunity.

Arms aching, he gave up on perfection and settled for what seemed like it would do. As they crossed the chosen chamber threshold, he kissed Vistri’s cheek and said, “Welcome home, my love.”

She giggled as he set her down with an, “Ooof! ”

The room was too spacious to be a closet, and contained no hints of its purpose. There were chairs everywhere, some broken, none matching. A desk was placed haphazardly near the middle, or maybe it was a table. Wooden crates were stacked to the side in a disorderly way, like they’d been quickly stashed and forgotten. Vistri wanted to open them immediately. She spilled out of Astarion’s arms and tumbled towards them.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here!” she said, rubbing her hands together. She hit one with an ice cantrip.

“Careful!” he chuckled as the air around them chilled and wood cracked.

The crate didn’t open, the side just sort of froze.

“Blast!”

Spotting the way Vistri frustratedly pulled her foot back for a kick, Astarion picked her up and pulled her away. She fussed in his embrace like an angry cat.

“By the gods, you’ll break whatever’s in there,” he chuckled, “Let me do it.”

Vistri crossed her arms, “Fine.”

Alas! There was wine. After he put her down, he pried the crate open with one of his knives, revealing dozens of bottles inside.

“I could have done that!”

He chuckled warmly, “My dear, you would have shattered them.”

Hopefully it was good wine, because every bottle was the same. Knife still in hand, he twisted off the cork and tested the first sip. 

His face screwed up with bitterness, “Just give it a little time to breathe.”

Tittering at his reaction, Vistri yanked the bottle from his grasp and took an impatient sip. “It’s not… entirely rubbish,” she said, warily giving her judgment with a thoughtful expression.

“Give it a minute!” he laughed.

Defiantly, she took another sip.

“You little minx,” he smirked, snatching the bottle back. After setting it down on the floor, Astarion looped his fingers with hers. He sighed against her lips before kissing them. Vistri forgot all about the wine, even as their tongues tasted of it.

“Astarion,” she said, and he thought she was just saying his name until she continued, “Is there something else I can offer you to drink in the meantime?”

Her offer brought to mind the courtyard below. He was better than that because she allowed him to be better. She barely let him say it first, always begging to be drunk. In the way that other lovers would ask, Have you eaten today? Vistri tilted her neck and inquired if he wanted a bite.

Resting his forehead against hers, he said, “I am feeling a bit peckish.”

Vistri jumped blissfully into his arms. Her heart beat ecstatically in anticipation as Astarion brought her over to that table in the middle of the room. She felt like a cloth being draped across it. Her legs opened as he climbed over her.

Before he pierced her with his fangs, she pulled him into a rough kiss. His thigh pushed hers wider apart. He felt himself grind into her, his hips swaying in tune with hers. Their song eventually spilled off her tongue, and Astarion moaned too, making it a duet.

“Bite my lip,” she suggested.

Smiling, he submitted to her suggestion, as gently as he could. With the point of his fang, he sliced her open, groaning as the first drop of blood hit his tongue. Astarion feasted like a king among peasants. Vistri wriggled willingly, longingly under him. She kissed him as he sucked her lip and nibbled it, coaxing her nectar to trickle forward. While part of him reached a point of satisfaction, another starved. Ravenously, he pushed into her mouth. They passed her blood back and forth on shivering tongues.

“Astarion,” she sighed as he let go of her lip, and this time she was just saying his name.

Their fingers tumbled with their lacings; their knuckles clashing together in the rush to free themselves from their leathers.

“Can—?”

“Yes!” she pleaded.

It felt like laying claim; to each other, this fortress, their power, and life itself. The tight, stretching ache of one another ripped through their senses with the thrust of his hips. Pleasure sighed through every pore, rushing like a white river over their skin.

Ecstasy erased their sense of self, dissolving them together in its realm. They were safe now. They could spend their lives this way. They were home.

Free.

Little did they know that table had been stashed there over a weak leg. It gave out from the power of their movements, and the whole thing collapsed. Shrieking as they fell, it turned to laughter as they realized neither were hurt.

“Are you okay?” she laughed, and he kissed her in response.

“I almost broke my dick!” he cackled breathily.

Vistri got up first, still giggling, and offered a hand, “Careful, you’re surrounded by wooden stakes.”

She was little help with how weak her limbs were, both from the edge of fulfillment, and their sudden shock that’d blossomed into overwhelming hilarity. They burst into another round of it when he slipped and almost fell back into a broken table leg. Vistri had to catch him with her spectral mage hand.

Stumbling over the trousers they’d pushed down to their thighs, they chased each other to another corner of the room. Astarion caught her and spun her around into an innocent kiss that easily descended into depravity.

His arms felt like mush and their muscles begged screaming for some rest, but Astarion lifted Vistri up again anyway to push her back into the wall. Her thighs wrapped around his waist, taking care not to leave bruises as others did. He hadn’t asked for that yet. But at his command, she’d tighten into a vice-grip and leave behind a physical reminder of their embrace.

Gravity turned the wall into a bed. Like the arches bearing their new home, they found a force and a balance when pressing together that held up their wary, rutting bodies. Staring into Vistri’s violet eyes, Astarion found himself falling into the abyss.

“Wait,” he absently whispered, slowing his movements.

Caressing his cheek, worry infecting her tone, she asked, “Is something wrong?”

His chuckle was a growl, “More like too right.” He kissed her and groaned, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Trapping her hips against the wall, he held them still and started to gradually rock his. Only allowing as much as the tip was a delicious torture.

“More,” she groaned.

As her desperation serenaded his ears, Astarion could feel her tightening and shivering around him, begging to fill her completely. He wanted to give in as much as she did. Controlling her was sweet, but controlling himself was even sweeter. His denial was power, and it subjugated both of them.

“Cum for me first, and I’ll give you more.”

Faster, he pumped in and out, growing in tempo until her screaming rang painfully in his ears. She was already on the verge of it, and seemed to let go at his command. Her pulsing pleasure was rough on his tender head, overly sensitized from repetitive penetration. Love and vice sparked through him and a wonderful pressure built behind his eyes.

He wasn’t going to last much longer. As Vistri surrendered to ecstasy, she dragged him along like a sweeping wave. She was still tapering off the feeling when, unable to wait, he finally buried himself to his root.

Unintelligibly crying out at his thrust, they quickly lost themselves. Gazing eye to eye, they saw past reds and purples into the depths of their exposed hearts. It overwhelmed them, like a cleric beholding their god. Together, they fell into fulfillment with a swooping terror that felt like losing one’s balance, and crashed into a brand-new plane of existence that banished all fear and held only the two of them.

Once they were back to reality, within these unfamiliar walls of their new dwelling, they sunk and sat up against the wall, holding each other tight. Vistri nuzzled her cheek against his and sighed with spent contentment.

“…You know you don’t have to stay,” Astarion said, his voice a shaking heart, “I-If you no longer wish to.”

The dreams already dying in his eyes in anticipation of his fears made her chest physically ache. Vistri caressed his beloved face without thought, just a need to save him from the horror.

“Oh, Astarion,” she chuckled sorrowfully, “Oh, my love.”

He closed his running eyes and felt her lips land softly across his cheekbones.

“I want you,” she whispered on his face, “All I want is you. Only you.”

Unable to bear witness to more of her affirmative words, he stopped them with a long, thankful kiss.

Her rare heart sat clearly in her expression. It was gift-wrapped, tied with red string, and addressed to him lovingly; his name written along the side.

“How dare I doubt you?”

“Exactly,” she giggled, “How dare you!”

Others still haunted their ability to convey and receive messages of genuine love. Having already pushed their limits, they sat embracing one another in pleasant silence.

Until Astarion muttered, “Almost forgot!” and got up to grab the wine they’d left over by the door.

Vistri excitedly ran after him, light on her feet like a fey.

Raising the bottle high between them, he toasted, “To our home.”

She took a smiling sip, then passed it back to Astarion. Swallowing felt like making a vow.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked, no bitter flinch present in his expression after his swig.

“You were right,” she smirked warmly, “Some things are all the better for waiting.”

v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v                v---v

They figured the hard part would be the conquering, but that was more like Spawn City Tutorial. After the initial looting and corpse-burning, there were some celebrations. Then the real work came. Starting with turning the captured fortress into a real home. Scrubbing, mapping, sweeping, dusting, assessing masonry needs, livestock needs, stocking, mopping—Cleaning! Cleaning!

“Cleaning! Enough cleaning!” Astarion exclaimed one evening.

Vistri giggled wildly as he wrestled her for her scrub brush. Their excited shouts bounced sharply across the barren, ancient stone. Successfully snatching it away, he chucked it out of the nearby window.

Running over to the sill, she chuckled, “Darling, we’ll have to fetch that.”

He scoffed, “I’ll make Petras go fetch it.”

“You can’t always bully Petras,” she laughed.

“Yes, I can!”

Turning to Astarion with a cheeky smile, she leaned against the window and asked, “Do you remember this chamber?”

His pout overturned into a devilish smile. He knew exactly which chamber this was.

“Oh, I think about it daily,” he smirked, joining her over by the window.

He couldn’t read the expression in Vistri's eyes, they were so far away, but her distance seemed filled with possibility instead of escape.

“We have a house,” he repeated, just to hear it out loud again.

“We do! We have a house!”

Flinging an arm over her shoulder, Astarion looked out and surveyed the scenery below with his beloved.

“Well,” she stated shakily, “We did it.”

She turned to him with a beaming expression that shined so bright it was like the sun sat right here in the Underdark gloom. More than joy, there was want and adoration screaming through her eyes. To be its witness, no, to be the direction in which it was pointed, made his undead heart skip happily.

Their old tower loomed over the glow of wild mushrooms like a proud lord. Who knows how many had peered through the same window. Who knows if they would be the last, or if others would eventually come to conquer them too. Who would they be? And what would they think, looking out over the same shades of grey?

“I like it because it’s ours,” she said. Astarion shrugged her closer and blessed the side of her forehead with a rough peck.

He pulled something from his pockets with his free hand, “Do you have a light, my dear?”

Gale and Halsin weren’t the biggest smokers, but they were inventive ones. What started as a few collaborative pipe blends turned into a shared hobby, and they took to it with the enthusiasm of two middle-aged men who had recently discovered model chariots. Before parting for the Underdark, Waterdeep, or the Shadow Curse-no-more Lands, they’d left the remaining team with tears, bear hugs (figuratively and literally), and a few packets of pre-rolled parting gifts.

Instead of filling for a pipe, their masterwork blend was artfully wrapped up into a smokable stick, like a cigarillo. The casing was as well-crafted and loved as their herbal fungi blend, made of dried fruit peels and layered in with rose petals that were kept magically fresh.

Vistri asked them what the blend comprised of many times, and although it was no secret recipe, she’d always ask once the stogie was already lit. There was a bit of timmask dust in there for sure, but the herbs were lost to the blurry memory of their excitedly recited list. The elevated joy that sparkled in Gale and Halsin’s eyes as they spoke stood out to her more than their words.

“You have the most brilliant ideas,” she smiled.

“I know,” he smirked, placing the stick between his lips.

Astarion leaned over as she snapped her thumb, making a small flame shoot out of it in the way Karlach taught her. Cupping his hands around it, he met her fire and inhaled. Tufts of smoke blew out the end of the cig, and drifted in tendrils from Astarion’s nose like a dragon’s breath.

Taking it between two noble fingers, he passed the gift from his lips to hers. Vistri smiled and took an eager pull. She coughed on her exhale, making Astarion giggle.

More than euphoria, the instant effect brought a giddy sort of security. Nothing was wrong with them or the world, a state they’d only found in each other’s embrace. It was nice to live in for a little while, and taught them existence isn’t inherently bad or painful.

Looking out the window, Astarion remarked, “I don’t think Petras could even run that far.”

Vistri’s chortle was so sudden she almost snorted, “Of course he can!”

“Poor fucker would get lost and need a break every few steps. Unless he had Dalyria with him, of course. Then maybe the five minute walk would be such, and not turn into a tenday’s journey across the yard.”

Too thick in the midst of giggling to answer, Vistri went for another puff and ended up choking on the smoke.

“Heavens! Are you ever gonna learn how to hit that?”

Over a series of coughs, Vistri fought to speak, “Astarion! ”

He grabbed the open wine they’d snuck into their cleaning session and handed it to her, “Have a drink of something. You sound awful!”

Suppressing another cough, she took a defiant swig.

“Good. Now pass that my way—Not the wine! You keep that. That funny, little cigar.”

As he took another puff, Vistri regained her breath and said, “It’s too small to be a cigar.”

Astarion, being Astarion, heard small and cigar in a sentence, and jumped on the cliche, “My, my! Imagine being told its too small to be considered a willy.”

“Astarion!—And don’t you dare take another jab at Petras! Poor Petras.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about Petras in that regard!”

“Because you know,” she said, raising her brow and reaching for the cig, “I bet he has a big—”

“Can we not talk about my brother’s Todd Johnson?”

She could barely breathe, “Todd Johnson?! ”

Wrestling her for another smoke, Astarion fell into her laughter until his ribs started to ache. Growing weak from it, he gave up the fight and sat back wiping his eyes. Vistri finally passed it over, grinning victoriously.

He placed the dwindling cigarillo between his teeth and flashed a smile to meet hers. Then with a cat-like pounce, suddenly bent to throw her over his shoulder. 

Upside-down her cackling reflected off the floor and continued bouncing between the ceiling and walls. Most of the furniture that was in the room previously had been dumped or moved elsewhere. Sound carried louder and longer than it had the day before, making their laughter haunt the stone like specters.

They could have been a thousand lovers.

“Sit with me, darling,” he cooed, his words slurred with the cig still tucked between his teeth. Halfway gone, it was now just a little longer than his fangs when fully-retracted, about to bite.

Two other chairs remained, but he chose their favorite. Its upholstery had a fresh, weathered look that reminded them of Astarion’s old clothes. Well-tended to with a consistent, loving hand, its rich fabrics held on despite their decay. It made them wonder which discarded body in the courtyard those hands had belonged to.

At least their life’s work wasn’t wasted. Lovers now took it as their preferred perch. They sat so lazily on it, it seemed to swallow them.

With another puff, Astarion released a thick ring of smoke into the air in front of them. Vistri rewarded his trick with kisses to his cheek and a round of applause, delighted by the way it slowly floated by.

“Every day your mouth shows me new wonders.”

“Does it?” he asked, leaning in for a kiss with a raised brow.

“Mmmm, it does.”

Placing a hand along her hip, he commanded, “Face me.”

Moving to straddle him, Vistri turned and settled over his lap. Her thighs spread wide over his; her knees sunk into the cushion cracks. The way she centered her balance over his middle sent another kind of high coursing through their senses. Reaching for the stick smoking in his hands, she wove her fingers into his to smoothly steal it.

A glint in her eyes, she inhaled. Letting the smoke slowly crash over his face, she leaned in to place her mouth on his and blow the rest of her hit into it. Astarion moaned, tasting her under the heavy scent of burning plants.

“How considerate of you,” he exhaled, grinning.

“I try my best.”

Pushing her hair back, Astarion looked suddenly thoughtful, “Do you ever wish it were just us?”

“All the time,” she chuckled, “But they need us. You know they do.”

He raised his eyebrow, “To their credit, none of them have tried to steal a bite.”

“I think that credit is due more to my magic and your promised fury.”

“Maybe a little of that too,” he smirked.

Warmly, she planted a kiss on his forehead. A silent, I’m so proud of you.

As reluctantly as Astarion played it, Vistri knew he relished his new role. It was important to him to be better than Cazador, but more than that, she knew he needed them all to get better together. That’s just the type of person he was, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

Another smoke ring danced in the air above their heads. Then a series of smaller ones.

Vistri was beaming at him, “Look at you, love. So amazing.”

“You’re very high.”

She snickered, “No, I’m not!”

“It’s okay, my dear,” he chuckled, “I’m right there with you.”

They broke into ugly laughter that clashed like two very different songs being played poorly on the same stage. Their ridiculous levity sounded like the echoing cries of some cursed reptilian god.

The stone thanked them for silence when Astarion took her lips between his. With gently rocking hips, he showed Vistri the extent of his desire. She was wanted, needed. Craved.

“You make me feel like a king,” he whispered along the crook of her jaw. Then chuckling, he continued, “I know how it sounds, of course. But I don’t know other words to say it. Not now.”

Her hands glided over his chest, rubbing it in absent-minded patterns, “I am a most willing subject.”

“Are you, now?” he asked, knowing the answer from the warble in her voice.

At the nodding of her head, Astarion untied his laces. He watched Vistri take another inhale of their dying nub. Cool air defied the heat he felt in the oven of their laps as he pulled his twitching dick free of his breeches.

The old robes she wore allowed for easy access, and she adjusted them to tent over their laps. Pulling one hand in through her sleeve, she caressed his cock. Pressing his silky skin against her rolling hips, Astarion gasped pleasantly at the brushing of her lace knickers. He brought a hand of his own to keep under her robes. His finger gently traced its patterns, feeling her labia thicken under it from his gradual strokes.

Vistri hadn’t planned for a moment like this. She figured she’d feel better wearing such plain rags if her finest knickers hid beneath them. The delighted surprise in his expression almost disappointed her. He should really know her better by now.

Rubbing each other under her robes, they passed the last of their treat back and forth with their free hands. On the final pull, Astarion brought her close to share it. Her exhale turned into a kiss; his tongue shyly met the tip of hers.

“Is it all right?” she asked, “We’re quite intoxi—”

He didn’t even mean to interrupt her. The consideration in her query was a splash of oil on his fire, further igniting the blaze.

“It’s all right,” he kissed her, “Are you all—”

“Yes,” she nodded, still unbelievingly grateful for his returned care.

Her eager hips rolled into his teasing finger. Arousal coated the inside of her knickers. It was beginning to soak through to his skin. He moaned, and pulled the bunching lace tight so her folds spilled over the sides, swallowing the string of lace between them. Grabbing his cock, he rubbed his head against her wet skin and the rough line of lace that ran down her middle.

“I could burst just from this,” he sighed.

His finger slipped under the lace, pulling it taught like one of his bows. Upon releasing it, her cry sounded in tune with its smack. She was caught prey, waiting only for death.

Placing her roughly used knickers aside, he lined himself up against her soak. As he pushed in, Vistri lowered herself to take in his length. Gasping from the squeeze and stretch, their high made every familiar ecstasy ten times brighter. Riding each other’s waves, they sunk into multiverses of gluttonous sensation.

“Shit. You feel like magic.”

“I am magic.”

Chuckling together in their embrace, their rutting didn’t cease.

It got faster. Harder.

Deeper. Like they were digging to the core of each other, prying open the gilded chest that housed their very souls.

Climax came over them so strongly it made their lips pull back and shiver. Pulsing together, their shouts dissipated to whines; bliss stuffing their throats.

Fighting overstimulation, they maintained a slow rocking of their hips. Not wanting to stop. Ever. His seed started to spill out of her from their movements and pool over his balls. From whence we came, we shall return.

Astarion thought the joke was too delicious not to share.

Pointing to the mess, he recited, “From whence we came, we shall return.”

Vistri laughed so hard, she tripped going to fetch them a fresh rag.

They made out after casually cleaning each other up.

Passionately, like lovestruck teenagers who’d just discovered it. Loving words and adoring vows came tumbling out of the hot ache. Promises for this new life; dedicating joy to each other’s names.

As sudden as it started, it stopped. Their furious need became a tight embrace, like fingers grasping the edge of a cliff. Beating together in sorrowful song, their hearts found an impossible happiness; a new music.

“I think I rather like this room,” he said in a tone that was light despite its heaviness.

Humming pleasantly, Vistri nuzzled into his chest, “Let’s make it ours then.”

A room of their own. Their chambers.

“We already have," Astarion chuckled, "A couple times, in fact.”

#fluffspring2024 #day 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #vistarion #tav x astarion #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion ancunin #vistri #flufftober 2024 #full fic #BrishFics #smoke rings fic #smut #fluff #angst #lemon #bg3 spoilers

[granulesofsand]

🗝️🏷️ CSA, SA, details about sexual functions, shame

To the person with the CSA ask from a few days ago; I wasn’t sure if you wanted it attached, I know sexuality can be a touchy subject for the public eye.

Not Remembering

Memories of sexual abuse are often hidden deeper down. There’s an air of secrecy and shame already heavy in many mainstream cultures, even with consensual sexual activity.

Some children have direct interactions that teach them to dissociate those events further, others learn just by their environment.

Similarly, instances of COCSA are treated as ‘lesser’ than CSA by adults, and may surface sooner than other types. Same goes for abuse unaffiliated with a group or beloved figure.

Symptomology

There is no one presentation of physical symptoms. Sexual disfunction is common overall, but it can be difficult to find specifics.

Oftentimes both extremes are possible— hyper sexuality and hypo sexuality, preoccupation with a trigger and avoidance of it, risky behavior and refusing all contact.

There are also some things that are frequently observed in survivors. Mixing up fear or pain with pleasure is normal. Worrying about predatory behaviors within yourself is normal. Lots of kinks stem from trauma, that’s normal.

Normal for CSA survivors is just different than normal for the general population.

Bad Enough

Any amount of maltreatment is enough for a person to develop these symptoms, and some will have them even if their experiences don’t align with what clinicians currently call trauma.

Symptoms can be programmed in. A particular event repeated or a staged occurrence could be used to create a desired response, and sometimes symptoms are noticed before memories come up.

It could go either way, and it’ll take time for both. You have the choice to wait for memories or to dig for them, to analyze what you find or leave it well alone.

Diving In

A good therapist is always recommended, but at least have backup plans in case things go awry. Internal and external supports, muscle-memory coping skills for when survival responses arise, comfort at the ready.

Take lots of breaks and do your best to notice distress inside. It’s quite alright to discover your memories paint a different picture. Be kind to yourself/selves, good internal relationships are more important than finding some absolute truth.

Stepping Back

It’s also not wrong to decide to close this door for now. Your safety should come first, and that might mean aiming for stability over answers.

Keep gentle track of symptoms and journal when it feels feasible. Take care of you, whatever that looks like. Maybe pick another goal to focus on for the time being.

I hope this helped, please reach out again if you still have questions.

#tw csa #tw cocsa #tw sa #tw child abuse #tw ramcoa #ramcoa #osddid #did osdd #dissociative identity disorder #polyfragmented system

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

prompt: i am BEGGING on my knees for more recom!paz, maybe the moment that she and spider met? does he recognise her? he was only a baby when she died, but he kept her picture

(tw past csa, past torture, trauma, violent thoughts)

ao3

It's the hair that grabs his attention first--most recoms don't have curly hair, or if they do they don't grow it out long enough to see. She's got it pulled back, though, not like in the--

in the--

but the sight makes his guts twist anyway. He recognizes the outline of those curls, the same ways he sees in the mirror whenever he takes his braids out. He doesn't take his braids out a whole lot.

She steps into the clearing, gun hanging loosely at her side (shouldn't she be in the sky? is he wrong? let him be wrong). The grass crinkles under her boots the way Quaritch's used to and Spider flinches, pressing his back against the tree.

He tries to tell himself, firmly, that history isn't repeating--he's got a gun now, he's fought in battles, he's faced torture and worse, he's dangerous. He tries to tell himself that, but his hands still hang limp at his sides and he can't breathe right.

Another step, eyes flicking over him--once, a threat assessment, second, a look of confusion. Third, and she stops dead, eyes going wide.

You got your mama's eyes, Quaritch used to pant over and over again as he fucked Spider senseless. That's how I knew you. And...and he's not quite right, not anymore. The pupils are different, the irises, dark brown switched out for searing yellow.

But the shape is the same. And every time he's glimpsed himself shocked, stunned, thrown off his axes and spinning in the dark--he sees it again, in her.

She stumbles forward, like she's about to collapse, a lock of hair swaying from her ponytail, and Eywa, she looks even more like that stupid photo now. Propping herself on a tree, jaw working, more stunned than Quaritch had been, maybe.

"Miles?" she gasps.

And--and. Miles knows what she is, he knows (even if he took her name, even if he got her picture, and learned Spanish along with English to speak her first language, even if he spent his whole fucking childhood telling himself that she hadn't been at Kelutral, that it wasn't anyone's fault she got caught in the Soul Tree crossfire but that doesn't mean she would have done anything, fantasizing about her turning her guns on the enemy and going down a hero like Trudy Chacon had just to trick himself into thinking his family tree wasn't completely fucking rotten).

But he can't go for his gun. Not even now, with her off balance like this. And he can't snarl nobody calls me that, like he had with Quaritch in the woods, when it was so easy to reject his father, before Quaritch sunk his hands so deep into Spider's brain and body it might never come out.

She could do that, Spider knows. She could do worse, if he let her, if he stands in this burning fucking house and refuses to listen to his instincts, refuses to run or fight.

He knows this, and his hands still twitch at his sides, desperate to reach up. Like he's a little kid who's broken his arm again, screaming for his mommy the way the Sully kids always did when they were hurt or scared, even though he's over that, he is, he--

"Mom," he chokes out, like a good son. Like a good boy, his daddy's good boy, his mama's.

"Oh--" Paz Socorro crashes to her knees in the dirt, throws her arms around him before he has a chance to react. "Oh, dios mio." Pulling him close, muscled arms digging into his back, she smells like Quaritch had in the woods, blood and polish, sweat and dirt, gunmetal and smoke--but instead of Quaritch's sharp cologne there's a softer smell of conditioner, shampoo.

"Baby." She pulls him back to look him over and tears well in her eyes--because of the scar or the tewng, he can't be sure. "Oh, baby. My baby.” Pulling close again as she sobs in his ear, her tears dampening his hair and washing down his back like rain.

"It's okay," Spider says, arms wrapped around her sides instead of going for a knife or a gun like he should. "It's okay, Mom." It's a lie, and it's the only truth left in his fucked-up world. "I'm here."

#avatar #avatar au #mutuals #avatar series #avatar the way of water #spider socorro #trauma #noncon mention #paz socorro #reunion #recom paz #past noncon #csa mention #past csa #darkfic #miles socorro #miles spider socorro #avatar spider #mommy issues #daddy issues #dysfunctional family #violent thoughts #post canon #atwow #avatar twow #avatar movies #spideritch #we're nothing to each other #recom squad #I wish you would write a fic where

[cantthinkstraightcuzimnot]

TW // csa and graphic content

Y'all ever feel bad? But not like, just sad or empty or whatever (wich is still shit)

Rather like when the only thought of someone even looking at you makes you vomit and you just want to dig your nails so hard into your flesh that you can smell the blood from miles away

You want to rip your skin off of your muscles and remove those too

You just want to be made of bones only and set fire to them

That way no one will be able to even think about using you just like other people did

Because there's literally nothing left of you to abuse

Or is it just my traumatized ass

#csa vent #csa survivor #vent tag #sa vent

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, part nineteen

<;- previous, masterlist here

content warnings for: EXPLICIT ORAL NONCON, references to past noncon & implied CSA, forced nudity, restraints, muzzles, electrocution, emotional manipulation, references to sensory deprivation, dehydration, minor blood, and adult language

part nineteen, case notes

After extended sensory deprivation, the subject demonstrated characteristic anxiety and fatigue, exacerbated by moderate dehydration and disruption of his circadian rhythm. No cognitive tests were administered, but the subject showed acute sensitivity to all sensory stimuli immediately following reintroduction. Results suggest possible use of deprivation to encourage increased responsiveness in Romantic protocols. 

–

When Ivan returns an hour later, sweet little Jack is keening beneath his muzzle, the beads still thrumming relentlessly inside of him. His naked body is drenched in sweat, and every leather-wrapped muscle is taut against the sheets. It’s extreme, Ivan thinks, to go from complete sensory deprivation to this kind of overstimulation; he wonders what Jackie will be willing to do to make it stop, how good he will promise to be–if he can even speak. But it isn’t necessary that he speak at all. His pretty pink mouth has plenty of other uses, and it’s time it gets some practice. 

Ivan punches the remote in his pocket, and the beads rev down. Jack’s chest still beats in frantic pants, but his body deflates against the sweat-stained sheets. His red cheeks are streaked with fresh tears; his fluids are up, then. Ivan brushes one away with his thumb, and Jack flinches, eyes darting beneath his blindfold. 

“There now, Jackie,” Ivan says, “you should be a bit perkier now, shouldn’t you?” 

Jack whines low in his throat. His head bobs back and forth, like he’s looking for something–only he doesn’t have eyes to see. Not just yet. 

“Didn’t you like that, baby?” 

Jack shakes his head, the leash rattling against the headboard behind him. Ivan can hear the way his throat flutters, searching for unobstructed breath. It’s beautiful. 

Ivan chuckles. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. But it’s necessary. If you’re going to embarrass yourself with displays like the one you made when I brought you up here, you should know that I’m only going to humiliate you further. You have to learn. Joe deserves a good boy, doesn’t he? Especially since he’s taken on damaged goods.” 

Jack is silent, but a new tear slips from beneath the black silk over his eyes. His body still trembles. 

Good, then. Let Jack think that his Joe is behind this. Perhaps it will give him the motivation he needs to really commit to his training.  

And surely, when it’s all done, when sweet Jackie is a product and no longer a person, Joe will be broken too. 

Ivan smiles. 

“You should know better, shouldn’t you?” he purrs, leaning close to Jack’s ear. “You should know better than to fight. It’s never gotten you anywhere, has it?”

Jack doesn’t move, but Ivan can see his eyes squeeze beneath the blindfold. He drops a kiss to Jack’s forehead and then busies himself with removing the IV line.  

“I promised I’d never use your pleasure as punishment, didn’t I?” Ivan says, pressing his thumb to stop the blood welling from Jack’s forearm. 

The boy whimpers, but he doesn’t stir. He can’t, really. Not with the cuffs and chains still keeping him tethered to himself. Ivan secures Jack’s wrist back to the belt at his hip. 

“And that wasn’t meant to make you feel good. It will be a while before I can grant you that luxury. You’ve done nothing to deserve it, have you?” 

He lets his hand rest against the metal fixture that traps Jack’s cock and presses down hard. A groan shreds in Jack’s throat, his muscles cording beneath his collar. 

“But I told you: you’re going to perform for me, Jackie. Do it well, and I won’t hurt you again today. And then, we’ll put you back in that bag and see if you can’t behave better the next time I let you out.” 

Jack tries to buck away from Ivan’s touch, but bound up as he is, he only succeeds in wriggling like an oversized worm. Ivan laughs and unwinds the leash from the headboard before the boy can strangle himself. He lifts Jack’s head to unbuckle the muzzle; sweet Jackie will need his mouth for what comes next. 

“P-p-please!” Jack bleats as soon as the leather falls away. His lips are bloody, white slivers of dead skin flaking off of them. 

Ivan throws him on the floor and jams his hand into his pocket for the remote to the boy’s collar. Jack’s bound body arches against the bedroom carpet, and if he screams, no one can hear. 

“Oh, Jackie, my sweet boy. I told you, no fighting.” 

Ivan wrenches Jack to his knees by the hair, and the boy’s cry is dry and husky. Ivan is sure that those pretty blue eyes are blinking back tears behind their blindfold. He’s beautiful this way, even if he is disobedient. 

No matter. Ivan is confident he can make him obey. 

“Please,” Jack rasps, his face turning blindly to find Ivan in the dark. His bottom lip trembles, and he rocks back and forth over his leatherbound knees. “Please, I can’t–you don’t know–I can’t–I can’t–I can’t–” 

“I do know,” Ivan says gently. “I know what Bill Chester did to you–” 

“--no, no, please–” 

“--how good you were for him. I know how good you were for all of the men who came after. But you know who you haven’t been good for, Jackie?” 

Jack’s head hangs. “No.” The word stretches long, like an animal’s lowing. 

Ivan kneels in front of him, steadying Jack’s head with both his hands. “You can do this, Jackie. You’ve done it before.” 

“Joe–Joe, he wouldn’t–” 

“Maybe he wouldn’t,” Ivan says thoughtfully, “but you should have made him see. He’s better than you are, Jackie. He deserves more. Don’t you think so?” 

“Yes,” Jack whispers.

Ivan’s knuckles graze Jack’s cheek. “Do you love him?” 

Jack’s head bobs between Ivan’s hands. “Yes.” 

“Don’t you want him to love you? Don’t you want to be worthy of him?” 

Sweet little Jack actually flinches. Ivan’s hands drop and take hold of his bare shoulders. 

“I know, Jackie. I know that it’s hard. But this is what you were meant for. You know it, don’t you? Joe was only too kind to ask. That’s why I have to help him.” 

For a moment, Jack’s head sinks backward, like he’s about to protest. And then he slumps over his knees, limp as a ragdoll. 

He knows what he is now. And he wants to be good for his Joe. It’s the only thing he can be.

“It’s alright, Jackie,” Ivan murmurs. He kisses the boy’s eyes over the blindfold, and Jack shudders. “It’s alright, sweet boy. It’ll be easier now, won’t it? Now that you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what, baby?” 

“Sir,” Jack whispers, and his chest beats with a ragged sob. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good boy, Jackie.” 

Ivan stands, letting his fingertips slip across Jack’s shoulders as he goes. It’s criminal, how soft the boy’s skin is. He takes Jack’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing into the hollows of Jack’s cheeks and forcing his mouth open. He stuffs his thumb into Jack’s mouth and drags it across his tongue. 

“Close your lips, baby,” Ivan says. “And suck.”

Jack complies, even as his body tenses and jerks with sobs he won’t let go. His mouth is dry–too dry for Ivan’s purpose. The boy needs water. Ivan pulls away. He runs his thumb over Jack’s bloody lips. They feel like sandpaper. 

“Are you thirsty, Jackie?” 

Jack nods, his head so loose on his shoulders that it seems to bobble. 

“Then, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll get you some water, and then, you’ll show me how good you can be. Can you do that?” 

“Yes. Please–sir. Sir.” 

Ivan scratches behind Jack’s ear, and he can feel where the muzzle’s strap has started to wear a groove into the bone. 

“I’m sure your Joe would love to hear you say that, wouldn’t he?” 

Ivan leaves him for a moment to get the water, and when he returns, darling Jack–still blind, still bound–laps the water from the glass at his lips like a helpless kitten. It takes longer than Ivan would like, but when Jack finishes, Ivan sets the glass aside and turns Jack’s head forward. 

“I’ll give you another when we’re done, huh?” 

Jack doesn’t answer. His body thrums like a live wire twitching on pavement. There’s no way for the boy to anchor himself, and no way for him to escape. Ivan taps his lips with the tip of his index finger. 

“Open up, sweet boy,” he whispers. 

And Jack does. Tears seep from beneath his blindfold, but he opens his pretty pink mouth and lets his tongue drop over his bottom lip, ever so slightly. His top lip starts to curl over his teeth. 

Perhaps he hasn’t done this with Joe, but he certainly knows what he’s doing. He’s been well taught. 

Ivan opens his fly and wraps his hand around his own length, guiding himself toward Jackie’s open mouth. He rests his tip on Jack’s waiting tongue and then thrusts in without urgency, forcing Jack to fight his own resistance, to take him down slowly. There is a muffled cry that shakes against Ivan’s shaft, and he arches his back, pushing harder, further. Jack doesn’t fight him, but Ivan can feel the way the boy’s body still shakes.

 “Show Joe how good you can be,” Ivan says, letting the words drip like honey. He tangles his fingers in Jack’s dark hair, yanking him back and then pushing him down again. Jack groans, but he can’t retreat. “Move, Jackie. Show me.”

There is a moment of hesitation, and Ivan feels Jack’s tongue–still not as wet as it could be, but soft, like so much silk–twitch beneath his length. 

And then, he moves. Even without his hands, Jack bobs forward in one practiced motion, smooth and habitual. Ivan keeps his hands in the boy’s hair to guide him when he can’t balance, but Jack, it seems, doesn’t need his tutelage. His tongue circles Ivan’s head when he pulls back, presses down to the floor of his pert little mouth when he moves forward. He moves with a cringing confidence; he knows what he’s doing, but Ivan can tell that he wishes he didn’t. He forces bursts of hot air from his nostrils, and his tears do not stop, but neither does he stop moving. 

When Ivan reaches between them to tilt Jack’s chin, Jack stretches his lips and lets Ivan slip into his throat without a fight. Ivan’s fingers stroke over the bulge of Jack’s Adam’s apple, over the fullness beneath Jack’s collar, and he smiles. 

Joe’s been wasting his sweet little Jackie all this time. Ivan will not make the same mistake. 

–

Alternating deprivation with overstimulation proved successful in terms of making the subject more compliant with specific directives, particularly those related to his designation as a Romantic. The subject was also more vulnerable to direct emotional manipulation, which suggests that allowing trainees to retain their memories may be useful overall. Using suggestion and directed misinformation, memories may be reframed in order to harness specific vulnerabilities and modify motivational scripts. 

Subject’s ability level under duress also suggests the efficacy of seeking out trainees with designation-specific experience. 

–

Jack wakes in his crate. Ivan told him he earned a little respite before he goes back inside the leather bag, because he did such a good job. He was such a sweet boy. Joe would be proud of him. Satisfied. That’s what Ivan said.

Ivan took off the blindfold, and he didn’t replace the muzzle. He removed the beads and slipped Jack back into a pair of soft boxer briefs. He’d spooned yogurt into Jack’s mouth, given him water. He’d even chained Jack’s arms to either side of the crate, low, so his shoulders wouldn’t hurt, and let his head rest against Joe’s balled-up hoodie. 

Jack knows he should be grateful, that the lingering punch of rotten salt left on his tongue would be worse beneath the muzzle’s metal bit, but all he feels is empty. 

“You did so well, Jackie,” Ivan said when he locked the crate door. “I don’t know why you would keep that from Joe. You’re made for this, aren’t you?” 

He is. He remembers now. The ache in his throat is enough of a reminder. 

He remembers all of the men that came before, the way they would grab his hair and fuck into him like they couldn’t get enough. He remembers the guards at juvenile detention, how he was the take in every Friday night poker game, all of them vying for a taste–just a taste, they said, but it was never true. He remembers Bill, and the gentle fingertips that would brush away his tears, even while his mouth was still full. 

They told him he was sweet. Good. So good. 

Jack’s head shifts against the fabric of Joe’s hoodie, and he catches the barest breath of Joe’s smell. It isn’t comforting now. It’s sharp, and it cannot overpower the sweat and sex that cling to Jack’s skin. 

He’d tried to do it for Joe, when they first started seeing one another. He remembers the way Joe’s back arched when Jack took him down, how he’d called out Jack’s name, how Jack had known just what to do to make him feel good. But he’d fucked up. He got confused, the way he sometimes did, and he forgot it was Joe. He’d pulled back, and he hadn’t even realized he was crying until Joe was on the floor with him, catching Jack’s tear-streaked face between his hands. 

Joe swore he would never ask him to do it again. He said he would never ask Jack to do anything that reminded him of what came before. 

Jack shouldn’t have let him make those promises. 

Of course, Joe would get frustrated. Of course, Joe would want more. Jack has given so much more to so many other people. Doesn’t Joe deserve the same? 

He does. He does. And Jack doesn’t deserve to refuse him. Jack knows that. He’s always known it–he’s just been too afraid to believe it. 

It was nice to pretend, for a while. He can’t pretend anymore. 

He lets his cheek rest against the hoodie, and he tries to ignore the tears that pool in his eyes. It’s silly to cry now. He is safe. He can rest. He did a good job. He’s a good boy. 

But he doesn’t feel like one. 

“I’m sorry, Joey,” he murmurs into the dark. A sob catches in his chest, and his shoulders jolt against the floor. “I promise I’ll do better.” 

–

The subject showed a willingness to improve designation-specific practices after primary positive reinforcement. Results suggest a cycle of deprivation, overstimulation, compulsory performance, and reward may cultivate behavioral patterns in line with company expectations without any psychoactive chemical intervention. Will escalate sexual expectations after next cycle. 

next >

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @reflected-pain, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keep-beach-city-werid, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-panic, @shimae-writes-whump, @whumpyblogthing

#tw noncon #tw csa implied #behavior modification #jack kenyon oc #ivan peters oc #creepy/intimate whumper #emotional whump #joe where are you #save this poor boy #whump #whump writing

[vesemirsexual]

Can you tell us more about Artemis and Anisette? I need more wlw in the witcher fandom lol

oof okay. I’m putting it below a cut and putting some tw as well because I gotta be clear: they’re both super fucked up people, and their relationship is 100% toxic. like they both need to speak to a psychiatrist and a judge. but also we do love them.

tw for: abuse, trauma, untreated mental illness, csa mentions, violence, violence between partners, attempted suicide, emotional abuse

• Artemis is from the School of the Cat, and she hasn’t even been a decade on the path when she meets Anisette. She’s very avoidant about her age but shes roughly 25 (note: this is occurring when Stygga is still operating)

• Anisette is a much older, well-established sorceress. She’s also very financially well-off and powerful, and appears to be some form of former nobility

• Artemis is 5’8 and lithe - she honestly looks quite small for a Witcher. She has the characteristic eyes and short blonde hair which she keeps messily cropped at shoulder length. She has quite defined and fine features and would probably actually be considered quite stereotypically attractive if not for the Witcher thing and her abysmal self-image

• Anisette is 6 foot and girl has some muscle on her (she uses this to wind up Artemis literally all the time - poor Art literally has to stand on her tip toes to argue). She has dark hair she keeps in a pixie cut, and she’s out butch queen most the time. She also has no problem ripping out the Met Gala level gown if she needs to flex on people though, one of her fave activities

• They meet when Anisette is being a fucking creep (as per usual) and decides to stalk the Witcher she’s seen who’s taken a contact in a local swamp. Ani is fascinated because she’s never seen a woman Witcher and she’s nosey as all hell. She literally waits till she knows Artemis is out there just vibing and then she sets a camp fire and waits for the girl to come find her in the dark so she can be dramatic and ominous

• Artemis is genuinely quite freaked out by Anisette when they first meet and she doesn’t actually click she’s a sorceress - she’s pretty sure she’s some monster she can’t place who’s 100% trying to eat her. That also doesn’t stop her from poking at the situation and getting drawn into conversation, bc she’s also a stupid baby and weak for pretty women

• Anisette at first is like okay, I’m satisfied, well. And then she really gets Artemis chatting and she goes from winding up this little Witcher that’s she’s going to murder her in a dark swamp to being like. Oh okay I see, I’m keeping this one. Do you need a permit to keep a Witcher.

• Anisette wanting to keep Artemis becomes a really obsessive thing for her. The more she learns about Artemis over time and their meetings, the more she’s convinced that’s totally an okay thing to do because 1) she has the power to do it and 2) she’s saving her! she just doesn’t understand that yet

• Artemis is understandably freaked out the first time Anisette makes this plan known. She tries to argue her way out of it a few times - nobody wants a Witcher in their house, points out that Cats are dangerous and prone to episodes, threatens away, etc

• One point when Anisette brings it up and is getting more aggressive about the idea, Artemis has a Normal One and tries to slit her own throat because she doesn’t want to be taken alive. The sorceress is not having that and she rips Art a new one - it’s pretty nasty too.

• Anisette manages over time to draw more and more about her life out of Artemis, and it’s very clearly sad and depressing. The girl clearly has incredible issues around the Grasses, and reveals that she tried to make a suicide attempt shortly after them by cutting her wrists (Anisette says some really nasty things about this too). It’s clear that Artemis also has some really bad internalised misogyny about being one of the only women Witchers out, on top of a range of other self-esteem and image issues. She’s very blasé about death and very clear that she thinks that a Witchers purpose is basically to die.

• Artemis also mentions that post-trials she had a very close relationship with one of the Schools mages (Sabrine) and that she feels she wouldn’t have made it through without her. This is one of the only things that Anisette is never able to get her to elaborate on, and has some pretty strong suspicions. Artemis is extremely defensive and very very loyal to the woman whenever she’s mentioned.

• Anisette is incredibly manipulative. She really has no problem finding out how to get people around her to do what she wants. Artemis is a lot more easily manipulated than she thinks as well. It’s really easy for Ani to give her constant positive reinforcement and show genuine attention to her that she finds near impossible to ignore, but Ani also has no problems ripping her up verbally sometimes and making her panic as well.

• Anisette is really clearly a bad person, and Artemis seems more normal next to her, but the more time you spend around Artemis the more clear it is that she is also…really not that great. Her moral code really is whatever she feels at that point in time. She is incredibly capable of being vicious, and her fuse isn’t short but once she gets angry, things get scary very fast. She also very clearly doesn’t really see the inherent value of life.

• They are so toxic but the thing is. They are obsessed with each other. Anisette is openly very obsessive and possessive, whereas Artemis will flick between affection and cold, but would literally lose her shit if Ani looked at anyone else or if anyone was getting a little too close to her. It’s a really fucked up love, but it is genuine at its core.

• They threaten each other violently all the time, but neither actually have the inclination to carry through actually harming or god forbid actually killing each other. Anisette is fairly sadistic, whereas Artemis is definitely falling into the sadomasochism category, so if they did get physical, it would 100% be a sexual thing because. They’re freaks.

• Artemis thinks Anisette is 100% joking about wanting to keep a collar on her (she really isn’t).

EDIT BC I FORGOT TO ADD:

general faceclaims for them -

* Anisette - Lera Abova

* Artemis - Lena Mantler

#i cannot stress enough that these two both need a cell next to each other #oc artemis #oc anisette #katie txt

[csa-survivor-confessions]

Advice for Being With Traumatizing Families for The Holidays

Our families often played a part in our sexual trauma as children. Rather they were the CSA perpetrators themselves, left us open to trauma through neglect, were otherwise abusive, or tried to deny the abuse happened. Many of us will have to spend the upcoming winter holidays with people who traumatized us.

Here are some tips:

Try to spend time with the family member who is the least triggering

Maintain your self-care as best possible (Eat food, keep your body clean, clean your teeth, brush your hair, change into fresh clothes). This will prevent other factors from tanking your mental health

Drink lots of water. Hydration helps keep your body functioning if it becomes triggered into fight/flight/freeze/fawn

If the holiday itself is a trigger try to limit which activities you engage in. If you can avoid the pre-holiday prep then do so. Only subject yourself to what is absolutely necessary to keep you as safe and comfortable as possible

If you are religious it's okay to focus on what makes you feel observant of your faith. You don't have to agree with your family on the best way to honour what matters to you

If safe you can reject foods that trigger you. A simple "No thank you" can be enough. If possible you can offer to cook yourself an alternative to things that may not be healthy for you (EX: make a vegetarian main course the day before.)

If safe refuse to touch people you don't want to. Again you can just politely say "Thank you, but I don't want to". No is a complete sentence and anyone who tries to continue to touch you is in the wrong. You are never wrong for wanting to keep your personal space personal. You can also sit apart from abusive people on couches or at tables

Get your coping skills ready now. Prepare the ones that are closest to being muscle memory. Work on using them when not triggered and when you are. This will give you a better shot at not becoming so activated.

There is also no shame in saying you can't handle something. If safe just walk away. Take a minute to breathe and separate yourself. This can be very powerful. (If you are not dependent on your parents you can leave the entire place if dependent/ a minor then just step outside or into a bedroom)

Your physical safety always comes first. Rather that entails setting the strongest boundaries possible or acquiescing to the demands of abusive family members. You are not a cruel person for saying no and you are not weak for doing something that keeps you safe.

You don't owe abusers anything. Whatever reason you are still going home for the holidays is valid, but you can put yourself and your comfort first.

#christmas mention #abuse families #toxic families #coping skills #childhood trauma

[feralsimp2005]

I’d love hear what headcannons you have about the killer’s personalities. Like, are they quick to anger? Who’s the most level headed? Who does the killing? Etc.

((I didn't know what to put as their sexes so I'll let the reader use their imagination unless they request that and say what they want for the two's sexes and genders but otherwise I had fun writing these as I could put some comedic headcannons in there as well as disturbing headcannons

TRIGGER WARNING/MINORS DON'T INTERACT FOR MENTIONS NON-CON, CSA, Z00PHILIA AND OTHERS))

The Painter

• Mainly the level-headed/calm one of the two but if they loose patience then someone's getting tortured more worst than what was originally planned especially when they have to repaint the painting again.

• Doesn't know what gender they feel like themselves so they don't care what the media labels them as, just shrugs it off as a thing that isn't important

• God forbid someone got a Hex color wrong, which during that they're quick to rage and it's silent too so they're calm as they quickly make them regret doing that

• Most likely the one who possibly had the idea of the Cory doll they both share and even keeping male gentilia of past victims for more "realistic" toys.

• Similar to some characters they get turned on by their victims dying so later on they have to "relieve" the urges, even if they're that horny and do it right infront of a victim

• You can't tell me this being wouldn't carry a bag with them that has some items such as the "sex toys," paintbrushes, drugs and other things that's useful, huge neatfreak about it too where they try to keep it clean but it fails miserably and they can't do anything to fix the mistake

The Killer/Brute

• Easily angered of the two, even gets mad at their own reflection since they can't figure out it's not someone else but themselves. Basically living up to 'The Barking Dog' alias the media labels them as

• The one who had the idea for the "Pocket Pussy" painting and ideas, even the one who came up with the horse idea since the "Mr. Hands" story was a turn on for them, mainly prefers cats but other animals work

• Does most of the killings due to the strength and body muscle this being has, even has bit the Painter a few times cause they got mad at the Painter for scolding them about being messy

• Not organized and very messy, trashes any room they're in. Thinking it's what normal dogs did since they're not a fan of dogs even they act like one that's infected with Rabies

• Possibly the one that has the most STDs / STIs than the Painter even if they share a few of STDs / STIs, mainly the one with most diseases where it'll take more than a doctor's visit to help recover from it.

• Gets violently and more brutally angry if anyone's mentions or asks why they wear a mask in the first place or comments of seeing what's under it since it's a huge insecurity they despise of

#urbanspook the painter #urbanspook #the painter urbanspook #the painter analog horror #analog horror #horror

[casketscratch]

I have an emergency appointment with the therapist tomorrow but fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking fuck

for real TW on csa/abuse/incest/trafficking/rage but also maybe cults? i don't even know if they count as one but just in case.

I can't lmao, like the anger and the sheer emotion that is roiling under my skin I don't know what to do with other than breathe fire and I want to hurt them, I want to hurt every single one of them right in their very souls and make them register just how much damage they did to us. And it wouldn't matter, is the fuck of it, because they all did it to each other, too. My grandpa abused his kids who abused their kids who on and on and on. And they married other people like them and it's this whole, just. Behemoth. Thing.

We remembered. Not everything. But enough. One incident that just. I need to spew, I need to go outside and howl and destroy something but I'm incapacitated with pain and muscle spasms and just you know asthma, and... And some part of us is scared of being too obvious still. Rightfully.

My cousin's "rite of passage" when he turned 13 was being given me, younger than he was, to... you know. But it was a family affair and I so hesitate to use the word cult when I don't really know, but... what's the word for cult-adjacent? For... the level of organized they were, the level of conspiracy required (like, legally), the... jesus christ, the brainwashing and conditioning we had to so carefully get through. I don't have the language for what it even technically WAS, where do you even BEGIN?

We were written out of the wills when we moved, I was told once, because it was so... we weren't supposed to get away like that, oh my god were we ever not, and there are parts so certain we are going to die because of it because they. let. our other aunt die. She's the only one we know of who ever distanced herself and got out and she died homeless and alone and no one knew for years because no one cared enough to look for her and I am just hitting a level of oh my god a lot of pieces have come together, I think.

I want their hearts. I want to sue them for everything they're worth, everything they took from me, everything they barred me from. I'm so in debt from paying for endless chronic health issues, and sometimes from paying, lol, to fly myself back to see them, haha, because the compulsion to return was so ingrained and we would basically volunteer ourselves to be re-conditioned and have it all like, strengthened, and I just.

I don't blame those parts for doing it I just can't swallow that the debt is from that, I can't do it, I can't get past the sheer fucking ocean of rage at how fucked I am because of ... the therapist hates when I attribute anything to luck bc what I want to say it was just bad luck being born to the people I was BUT THAT'S NOT IT, IS IT. They CHOSE THAT. It was ritualistic and "rites of passage" and so FUCKING DELIBERATE.

Ah, see, I get why the therapist is so frustrated with the luck thing now, lol.

Where do you even fucking begin once that dam breaks. Who the fuck would even believe us. How much did I risk telling them I remembered and not to contact me ever again. What the fuck?

They broke me to rock bottom and I clawed my way out of it with shredded fragments of a picture and I will carve their guts out with whatever tools I have. For my late aunt's sake, if nothing else. She deserved so much better.

And if I say that about her then I have to fucking own it: we deserved so much fucking better too.

#tw csa mention #tw trafficking mention #tw everything mention man idk #rage and negativity and it's a vent lmao i'm so done with everything #delete later

[csasurvivorthings]

TW: TRAUMA/CSA

I am so sorry I have been so inactive.

I really felt like things were getting better. I have started opening up to my therapist and letting her help me. I've let my Dietitian know how my trauma has been affecting my anorexia. I've been working with a pelvic floor therapist and massage therapist on pelvic floor spasms and muscle tightness. These are all things that are really hard for me, but I've been doing it. I have problems with physical contact with males since I was young and my traumatic event happened. Having a male massage therapist was such a big step for me. I've been working with him for about five months. This week, I started getting jumpy and being more sensitive to his touch. And it's nothing inappropriate. He mainly works my back and shoulders and neck. I stay completely dressed from waist down and he's okay with that. It took me a whole month to progress to the point of removing my bra while he works my back and shoulders. Even though I'm laying on my stomach and he can't see anything, it has still made me very uncomfortable and nervous. He has been a complete gentleman with asking for permission before moving his hands to new areas and giving warning before changing which muscles he's working. I never told him I had trauma, but he probably picked up on it from my unwillingness to completely undress and extreme modesty. The last two sessions when I've been more jumpy he's tried to talk it out with me, asking if I need to take a break or if there's something that would be more helpful. After my most recent session, he told me its completely normal for a body to shake or jump if it's trying to release trauma when someone is growing more comfortable around a person. He said that it doesn't scare him, and he wants me to feel safe that I don't need to feel defensive. It scared the shit out of me that he could identify I have trauma without me saying it, but I really want to give my body a chance to release tension and heal.

Then, tonight, I woke up after wetting the freaking bed. For the first time in almost six years. And I can't even express the amount of shame I felt waking up in my wet sheets. Like everyone would know. That I'm a damaged, broken person who wets the bed like an infant. I want to tell my therapist, but I feel like I can't. It is mortifying. And it's easier to tell a bunch of random people online who don't actually know me then it is to tell the person trying to help me heal. And I feel like such a fraud. Because I work as a therapist, and encourage my clients to be open and not feel shame, that I won't judge them. Yet here I am afraid to talk to my therapist. So I just wanted to put it put here as a test run. Get the words out of my mouth to see if I can show myself it isn't that scary to open up to my therapist when I see her Monday.

#mental illness #ptsd #humilated #csasurvivorthings #actually traumatized #traumatized #trauma

[sadistic-shortie]

Shrimp/Phoenix. 18. Transsexual, Salmacian, nonmonogamous, demi/bi/gay. He/Him. Dom-leaning switch.

Both horny and inquisitive asks are welcome. DMs are hit or miss. Kink talk and porn sharing are fine; unsolicited flirting and pictures aren't.

I only tag original posts, not reblogs. If you're sensitive to anything in my kink list, leave. Common triggers and nonconsent are highlighted in red.

DNI if you support anything that involves actually violating someone's consent. Abuse, CSA, bestiality, corpse defilement, rape, kidnapping, et cetera. This blog is pretend and fantasy, not an endorsement of sexually abusive behavior. Besides that, I block people who have DNIs over harmless random kinks. All forms of consensual / fantasy kink are welcome here.

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

Main Kinks: Gore/snuff/necrophilia, sadomasochism, chemical play, kidnapping, noncon/CNC, somnophilia, zoophilia/formicophilia, anthros, teratophilia/pokephilia, incest (fauxcest), watersports/omorashi, bondage, orgasm control/denial/edging, sensation play, lactation, squirting, anal/pegging, body worship (navel, muscles, ears), crossdressing, degradation/humiliation, homophobic play/slurs, sounding, femdom, malesub, salirophilia, voice kink, body hair, psyche play

Occasional Kinks: Ageplay (fauxbaiting), lolisho/cub, maledom, femsub, vore/cannibalism, transformation, hyper/macro/micro, breeding, exhibitionism/voyeurism

Curious About: Prostitution/sex work, raceplay, cuckolding/cuckqueaning, sneezing, boot worship, emetophilia, cuckolding/cuckqueaning, objectification, foot play

Soft Limits: Tickling, latex/rubber, piercings, clothespins, fisting, misgendering/transphobia play, fetishistic self-harm

Hard Limits: Scat, spitting, prolapse, diapers, infantilism, staples

Don't see your kink here or wonder why a kink is where it is? Then ask about it! I don't bite!

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Gore Asks

Kink Rating 1 & 2

50 Questions

NSFW Asks 1 & 2

Silly Horror-Themed Asks

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Highlights of results from space station science in 2023

The International Space Station is a microgravity research lab hosting groundbreaking technology demonstrations and scientific investigations. More than 3,700 investigations conducted to date have generated roughly 500 research articles published in scientific journals. In 2023, the orbiting lab hosted more than 500 investigations.

See more space station research achievements and findings in the Annual Highlights of Results publication, and read highlights of results published between October 2022 and October 2023 below:

A new spin on pulsars

Neutron stars, an ultra-dense matter left behind when massive stars explode as supernovas, are also called pulsars because they spin and emit X-ray radiation in beams that sweep the sky like lighthouses. The Neutron star Interior Composition Explorer (NICER) collects this radiation to study the structure, dynamics, and energetics of pulsars. Researchers used NICER data to calculate the rotations of six pulsars and update mathematical models of their spin properties.

Precise measurements enhance the understanding of pulsars, including their production of gravitational waves, and help address fundamental questions about matter and gravity.

Learning from lightning

Atmosphere-Space Interactions Monitor (ASIM) studies how upper-atmospheric electrical discharges generated by severe thunderstorms affect Earth's atmosphere and climate.

These events occur well above the altitudes of normal lightning and storm clouds. Using ASIM data, researchers reported the first detailed observations of the development of a negative leader, or initiation of a flash, from in-cloud lightning. Understanding how thunderstorms disturb the high-altitude atmosphere could improve atmospheric models and climate and weather predictions

Regenerating tissue in space

Tissue Regeneration-Bone Defect (Rodent Research-4 (CASIS)), sponsored by the ISS National Lab, examined wound healing mechanisms in microgravity. Researchers found that microgravity affected the fibrous and cellular components of skin tissue. Fibrous structures in connective tissue provide structure and protection for the body's organs. This finding is an initial step to using connective tissue regeneration to treat disease and injuries for future space explorers.

Mighty muscles in microgravity

JAXA (Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency) developed the Multiple Artificial-gravity Research System (MARS), which generates artificial gravity in space.

Three JAXA investigations, MHU-1, MHU-4, and MHU-5, used the artificial gravity system to examine the effect on skeletal muscles from different gravitation loads—microgravity, lunar gravity (1/6 g), and Earth gravity (1 g). Results show that lunar gravity protects against the loss of some muscle fibers but not others. Different gravitational levels may be needed to support muscle adaptation on future missions.

Better ultrasound images

Vascular Echo, an investigation from CSA (Canadian Space Agency), examined changes in blood vessels and the heart during and after spaceflight using ultrasound and other measures.

Researchers compared 2D ultrasound technology with a motorized 3D ultrasound and found that 3D is more accurate. Better measurements could help maintain crew health in space and quality of life for people on Earth.

This is your brain in space

The Brain-DTI investigation by ESA (European Space Agency) tested whether the brain adapts to weightlessness by using previously untapped connections between neurons. MRI scans of crew members before and after spaceflight demonstrate functional changes in specific brain regions, confirming the adaptability and plasticity of the brain under extreme conditions.

This insight supports the development of ways to monitor brain adaptations and countermeasures to promote healthy brain function in space and for those with brain-related disorders on Earth.

Improving solar materials

Metal halide perovskite (MHP) materials convert sunlight into electrical energy and show promise for use in thin-film solar cells in space due to low cost, high performance, suitability for in-space manufacturing, and defect and radiation tolerance.

For Materials International Space Station Experiment-13-NASA (MISSE-13-NASA), which continues a series investigating how space affects various materials, researchers exposed perovskite thin films to space for ten months. Results confirmed their durability and stability in this environment. This finding could lead to improvements in MHP materials and devices for space applications such as solar panels.

Understanding bubbles in foams

Wet foams are dispersions of gas bubbles in a liquid matrix. An ESA investigation, FSL Soft Matter Dynamics or FOAM, examines coarsening, a thermodynamic process where large bubbles grow at the expense of smaller ones. Researchers determined the coarsening rates for various types of foams and found close agreement with theoretical predictions.

A better understanding of foam properties could help scientists improve these substances for a variety of uses, including firefighting and water treatment in space and making detergents, food, and medicine on Earth.

Answering burning questions

Fire is a constant concern in space. The Saffire series of experiments studies flame conditions in microgravity using empty Cygnus resupply spacecraft that have undocked from the space station.

Saffire-IV examined fire growth with different materials and conditions and showed that a technique called color pyrometry can determine the temperature of a spreading flame. The finding helps validate numerical models of flame properties in microgravity and provides insight into fire safety on future missions.

The robot hop

Astrobatics tests robotic movement using hopping or self-toss maneuvers by the station's Astrobee robots. In low gravity, robots could move faster, use less fuel, and cover otherwise impassable terrain with these maneuvers, expanding their orbital and planetary capabilities. Results verified the viability of the locomotion method and showed that it provides a greater range of distance. The work is a step toward autonomous robotic helpers in space and on other celestial bodies, potentially reducing the need to expose astronauts to risky environments.

#science #space #astronomy #physics #news #nasa #astrophysics

[ottiliere]

by: lindsay dane davestriderdeathcult4568 and lucy ottiliere

prefacing this by stating the obvious but i know this guy. like this archetype of individual is just so absolutely a guy that exists in droves this guy crawls out of spawnpoints in dirty smokey rooms in literally probably the same apartment complex i live in i think its hilarious and basically am fully qualified to be writing about him. he hasnt known anything better than any of this, probably doesnt think it exists, and more than likely doesnt deserve to experience any of it.

like a solid 30% of this guys conversations with any underage person he's around in public are trying to get them to dip. everyone says he smokes and hey you know what they're probably right but he absolutely dips more than he smokes and he absolutely does classique peer pressure on high schoolers to take some if hes ever in a situation where one is stuck with him. as previously addressed he likes skoal. because the packaging looks like shit. if he does smoke he rolls his own.

terrible skin has not used sunscreen a day in his life spends a lot of time outside in the open sun and totally looks like it you know what this looks like if you know what this looks like. once he thought he had skin cancer and he cut it out himself. it was probably just a mole or something. part of the reason his hair is so stringy and thin is because he doesn't take care of himself, part is because his scalp has been sunburned to shit. the hat isn't an ego thing he isn't insecure about this he just likes it. important to note seriously this guy is basically psychologically incapable of being embarrassed self conscious or ashamed of anything.

absolutely does speed absolutely does speed i no longer have the image of the fucking milk gallon jug of whatever psycho shit that was being advertised at truckers but i think this guy puts it in his cereal for breakfast. does not sleep longer than 20 mins or so at a time, he gets true rem sleep once a week or something maybe. like the idea of having worked as a trucker in the past, that line of work would suit him.

ketamine………like sure coke absolutely coke, but ketamine…….could see it in him to do ketamine. more importantly meth. absolutely meth. maybe not super often when he's younger, but that's where he's headed. i imagine in his early 30'sish is when he gets really bad about this specifically. this is the time shit stops being fun for him fullstop and all of the shit hes been gnawing on psychologically speaking to keep himself from going apeshit gets boring. parallel to canon he was just not supposed to live this long. so he implodes. and does a lot of meth. becomes completely incapable of caring for himself and spirals. you've seen that.

thinks conspiracy theories are funny, so he pretends to believe them. when he's younger this is kind of interesting in a way, because it's easier to tell sometimes that it's a joke of a kind to him. as he gets older it's less easy to tell, and more concerning. i'm not talking about cute conspiracy theories btwlike im thinking like 4chan coffee enema jewish tummy worm removal shit like this guy is unwell.

probably indifferent to weed. its whatever. smokes absolute mid dogshit ass weed from a ass trashcan. says it has no effect on him. it mostly doesnt but thats probably because its dogshit weed.

have a very specific vision of his body type i think it was REREREDACTED who drew the like closest possible but still significantly less repulsive vision of him. he's not filled out buff he's stringy and kindof shredded which is entirely a different thing and altogether much more diseased looking. even resting you can see the outline of muscle under skin NOT because his muscles are oversized just because there's so little between it and the skin. his eyes are sunken in. i imagine that hes one of those dudes whos absolutely partially deaf but somehow hears fucking everything. average height.

[CSA cw] hasnt done anything ever at all for a bit. it's all 100% genuine. that said i feel like a lot of the sexual abuse he does is so outright and casual that it's almost comical like if your older brother gropes you walking down the hall what do you even do about that. it was only a second so OBVIOUSLY for the lulz right.

[CSA cw] this is also obviously a conditioning thing but first and foremost it is miserable. also important to note i dont think it is INTENTIONALLY a conditioning thing. i dont think he is a groomer in the manipulative or the "aware of what's going on" sense. i think the most manipulative things he would do would function similarly to all the little inside jokes of his existence; they're not manipulations, they're not jokes, they're pure expressions of himself. i think his self awareness is inverted; instead of covering him like a blanket, it acts as a foundation for a more direct understanding of self. and the foundation is cracked why did anyone stop saying biatch that shit is so funny sorry im listening to a song the way mac miller says biatch is so funny and awesome. bringing this back.

i don't think he talks really at all. i think he avoids talking at all hes really into pointing and grunting in various tones but hes the type who would feel it in his throat the day after if he held a proper conversation with someone. theres just a lot about social interaction he thinks he isnt a part of. it isnt that he doesnt observe it or isnt aware of it but similar to his counterpart he just cant bring himself to think of any "rules" as applying to him. on a level that is pure subconscious he cant fathom that he is a human at all, so any self interpretation or self expression of course will be influenced by this.

doesn't sit still ever, even when he does. twitchy fidgety and easy to frustrate. i envision him as being violently ocd basically, to an extent that makes him kind of cartoonish. like he doesn't have severe ocd so much as he exemplifies the effects of long term severe ocd when it's left untreated; he's like this with all the symptoms he manifests because when i write him and think about him im working mostly conceptually. hes a good representative character and i think hes at his best when this is the role hes filling.

like to think that his indifference and lack of connection to anything of any meaning in the world has been almost lifelong. the result of neglect and abuse itself, sure, but more importantly i think he is like this because he is drastically understimulated. there's nothing to do that interests him, no one worth talking to, nothing. not just a sadist but a compulsive one. i imagine that at some point he has seen someone OD. was not his fault but he was just not all that affected by it; thick skinned to the point that it's concerning. avoiding saying things like psychopath here because i feel like that doesn't quite suit what i'm getting at. he is, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, extremely unselfaware. so much of what he does is route action, muscle memory with no conscious process to it. even the performance of self awareness is nothing.

this is a big part of how i see him as a sexual predator specifically. it is just something he does compulsively, a repeated whim he follows. there's not a lot else to it. at least not in his mind

should go without saying but any "irony" playing he does is basically bullshit nothing to mess with people. like of course it is. there is virtually nothing genuine to be found 300% of his goals are to fuck with people; likes feeling smart and one upping others, likes feeling socially dominant, isn't smart or in possession of enough capital to ACTUALLY engender these feelings so he makes do with bad stupid elaborate jokes. its a craft

i kind of enjoy him as this backgroundless enigma i will be honest. like he turned out so revolting and who knows why. that's not my business. he functions better as a concept made manifest. it mirrors canon ofc but it also makes him horrifying by way of how can this happen. the same way people wonder about this shit in real life and it can simply never be answered no one will ever know.

although… the most important part of bros history to me is, specifically, the decline of his mental state due to cal. overarching view of his upbringing is that it would've been dismal and cal the telepathic puppet who spews garbage into his brain 24/7 does not a good man make. i base this off a very specific character study by the meat machine on ao3 that goes into this very concept. mind-blowing for both of us. the magic of cal on his brain… kind of can't resist thinking about it. like HOW did the decline happen. literally brain poison i imagine it functions similarly to how people fall into holes of like. suddenly doing a ton of hard shit and the next thing you hear theyre believing birds are spies and shit. schizophenic in nature. hes so misdiagnosable but the truth is there's just something wrong with him and there's nothing even to do about it. he's doomed to be this way forever. COSMIC ALIGNMENT. the burnout from this if he doesnt die super young would be insane like just horrifying absolutely miserable. thinking about the state hed be in at the point dave makes his very smart adult man exodus back home that he handles so well. like. nightmare.

#bro strider #opining #light csa mention #<- this is about dave. as a heads up #i have marked the paragraphs accordingly if you wanna skim them #drug use

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, part thirteen

<previous, masterlist here

content warnings for EXPLICIT NONCON, implied CSA (not detailed), forced orgasm, creepy/intimate whumper, dissociation, implied past abuse, implied future noncon, muzzles, manipulation, humiliation, bbu-adjacent, adult language

part thirteen: jack's last chance to feel

Jack begins to lose time. 

He doesn’t mean to. But he lets the days slip into one another without thought, because if he thinks too hard about what is happening to him, he’ll lose more than time. 

He’s learned  to accept food from Ivan’s fingers. The muzzle stays on so often that he can’t control his jaw anymore, and Ivan has to put the food in Jack’s mouth or Jack has to lick it from Ivan’s palm. It is always soft, always something he can swallow easily. 

Jack always says ‘thank you,’ but his words are garbled and soft. His voice is already starting to disappear. He’s almost grateful when the muzzle is fastened back on, and he doesn’t have to think about the words he cannot say. Besides, Ivan says he looks beautiful that way. Jack wonders if it’s true. If Joe would want him like this. 

He’s learned more positions. He sinks to his knees without resistance. Number twenty-seven is the latest. Ivan took the muzzle off for number twenty-seven, because Jack’s mouth is meant to hang open, with his tongue out like a dog. Ivan put his thumb on Jack’s tongue, and then he shoved it backward until Jack nearly gagged. 

But Ivan’s favorite position is number ten.  Number ten is hands and knees. Ivan likes him that way. It’s another thing that Jack doesn’t want to think about. Not until he has to. 

He’s learned to let Ivan touch him. He doesn’t have a choice, and he understands that now. Already. However many days it’s been. If he lets Ivan’s hands do as they please, he will not get hurt. If he is good, Ivan will even let him wear shorts or sleep with his hands fastened behind his back instead of locked to his collar. 

Jack tries to be good. He lets Ivan stroke him and tease him and edge him until he shakes on his hands and knees or against the table or inside of his cage. He lets Ivan mark him. His body is decorated in wine-dark bruises. 

He cries, but he’s allowed to cry; Ivan says it’s pretty. But he doesn’t fight. Not this. He knows that things can get worse. That they will. Jack has to save his fight for that, whenever it comes. He thinks it will be soon. 

But Jack isn’t supposed to think. 

He is in position ten. He made a mess during breakfast–he couldn’t close his lips in time to keep the food from running out–so he isn’t allowed shorts today. Negative punishment. Removing something the subject desires in order to discourage a behavior. Jack didn’t mean to be sloppy, but it doesn’t matter. They both know he will try harder at dinner. 

Ivan circles him, cell phone in hand. “Look up, sweet boy. Look up so I can see that beautiful face.” 

Jack complies. He doesn’t even hesitate. He looks up, and Ivan snaps a photo. 

Jack closes his eyes. He thinks of what he must look like, naked, muzzled, and trembling. He wonders what Ivan does with the pictures. There are videos too. A few nights before, Ivan had come back downstairs after he put Jack to bed. The cell phone camera caught Jack in his cage, sobbing like a child. Even his private moments aren’t private. 

“Drop your chest to the floor, Jackie.” 

Jack does. He presses his forehead into the cement and tries to keep breathing. If he is good, it will be over soon. 

“Gorgeous, aren’t you?” Ivan says from behind.

He kneels down behind Jack and presses his hands flat against Jack’s ass cheeks. Ivan spreads his hands wide, and Jack’s skin and muscle follow. 

“I can’t believe Joe never used you like this. He’s got more restraint than I have. Yes, I’ll certainly give him that.” 

Joe.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut. They’re the only part of himself he has any control over now.  

One of Ivan’s hands slides the length of Jack’s body, from his hip and over his ribcage until it settles around the buckle of his muzzle. He pulls Jack’s head back, and Jack can’t help the strangled moan that vibrates in his throat.  

“You’ve been doing so well, sweet boy,” Ivan murmurs. 

He massages Jack’s ass and then slaps the exposed skin, hard. Jack’s body bucks forward from the blow, but Ivan’s other hand is still gnarled around the muzzle’s strap; his head snaps back. He can’t protest anyway, but he doesn’t try.  

“Good, Jackie. You’re learning, aren’t you? I bet Joe wouldn’t even recognize you now. But I do, don’t I? This is the real you, sweet boy.” 

Jack can’t shake his head; Ivan’s grip on the muzzle is too strong. But it’s too much. Sweet boy. Joe. Jackie. The words tangle in his head, and for a moment, he isn’t sure what’s real and what isn’t. 

He can’t see it, but Ivan smiles. 

“I think you’re almost ready for our next step.” 

Ivan unbuckles the muzzle and it falls away from Jack’s face. Ivan’s body covers Jack’s back, and then his finger hooks between Jack’s lips and presses over his tongue. 

“I know your jaw is sore, baby. I know. But I want you to try your best. Suck.” 

Jack tries, but his jaw shakes as he tries to draw his lips together. 

“Here, I’ll help,” Ivan whispers, and he shoves two more fingers into Jack’s mouth. “It should be easier now.” 

And it is. It is easier when his mouth is fuller. He can’t think about what that means. 

“I’m going to help you feel good,” Ivan coos. He presses his fingers farther back, and Jack gags. Ivan doesn’t retreat. “I know, baby. We haven’t practiced that yet. We’ll have to wait until after your treatment. I think it’ll be easier for you then.” 

Treatment? Jack’s breath nearly stops. Spit pools under Ivan’s fingers and slips down Jack’s chin. 

“Good, baby, good. This is a little treat, before we begin.” Ivan slips his fingers out of Jack’s mouth and leans close to his ear. “You make as much noise as you want.” 

“Wha’?” Jack asks, but his voice rasps against empty air. 

Ivan’s weight disappears for a moment, and when Jack realizes why, he screams. 

“That’s right,” Ivan purrs. “Just like that. I know old Joe never took care of you this way, but you’ll learn. Maybe you can show him one day. Be as good for him as you are for me.” 

But Jack is barely there. 

Wet fingers prod at him, slipping deeper, further, until they nudge at his hole. 

“No!” Jack’s muscles are rigid. “Please don’. Please.” 

“I’m just trying to do something nice for you, sweet boy. Don’t fight it.” 

And then Ivan slips his finger inside. 

Jack isn’t in the basement anymore. He’s fallen through ten years, and it isn’t Ivan’s hand on his back. 

“Bill, no,” he moans. Another finger edges inside. “Don’. L’be goo’. No.” 

“You are good, sweet boy,” the man murmurs. He gently scissors his fingers and pushes deeper. “Oh, God, are you good. Fuck me.” 

Hot tears slip down Jack’s face, and he can taste the salt on his lips. “Bill–” 

The man doesn’t correct him. His fingers curl inside, and he drops a kiss to Jack’s tailbone. 

“Spread your knees.” 

“No, please–” 

“Do it, sweet boy. Show me what a good boy you are.” 

Jack’s knees inch apart. He is a good boy. The fingers begin to slip in and out. Someone spits, and then there’s a wet hand around his cock. Jack is quick to come to attention, and heat pools low in his belly. 

“No,” he rasps. “No, I don’ wan’--” 

“You do want,” says the man, his voice husky. “You want this. You were made for this.” A pause. Teeth against his spine. “Let me make you feel good, Jackie.”

Jackie. 

“Joe,” Jack moans. 

It isn’t Joe. It can’t be Joe. Joe’s never done this to him before. Joe doesn’t want to remind him. Joe doesn’t want him to be a good boy. But Joe wants him to feel good. And, fuck, the hand around his length feels good. 

“That’s right, Jackie. That’s right, baby.” 

The fingers are pumping in and out now, and Jack has no fucking idea what’s happening to him. His hips rock forward even as he sobs into the floor. He wants it to stop, but the hand keeps stroking him, and the fingers crook inside, and he can’t–he can’t–he can’t–

“Joe, please!” 

“Oh, Jackie. Not yet. I can’t give you all of it until you’re ready. And you’re not ready. Not yet.” 

Hand and fingers move together, move faster, and Jack’s spine burns. 

“This isn’t a punishment, Jackie. Sweet boy,” the man says, “I want you to feel good. It’s the last chance you’ll have to feel anything for a little while. Let me make you feel good.” 

Jack’s face slides against the cement, slick with tears. And he gives himself up. He lets the man use him, nudge him, stroke him. The heat in his belly slips low. Pressure. The promise of release. Hand, up and down. Fingers, in and out. Over and over and over again. 

When he comes, he screams himself raw. There is something warm and sticky on his back, and then he’s dropped down into his own mess.

“That felt good, didn’t it, Jackie?” 

Jack can’t answer. He can’t move. He sobs and his knees spread, dropping him all the way to the ground. 

Ivan is Bill, and Bill is Joe, and Jack is lost. He’s so fucking lost. 

A hand ruffles his hair from behind. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ve got to get you ready, don’t I?” 

next>

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @reflected-pain, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @the-non-binary-cowboy, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @darlingwhump, @soopytime, @sparrowsage, @goldywhump (let me know if you'd like to be added!)

#behavior modification #tw noncon #jack kenyon oc #ivan peters oc #please read the content warnings #things are getting even darker #and i need to get back to joe #but this had to happen first

[cullthedeer]

1, 2, 7, 8 😚

ask game

1 - Tell us about your current project(s)  – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

i have one main project in the drafts and one that i would really like to do something with but am not sure how to even come around getting started on. main project is real sexy lesbian jackluke porn fic that has of course (d)evolved into a (projected) longer more tender and more complete fic about sisterhood and summers and God. the usual stuff ! currently it is in the pre-writing stage, meaning i'm just thinking about it reaaaally intensely and wishing it would just write itself. really wanted to eventually get into the lesbianisms a little, so i'm quite excited to get started for real. also who am i if not the biggest sucker ever for beautiful summers that hold a melancholy you can't quite name

the other one is a bit more ambitious as i would like it to be some kind of mixed media zine but i am the embodiment of Graphic design is my passion frog reaction picture so this isn't going well for me so far. i really like that it feels unique---in what it deals with, in what i have in mind for the actual zine. theme is a secret tho :p

2 - Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

real sexy lesbian jackluke porn fic about sisterhood and summers and God because i am a short-sighted creature ... i do have a few other ideas i would really really really like to work on but they deserve to be written as long fics and i haven't quite worked up the creative muscles to churn out multiple thousand words yet ... ie cain & abel jackluke. one day you will be real

7 - What do you think are the characteristics of your personal writing style? Would others agree?

i try and try to give my difficult scenes (read: anything i posted after every sky is blue, but in general what deals with trauma/violence) a dreamlike, almost non-linear feel, and i hopeee it translates well and people would agree with that. i feel like by virtue of this i also tend to stray from more active storytelling, in a sense. i don't go straight from point a to point b in scenes and i never really try to. actions matter less to me than the atmosphere and context they bask into. from the feedback i got on recent fics, it does sound like people agree, and that makes me really happy 🐈

8 - Is what you like to write the same as what you like to read?

honestly it depends. i'll read anything that really piques my interest but many times it's not things i would be into writing, especially porn. conversely the themes i like to write about often fall into this very niche range of content i can only read if written a certain way/by certain writers i trust because sometimes, diving headfirst into a fic talking about csa/grooming written by someone i'm not familiar with is absurdly overwhelming. or not a very pleasant experience when it isn't handled well. i sure write about stuff i would want to read using the tone and the language i would want to read it written with !

#long answers because i love yapping #thank you for the ask ^___^ #ask game #asks