#ALSO IF YOU HAVE BPD AND YOU ARE READING THIS…

[kaddyssammlung]

I don't let anyone shame me into knowing who is behind the masks.

I did not even care when I first got into this band in January of 2023. YouTube showed me an old video. And I happened to know Vessel's identity by accident right from the start. It was just meant to be. I never had a problem with that. I trust the universe. I was meant to know.

For context.....

On Friday morning I posted a link in here under a keep reading cut. It lead to music. That link did not involve one of the band members real names or faces.

Then I got attacked for it.

I did not get attacked for it on my blog, which I am used to because of the mental health topics and stuff like that, no I got attacked on a different blog. Someone sent an anon to a different blog and made sure that I see it.

Sneaky.....?! Because if that someone had attacked me on my blog I would have used the "block button". It felt like being stabbed in the back.

I find it weird when people use the sentence “our identities are not important” to impose their own morals onto others. Or the new version of this is “did you not hear Caramel?!”. Yes I did. I never did anything wrong or anything that Vessel sings about. I am deeply sorry that he feels that way. I have also read a lot on Twitter...texts from the people that actually stalked the band. It's horrible! It makes me very angry.

But what I posted was under a keep reading cut and also did not invovle someones real name or face. And also their real names are right there when you ask Google. Not to say that this is okay but it's realistic.

In my opinion it was fine to share what I shared, even in the main tag.

I fell down very bad that day. It felt like I was singled out and attacked. As if someone had planned this over a long period of time and that day they just went for it. Somehow someone knew how to push all of my BPD buttons at once.

This has happened before in this fandom on a different platform.

Why attack me?! Idk....Maybe I share too much personal stuff and therefore make it easy for people to attack me? Because I don't hide my flaws.

How do you attack someone with severe BPD?!

Shame and blame them....the rest they will do themselves. That's not an excuse btw....it's what it felt like to me.

I deleted everything that I had uploaded that day.

I regret that now.

In my opinion it's okay to share certain things that don't involve any real names or faces. I have many posts like that...such as Vessel playing the piano for someone else, for example. It's not like I make posts like that daily. But I have many posts like that under the main tag. They never involve real names or faces, they always come with "instructions" and are always under a cut. I don't force people to see things. I always leave it up to them.

That's how I interpret “our identities are not important”. One sentence and everyone sees it in a different way.

In my opinion this has something to do with something totally different....it's “non-egoic”, makes you face yourself because you then let the lyrics sink in on a deeper level, a process that is described by Jung as “indivituation” or also as I like to describe it “Plato's cave”....it's deep. It's actually really profound and interesting. (worth wriring about it again...I guess?! )

Yes, I know ho they are.

So?!

I don't lie about that. I never have. To me it's not a problem. It's what you make out of it.

To whoever wrote that: I'm not leaving and I'm also not silent about being attacked for having done nothing wrong.

And also....I don't care anymore. Whenever I stood up for someone else in this fandom then people leave, block me, unfollow or whatever but then a whole bunch of new people come in that see things the same way I do. I rather have those people stand behind me then kneel down and let someone walk all over me who decides to stab me in the back.

Edit: okay...one more thing! I'm just realizing something. I keep trying to unify a divided fandom. That's not my job. Like I said...I know and I'm fine with it. I don't intend on abusing what I know. But also what I keep fighting against: the fact that this fandom is divded and probably always will be?!. There are the ones who know and the ones who don't know....For me that's not a problem. Trying to unify those two sides does turn it into a problem for me.

When I feel trapped and can't post what I want to post then there is no point of still being in this fandom at all. Because it makes me feel trapped.

I will continue to post "behind the scenes stuff" every now and then. It's so rare that I do that anyway. Imo that's fine. We are talking about like 10 posts out of more then 3000 posts that I have. That's like 0,3%. That is not much.

[p4rty4nim4l]

Things that remind me of BPD with BFDI characters!

this is something random I thought of, but the way some characters act is how BPD feels or looks like (at least for me).

Book: having an episode related to paranoia and being abandoned, and the pain with it. Book always wanted to protect Ice Cube and wanted the best for her. She was also very attached to Icy, and still somewhat is. Ice Cube could be seen as a favorite person to Book, something very common for people with BPD. Book also lost a lot of her friends on BLEH due to the TacoBook arc.

Four: mood swings, fear of abandonment, impulsivity(?). Four’s mood switches up a lot and he is also very afraid of being abandoned, as seen in BFB 16. His impulsive behavior could be seen as hurting and mistreating the contestants and hurting X, thus causing drifts in their relationship.

Leafy: unstable relationships, isolation, impulsivity. Leafy has shown to have unstable relationships with her friends, for example, Bubble. She constantly fights with her, but then goes back to her and wants to be her friend. Leafy can also be an example of impulsive behavior from her buying Dream Island from the Announcer and also hurting others. Her friendship with Firey was also very unstable.

Clock: favorite person, ruining reputation/relationships, idealizing and obsessing. Clock had an obsession with Winner and constantly idolized them, making them uncomfortable and hurting the friendship. This led to Clock feeling extremely guilty after Winner confronted him, and he tried to make peace by trying to make up with Winner with the help of Two. However, in TPOT 10, they luckily make up.

HOW DOES A KIDS CARTOON FULL OF TALKING OBJECTS PORTRAY MENTAL ILLNESS SYMPTOMS BETTER THEN ACTUAL MEDIA?! It makes me so sad when all of them get hate, YOUR EPISODES DONT DEFINE YOUR TRUE SELF.

[cowchickenbeefpork]

List of cluster b characters I like

(DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT HAVE ANY CLUSTER B DISORDERS I DO NOT KNOW MORE ABOUT THE DISORDERS THAN DOCTORS OR PEOPLE WITH THEM DO I JUST LIKE LEARNING ABOUT CLUSTER B DISORDERS SINCE I LIKE LEARNING ABOUT MENTAL DISORDERS AND I HAVE FRIENDS WITH CLUSTER B DISORDERS ANYWAYS. DO NOT EXPECT ME TO BE 100% CORRECT I AM NOT THE BEACON OF ALL KNOWLEDGE IF SOMETHING IS OFFENSIVE HERE I WILL APOLOGIZE AND TAKE DOWN THE POST)

[mossfinch]

i keep finding myself sad thinking about how people no longer in my life wont know me as im finally medicated and recovering ish but idk maybe i should come to terms with the fact that people who wont respect you when youre unmedicated probably wont start to do so when you finally have meds

[snow-and-saltea]

finished like 153 chapters in one night. i love these kinds of executions for yandere characters so much. i love it when a story takes mental illness and psychological brokenness seriously and still be able to create a beautiful interpretation without fetishizing that appeals to the very raw and basic nature of wanting to be loved so badly that fractures a person. i love stories like this that show us the worst of a person but doesn't rush to ease them again. i love stories that show the darkest pits of the human psyche and makes you go, "this is happening but it isn't the end. wait just a bit, and ill show you how things get better." i LOVE when stories do that; get all meta and create a story within the story that the actors/characters have to now see their way through and reach the scripted happy ending that feels impossible and illogical to reach as a conclusion, but happened anyways. stories that are seemingly taken out of the author's hands and into the characters instead and them being like "i know you believe this happy ending to be false, because you can't believe it'll be achievable through anything but delusion. but just wait, i'll show you." (thinking particularly about the princess iron fan arc in act age bc that still makes me tear up)

the depiction of ptsd and mental illness was something i was particularly touched by, too. the "problematic" aspects, ugly aspects, of mental illness were addressed so kindly and compassionately, and the solution never felt like it was straight up telling you "you're messed up. this isn't right, you're not normal". this is something i would've expected reading a story with a yandere character, because for most people the appeal of a yandere is to be attracted to someone who is Fucked up but hot. but like. even rebuttals like "no that's not normal! that scares me!" were handled so casually -- almost to the point you could call it carelessly, but it wasn't careless at all. it was a deliberate choice to not make a Huge deal about being turned off by someone's thoughts or preferences that made for a much more judgement-free and loving environment to agree or disagree with each other.

rindo is really the ideal wish fulfillment for mentally ill buddies like me along w kim kitsuragi sjjdjdjfkfkf. like i kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, to see the twist that oh this guy is gonna be fucked up too! bc of the Genre! but no. he's kind, steadfast and humourous, and is so generous w his capacity to love people. he might be understood as a selfless martyr type with the way he keeps wanting to reassure amane even during really troubling events in the plot, but he was never traumatised by those events and he had a clear and sane mind the entire time. its so easy to think of him as a "victim" in an overbearing codependent relationship in the story, but he's just really emotionally resilient. he doesn't give up, he doesn't take hurtful words at face value because he knows something deeper is at play, he doesn't hesitate opening up first and being vulnerable or pushy if it helps amane feel less ugly being vulnerable with his thoughts and desires towards him.

this is a fictional story and not irl, so obviously like. irl, you wouldn't want to enmesh yourself so deeply with someone that you'll die if they do. but he was willing to do that. not necessarily that, but the same gesture -- "if i ever betray you, you can kill me, and then we'll both be the last thing we'll see". on paper, even just writing it, makes me sound insane and delusional. how could this be something someone sane could say? but he WAS sane, because he was also saying "you said you love me so much you want to die with me, so you must also mean that you love me so much you want to live with me forever. this means your heart wants to be with me, so stop deceiving yourself into thinking you'll be fine. know that my heart and yours are joined in the same way, because i want to see you at the end of my life too, and there's nothing wrong with that."

rindo has such a great talent for finding multiple meanings, often positive, to amane's thoughts. because his mind is often muddy and swamped with unpleasant words and memories when he spirals / ruminates , he can't stick his hand through it long enough to see what comes out when he pulls out of it. very natural, normal and human desires you form with someone you love: "i love you. i'm scared you'll leave me someday. i want to be with you forever. i don't know if i deserve to be this happy. i love you. i love you. i love you. i don't want to spend a day without you. i want you to be happy and i want to be involved in making you happy, but i feel so incompetent that i'm worried i'll fail too much. i love you. please love me back.”

the way the characters in this story is so kind genuinely ... makes me want to cry. like rindo's mom accidentally saying homophobic things at first out of surprise but then her Maternal instincts took over and she could have another son to shower with love. the way everyone looks out for them but doesn't judge their relationship or try to messily break them away from each other or intervene for their "own good". there's no unnecessary drama or misunderstanding that isn't solved within 1-2 chapters in a really clear, reassuring tone (while also maintaining a natural pace so as to be thoughtful to the writing).

man. i cried multiple times reading this story. i was just here for the yandere BL ride, not the unexpected feeling of love and validation for my mental health issues?!

[carrionhearted]

One day superhell reached full capacity and they ran out of room to BRUTALLY TORTURE any more souls.

After that, God just started respawning people on earth with the BPD + autism combo as an alternative method of cruel and unusual punishment.

[superabnormal]

cannot get over the INSANE song choice in 1x06 when the shapeshifter shifts outta deans body and is peeling all his skin off and “mary” by the death riders play. literally horrific.

[kohakhearts]

(scuttles into your ask box like a little creacher) i saw your tags on a really old hp meta post about harry being borderline and i thought they were very insightful and interesting thank you (scuttles away)

is this in reference to the post about him being a “psychopath”? that one was a really interesting perspective but i definitely maintain he has more borderline traits than antisocial ones! actually, my tag “harry potter and the borderline personality disorder” does have multiple things under it, including the meta post i made about WHY i think he has it haha

[iinnnsane-time-freak]

If you wanna meet her I can make a group chat! She's super awesome. I adore her. Also, look into HPD. That sounds HPD and BPD. You can have both. Consider it /lh

~ 🪼

Rhehwjajansmmm- that'd be so cool !!!!!!! If you think she'd like that I'd be totally good w/ thattttt :3.

Hhhhhhh this is very funny actually because it 1000% reminded me of the last time I looked into both of these and thought they sounded like me but forgot abt it (I was researching em for Chuuya aus lmao TvT). I will!!! Check those out in more detail. Of the two frm what I remember i think the bpd sounds more like me ?? But also frm what I remember the hpd ones were fairly,, not the great4st so I gotta look more in depth probably. The help is appreciateddddddd <3333.

[thatspookyswitch]

.

[elwolfen]

Seeing Jacksepticeye's autism video makes me want to keep trying to get an appointment or something for a diagnosis!!! Either for autism, adhd, bpd, or anything else I'm curious about... it's just difficult due to me and my mother's work schedules.

I mean, I tried before, but I specifically asked about autism, adhd and bdp when scheduling, and after a while, they said, "Oh actually, we don't do autism diagnoses." Which pissed us off. I also feel like the person diagnosing or testing me... didn't do great? Idk I didn't feel we got anywhere. I felt like I said too little? All I remember is that she said I have anxiety... which I knew (oh but it was generalized anxiety!)

Idk... it makes me feel like I did it wrong? Which sounds strange, I know. I know that's not how that works. I just want answers. I don’t want it to come off as "these aren't the answers *I* was looking for, so you must be wrong!" I don't want to be like that. I just need to keep looking. I don’t know if any of this makes sense.

[justasadboi]

And a final thought for the night, my sleeping meds don’t work anymore, everything hurts for one reason or another, and many other things that will for now be left as …………..

[galactic-rhea]

tbc i dont like when some ppl want to chalk down all of anakin's flaws on being groomed and being manipulated, because first, well, that's very boring and flattening, actually. And second, because flaws are necesary for a good character.

But also, Anakin as a character is so mentally ill that it is hard to tell what's just literal war ptsd intrusive thoughts, literal sithly manipulations, or just him having a jerk moment, lol. Anakin's main flaw is and will always be violence, and we all know from where that violence comes (his upbringing and also being put into a literal war), I can't not imagine Anakin not having violent thoughts at least half of the time, and is interesting to me because discussion about intrusive thoughts in fandom is rarely ever brought up, because a lot of the time Anakin seems to be partaking in really, really disturbing imagery or thoughts (and doesn't act on them) and a lot of these sound like intrusive thoughts to me, and Anakin's capacity to understand when a thoguht is or not his is very low lmao.

See, as someone that deals with intrusive thoughts, these suck bad, they suck a lot, I had a panic attack over an intrusive thought once. I need to avoid certain type of media or things to avoid intrusive thoughts, I still get very vivid imagery and intrusive thoughts from some dumb gore creepypasta I read when I was like 16; the thing with them is that to deal with these you need to be aware that brains are weird and sometimes They Will do That.

Now, case on point, Anakin who at the tender age of 9 years old already had seen so many slaves' heads exploding that he's capable of joking about it, was taught that his lightsaber (a weapon) is his life, lost his mom in the most violent way possible, then murdered a whole village over it, and then went to war for more countless pointless deaths, and who also very clearly shows traits of bpd (one of the symptoms being going from extreme idolization to contempt, and very extreme mood swings), is honestly going to have at least some very disgusting and disturbing ideas from time to time and not all of those can be blamed on Palpatine, at least not directly.

Like sure, ol' Palps takes advantage of those and makes them worse, and yes, of course some of the worst things you can find in Anakin are in fact, because of the grooming; but like, not all of it. And it really takes nuance and some good understanding of these things to not end in the far end of either side of the argument.

So like, yeah, the negative traits can't be downplayed, and the grooming can't be downplayed either, but the mental illness' symptoms shouldn't be downplayed as well, because seriously some of you all will go "Anakin is so bad on the head <3" and then when he does show the Actual Ugly Side of being Mentally Unwell, the reaction is either: "omg that's so crazy american psycho vibes wtf wtf that's not good why no one talks about how evil he is oml" or "that's just because Palpatine".

(and to be clear, I already said it, but gonna say it again, Palpatine IS to blame for a lot of it lmao, just,,,is very complicated, alright, a lot of Anakin's personality was molded both by Palpatine but also Obi-Wan/The Order.

Also, since is technically talked about in the post: Thoughts=/=Actions, not the point but just mentioning it because this is The Internet)

[ittybittyfanblog]

for once i am small (in your arms).

Summary: His hands are stained red, blood and viscera—but they hold you gently. You’ve never known comfort like this. Word Count: 6.5k A/N: Happy Easter ?? 😭 Also sorry for the emotional whiplash I get it  While in the middle of proofreading, I wasn't sure whether to even post this fic here or not :') It's a little fucked, and I implore you to HEED THE TAGS before continuing. It's a concept that's been on the drawing board for a while now. It turned out to be less gratuitous, more tragic than I expected it to be…. This is cathartic, for me. It's not going to be for everybody else. Please don’t force yourself to read if this isn’t your jam, or if anything here might be triggering for you. Alright? Alright. Tags: angst/whump, smut, anger issues, mental issues (BPD), heavy themes alluding to past child abuse + CSA, dissociation, introspection, self-harm, implied age gap (NOTHING ILLEGAL, but left vague on purpose, reader POV is unreliable), age regression, pseudo-incest, dub-con, dysfunctional relationships, canon divergence, inspired by the premise of catch-22 but that’s it (also the movie léon, the whole preacher’s daughter album, and, uh, nicole dollanganger’s blue moon motel song lol).

Sylus enters the safehouse where he and his ward are currently holed up for the time being. The place no more than a glorified shack: four sagging walls, a rust-eaten stove, and floorboards that creak like old bones underfoot. Certainly not one of the better dwellings you’ve had, but the aftermath of the last encounter left him little to work with. This would have to do.

Still, this is merely transitory; he’ll move you somewhere better soon—somewhere with your own room, and perhaps a shelf with a lock for the collection of memorabilia you like to keep. 

He comes in through the larger window, the one with the knobby latch that screeches when lifted too fast. It’s the same one he taught you to slip through if you ever hear someone by the door who isn’t him, or if anything feels off enough to send you running.

I can find you, he reminds you. Prioritise your safety. Get somewhere secure. I’ll come to you.

The room greets him with its usual dimness, with only the spillover light from a streetlamp cutting across the floor in washed-out blue. It’s enough. His eyes adjust quickly. 

You’re where he expected you might be; in the farthest corner, knees drawn up to your chest, gazing vacantly at the empty space in front of you. For how long, he couldn’t say for sure, but he can infer from the untouched plate he left on the end table before he left that it’s been over fourteen hours since your last meal.

There’s no outward indication that you’ve seen him, but he knows you’re aware of his return. He’s made enough noise coming in, deliberately so. The soft thud of his boots on the floor, the familiar creak of glass shutting behind him—all the little tells he’s trained you to listen for.

Still, you remain motionless.

The silence inside presses in, save for the muffled sound of distant traffic and the restless voices of the next-door neighbour bleeding through paper-thin walls. He’s used to your selective muteness; it always takes you a while to process your emotions, especially after an outburst like the one you had earlier.

He supposes he could do more to cut through the silence, beyond just giving you the time and space to ruminate. Offer a kinder word, maybe, one that might actually reach you. But you’re a flighty, anxious thing, and he’s not nearly as well-versed in emotional rearing as he is in disposing a body. 

So for now, he lets you be.

The sound of rustling plastic breaks through the stillness. Sylus transfers the warm, convenience store-bought chowder into a bowl, pleased it hasn’t gone cold after the hour he spent walking back through the biting chill of the world outside.

He knows your propensity for soft foods—if it were up to you, you’d eat nothing but mush: soft, creamy things like soup, custard, and runny egg yolks. Not so different from a child, in that regard. 

(In many regards.)

He adds a spoon to the dish, swirling the sauce to help it emulsify, then saunters over to where you sit – idly noting how you hunch yourself smaller at the sound of his footsteps. 

With practiced care, he lifts the plate of now-stale food from your right. The smell hasn’t soured, so it’ll do for him. He’ll have that for dinner.

Sylus sinks down beside you, nudging the strewn lampshade aside with his foot. He settles close enough to hand you the bowl, but gives you just enough space so you don’t feel cornered. An olive branch, if nothing else.

It takes a few seconds, almost an entire minute, before you acknowledge this. He waits patiently, letting you make the first move.

Eventually, your head lifts from where it’s been resting atop your bruised knees. (He makes a mental note to bandage the fresh cuts—angry, surface-level lines, one across your thumb.) 

Hesitantly, you glance at the proffered arm, then at him. Your stomach grumbles.

He knows better than to make any sudden movements when your fingers reach for the food, and only once you’ve taken your first bite does he retract his hand.

The two of you eat in silence, only the sound of clinking steel keeping you occupied. There’s nothing wrong with the silence—precious in its own right—but he thinks he prefers the moments when he can hear your voice. Whether it’s to talk his ear off, or spit words viciously at him during one of your ever-ephemeral shifts in mood. 

He’ll admit he’s more partial to the former; if only for the reason that he doesn’t like hearing the hurt masked behind the venom, or the guilt-laden silence that comes after an unpleasant episode.

Finally, you set the spoon down, smacking your lips absently. “You want me gone.” 

You say it like it’s a fact you’ve already made peace with, something resigned beneath the forced neutrality. He stifles a sigh, keeping it buried so you wouldn't think he isn't taking this—you—seriously.

Instead, he leans back and places his empty plate to the side. 

“I want you to communicate with me when you’re feeling neglected,” he says. “Before taking it out on the furniture.”

He lets the silence stretch, then breaks it with a half-hearted attempt at levity. “And next time, put away the mess properly. I’ll help.”

You don’t answer.

Sylus knows you’re waiting, bracing yourself for a reprimand that will never come, already familiar with this song and dance. You interpret gentleness the same way Sylus interprets softness: warily, with too much mistrust and a confounding lack of understanding. It could mean nothing, but more often than not, it signifies the quiet before the storm.

There’s little he can do with his own issues, but since taking you in as his ward, he’s assumed responsibility for your well-being. That includes your states of duress, your erratic moods. Your bouts of mania. Sylus has been well-aware of this since the first night you followed him home. 

He knew where you’d come from—and the decision to let you stay took him less than a second, made the moment he registered the forming bruise beneath your eye.

He figures he’ll find a place for you soon. A better arrangement beyond the temporary fostering, one that can offer you stability and a much more normal environment. Something else than a life on the run.

Tomorrow will mark the sixth month since you’ve been with him.

“Okay,” you whisper finally, setting your bowl down in the empty space beside you. Without much ado, you crawl closer to where he sits, uncaring of anything other than the comfort his warmth brings. You figure you can handle anything after. “…I’m sorry.”

Sylus already expects this, wrapping his arms around you without second thought. “I know.”

“I don’t like being angry,” you confess quietly, voice muffled against his collarbone. “It hurts.” He feels your hand move, settling somewhere near your abdomen. “Here.”

He tightens his hold on you. 

“I know,” Sylus whispers into your hair. “You have plenty of things to be angry about.”

Life has been cruel to you, he thinks. Be angry. It’s alright. 

“Not you,” your voice wobbles, and he catches a faint tang of saltwater in the air, along with a certain dampness spreading across his shirt. “I don’t– I don’t know why I get mad at you. You don’t deserve it.”  

“Better me than directing it inward,” He assures you, swiping a thumb across your cheek. “I can handle it.”

You get it from your father. The same anger. The poison that runs in your veins, the corruption in your blood. Your mother was afraid of him – and of that same rage – so you understand why she kept her distance from the rotten fruit she bore unwillingly into the world. Monstrous, in your own right.

“You’re a very difficult child to love,” your mother once said—cold as your bare feet, bleeding from the sharp little stones on the asphalt road where she found you, the first time you tried to run away. She said it so matter-of-factly, that it didn't leave much room for you to question its truth, branding your flesh with the indelible mark of being unwanted. 

Odd, how Sylus doesn't seem to struggle with it at all. Maybe he’s just better at loving you than she ever did. 

He smells of bergamot and smoke—something you’ve long associated with safety. So different from the stench of alcohol and bile that once clung to the walls of your childhood home. His words are gentle, playful. They don’t ring in your ears after they leave his lips, never a decibel higher than yours. Not in the way that frightens you.

You clutch him tighter, overtaken by a primal desire to sink into his skin completely.

It blurs—the way you see him. You imitate him, the same way a child imitates a parent. He takes care of you like how fathers take care of their daughters. Or at least, how you’ve seen it on some primetime show on late night TV.

You can’t help but think of how his fingers would feel buried inside you.

_____ You’re in the middle of a stakeout; both of you bearing the sweltering brunt of the midday heat beneath a cloudless summer sky. 

Sylus reminds you, once again, that you could just wait inside the diner on the ground floor, instead of sitting up here on a rooftop with nothing but a floppy boater hat to shield you from the sun’s rays.

You don’t really think you offer much assistance. You can’t shoot to save your life—your aim dismal, even from a vantage point. You’re not quick with solutions. Nothing of help that he couldn’t already manage on his own.

Still, you insist. Even if it’s only to hand him the .50 cal rifle he’s assembled beforehand, or to offer some benign, mindless chatter to fill the boring in-between.

Don’t leave me alone. 

He could always refuse. He brings you along anyway. I won’t.

“Eleven o’clock. Left of Kebab Palace, near the alleyway.”

You speak up suddenly, peering through the rim of the tactical-grade binoculars he handed you for recon. There’s something akin to glee in your voice, and his lips twitch involuntarily at the sound. 

“Enemy combatant is—oh, he’s on the move.”

He squints toward where you’re pointing, catching sight of the mark in question. “Ah,” Sylus drawls, all mock lament. “Looks like he’s successfully liberated the contraband. How unfortunate.”

“Best to cut our losses,” you say decisively, eyes still glued to the eyepiece. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

Your suspect – small, furry, and feline – leaps onto the fire escape and scales the side of the building until he vanishes from sight. 

You lower the binoculars, glancing at him with a small, satisfied grin. “That’s the fourth one.”

He reaches over, tucks a stray hair behind your ear. “Good job,” he murmurs. Quiet, but sincere. Genuine in his praise, despite the frivolous nature of the task. 

You shiver, delighted by his approval, your heart thudding in a sick rhythm of childish pride and want. You duck your head, the grin on your face refusing to fade, thighs pressing together of their own accord.

The two of you play three more rounds of I Spy before a flicker of movement catches his attention. He pauses, eyes narrowing as two black-cladded figures come into view, rounding the corner past a nondescript pawn shop. 

Hired muscle, flanking a taller man—leaner, dressed to blend, but too poised to be local. The real target of today’s excursion. 

He instructs you to wear the earmuffs around your neck—pink, upon your insistence—and to look the other way before he lines up the shot.

_____

You were six when you lost your first tooth.

The first one came out naturally, uneventful as they come. You showed it to your mother, full of childlike trepidation and timid pride, cradling the small thing in your palm. She threw it out without looking.

You fished it from the bin afterward, fingers sticky with juice pulp and something spoiled. You didn’t understand why it made your chest hurt—only that it did.

The second time was even less kind.

Your bottom incisor was knocked out when your brother pushed you down the stairs. You don’t remember the fall, only the taste—blood and bile, mixing with the little white thing you spat out. Your eyes burned, more from an inside ache you couldn’t explain than from the bruises mottling your skin like purple ink blots.

“Why are you so angry at me?” you had asked your brother, your mother, anyone who would listen, with all the hurt confusion of one that wasn’t yet familiar with the pain of tough love. Why are you so angry? Why am I– why do you hate m—

They never gave you a straight answer. You still haven’t gotten one, and you’re starting to accept that you never will.

After that, you started holding onto them. Your milk teeth. Each one that fell out, or was knocked loose, you saved. Tucked them away in old matchboxes and scraps of tissue. 

You can’t quite explain the possessiveness you feel toward the tiny enamels. Only that they belonged to you. That they came from you.

You collect other things now. Little pieces. Things most people would mistake for trash. A bottle cap in your favorite color. A pretty marble. A loose button from the dress of a toy doll you used to own. Sparse, stupid things no one but you find value in.

Every night before bed, you count them.

Three times. In the same order. Just to make sure nothing’s missing.

Sylus never questions it.

He doesn’t mock you or tell you to hurry. He just waits, and when you’re done, he asks you one last time if you’re finished. And you know with him there’s no trick behind the question. No wrong answer. No cruelty waiting if you say the wrong thing.

So you say yes and bid him good night, and he simply nods before turning the lights off. _____

There’s a girl by the stairs of the rundown motel. Maybe seven or eight, leaning against the edge of the planter box out front, hands stained candy apple red. She watches the both of you with bored curiosity, sucking on the end of a melting ice pop. Sylus is a step ahead of you, keys in hand, his back to her as he unlocks the room he got for the night.

The girl squints. “Is that your husband?”

You don’t blink.

“Yes.”

It slips out easy. Natural. She nods, like she expected that, and skips off down the corridor.

Sylus doesn’t turn around. But you hear the soft exhale through his nose, that faint hitch in his breath. You can’t tell whether the sound is amused or exasperated. Maybe it’s both.

You follow him inside, the door closing behind you with a quiet click. The room smells like mothballs and bleach, the low hum of a sputtery air conditioner reverberating through the small space. Somehow, it feels louder in the hush that follows your entry.

You perch on the edge of the bed and bounce once, toes curling into the carpet, sneaking a glance at him as he checks the blinds, the corners, the locks on the window.

He still hasn’t said a word. But that's fine, because you said it. 

You said it, and he didn’t correct you.

And because you want him to be yours. Because he is. In all the ways that matter. 

He watches over you. Protects you. Tells you when to eat, when to sleep. Tells you you’re good. Keeps you safe.

That’s my husband, you think. That’s my husband, and I belong to him.

That little girl knew. She saw it.

You flop onto your back, arms flung wide, smiling at the ceiling with a strange warmth bubbling in your stomach.

-

-

-

Later, after the sun's dipped low behind the grimy motel blinds, you find yourself fidgeting.

You’d said it. Called him your husband. Claimed him like how a kid stakes her place in a game of pretend. And he still hasn't said a word about it. 

So now you want to earn it.

You refill the ice bucket before he asks. You fold your clothes properly, the way he does it. It’s clumsy, a little uneven, but you do it with a great deal of care. You put away your shoes neatly by the door. 

Proper. Obedient. Good.

Every now and then, you glance his way, searching for that flicker of approval in his eyes—the kind that makes your chest puff out. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you from his side of the bed, closer to the window, one hand curled loosely against his mouth, the other resting flat on a dog-eared book.

His gaze is unreadable. Neither hard, nor soft. Merely observant. 

You stand in the center of the room for a moment, rocking on your heels.

Then you cross the distance between you, crawling onto the bed without preamble. You move slowly, deliberately, flirting with a boundary you hope he wouldn't enforce. 

And when you lie beside him—not touching, but close—Sylus doesn’t stop you.

So you rest your head near his thigh, tucking an arm under your cheek. And he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give any outward reaction. Just the slow turn of a page, though you know he’s not really reading it. You can feel it in the stillness of his body. The way his breath has evened out, but the rest of him stays perfectly motionless. Hasn’t moved since you curled up beside him like that.

You stay still, face pressed into the crook of your arm, watching the light from the muted television flicker across the ceiling.

You’ve been good.

So good.

(And maybe it’s enough. Maybe he finally sees it.)

After a while, he closes the book.

The soft thud of it landing on the side table makes you flinch a little, but not from fear. Just anticipation. Expectation.

His hand finds your hair, fingers gently brushing through the strands like he’s smoothing down static and some stubborn flyaways. You melt into it instantly, your body going pliant the way it always does when he touches you like that.

“Mmh,” you hum, content.

His palm lingers a moment longer, thumb tracing a slow line from your temple down to your jaw. He does the motion three times before leaning back again, silent.

But you don’t miss it – that soft, tired exhale.

Not annoyed. Not angry.

Just... quietly resigned. Like he knows exactly what this is. Like he’s known for a while now.

You pretend not to notice.

You stay curled beside him, small and safe, a quiet feeling of triumph blooming in your chest. Your eyelashes flutter shut, and your tongue curls around the word again—not aloud this time, just in your head.

Mine.

You fall asleep like that, clinging to a fantasy he doesn’t take away from you. _____

It’s the eighteenth of the month.

You’ve been waiting for this day, ever since he shared it with you. Holding on to it, like a dragon hoarding a well-guarded secret.

The red negligée is cheap and a little too small. Something you saw draped over a mannequin in the back of some boarded-up boutique, half-covered in dust. The straps are twisted and the tag is torn, but somehow it’s still perfect. Like it was meant to be found by you. Like it had been waiting.

It’s in his favorite color, after all. The same red as the lining of his holster. The same red as the folded handkerchief he keeps in his pocket.

You’ve never worn anything like it before, and it doesn’t exactly cover much. The fabric is thin without give, nearly translucent. You keep tugging at it, trying to make it sit right, but it won’t. 

So you leave it – hiked up your thigh, constricting in all the wrong places.

You’ve taken a sip from the bottle of moonshine he left on the upper shelf of the cupboard, and it’s as vile as any other spirit you’ve tasted, burning a path down your throat. But it gives you what you need; that extra shot of courage. Just enough to quiet the paralyzing fear that threatens to break through if you spend too long thinking, second-guessing your decision.

There is nothing else you can offer him. You barely like looking at your own body in the mirror—but maybe he’ll find some use for it. Maybe he’ll find pleasure in it.

You think you’d like it if he did.

(A small, ugly part of you wants to be taken, to be bent over, for it to hurt.) 

“Happy birthday,” you purr as a greeting—voice low and sweet, just like you practiced—as soon as he walks in. You’re stretched out on the bed, mimicking a pose you saw one of the women do in your father’s Playboy magazines. 

(You want him to have his way with you, with the brand of violence you know he’s capable of.) 

You hold your breath. Muscles drawn tight beneath your skin, high-strung and tense. 

There’s a pause. You watch Sylus’ eyes drag over you. But—

There’s nothing on his face. No hunger. No fire. Just a blank detachment.  

He doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t touch.

Instead, he turns and walks towards the dresser. Opens a drawer. The sound of wood scraping against wood, louder than it should be.

His back to you. As if you’re not there.

He’s ignoring you, you realize belatedly, humiliation rising under your skin. It climbs up your throat—burns the corners of your eyes. How dare he.

It stings. More than it should. 

“Don’t you wanna fuck me?” you snap, the words half-choked, thick with fury and shame. You don’t know if you’re trying to tempt him or punish him.

He says nothing.

You lurch upright, the sheer fabric bunching in your fists, the lace digging into your palms. Your skin feels too hot, too tight, like it’s crawling. You can’t breathe. You want to disappear. You want to be seen. You want–

“You know you want to fuck me!”

You scream it now, voice cracked and shaking. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, and it tastes worse than blood or bile. 

You can’t stop. 

There’s nothing left in your head but the ache of being unsought, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts more than any blow that’s ever landed on your skin, more than fists, more than belts, more than words spat at you from doorways and dinner tables and years you never got back. Your nails dig into your arms, scratching, tearing, needing something to feel, because this pain isn’t visible enough. Because you want it to show and if it bruises, then maybe he’ll see it, maybe he’ll see you–

But his hands are there.

Strong. Unyielding.

He catches your wrists before you can shred yourself further, pulling your hands away—firm, but with a certain gentleness that’s entirely him.

Unattractive welts already bloom across your skin; half-crescent moons, angry and red.

"Fuck me," you sob, uncaring of how desperate you sound. Uncaring of how ugly you must appear, a snivelling, trembling mess at his feet.

He pulls you into his arms like you haven’t just made a scene. Like you haven’t just begged him to desecrate you. He cradles you so gently as if you're something fragile.

…And if you weren’t so far gone, maybe you’d hear the way his breathing falters. Maybe you’d notice the last of his self-control beginning to fray.

Instead, you’re somewhere else – locked deep in the marrow of your memories. 

You look up at him, eyes swollen and wet. "Please, daddy,” you hiccup, craving to be set free from your own fucking head, to be validated by him, the man you look up to, the one who turned to be a much kinder father than the one you had. “Please, fuck me."

His eyes darken, the red in them cooling into flint the more you plead. Tension lines every inch of him—from the tick in his jaw, from the way his shoulders are drawn taut. There’s something brewing underneath. Something dangerous. 

Something irrevocable.

He’s caught in the split between indulging you and the immorality of what you’re asking him to do—between what he wants and what he knows better. And you keep fucking staring at him, all glassy-eyed and irresistible, like he’s the only one who’s capable of understanding. 

And he—

You see the exact moment he breaks. It feels like absolution. 

That night, Sylus fucks you like he’s making up for lost time.

His mouth finds your cunt and drinks from you like it’s water in the desert, tongue moving in a devastating rhythm that nearly drives you insane. He doesn’t stop until the sheets are soaked beneath you, until your thighs are shaking and your voice gives out from the sheer pleasure of his ministrations.

"I want your cock," you demand, drunk on the feeling, looking up at him with a dopey smile. You think you’re in the place to make demands. Knows he won't say no to you, not with this. Not anymore. 

And it's liberating, this feeling of control. Of being wanted.

He picks you up like you’re weightless. Hoists you up and sinks you down onto his thick length after making you cum two more times: once more on his tongue, another on his fingers. You ache in a way that's unfamiliar. The way sex brings pleasure instead of pain—without the residual shame, without the nauseating feeling that follows after being soiled. 

He swallows every cry with an open-mouthed kiss, like he’s starving for them. His touch saying more than words ever could.

And in that moment, with your lips pressed to his and your body trembling against him, you think you could die by his hand, and you’d die happy.

-

-

-

Daylight breaks through the windows in long, muted streaks.

You’ve been awake for almost an hour now – lying on your side. Still. Frozen. Not from fear of the man beside you, but from the fear of the aftermath. 

You ruined his birthday. Just like everything else. 

Your thoughts spiral downward, splinters and nails in your skull. He didn’t like it. He doesn’t like you that way, why would he, disgusting girl, disgusting piece of shit–

His arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you back into his chest, kissing the top of your head. “Go back to sleep.” _____

You give him the most genuine smile he’s seen on you later that afternoon, wide and toothy.

Sylus thinks it’s blinding. Figuratively, literally—it’s all the same to him. And it looks just right on your face.

He marvels at it, still somewhat surprised to find himself on the receiving end of such a thing. It makes the budding guilt a little more bearable.

You skip away to the bathroom, and along with that, the brightness. 

Sylus breathes slowly, leaving the moment behind as he eases back into the present. He feels the echo of you etched on his own lips – borrowed, despite himself, for the time being. _____

But then, with the highs, come the lows.

The feeling is familiar. A prickling at the edge of your scalp. The slow dissociation between thought and action. 

It’s like watching yourself from the outside, a silent spectator in your own body. Someone else curling their fingers around the hilt of Sylus’ knife—his favorite one, the one he always keeps in pristine condition. 

You don’t even remember reaching for it. One moment, it was tucked inside a snakeskin sheath, buried in one of the Cordura bag pockets. The next, it’s in your hand.

You remember the first time you stole from your father. Not out of malice. Just guiltless curiosity. Perhaps a cry for attention, with all the childish naivety of a girl at that age.

The consequence came down on you, fast and brutal. You returned what wasn’t yours before the day ended, but it didn’t matter. 

The punishment had you leaving his study limping – your backside split raw.

You hold the knife up, waiting for Sylus to react similarly. For the spark. The fury. The familiar fire—this time in his eyes—so that it makes sense to you, for him to finally make sense to you. 

You know his hands are violent ones, stained with blood. 

And yet.

Sylus only glances at you with fond amusement. 

“If you wanted one of your own,” he says lightly, “you could’ve just asked, sweetie.”

It confuses you. 

You lower the blade. Slowly.

(It’s okay. You’ll figure him out soon enough.) _____ The carnival is a mess of color and noise, bright paint faded by rust and time, garish music looping over itself through tinny speakers until it fades into the background. 

Every corner smells like caster sugar and engine oil, and you walk through it with sticky fingers clutched tight around a slushy drink that stains your tongue blue. Definitely a little too old for a place like this, but Sylus doesn’t seem to care. He’s the one who brought you here, after all. Paid for the overpriced wristbands and the bag of rainbow popcorn you’re currently munching on.

He lets you drag him from booth to booth, humoring your wide-eyed wonderment to your heart’s content – with nary but an indulgent smile, and the patience of someone who’s long given up trying to say no to you.

At the ring toss, you pause.

He follows your gaze to the prizes strung up like gutted prey, eyes landing on a dragon—a red, ugly thing. You love it instantly.

“That one?” he asks, raising a brow. You nod. 

He pays. Three rings, three hits. Wins without effort. The stall attendant barely has time to feign enthusiasm.

He hands the stuffed animal to you without ceremony. You bury your face in it.

Some woman—older, wearing a sunhat and a pair of mom jeans—walks by with a juice box in one hand and a toddler in the other, smiling at the sight of the two of you. 

“Your daughter’s adorable,” she says to Sylus, not unkindly. “You’re a lucky dad.”

Sylus laughs. Actually laughs. 

“Oh, I am,” he replies smoothly, voice tinged with mirth. “She’s one of a kind.”

You glow with pride.

_ 

Later, in the dark of another drive-in motel, the dragon lies curled against your chest. One of its eyes is sewn in too tight, the other too loose. Seeming to know more than it should.  

You turn your head to look at him where he sits, back to the headboard, thumbing something on his phone.

“Thank you for today,” you say, voice catching in your throat. “Um… I could–” A beat. You swallow. “I could suck you off, if you want.”

He snorts softly.

“You’ve had too much sugar,” he tells you, rustling around for the blanket before tugging it over your legs. “Have you brushed your teeth?”

You mumble an affirmative. He taps your nose, twice, and turns away to let you drift off—remnants of candy on your breath, and want curdling low in your belly.

You stare at the dragon’s crooked grin and wonder what it thinks of girls like you. _____ It happens one fateful night.

He comes home late. Not later than usual—but off. Off in the way his jaw is set, his shoulders stiff with something volatile. You know this version of him. You’ve seen it in small glimpses; cutting through the iron-clad control, the mask he wears so carefully around you.

You know this tension. You've tasted it before, not too long ago. It thrums in the walls, it bleeds into the air like a live wire—signalling something that's coming. Something bigger. Cataclysmic.

(There’s blood under his fingernails. You wonder if it’s his.) 

It makes your mouth water.

You know that you have to tread carefully – if you wanted him to break. So for the remainder of the night, you match his silence with your own little provocations: a dropped glass, the volume turned too loud, a gun gone missing, et cetera, et cetera. 

You watch his patience begin to fray, with all the sick thrill of a bystander watching a fuse burn down, gasoline in hand.

(You need to unravel him. You want him mean.)

And for your final act—

You pad up to him barefoot, silent across the floor. You press in close. Innocent. A smile on your face. Then, in a voice laced with mock sympathy, you goad—softly, sweetly:

“Night didn’t go so well for you, huh?”

It’s a whisper, barely that. But it lands like a bullet.

Sylus stills. Vermillion eyes flash as it cuts to you, and it reminds you of some ancient thing—part-man, part-beast. A praedator.

Then he moves.

You’re bent over the bed in seconds, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto. His belt clatters to the floor. His grip bruises your hips, anchoring you in place like some mere possession. 

When he impales you in one punishing stroke, it’s hard enough to knock the sound out of your lungs. He fucks you like he wants to rip you in half, like you’re the only outlet left in a world that’s stripped him of everything else. 

His gaze bears down on you, cold and unrelenting. You can’t see it, not directly, but you feel it—the weight of it, the violence in it. The insatiable need to ruin and consume. 

To be the creature on the other end of it is to be everything. Immortal. Seen.

You sob through it—half laughter, half wail. Your body trembles with every rough thrust, your throat raw from exertion. And still, you beg through the violent ecstasy. Not for him to stop—never, never—but for more. More of him. More of this. 

More of the familiar pain, more of the feeling of being loved, and owned, and wanted.

-

-

-

You don't understand why he can't look you in the eye the next day.

His gaze keeps skimming past you, never quite landing. His mouth opens once, twice, like he wants to say something—but nothing comes out. 

He’s careful with the distance between you. It makes your stomach twist.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask, voice small.

He flinches. 

Something shutters in him. You see it. You feel it. 

You hate it.

You hate the way his face closes off, guilt woven sharp across his features. Guilt for something he wanted, for something you gave him freely. 

You hate the way he recoils from it now. Like the festering entirety of you – everything you are, laid bare for him to see – is something that's shameful to want. 

You hit him—once, twice, again and again—fists raining down against his chest, needing him to feel even a fraction of the anguish burning through you.

“Say something,” you spit, choking on the lump in your throat. “Why won’t you just–”

“Stop,” Sylus says, catching your wrists. His voice is low, rough. Wrecked. “Sweetheart. Stop.”

But you’re shaking now, tears hot and ugly on your cheeks.

“I hate you,” you hiss, fists still curled. “I hate you, I hate–”

He pulls you in.

Cradles your face in both hands like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Kisses you like he’s drowning in it—desperate and aching. Tasting the salt on your lips, not knowing if it’s yours or his.

“I know,” he grits out, voice hoarse. He shuts his eyes like it hurts to look at you. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You don’t want him to be sorry. You don’t know what you want, exactly. You just wish he’d stop looking at you like you’re a mistake. _____ You don’t shower for three days. You’d go longer if he didn’t intervene.

You sit shivering in the grimy tub, arms curled tight around your middle, as Sylus bathes you in silence.

Neither of you speaks.

_ “God,” your father had snarled, flecks of spit catching at the corners of his mouth. He reminded you of the stray dogs across the block—wild-eyed and mean, always looking for something to tear apart. “Good for nothing bitch! You can’t do anything right!”

His hands flew up, and you flinched before the blow had even landed.

You were kneeling on the cold floor, eyes downcast. You had no choice. You had to hear it. Had to understand how you were born into this world unwanted by your own creator, even if all you ever did was give, give, give—everything you are, everything you can—

I wonder, you’d thought then, what it’ll take to break me.

You were surprised to learn it didn’t happen at that moment. Perhaps you are stronger than you give yourself credit for. (Perhaps you can take more.) 

If I could live through this—you surmised, watching from the outside where your child self was dying—I wonder what else I could survive. _____ There’s something rotting inside you. A moral rot. An onset decay festering, and it's only time until he realises this.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Nothing's wrong with you.”

You'll take what you can get until he leaves.

“I’m tired.”

He carries you in his arms—your body, bruised blue against his. Still, he holds you with a kind of gentleness that feels entirely undeserved.

(He doesn’t say it, but he’d carry you like this forever. You don’t need to do anything but to simply exist. Everything else is secondary.)

“Sleep,” Sylus whispers.

“Can–” you swallow, closing your eyes. “Can you tell me you love me?” 

His hands tighten around you—an aborted, reflexive motion. He doesn’t answer right away. And maybe you’re imagining it, but there's a wetness on your cheeks that don’t belong to you.

He whispers it into the hollow of your throat. Over and over, until the words lose meaning. Until sleep takes you under.

Perhaps not everything in the world is meant to be cold. _____ It’s been a month since he let you tag along with him.

To visit an old acquaintance, he says. Someone trusted. You don’t ask. You watch the way the light touches the sharp planes of his face, sticking closer to his rib as the sun sets westward.

Nothing much is said. Just the brief introduction, the polite niceties. He holds you longer that night, and you let him. You don’t ask why.

You already knew.

So when you wake the next morning and find nothing but the indent of his body on the mattress, you don’t get up to look for him.

The bed is cold. The door left unlocked. He’s long gone by now.

You sit there in the quiet. Nothing else to say. Nothing else to do.

You reach for the dragon—the cheap, red thing from the carnival, almost a lifetime ago, with its peeling fabric and crooked stitching, stuffed too tightly and smiling a little too wide—clumsy in your arms. You press it against your chest, holding it the way you were held no less than a few hours ago. It still smells like him.

Heaven is brief. Soft. It leaves you warm enough to miss it.

Hell is what comes after.

You always think they are one and the same.

[little-saw]

I'm making my own post about an issue that's poisoning our community. Because I'm very triggered and concerned.

⚠️ CW for nsfw, fetish, kink, abelism, etc. ⚠️

Before you read. I'm making this so fucking clear. I am a minor, my partner is a minor, and I am a TEENAGER. I use agere to cope with my bpd, ptsd from prior abuse, and my hypersexual intrusive thoughts. My work is entirely sfw, and if you think anything different of it, you're the problem.

There's been a recent uproar with agere blocklist accounts coming after anyone and everyone if they do not fit their idea of sfw.

Padded regressor artists, writers, etc, are being accused of being predatory, abdl, and nsfw.

Not only is this disgusting on the call-out posters part, because padded agere is NOT nsfw, kink, or anything of the sort. But this is also abelist for people and regressors who need diapers to live their lives, and are being accused of fetish when they're literally using an aid.

To continue, this nonsensical calling out without evidence is damaging to people's reputations, mental health, etc. Especially when you're not properly tagging them, and they don't even know.

It is presumably mainly minors running these accounts. As to why they're ran so terribly and with so little consideration to touchy subjects.

Kink and fetish are their own communities. They deserve to be respected. Whether you support or understand them. If you demand respect as an agere account, then it has to be two ways. Kink and fetish have been a part of the lgbtq community since the beginning, and they will always exist, whether you like it or not. That doesn't mean you have to put up with weirdos interacting with your stuff, but you can not come after existing accounts simply because they're nsfw. News flash, tumblr is a mature site. 17+ (if I remember right), so there's gonna be adults being adults.

So let me make this clear. Consenting people who participate in kink, fetish, etc, are not predators. Littles / caregivers who have a sex life are not predators. Artists / writers who create works based on padded regression are not predators. Littles / caregivers who experience sexual intrusive thoughts and talk about them are not nsfw, and padded regressors and people who wear diapers are not predators.

I will not speak on this subject further because of how triggering it is for me. I knew someone who policed communities and accused them of things. It was harmful, toxic, and ruined a lot of people's reputations for no reason. We no longer talk, obviously.

So, to reiterate, my account is SAFE. FOR. WORK. I am a MINOR. my partner/caregiver is a MINOR. if you interpret anything I do as kink/nsfw/fetish, you are the issue. I cope MY way, and do MY own work MY way. I make my content to support people who dont feel supported in their own community. Who feel excluded because of their mental health, thoughts, interests, etc. If that's so much as a reason to accuse someone of being a predator and ruining their reputation, then you are a bad person. Period.

[thesirencult]

Pick A Card: What They Want To Tell You Right Now

Pile 1

9 Of Cups, Wheel Of Fortune, The Tower

What have you done to this poor man? I beg you please STOP! Hahahaha, all jokes aside I'm scared for this man's well-being, he is being tortured by you my BEAUTIFUL, STUNNING, FERGALICIOUS siren. You are soooo glamorous and he is falling head-over heels for you. He was PUSHED into this. This reminds me of Alice In Wonderland, "I was just there, you knowwww. WHAT HAPPENED TO ME? I just wanted some milk for my cereal then BAM!"

Please, I beg you give him a break he can't even talk right now, he is in the corner quietly hyperventilating, about to put his head under cold water, no, BOTH HEADS. I'm sorry but girl, where did you bag this one?

Anyways, now that he is FINALLY, letting me speak for him, thank you baby boy, ahem, I want to mention some signs and symbols that manifested when I started shuffling: No Chill by PND, 10:10, the movie "The Mask", Jessica Rabbit.

Now, let's jump in: You are a dream that got manifested into my reality. I don't know what I did to deserve to be blessed with your existence my ethereal vixen. I spend my nights thinking about you, dreaming of a future where we ride on my motorcycle/driving in my car (I'm getting something luxurious-as he should), my hand grazing your thigh, your perfume intoxicating me as much as your presence. You make me feel high, drunk in love. You are the best part of my day, your presence is a NEED, not just a want. When I don't see you I go crazy, my head starts hurting and my heart goes cold. When I see you I come alive, my heart skips beats, it is EXACTLY like going 200km/h on a summer night. The freedom, the exhilaration, accelelrating, my blood pumping all over my body begging for a release. I'm so scared, terrified but at the same time I can't stop, I won't stop (dopamine/adrenaline). I want to spoil you, you are mine. You are my little girl, my baby <3 You are so precious to me princess, my queen, my GODDESS. I lowkey love it when you dominate me, as you already dominate my mind and my heart. You own me, I just want you to say the words that you are also MINE, for life. I will tattoo your name across my chest, I will shout that I love you from the tallest building/mountain. I want everyone to know how proud I'm that I'm yours. You are my everything, you are perfection, you are special-different, but what do I do? How do I keep you, how do I even get you? I panic when I'm around you. Let's just make it till the morning, give me just one night, just one, I promise I will make you feel sooo good. I know that you are a gift from the Universe. It is torture seeing you and not touching you. I would inhale you like a fine dish. I want to eat you. You glow, holding sacred mysteries behind those beautiful sparkling eyes, the stars are in there I swear! I love your smile, it lights up the whole world. It's like everything else around you is dark and you are the only bright thing, like the stars in the sky but you are like, the only STAR. My STAR. I'm so scared you will just go POOF! one day and I will look for you around like a crazy person. I took a gamble and then God brought you here, but do I deserve someone as perfect as you? You are otherwordly, ethereal, hypnotic... I need to take a breath, a cold shower and some time away or I will pounce and I will not be able to press on the break, I will go all-in when it's time and you won't be able to stop me. Just say you are MINE, only MINE.

Pile 2

The Devil, 9 Of Wands, Justice, Strength

This energy is much more mellow and guarded. Your person is someone with a more feminine energy. Here are some trinkets I want to share with you that came through while I was doing the reading: fear, Sorry But I'm Outside by PND, waiting, getting played, puppet, Bound 2 by Kanye, BPD, big D energy, Moment 4 Life by Nicki, Tapout, Cleopatra, Real Woman by PND

This isn't someone that wants to share a lot with you. I might use the pronouns she/her a lot here, because I channel a very hurt feminine energy. I'm actually sad over your person's energy and I would love it if you took a moment to pray for them and send them some good energy cause they really need it. I will be writing the following things as if they would say it BUT they would NEVER EVER say those things aloud. They are the type of woman that keeps a straight face and is well acquainted with her masculine side. They might be the eldest sibling, someone who was always seen as mature for their age. The following words talk about their inner state and how they are feeling, they are more of a confession and not what they would say to you.

I'm feeling really hurt right now. It's not your fault but I'm always seeking mistakes and faults that will prove that you don't want me enough and actually I'm happy that in the moment it is pretty easy to do that as you have left me hanging and ran away. How could you leave me here all alone? How can you distance yourself from someone you love? Why? I've had so many sleepless nights, this love is daunting. I'm suffering because of you. I'm trying to break this pattern of my disorganized attachment style. I'm trying to balance my fearful nature with faith. I'm my biggest enemy. I have many problems right now, unrelated to you. You were my escape, something that gave me hope there could be a better tomorrow. I wanted this to continue. I'm very sensitive to other people's actions. I love hurting myself, I love suffering as I feel this is the only way I will get rewarded with something. I feel like I'm meant to suffer, like I deserve it. I think that I will need to forget you too or the ways you hurt me so we could have a chance in the future. I'm very close to giving up in general, but especially when it comes to this connection. Why don't you save me? Why are you leaving me again?

That's all I could get from them and it is veryyyy personal. They would never say those things to you. When you see them again they will probably just listen and tell you it's okay. I think that spirit wants you to know those things so you will treat them accordingly. Now, let's continue the reading with more details about them and this connection.

Your person could have undiagnosed BPD or suffer from other mental issues that have been caused by a stressful childhood. Actually, the words I channeled come mostly from their inner teen who suffered a lot and faced abandonment again and again. Your girl is the epitome of a "good girl". She is scared that you're just playing with them, "leave a pretty girl sad". She might have a beautiful behind. For them, admitting their issues is the first step towards helaing. I don't think they ever had anyone that loved them unconditionally or helped them heal. They see you as THE DEVIL, lol. You're tormenting this beautiful, gentle soul. They are quite pessimistic and think that there is nobody out there to love them. Save me by Nicki Minaj came through and that's when I started seeing them differently, along with the next cards that followed The Devil. There is a huge difference between how and the world see them versus how they see themselves. You see them as a "prized possessions", like loving never made as much sense as it does now while you look into their eyes. Poor baby, the voices in their head don't let them see their greatness. They need reassurance. You think that they are solid and do not care as much as you care about this but they are going through it! SHAME ON YOU! GO HAD THAT BABY RIGHT NOW! They are tired and close to giving up on this connection and isolating themselves AGAIN, until their wounds close up.

You see them as royalty. You think thay have big D energy, no matter their gender. They are crashing out right now, boiling on the inside. You and others see them as an asset, as mature and fine as hell. They are like "No, *crying face* I don't want to do this againnnn!". Their public persona is way different than their emotional side. This is the type of individual their parents left them alone at 9 and were like "Oh they will be fine! In fact let's leave the baby here too and the dog. She'll handle it!"

This is someone who just says to themselves "Okay, let's do this." They put their big girl pants on and get down and dirty. They feel like they do all the work and someone else always gets the credit and awards. Promises unfulfilled. So strong and resilient though. As much as they want to stop they can't, a fire is always lit inside them. This is someone everyone would want in their corner. They can't stop even if luck is against them. They go down fighting. Whatever it takes... A warrior.

She is a feisty one, damn! I'm hearing "heavyweight champ, here to get everything they deprived me of, brink of success, I can't believe I'll make it". This person doesn't have a big ego. If you told them how great theya re they would just brush it off. "You're a star in my eyes." They truly are but they do not believe it. This oerson will sure be retiring with the ring/crown, marriage will happen for them, the big luxurious house will happen for them, the money, the sports cars, the happiness, the peace everything, they won't stop until it happens cause something is pushing them, this inner strength...

They need to tame their inner beasts, anxiety and fears. They are gentle and strong inside. Seem scary but are filled with self-doubt. Your union will happen when you decide that it needs to happen from a place of personal power. Loving and compassionate. They make all others tap out, literally, perseverance. They ahve the power of transforming others through gentle loving. They are rare, irreplaceable (Another One Of Me by The Weeknd). This person will be blessed by karma because they have integrity and honesty and they will get back their kindness x10. Theya re also your karma, hahahha, be careful cause they will act like a mirror, they will hurt you as much as you hurt them, or life will take care of you, if you hurt them, They are divinely protected.

Pile 3

The Sun, Page Of Wands, 5 Of Swords, 3 Of Swords

The song When It Comes To You by Fridayy immediately come sto mind when I'm channeling this person's energy. They are deeply regretful about the way they have treated you so far. They want a fresh start and they are coming in with their little toolbox ready to fix everything, powerpoint slides in the background showcasing all their strengths and weaknesses to convince you that they can be "the one" for you. Some other songs: Glad You Came by The Wanted, Regulr Girl by Tyga, Chris Brown.

"Hey, baby. You didn't expect that did you? I'm focused only on you. You are my sun, moon and stars. Gosh, I can't even talk properly when I'm around you. I can't think straight, your light shines so bright! Anyways, I think that you have put a spell on me. I've been forgetting things lately, I can't focus on anything else, I can't drive or do other daily tasks. My coffee has too much sugar or no sugar at all as I forget how much I've put in, lol don't judge me. I stumble over my words! You witch!

I'm really grateful you showed up in my life. Life was so mehhh without you. We look so good together, I've already visualized everything. What I'll b wearing on our first public outing and how beautiful you will be looking, your hair cascading down your beautiful back, your waist SNATCHED with my arm around it. Lady...You drive me crazyyyyyy! I'm so excited about our future! Don't leave, I'm coming!! I promise, I know our start was rocky but we can ride away together, we have so much potential, you'll see it will be PERF!

I have wasted enough time with my fears of not being good enough and I-I get lost in your eyes. When I get close to you my throat closes up, I overthink everything. How will I take you out on a date, I won't even be able to drive! I will crash somewhere. You little minx! It's your fault I've lost my mind!

Anyways, goodnight babyyyyyyy! Kisses all over!