#Loss of Innocence

[manic-maddie]

It's cathartic, being held by Rook.

[gracefletcher]

Barry Keoghan in Banshees of Inisherin (2022)

dir. Martin Mcdonagh

[barbieslutshamesken]

nothing was ever there to be taken

[darksfantasyworld]

Let Me Teach You…

Warning/Kinks: Loss of virginity/innocence, Brahms talks kinda like a child so kinda MDLB and/or ageplay…? That’s about it.

Female reader x Brahms Heelshire

You were laying in bed, messing with your phone when you heard the doorknob turn. You looked up and saw Brahms, the ‘boy’ you took care of standing in the doorway. “I followed your rules, what are you doing out of bed?” You asked as the male stood there, his porcelain mask showed the guilty look in his eyes. “I… I had a dream… a really weird dream…” He said, his voice cracking slightly as he hesitantly stepped forward. “A… dream…?” You asked, confused but patted the empty space next to you. “Come here, you can tell me all about it.” You said, watching him slowly walk over to the bed and curl up next to you. He looked at you with innocence in his eyes as he began to talk. “It… it was a normal dream until… u-until my toys… they made me touch a certain part… i-it felt good in the dream… but m-my… thing… it feels weird now… it’s hard and I don’t know why…” He explained, you could see the guilty look in his eyes again as if he did something wrong. You’d been here for so long without a guy that seeing Brahms like this did… something to you. “Oh, Brahms, it’s alright… you didn’t do anything wrong.” You said, resting a hand on his thigh. “Let me help make the feeling go away…” You said, getting a little closer. “You’re gonna show me what to do…?” He asked, clearly relieved that he didn’t do anything wrong. “Well… I can’t exactly show you… I’m a girl so I’m different down there.” You said, watching as his relief turned to confusion. “Different…?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. You nodded and sat on your knees, sliding your nightgown over your head to reveal your body. Brahms looked surprised, one of his hands reached out, clearly curious. “You look so pretty…” He murmured, his hand cautiously grabbed one of your breasts, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You let his hand explore until it reached between your thighs. “You have to ask permission to touch there, Brahms. You don’t want to break any rules, do you?” You asked and he pulled his hand away. “N-no.. I’m sorry.. m-may I touch your… thing? I want know what it feels like…” He asked, trying to look at your face despite his gaze constantly drifting between your thighs. “Yes, you can.” You said, laying down and spreading your legs for him. He moved between your legs, his hand moved to your crotch, his fingers curiously parted your labia. “What’s this…?” He asked, a finger gently prodding at your entrance. “I’m not hurting you… am I…?” He asked, looking at your flushed face. “Not at all.. in fact.. how about you let me see more of you..” You suggested, seeing Brahms get flustered but he moved his hands to his waistband and tugged his pants and boxers down, revealing his erection.

“Good boy.. when you’re done I want you to put your hand’s right here.” You said, gesturing to the spots on either side of your head. Brahms nodded, pulling his shirt off to reveal his soft torso, he didn’t really workout so he didn’t have abs or anything. He put his hands where you instructed him to and looked down at you. “What now…?” He asked, unsure of what you needed him to do. You guided his cock to your entrance. “Move your hips forward and backward..” You instructed and he did as told, his hips moved forward, causing a moan to escape his lips as his cock was buried in your tight heat. You groaned softly, and wrapped your arms around his neck. “That’s it… you’re doing so good…” You praised, encouraging him a bit. Brahms slowly began moving his hips, he was sloppy but trying his best. “L-like this…?” He asked, unsure if he was thrusting correctly. “Just like that… you’re doing great…” You whispered, cheeks flushed slightly as you kissed his his arm, encouraging him a bit. He got a little more confident and began thrusting a little faster, causing him to whimper slightly and you to gasp. “I feel funny… good funny…” He whispered, his thrusts getting more desperate and sloppy. “Wait- Brahms-!” You were about to tell him to pull out but felt warm ropes of cum spurt into you. He panted softly, collapsing on top of you as he hid his masked face in your neck. “Sorry…” He mumbled, wrapping his arms around you…

Originally uploaded to AO3 on my account Fantasy_smut_n_stuff, transferred to Tumblr for fun.

[blondebrainpowered]

The Discovery, 1956

Artist: Norman Rockwell

[env0writes]

I found a piece of your soul Stuck in the text messages of old friends You don’t speak to them anymore. Do you want it back? Keep it I have since grown And healed around what’s removed It shan’t fit me anymore

I’ve kept it as a charm on my phone All the while waiting To return such a precious And fragile thing It does not seem to part from me neither How it ever lost its way from you I was in pieces then And have since puzzled myself together From wayward boxes and texts and telephone calls Made collect at worthwhile expense

Deciding Embers Vol. 5, 12.11.24 “AOL Instant Messenger Killed Cupid but Still Shot Me Before Passing”

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists

[howifeltabouthim]

She missed the childhood she didn't have.

Susan Minot, from Don't Be a Stranger

[fairybonesandstardust]

i saw someone say “you weren’t mature for your age you were a child” and i never emotionally recovered

[silkiecorn]

A comic on why Runaan doesn’t visit

[wesleysniperking]

Usopp and the story of his beloved pet lamb is akin to a classic novel

Usopp will always be multifaceted and complex given what he represents and encompasses. I still haven’t figured him out myself. Yet, I always give him grace and want to further my understanding of him because I care. Therefore, I’d like to communicate another connection that’s been on my mind lately.

So, I want to revisit certain facets of Usopp that make me wonder if Oda intended his storytelling to be even more significant than it appears at face value. Many have discussed this and offered excellent interpretations. Yet, what I’m trying to say is that Usopp and storytelling represent the childlike wonder in all of us. What some may see as immaturity in Usopp isn’t necessarily that.

For instance, with the Going Merry, Usopp was like the protagonist in old books like "The Yearling" and "Old Yeller," where they’re forced to shoot their beloved animal because it keeps eating their family’s crops or has been infected with rabies—situations that are devastatingly inevitable. This is a representation of Usopp up to that point pre-time skip. He had to be that protagonist.

Although "The Yearling" and "Old Yeller" deal with themes of facing reality and a loss of innocence, the act of shooting the animals represents handling it on their own terms. Later, as adults, these protagonists can deal with similar situations with the care they needed when they were younger and faced such paralyzing decisions.

I thought that Water 7 and Enies Lobby was Usopp’s "Old Yeller" and "The Yearling" moment. He had to part with his dear pet lamb because he had to face reality. If people treated Usopp’s letting go of the Going Merry in this way, instead of just seeing it as a guy crying over a ship, the humanist approach would be much more prevalent.

I thought that might have been intentional on Oda’s end, but I can’t read his mind. So, yeah, the Going Merry was like "Old Yeller" and "The Yearling," (or Flag), and Usopp was the boy.

usopp community (it is still a wip but you can post anything)

[snailfan35]

you were a part of me,

you small flower who never got to grow

you could’ve had my curls, tight and never effortless, my birth mark on your ankle, my downturned lips and freckled knees. you could’ve been a writer with an affinity for twirling and taste for pretty boys so bad for you, could’ve been here right now being expected as the guest of honour next christmas.

you were a part of me. that part of me died with you, in a bloody sore mess in the same bathroom i threw up in when i had the bug at age six and on the same tiles i cried on when i was thirteen and alone. that part of me that was you, the part of you i unknowingly gave you that july day when he was bored and i was desperate, it died when you did. painfully, bloodily, irreversibly.

but you were part him too.

you could’ve just as easily had his low laugh, his glass blue eyes, his affinity for music and his calloused hands. you could’ve, would’ve, were, just as much me as you were him, a fifty fifty split creation neither of us wanted and only one of us feels, just as much a part of him as you were a part of me.

so why didn’t part of him die with you that night?

why am i the only one who mourns what we both created and lost before we even knew what to do? why am i the only one who died, just a little bit, at the first sight of the blood on tile?

you are a fifty fifty creation who’s father will never accept your death because he never even accepted your existence and who’s mother stares quietly at every curly haired child with a skip in her step wondering why her body killed you before you even had a chance, a fifty fifty creation one half hates herself for killing and the other half hates for forever tying him to the former as cord does to fetus

my flower, his disowned weed and our shared secret forever buried in a garden only one of us cares to visit

[fortunapre]

something about religious themes/ religious guilt in romance….

i need more recs with this please oh god

[avesindustries]

Chapter 8 - The First to Speak

Not empty. Not quiet.

The opposite of quiet.

Pressure—wrong, artificial pressure—flattening in all directions, as if his body were packed into a space meant for nothing, then told to remember what “body” meant. Every cell boiled. Every bone hummed. He wasn’t born. He was compressed into being.

Then the crack— Not sound. Not really. A high, insectile frequency, like a glass scream from inside the skull, slicing clean through the dark. Not heard—felt. Behind the eyes. Under the tongue. Deep in the meat of the jaw.

Colors poured through the wound.

Not visual. Not symbolic. Sensory compression artifacts. Magenta like infection. Green like chemical burn. Shapes with no edges. Images that bled.

The boy—Subject 3—tried to breathe. There was no air. Just static. Taste of copper. Then movement.

Not gravity. Not space. Something deeper collapsed and pulled him sideways through his own sense of self. The pressure folded, turned sharp, became a spasm that wasn’t pain but wasn’t not.

Information surged. Blinding. Meaningless. Too fast to parse. He felt languages open and close like flowers. Equations. Shapes. Screams. All of it raw, like input with no receptor.

He felt everything—but understood nothing.

And just when the overload seemed infinite, it wasn’t.

Then—

Sunlight.

Real. That’s how it felt. Not processed. Not simulated. Not interpreted through a lens of data compression and nervous system latency.

Real.

Warmth bloomed across his skin like he’d always known it—like it had never been lost. His eyes were closed, but he knew the shape of green above him. Leaves. The texture of bark against one cheek. Wind on skin. A hand in his hair. Steady. Parental. Gentle.

“…my brave little explorer…”

He knew the voice. Safety.

Not a feeling. An architecture. A world constructed around the assumption that he could never be harmed.

The memory didn’t belong here. That’s what made it feel cruel. It didn’t rise like a flashback or dream. It was injected. Pulled forward. Lit up and displayed like a sacred relic. Like bait.

The warmth didn’t fade.

It ripped.

One instant, the world was trees and skin and sun. The next: rupture. A hard yank. Like something cold had seized the thread of his spine and reeled him backward, up through the memory’s throat, out of the lungs of comfort and into something dry and high-frequency.

And something broke.

Not just within the moment—but within him. The boy’s response was not a scream. It was a split. A division between the thing he was and the thing he had been promised he might become.

He did not cry. There was no time. No mechanism. But some part of him, the deepest part, made a vow:

This place would never see his joy. Not ever again.

When the tearing ceased, there was no return—only aftermath.

Silence, yes. But not peace.

Subject 3 hovered in that void, not suspended, not falling—just there. A central knot of awareness within an unrendered space. There was no ground beneath him. No body to hold. No breath to catch. But he was present, and presence, here, was everything.

He didn’t know what this was. He only knew what it wasn’t: the forest. The voice. The hand.

And somehow, knowing that was enough to make this feel like a punishment.

Then—flickers.

Points of otherness. Distant. Faint. Not like him, but not unlike him either. Not memories. Others.

Signals without shape. But they pulsed. Glitched. Stabilized.

Twenty-three of them.

The realization struck with a cold weight: he was not alone in this place. Not singular. One of many. One of the taken.

And they were moving—reaching. Not through words, but through instinct. Through want.

A ripple of blue. A flickering cube of shifting surface. A shape like a beast made of oil and teeth. A child of glass, hollow and lit from within.

They were building themselves.

Constructing avatars from the formless digital substrate. Not because they understood how—but because something in the system permitted it. Encouraged it.

The boy—Subject 3—didn’t move. Didn’t sculpt. Not because he lacked the ability, but because he still remembered.

What they had taken. What he had lost.

Let the others make monsters, totems, symbols of self. He would remain unreadable.

He listened.

And in that silence, where selfhood was still malleable, still being chosen—

Someone spoke. A voice, thin and human and unbearably hopeful:

“Hello?”

He didn’t answer.

Not yet.

It echoed.

Not as sound, but as pressure—as displacement within the void. The word rippled through the unstable fabric, drawing attention like a flare dropped in ink. All at once, the others turned toward it, their newborn shapes fracturing slightly under the strain of response.

Not everyone had words yet. Most didn’t.

Some flared brighter. Others dimmed, shrinking back. One collapsed entirely, its avatar folding into itself like wet paper.

The question wasn’t who spoke. The system knew. Subject 6. A girl. Young. Maybe younger than him. The voice carried nothing distinct—no accent, no defiance. Just hope in its most vulnerable form. A single attempt at contact. A thread cast into the dark.

"Hello?" she repeated, softer. A test. As if even she didn’t believe she had spoken the first time.

No answer.

No one knew the rules here. Not even the ones pretending to.

The system didn't intervene. Didn’t punish. It watched.

Subject 3 said nothing. Not because he was afraid—he wasn’t—but because he understood what words did. Even now. Especially now.

Words bound. Invited. Promised.

He watched the others fumble toward expression. Shifting forms, hesitant gestures, a bloom of color like a child’s drawing smeared across static.

And still: "Hello?"

Three times now. Not for dominance. Not to lead. She simply didn’t want to be alone.

He understood that too well.

But silence, for him, was safer.

She waited. Then dimmed. Folded slightly inward. Not retreating, but… conserving. Preparing for the possibility that she would not be heard.

Subject 3 almost spoke.

[env0writes]

There’s no snow No wintery show No white-washed sound barrier wind to blow There’s no go-ing Out into the quiet of the night on Stowe (court) Where I grew up, and what I truly know

Where is the winter I was promised Quietude across the yard and street Scraped clear every day Resetting the coat like a shaken etch-a-sketch It is not stretch, that I know To say that there’s no Snow

Where have you gone, oh, winter, oh, ice Bring me my longing, frigid and nice

NaNoWriMo Vol. 4, 11.16.24 “There's No Snow”

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!

[howifeltabouthim]

It was not that I thought it was you, but that I knew people like you existed in the world. Who could say we would not encounter another?

Abigail Dean, from The Death of Us

[trashmagic-333]

she’s too pure, for the likes of this world. this world is a whore ♱