#didn't know calling someone a bottom was dehumanizing

[aeosphorite]

Bro this is serious for #them LMAO imagine getting mad over some randos calling her a bottom...

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

Pairing: Yandere!Vil x Reader x Yandere!Rook (TWST).

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Loose Tangled AU, Prolonged Captivity, Violence (Magic and Physical) and Blood, Dehumanization, Imbalanced Power Dynamics, Vil and Rook Are Making Out In The Corner While Reader's Having The Worst Day Of Their Life, and Manipulation.

The arrows hurt more than the fall.

The fall, you’d been expecting. Rook might’ve been able to scale the tower with little more than a dagger, a few footholds chipped into the weathered stone, and a burning curiosity, but you weren’t so graceful, didn't have the luxury of the physique you might've, had you not spent the last eighteen months restrained to a handful of rooms. You knew that you wouldn’t have the time to be as careful as you needed to be, that you’d be fortunate to make it off of your windowsill before losing your grip, and when the time came to let go and pray you broke an arm rather than a leg, you were ready. You could brace yourself. You could see the threat looming ahead of you, and as Vil called your name in the distance, you were able to fall into its open arms of your own volition.

The arrows weren’t something you’d thought to ready yourself for. Vil’s poison, maybe, the weight of his newest curses being etched into the fabric of your being, but not a weapon, not the sting of piercing metal burrowing into the back of your shoulder, then the plush of your side. Even then, you did what you could to keep running, to move forward through the dense forest despite the jagged rocks and winding brambles cutting through the flesh of your bare feet. You didn’t know where you were going, let alone what to do when you reached your nebulous destination, but you didn’t have to. You needed to get away from Vil’s tower – that was it. You could figure out what to do next after you’d escaped him.

With that in mind, you pushed yourself to run faster, to ignore the pain racing through your upper body as you put a few more steps between yourself and the ever-shrinking tower that sat above the treetops, but even that was an effort cut short. There was a bolt of searing pain, a white flash playing across your vision. Your left leg was buckled underneath you, leaving you crumbling to the ground with a broken, ragged scream. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, trying to swallow the sound back before it could force its way out of your chest, but whether or not someone heard you didn’t really matter. You’d seen him shoot hawks out of the sky mid-flight, thread darts through the eye of needles sitting yards away. Rook wouldn’t fire unless he had his target in sight. He’d known exactly where you were the moment drew his bow. This was just his way of letting you believe you’d ever stood a chance.

This was just his way of letting you believe he’d ever been on your side. 

You pulled your injured leg into your chest, fighting to hold back the pained tears welling in the corners of your eyes. You were tempted to stop restraining yourself altogether and cry until the agony subsided, but your hunter emerged from the foliage before you could start to truly wallow if your self-pity. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve approached you silently, been on top of your fallen body before you so much as noticed he was within arm’s length, but Rook made no effort to conceal his presence. If anything, he seemed to want you to know exactly where he was. There was a deep laugh, the muffled sound of a longbow being swung over his shoulder, the feeling of his body blocking out what little light the setting sun still hard to offer, and then, he was crouching in front of you. A gloved hand cupped your chin as he looked down on you with the same adoring, love-stricken expression he always seemed to wear. You’d always done what you could to return it, in the past, to think of it as a glimpse of sunlight in the darkness that was your life with Vil, but now, it was all you could do to glare and look away.

“Merveilleux.” He wasn’t out of breath, but his voice was airy – barely more than a whisper. His leather-wrapped knuckles ran over your cheek, just as slowly and just as adoring as they had on the day you met – the day you’d woken up to the first stranger you’d seen in weeks kneeling at your bedside, idly stroking your hair and complimenting your lovely (albeit, quite difficult to reach) home. You’d tried to warn him away, to tell him what Vil had done to all the other adventurers and heroes who’d so much as approached his tower, but he refused to listen. If Vil hadn’t taken such a liking to him, he’d be little more than a pile of ash you’d have to sweep up the next day, or better yet – another withering rose left in your windowsill to warn away the next intruder. Vil always did have a flair for the romantic, but he and Rook seemed to have that in common.

He'd changed, since that day. When you first met him, he’d been rough around the edges, his hair uncombed and his skin as calloused as it was burnt. His clothes had been nothing short of a travesty – threadbare and ill-fitting, repaired a thousand times over by someone clearly not used to mending. Now, he was just as much of an embodiment of Vil’s ideals as you were: his hair grown out long and restrained by a violet ribbon, his freckles faded and framed by neatly cut bangs, his clothes of all the same dark silks and pristine furs as Vil would’ve chosen for himself. He was as much of a pet as you were, really. The only difference was how enthusiastically Rook embraced his role and how desperately you tried to escape yours.

“In fact,” he went on, his eyes drifting to the arrows still lodged in your back, your thigh. “I don’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful. A damsel pulled from the pages of the most wonderful sort of fairytale, truly.”

“Go fuck yourself.” And then, with a half-choked snarl, “You were supposed to— I thought you were trying to help me—”

“Ah, the searing heat of rage! It shades the color of your eyes with such life.” Rook clicked his tongue, his grin taking on a wry lull. His hand fell from your chin to the collar of your blouse, toying with the mangled fabric as he spoke. “A poor dove, fallen from its nest. Don’t worry, petit oiseau – I’ll make sure you get home before the wolves find you.”

He moved to take you in his arms, but you did what you could to shamble away from him despite your limited mobility. It was difficult to speak, your ribs having taken the brunt of your initial fall and endured further abuse during his first volley of arrows. It was difficult to meet his eyes, knowing what he’d taken away from you, but you forced yourself to do both. You tried to remind yourself that it was still Rook, that you were still facing down the man who’d held you in his arms as you cried, who told you stories of heroes and villains and happy endings when you began to think you might die in captivity, but fond memories were difficult to recall when his arrows were still embedded in your flesh. “You said that— You said that the prince would distract the witch as her captive escaped,” you spat, already aware of how juvenile you sounded, trying your best to stumble through the same story he’d told you a thousand times. You’d taken it as a code, treated it as if you were both colluders in the same scheme, but an ever-growing part of you was starting to think that his stories had only ever been that – stories. “Why didn’t you distract him?” When Rook failed to answer, you bared your teeth. “Were you ever trying to help me escape?”

There was a beat of silence, of stillness. A rabbit rustled somewhere in the underbrush, a robin called out to its mate, and Rook sighed, shaking his head with the kind of humored exasperation a parent might show to a child who just asked about something very, very silly.

He didn’t just toy with your ragged collar, now, but caught it – taking it in his fist and pulling you upright. With his free hand, he took the shaft of the arrow embedded in your shoulder and pulled it free, the head catching under your skin and rendering everything it touched a bloody mess of gore and viscera. The same process was carried out with the arrow embedded in your side, this one accompanied by a searing burn, another second taken to twist the arrowhead free of your skin. You weren’t able to hold back your tears by the end of it, no matter how tightly you clenched your eyes shut, no matter how much it hurt to dig your teeth into the side of your cheek and will yourself not to break down in front of him, not to lose the last semblance of control you had, under Vil’s care.

“I never lied to you,” he said, as he took up the shaft of the third arrow – the one plungest deepest into your thigh. “You know what Vil would do if you didn’t return. I promised you a happy ending, and this is how I intend to give you one.”

With no hesitation, no effort to clot the blood flowing in thick streams from your gaping wounds, he pulled the last arrow free. You let out a fractured wail, doubling over and attempting to curl into yourself, but Rook was already there, already pulling you into his chest as you sobbed openly, freely. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him pull a hunting knife from his belt, the silver of the blade tinted a deep, shimmering violet. You went stiff, but there was little you could do. There was a flash of light caught on steel, a nick of pain in the side of your neck, and then, you were limp in Rook’s arms, quickly losing consciousness as he pulled you against his chest and started towards the tower.

~

You felt velvet against your cheek, first.

Crushed, cool, deceptively soothing – you recognized it immediately, an image of one of Vil’s favored robes surfacing in your mind against your will. Next were the bandages wrapped around your shoulder, your waist, your thigh, then the fur rug underneath you, that of some great beast a would-be hero had once brought to try and rescue you. Vil had wanted to mount the prince’s head on a pike at the base of the tower, but you’d begged him not to, and he’d taken the monstrous stead’s pelt as a trophy, instead.

You took a long, quiet moment to collect yourself, to bask in the last peaceful moment you were likely to have, but your tranquility was quickly interrupted by the feeling of a wooden comb raking through your hair and over your scalp, the teeth dulled by use and the shape familiar enough to make you shudder involuntarily. Vil’s airy laugh played in response, paired with the last traces of Rook’s muttering voice. A new addition, one that left the taste of bile rising up from the back of your throat. One you never wanted to acknowledge again. “I know you’re awake, little one. Might as well face the light now.”

He said that, but when you finally forced yourself to open your eyes, you found that was no light to face aside from the flame of a low-burning candle sitting on a nearby table and the silver-tinted glow emanating from your hair. Clearly, your unconsciousness hadn’t been a good enough reason for Vil not to refresh his eternal youth, tonight.

He’d positioned you as he always did – at his feet, on your knees, with your head resting in his lap. Despite how close you’d come to getting away from him, his expression betrayed no panic, only confident serenity and the slightest trace of smugness. As was to be expected of him. Vil found joy in very little, but somehow, he always seemed to take a certain amount of pride in your defeat.

Your defeat, and your horror. He’d calmed over the course of your captivity, but you could still remember how he’d lorded over you during your first days in his tower, how open he’d been about just how long he’d spent peering your lonely little life in your lonely little cottage, content in the knowledge that no company meant there’d be no one to exploit your magic. Vil hadn’t just ruined that, he’d done it with zeal.

“Raise your head.” It was a command, because Vil didn’t make requests. Reluctantly, you obeyed, and Vil took you by the jaw with one hand, brushing your hair away from your face with the other. Your hair was damp, your ruined clothes exchanged for a black nightdress, simple in design but impeccably crafted. You couldn’t bring yourself to be surprised. Vil’s standards for you were only second to only those he held for himself. It was more than likely that you hadn’t made it more than a step into the tower’s walls before Vil deemed you in need of one of his ice-cold baths and something more presentable to wear. “No cuts,” he went on, turning your head to either side. “But more bruises than I care for. Couldn’t you have been more gentle?”

You opened your mouth, but Rook answered on your behalf. You could remember, only days ago, being thankful beyond words to have a buffer between yourself and Vil, but now, you couldn’t say you felt anything beyond resentment. “The lasting evidence of a struggle can add a rugged undertone to one’s charm. And oh, if only you could’ve seen the way they struggled!” He was behind you, holding you up, on arm wrapped around your waist and his legs spread around you. He leaned forward as he spoke, his chest slotting loosely against your back, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. “It was fantastic, like watching a songbird with a broken wing struggle to fly. The relentlessness of desperation paired with the inevitability of its downfall - truly magnifique!”

That earned another laugh, a row of jewel-tipped fingers raked through Rook’s hair. “I’d prefer to keep my songbird in one piece.” And then, after a slight pause, “In spite of that songbird’s best efforts to snap its own neck, of course.”

You shrunk into yourself. You’d tried to escape before, to pick the lock on your bedroom or poison his tea or, on one memorable occasion, to steal the spell book he always seemed to keep at his waist, and there’d always been a punishment to accompany your misbehavior – a crop taken to your back or one of your few privileges revoked. You couldn’t imagine what he’d do to you, this time. You couldn’t imagine that anything could’ve been worse than finally getting out of his tower only to be dragged back and deposited into his arms. “I’m sorry,” you managed, eventually, with only the intent of lessening whatever rage he must’ve held for you. “I… Rook is right. It was futile. I shouldn’t have tried to run.”

“And?”

And? There’d never been an and, before. When you could bring yourself to offer an apology, he’d always either accepted it ouright, ignored you completely, or clicked his tongue and promised that hollow words wouldn’t be enough to prove your remorse. You pursed your lips, but made yourself force something out. Silence would be seen as disobedience, and further disobedience would only make things worse for you. “And, it was short-sighted. I wouldn’t have gotten very far, and even if Rook hadn’t found me, I don’t know where we are. I wouldn’t know how to fend for myself. I—” Your voice cracked, your vision starting to blur once more. “I shouldn’t have gotten carried away by stories and fairy tales. I’m sorry.”

Vil let out a labored, languid sigh. There was one more squeeze to your cheeks, and finally, he let you go, setting down his comb in the same fluid movement. There was a small smile, a tap to his thigh, and Rook drew back just far enough to let you push yourself to your feet. Your legs immediately gave out, but Rook was fast enough to catch you, close enough to lower you into Vil’s lap himself and drink in the appreciative hum Vil offered, by way of reward.

“That’s very sweet,” he started, once you’d settled against him. Rook continued to hover above you, but you did your best to ignore him. “But I want you to apologize to our dear hunter, too.”

Something bitter leeched up from the back of your throat. You opened your mouth as you turned to face Rook, but closed it as soon as you saw him, as soon as you caught a glimpse of that careless grin, those half-lidded eyes. For as hesitant as you were to approach him, you snapped toward Vil reflexively, unable to stifle your reactions. “But, he doesn’t use my—”

“He went through so much to bring you home.” He’d shot three arrows. He’d tracked you like a wild animal. He’d brought you back to Vil after promising that he’d help you get away from Vil – after promising that he’d make sure you got your happy ending. “And he’s been so patient with you, since he joined us. Not just anyone can bear your sulking.”

You tried to protest, but your voice caught in your throat. It was more disbelief, than anything – another variable you hadn’t thought would hurt quite as much as it did. Vil scoffed, and Rook gave you a sympathetic smile, and you sat there, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“He lied to me,” you managed, finally. “He said he would help me escape.”

Vil’s lips quirked downward. You saw his fingers twitch, his spell book pulse with a sickly emerald light, but rather than summon a poison-coated dagger or turn you into some chirping, cage-bound bird for the next day or so, he looked towards Rook, more trust in his eyes than he’d ever afforded you.

You felt sick.

“I said that our ending would be a happy one. The poor dove must’ve misinterpreted what I meant by that.” It would’ve been a mercy if the affection dripping from his tone turned out to be ingenuine. It would’ve been a mercy, to find out he was only ever trying to hurt you. “I hoped that I might be to stay with the two of you – at least for a time. If you think I might be a bad influence,” A flash of a grin, a length of blonde hair allowed to fall over one of his eyes, “Then I only ask that you allow me the time I’ll need to savor a death by your hands properly.”

There was a bark of a laugh, a sharp snap of Vil’s fingers. Your eyes dropped to the floor as Vil caught Rook’s tunic in his chest and pulled him closer, as he’d done with you a thousand times. Fabric rustled against fabric, mouths crashed into mouths, but you willed yourself to ignore it, to just bite your tongue and be thankful that Vil’s attention wasn’t centered on you. To be grateful that you weren’t the only one stuck in this cage, anymore. You tried to be grateful. You wanted to be grateful.

And yet, you couldn’t seem to convince yourself that Rook was a prisoner, rather than yet another lock hanging from the bars of your cage.

[babybatscreationsv2]

Upskirt ch1

Marvel | Starker

Someone has been taking pictures up Peter's skirt when he's not looking and poor Peter has found their blog.

**This fic now has 8 parts

Rating: Explicit

Warnings under the cut

Warnings: romnoncon, femboy!Peter, use of feminine terms for male biology, public sex/groping, underage, humiliating/dehumanizing language

Peter scrolled down the webpage. His mortification only grew as it went on and on. Each picture was so clear. So unmistakable. He recognized each one. Those were his skirts. His panties. That freckle on the inside of his left thigh.

Someone had been taking upskirt pictures of him.

Some of them looked like the halls at school. Some were in a classroom. One looked to be taken on the subway. Most of them you couldn't tell, but whoever it was followed him from his home to school and had classes with him. That was a very wide pool. He could think of quite a few kids who lived on his block let alone all of Queens.

He looked at one picture in his favorite pale blue panties. They were soft and comfortable and if he moved just right while he hard he could cum just from rubbing against them. In fact, in the picture they looked a little damp. It wasn't out of the ordinary for him to be hard at school and in panties like those he might have leaked a little.

His pictures, every single one of them, had hundreds of likes. He tried to stop himself, but he opened up the comments.

What a whore getting wet at school bet he's got a tight little pussy

Slut

Wish i went to school with this boy

Make him suck your cock in class next time

Peter swallowed. His hand wandered between his legs without him even thinking about it. He looked at more comments on more pictures. Most of them were the same, calling him degrading names, talking about how hot he was. But after the first few pictures, the poster started to write their own fantasies.

One of these days I'm going to stick my hand up his skirt. Bet he'd let me.

I'm gonna fuck him on the subway and make my cum drip out of his hole all day.

I swear I could smell his precum when he walked past me today. 

I'm gonna bend him over my desk in front of everyone. Fuck him right there in his stupid little skirt. Make him cum in his panties and wear my cum on his face.

Peter bit down on his bottom lip, silencing himself as he came all over his own lap. He needed to know who was taking the pictures. To stop them, obviously... not because he wanted it.

He checked the blog every day. Several times a day in fact, but it didn't update. Was the poster out sick? Peter hadn't noticed anyone missing. It was so long before there was an update that he almost forgot all about the blog. Then on the subway, packed in at too early in the morning, someone grabbed his ass under his skirt.

He froze in place as he processed what had happened. There was no mistaking it. That had been a full palmed squeeze. He licked his lips. He wanted more of that. He wanted it so bad. He didn't turn around for fear of scaring them off, but he should have. He knew it wasn't right and he should have turned around, but he just didn't want to.

Later that day on the upskirt blog, were two new posts. First a video. He could see a hand slowly reach for the back of his skirt. He lifted it just a little so the camera could see the globes of his ass. His panties had been a tighter pair that day, defining his ass a little more. Then that delicious delightful hand grabbing a handful of his ass.

Finally. He's so fucking soft. That ass is to die for. Just wait until I'm spanking it.

Peter shivered. He ground himself against his palm thinking about that hand on his ass again. It had felt so good.

The next post was another upskirt pic. Peter blushed to see that his panties were soaked. There was no mistaking the wet spot.

You liked me touching you. Didn't you slut? Why don't you turn around and beg for it next time?

He wished he was brave enough. Until then, this was all he had.

Peter bought new panties. These ones were tighter. Some were lacy. Some were thongs. He couldn't wait for his anonymous photographer to see them.

He was wearing lacy ones the next time he touched them. They were squished in on the subway again when a hand slipped up his skirt. He held still, pretending he didn't notice. A fingers slipped under the edge of the lace an ran over his skin. Then the hand went away. Peter ached for it.

The touches became a morning ritual. So he wore a thong next. He was nervous about it, but his friend seemed pleased. He slipped his finger under the string and rubbed his hole. Peter rocked against it, forgetting their game and the hand went away. He panicked all day long, but then the post was there.

Looks like our little slut likes getting his hole played with. Maybe he likes all of the attention he's getting. Should I show him the pictures?

Peter's heart raced. He wanted to beg for it. Whoever this guy was, he wanted to fuck him so bad. He didn't even care who it turned out to be.

The next day, he didn't get groped on the train. It happened in the hall between classes. He almost tripped over his feet, but he stopped just in time and who ran into him but his Engineering teacher, Mr. Stark.

"Excuse me," he coughed. He patted Peter on the shoulder. "You okay, kid?"

Peter stared. His face turned red. It couldn't be. "Uh- yeah! Sorry, Mr. Stark. I tripped."

"Happens to the best of us. Be careful out there." He shot him a wink that he felt in his toes. Then he walked away. Peter pushed through the crowd to get to his next class. His heart was racing. It couldn't have been Mr. Stark. It had to be a coincidence.

The blog was updated again. It was a picture from the hallway right before Peter tripped. Of course he still wasn't sure who it was behind the camera, but the fantasy that went with it...

Every time I see those innocent eyes I can hardly restrain myself. I bet you've only ever been touched by your little highschool boys. I can show you so many things, sweetheart. 

[nonbinarynightmarefuel]

"No uterus, no opinion" and other ways to say cismen shouldn't dictate abortion access

1. There are women who presumably do have uteruses that want abortion to be widely inaccessible. Based on the data, they are admittedly few and far between, but they exist and one of them was a driving force behind the overturn of Roe v Wade. As far as I know, Amy Coney Barrett has a uterus.

2. LGBTQIA+ can have a uterus and be non-women. This is more for those cases of "men shouldn't have a say." Some men have uteruses. Some intersex and nonbinary people have uteruses. Everyone with a uterus should get to make the rules of their uterus, woman or not.

3. AFAB/intersex LGBTQIA+ people who no longer have uteruses shouldn't be excluded from the conversation. Just because someone who was born- and even lived with, for years- a uterus no longer has one, does not mean they are unqualified to have opinions on the existence of laws and statutes surrounding them. A trans man whose had a radical hysterectomy and bottom surgery is allowed to have opinions about abortion. He may have even had one, or had children prior to surgery.

4. Cis women sometimes do not have uteruses (at all, or any more) and they deserve the right to chime in on abortions. It's kind of dehumanizing to imply that women who don't have a uterus don't get to speak about abortion access, especially when you're spouting non-stop "men don't get an opinion, nobody with a uterus does." Not having a uterus can also be a major point of contention in some women's lives. Most cis women without a uterus didn't become that way by choice.

5. Not every person with a uterus is able to become pregnant. If you've had a bilateral oophorectomy, there's no eggs to fertilize. The fact that a person has a womb does not mean they should be able to control whether other people get abortions, especially if they're physically unable to become pregnant and therefore extremely unlikely to need one. Anecdotally, women who can't have kids are very hostile toward those who have them accidentally or terminate pregnancies.

6. You can get pregnant without a uterus. If you have ovaries, you can get pregnant whether you have a uterus or not. If you've had a total hysterectomy, you still have ovaries. Pregnancy without a uterus is dangerous, it's called an extrauterine pregnancy or an ectopic pregnancy. It happens when the zygote implants into the wall of the fallopian tubes, intestinal tract, or literally anywhere else it ends up in the body cavity because it didn't end up in the uterus. It will inevitably rupture the tissue it implanted in and the person will bleed to death if immediate care isn't administered. People with no uterus who are pregnant are among those who rely the most heavily on Roe v Wade. To exclude their opinions because they have no uterus is egregious garbage.

7. Having a uterus just doesn't correlate to whether you're allowed to have an opinion on abortion. Everyone is allowed an opinion, and the opinions that matter are the ones of people who are able to become pregnant - whether that's a woman or a non-woman, a person with a uterus or a person without a uterus.

8. Having an opinion, valid or otherwise, or abortion doesn't mean anything because nobody should be allowed to regulate whether a pregnant person is allowed to terminate a pregnancy. Especially if it means doctors can't give life-saving care to their patients. It's unethical.

[alexandraisyes]

(For pre-clarification this reblog isn't directed to you, Mod)

Alex if you're reading this BLAH BLAH BLAH GET MY FUCKING NAME OUT OF YOUR FILTHY WHORE MOUTH

Those were not statements. You came into my territory, insulting my friends, calling me names, invalidating my sexuality, and just generally having terrible grammar. That's harassment.

And guess what? Your "targets" are my friends. Cause the world isn't fucking black and white. A good amount of the people who you have harassed and continue to harass are my friends. Because I don't give a flying fuck if someone ships solarmoon or not. Because I don't care about ships. Because I don't ship solarmoon. I have friends in every fucking corner of this fandom but yours because I enjoy the company of respectable people, which you are not.

I consider those posts to be attacks against me because they invalidate and dehumanize me as an aroace individual, as someone who cares about the safety of others, and grossly misportray what my standards are because your group knows nothing about me.

Don't fucking group me in with that post, I didn't touch it with a 10-foot-pole. I never interacted with it once, I fucking ignored its existence. Don't fucking credit me for shit, because I've done nothing but been forced to fucking comply to other people's demands because of damage you caused. Guess what? Biased and Lux never would have been a fucking issue if you did what we said in the first place and STOPPED FUCKING HARASSING PEOPLE.

HARASSMENT IS NEVER OKAY.

Don't thank me for shit because I despise you and your existence. You are the scum on the bottom of my shoe that I scrape off with disdain on the curb to be washed away by the elements. Your entire existence is what led to the events that took place last month, so yes, you did fucking ruin us.

Delete your account, get off Tumblr, and leave everyone the fuck alone. Submit yourself to severe inpatient hospitalization at a psychiatric ward and take a few months to become a better person. Because right now the only thing you're worth is the rot of festering maggots as they swarm your future corpse, leaving you beyond recognition as they feast on your putrid flesh.

https://www.tumblr.com/sams-venting/761906349902905344/your-post?source=share

That's not harassment. Those were statements from my members. We haven't messaged them since then. As for infamousdoctor whatever the hell their username is, I sent one statement about why they're trying to help our targets who hate the ship they love, in which case it was SolarMoon. We haven't said anything to them since then.

Alex, if you're reading this, we aren't the one going around pretending to be associated with you and the others. We've seen the idiot who's doing it. None of my members type like that. Notice how we never attacked you, Ceph, Dana, and the others. Notice how we only sent a few statements to you and some of the others. We haven't even sent anything at all to Ceph and Dana. It's because you people have helped us go further without you knowing it. That "gore anons are a hoax" post that you guys shared around? The statement from EC that you got? The posts from EC and QueenKat on X due to the situation you and the others went through because of Shattered-Sparks? The recent podcast video? All of those have helped us because you and the others made it possible. Because your influences made it possible, especially Ceph's following. Thank you, really. And I hope you stop your nonsense about claiming us as that idiot trying to ruin you and the others.

Imagine sounding cringier than Nexus