#fragility and malleability

[liskantope]

I saved this in my drafts folder when I first saw it (then hit one of my little Tumblr Slumps and am only getting around to reblogging now) because the content of the OP intersects with multiple of my pet issues that come up on this blog. I think I disagree with this on quite a fundamental level from more than one angle. I'm not sure, especially just coming out of said Tumblr Slump, how far I can dig into my objections here, but I will say that a lot of it has to do with the phrase "fundamentally traumatizing": if this were replaced by "fundamentally abusive" for instance (which, in the context of the nearby discourse at the time, would be a logical choice) I would be at least 50% on the same page, if not roughly in agreement, with the OP. But, "traumatizing" refers directly to the effect on the recipient of some treatment (as opposed to "abusive" describing the treatment itself, regardless of how the recipient reacts to it), so it seems outright contradictory to say "such-and-such situation is inherently traumatizing even though most people in it turn out fine". (That is, unless we take an extremely loose definition of trauma as "leaving a permanent mark on someone" which, how could one possibly conceive of a mode of parenting or education that doesn't leave permanent marks in one way or another?)

The rest of my disagreement has to do with my conception of how humans' fragility or ability to cope with different types of difficult environments and situations isn't nearly as fixed as it seems to be implicitly assumed underneath the flavor of argument I see in the OP, and that in particular the capacity to be traumatized by certain things is probably extremely malleable under cultural framing/discourse: for instance, as we continue to make moral progress as a society, we will view more and more aspects of traditional parenting and schooling as messed up, but along with our collective awareness of this will come a greater capacity to be traumatized, develop issues in general, and (rightly or wrongly) blame those issues on parenting and school. And if indeed we're becoming more easily traumatized as society's treatment of children becomes softer (as it certainly already has -- both parenting practices and school were a lot more harsh, say, a century ago!), it's wrong to say that these practices at a certain time are such-and-such degree of "inherently traumatizing". Rather, it seems that the exact same treatment may be evaluated as more or less traumatizing in different times/places/cultures.

As a slightly tangential final note, I think discussions on here tend to get tinted by the fact that Tumblr is a place where most people did not turn out okay and have a tendency to blame their parents and what they were subjected to by the basic nature of school (depending on the individual circumstances, the placement of this blame may be more justified or less justified, although if someone makes a connection between their own issues and stuff they were subjected to by their parents / school there is at least some truth in blaming them). I suspect in general (absolutely not pointing a finger at the OP in particular, who I barely know at all) that this plays a role in finding assertions like "school / being typically parented can be fundamentally traumatizing even though most people turn out okay from it" attractive: it comes across to me as essentially "I can acknowledge that most people turned out better off than me from this bad circumstance but they don't count in evaluating the degree of its badness".

i think when people say something like "well, our current societal standard method of parenting can't be fundamentally traumatizing when most people turn out okay" or indeed say much the same about any basic aspect of our society (school/work/the medical system/etc is so normal and commonplace, it can't be traumatic, everyone turns out basically fine) they might perhaps be wise to remember that for the vast majority of human history every second child died and every fourth child died in infancy and while nowadays we would recognize any parent losing a child, let alone multiple, as something horrifically traumatizing it was also the norm for literally thousands and thousands of years of human history

[fluffle-writes]

Hey, I just remembered something about Octavinelle. They have these slimy substance on them. In Azul’s ceremonial robe vingtte he and the twins try to come up with something for Vil. Long story short they used Floyd’s slime to make something(I forgot what it was.) anyway for your Weirdcore AU maybe you could use the slime somehow in their design.

OMG WAIT I REMEMBER THAT - I RECENTLY READ THAT VIGNETTE! THEY WRUNG HIM OUT LIKE A WET CLOTH TO MAKE A TONER/MOISTURISER LMFAO

That's a good idea lol. Perhaps I can try to make a sorta shiny effect on their skin so that they look unnaturally shiny, if that makes sense? Plus some sorta gloopy slime-like texture may work!

[linklore]

ok the potential argument of centaurs having more weight on their forehand = more potential pain is kind of. wrong??? i know human torsos are kinda heavy but theyre not really any heavier than a horse's head and neck considering the amount of muscle in them, and most of their weight is carried on the forehand anyway. they're built for that shit already, and if a centaur is also moving properly biomechanically (aka not being heavy on the forehand) they're not really gonna have that many issues. i understand wanting to figure out anatomy logistics, and i agree, its interesting, but in this case it just doesnt make sense to give them more problems

[keen-eye]

is there anything better than animosity and intense sexual tension between two hot women. revolutionary stuff you guys

[crustyfloor]

Sua looks so passive in this comic the whole time, letting herself be touched and worshipped and moved around like a pretty doll, Mizi's dress doesn't even really fit her, I think that's meant to emphasize her fragility and how small she is because Mizi sees her as so beautiful and breakable underneath her, she's drawn to Sua's fragility and unthreatening demeanor. It's actually very reminiscent of how she's treated by the aliens, like a little snow doll, delicate and brittle, dressed in white frilly dresses too big and too loose on her, yk. Mizi even speaks to her like she's an "adorable" doll. In the underlying message, I think this does well to portray how Mizi sees Sua, and it conveys a part of how Mizi and Sua perpetuate the same hurt and abuse they go through. Although Mizi's thought process is unintentional, it's dehumanizing. Mizi reveres Sua like a god, points out her fragility. Like what I said in my last post, the aliens became a blueprint for Mizi's understanding of love and what she wanted to find in it, even if she bitterly knew how belittling it felt to be treated like a toy by the aliens, her coping mechanism for these expectations she had placed on her and the discomfort she felt was finding comfort in projecting that onto Sua, making it so that she's the one in control over a malleable doll-like person and treating them gently even with the knowledge that she was so, easily, at her whims. And Sua is so easily adept at fitting that role for Mizi's idealistic reality and dream, no matter if they hurt each other. Indulging in that facade of control, that bubble of naivety and agency that Sua created for them both to escape in, lying to each other with facades and selfishness, and finding escape and comfort in it

[rowarn]

hi im rowan and im here to talk to u about

soft-hearted, concerned!simon with a size kink.

afab!reader, no prns, size kink, cunnilingus, fingering, possessive!simon for flavor <3 MDNI

on one hand, he's obsessed with the size difference. like OBSESSED. the second he set his eyes on u he was enamored. u were so sweet and seemed so, so fragile next to the battle hardened soldier. you had ur first date, ur second, third and so on.

all he could think about was spreading u open beneath him on his bed, his sheets soaked in your arousal, his pillow clenched in your firsts as you trembled underneath his touch.

he rubbed himself raw imagining pinning you down and squeezing is fat, heavy cock into the tiny, tight clutch of your pretty cunt. he nearly drooled all over himself when he was daydreaming about it in the middle of the day.

he always knew he had a bit of a thing for size differences between him and his partner but with you...it was out of control.

but on the other hand...he was so worried about hurting you. it would be such a big stretch to fit all of him — would you even be able to fit every inch? he doubted it. at least not without some tears and winces and that was not part of his fantasy.

if you were gonna cry it was going to be from how hard he made you cum. not bc his too big cock hurt you ):

so when he finally had you naked and at his mercy, he was at a crossroads; indulge his fantasy and fuck you open or let the overly concerned, protective side of himself win?

unfortunately for you, the concern won.

it took so long for him to finally give you his cock. for weeks he stuck to eating you out, fingering you, letting you give him handjobs — never blowing him!! u might choke ): poor thing.

he was working you open methodically as the days went by. stuffing you full of his tongue, one finger, two, and finally three. you'd tremble, gush, and cry as he made you cum over and over day after day to make you nice and malleable for when he finally would sink into you.

you were nearly in tears when you approached him one evening, dressed in one of his old army t-shirts that you had pulled out of the abyss of his closet.

you so sweetly requested that he finally fuck you, that you were tired of only getting his mouth and fingers. you wanted all of him.

simon got hard so fast he was worried about the blood rushing south too fast.

that was all he needed before you were trapped underneath his behemoth form. and before you knew it, you were creaming around his cock right at the base the second he sunk into you.

the obsession he had immediately grew into an addiction <3

[pawberri]

If the autistic model of furry is a highly sensory experience, one focused on the flesh and blood experience of having fur, fangs, ears, etc, the schizotypic experience is one of abstraction. The schizotypic furry is almost anti-sensory. It is anti-reality, constantly shifting and transforming. It's form focuses on fur where convenient, but may have sections of fur that are so smooth they seem more like skin. There is less focus on anatomy. The schizotypic furry is an amalgamation of traits preferred by the creator and combined so as to remove the furry from the confines of "animal." The autistic fursona may have distinctly non-human facial structure, defined fur, something that tethers it to a sensory reality that can accommodate the uniquely sensory experience and feelings of non-humanness that is characteristic of the autistic experience. The schizotypic fursona may be flat faced, reflecting neither human nor animal, and a gelatinous smoothness.

The schizotypic and autistic furry both share a fantasy of escaping from the human form, but the schizotypic furry shows a desire for an escape from any physical existence at all. The schizotypic furry is non-representational because all representation is a burden to the schizotypic individual. All sensory reality seeks to deny the fragile self of the schizotypic, and so all sensory reality must be softened or denied. This nebulousness may extend to imagining the fursona without organs or underlying anatomy, perhaps substituting "candy gore"-meat or creating a shape-shifting creature that is purely malleable slime. The shizotypic may enjoy toons, chibis, or mascots precisely for their impossibility, the way that each part of their visual vocabulary is an iteration of an iteration, no longer echoing it's extent inspiration.

^ i saw this in my notes app

[luunaz]

Stay in your arms LADS Boys [Rafayel]

pairing: Rafayel x reader

type: fluff 🌸

an: a few short stories about how guys don't want to let you out of their arms. But their thoughts are not always innocent

Masterlist | Xavier Zayne

— Do you really think that inspiration will come to you if you hug me for hours? — you asked, sitting in Rafayel's arms. You were practically lying on top of him while the man's hands gently stroked your stomach.

— Of course! Every artist has a muse that inspires him to create works of art. I'm sure I'll create something incredible if you're in my arms, — Rafayel replied. He rested his chin on top of your head and closed his eyes. A smile appeared on his lips.

Rafayel was too clingy today. He hasn't let you go a step since morning: he hugged you when you were cooking breakfast, he held your hand while you were eating, and now, when you wanted to read a book in peace, he holds you in his arms.

Not to say that you were against it. His touch is always so gentle and affectionate, as if you were made of the most fragile material. But when Rafayel's fingers moved from your stomach a little lower, you realized that his intentions were not as innocent as you had assumed at the beginning.

— Hey! — you jokingly hit his hand. You couldn't see Rafayel's face, but you were sure he was pouting now. He sighed in disappointment.

— I need inspiration, cutie,— Rafayel grumbled.

Unwilling to give up, he ran his palm over your thigh. Leaning closer to your ear, he kissed you gently. He bit your earlobe, giving you goosebumps. It's almost impossible to resist Rafayel's charm, so you succumbed to him. Arching up, you leaned your head back against his shoulder. The book that was in your hands a moment ago was thrown somewhere to the side. You wrapped your arms around the man's neck. You felt Rafayel's lips break into a smile when he touched your jaw. His hands slowly moved to your chest. Rafayel left gentle kisses on your neck and shoulder. There was care and gentleness in his every move. It seemed like he was everywhere: on your chest, thighs, neck, and completely in your thoughts.

— That's different, cutie, — Rafayel said, and without any hesitation, he lifted your T-shirt, touching your bare skin. His movements were gentle and precise. Being an artist, he knew perfectly well how to handle a malleable material like you. Will he ever be able to create something as beautiful?

[makeyoumine69]

Being Bateman's Tradwife | NSFW HEADCANON

Pairing: Patrick Bateman x gn!Reader

CW: SMUT, Romance and mostly Fluff

Song Rec: Isabel LaRosa — i'm yours

A/N: This is dedicated to @batemans-malewife, I hope you like it, my dear friend! If you find any mistakes regarding gn!reader, please let me know.

At first, the whole idea of being a tradwife made you nervous, especially when Patrick insisted that you quit your job and let him take care of all aspects of your life; not to mention his complex personality and unhealthy perfectionism in almost...everything?

But then, when you finally decided to give it a try, the hurricane of domestic life consumed you faster than you could imagine, and you didn't notice how you got used to making him breakfast in the morning before he went to work.

Bateman would watch you float around his modern kitchen like a fairy, wearing something neat and tight that would make him hard even after the morning sex you had a few moments ago; his hazel eyes would peer over the Times he was reading, not missing a sway of your delicious hips. And when Patrick would trap you between his massive frame and the kitchen counter, you would just gasp and smile innocently, pretending you were not seducing him all this time.

Romance. Oh, sometimes Bateman could be such an old-fashioned romantic, who loved to give you flowers, lingerie and various other gifts because he wanted nothing more than to make his dear wife happy; although his generosity was charming, there were moments when you found it embarrassing, particularly when Patrick took you to Tiffany & Co. and asked you to pick out any jewelry you liked. After all, Bateman enjoyed spoiling you because he COULD afford it.

Living under the same roof as Bateman meant being ready to be caught by him anywhere—even if you were just going to take a shower, this man would catch you there too, hugging you from behind and pressing your wet body against his strong one, kissing your neck while his hard length rubbed between your legs, turning you both to the point of no return when your single moan was enough to ignite his desire.

"Mmhhm-Patrick..." The way you called out his name drove him absolutely crazy, especially with your eyes closed like that, Bateman couldn't resist it.

"Fuck, you look so cute like that," he purred in your ear before tugging gently on your hair to make you arch your back. "Spread your legs wider, yeah, just like that," his praise was sweet as honey, warming your heart and inducing you to forget how to breathe. "Uh, such an obedient little Bunny."

The way his thick cock brushed over your ass would set your body on fire, his tight embrace would make you feel so small and fragile but at the same time so protected and cherished; it was the best feeling in the world to be held in the arms of your beloved man.

Hot and bothered, Bateman would nip at your shoulder blade and give himself a few hard strokes before leisurely pushing himself into your tight hole, relishing the way you clung to his brawny biceps and gasping at how perfectly he was stretching you from the inside out.

"Mmm-so good, you feel so fucking good," his low groan echoed off the shower walls, mingling with the sound of the flowing water. "Relax, honey, I got you."

And he really meant it when he said those words. 

Every time you had sex and Patrick saw you struggling to take his huge dick, he would soothe you, but never stop ramming into your malleable flesh, forcing your legs to shake and your throat to spasm in lewd whimpers.

This man was everything to you, and you were everything to him.

Waking each other up by giving oral pleasure would become your favorite ritual that would help you unleash your carnal desires, because there was nothing shameful about making the person you loved feel as good as possible.

Bateman's breath would hitch at the touch of your wet tongue on his swollen tip as you lapped at it like a curious kitten, your coy ministrations would amuse him but at the same time they would be the most powerful fuel for his arousal.

On top of that, there would be evenings of watching his favorite slasher movies, which would turn into something spicy as soon as you snuggled up against his broad chest, seeking protection because you were scared. Patrick would make you sit on his lap and kiss you so passionately that you would moan into his mouth, spurring him on to use his hands more brazenly, squeezing your ass and hips without shame.

And if you were jealous, he wouldn't punish you for it, no. It would boost his ego for sure, but he would do his best to show you that you are the only one he desires at all costs. Bateman would worship every little part of your body or fuck you senseless if it would help demolish any silly thoughts about you not deserving him.

"Baby, look at me," Patrick mused, cupping your sad face in his big palms. "I want you to remember what I'm about to say."

Lowering your head, you closed your eyes for a second before finally daring to look into his dark ones. "I'm sorry to bring this up again. It's just..."

"Shhh, baby, listen," his voice became even more affectionate after your words. "You are my darling, my beautiful wife. I chose you and I don't need anyone else," Bateman's hand slowly traced your cheek, wiping away your shimmering tears. "Because I've found myself in you."

To prove his words, the man sealed your lips with a kiss full of love and tenderness, constantly caressing your face and holding you close.

The two of you wouldn't even remember how long you stayed like that on the Manhattan Bridge, hugging each other so tightly as if you were two magnets. Even if the whole world was against you, you would always have each other, and that was the only thing that mattered.

Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!💕 [MAIN M-LIST] 🪓 [KO-FI]

[prettycottonmouthlamia]

Before I end up making that post I want to talk about briefly with the release of IS5 again, the concept of each IS havin a fundamental theme of unreality to them. I really like this, because it feels like in a pretty unsubtle way a solid way to ground the structure of a roguelike setting into what is normally a pretty grounded storyline.

IS1, Ceobe's Fungimist (please Hypergryph let it return), is a hallucination caused be Ceobe eating weird forest mushrooms. Nothing that happens in IS1 is real, explicitly. However, IS1 is fundamentally drawing from something, and in Ceobe's case, it seems to be drawing from her memories of traveling abroad Terra looking for the origins of her axe (and food, of course). What are things Ceobe's remembers happening to her, what are hallucinations filing in the gaps, and what are Ceobe catching glimpses of fundamental truths of the world (the Black Procession and the Feranmut skeleton that is Maybe? Lifebone for instance) is left extremely vague. Characters such as the Frozen Monstrosity do seem to genuinely exist, but there was no Frozen Monstrosity in Lungmen. Was Ceobe using something she herself experienced in place of Frostnova, or is Ceobe hallucinating the entire thing regardless? Who knows. Ceobe probably doesn't have the answers for you.

IS2 has explicit themes of madness and deception, and although I do not find him a particularly compelling character or plot device, a playwright who can literally warp reality with his plays. Much of the stage design recycles echoes the stage design from IS1, almost as if the Troupe is welcoming you, the player, onto their stage. You aren't here to discern the truth behind the Troupe, you're here to save one man, and while you are able to peel back the curtains somewhat, you never really do learn what the Troupe is. There are puppets who come to life and whose music damages your souls, there are actors driven so fully into their roles that they end up traveling to Sami to carry out their destined end, there's a Troupe Leader whose defining imagery is puppets and strings, and yet, you're no closer to finding out how this all happened than you are trying to explain why the Knights' Duel node exists.

IS3 asks the question "What if time is like evolution?" and presents its unreality in the form of a sprawling, massive bundle of alternative timelines to your own. It feels almost impossible to line up most of the events and memory mappings and endings on top of each other, and even the endings seemingly branch off into several versions of themselves. While, for example, the Irene encounter maps onto her own memory mapping story, we never see the timeline involving Lumen's memory mapping in the game at all. There is no Seaborn version of Gladiia in-game for you to fight. This is made seemingly all the more uncanny by the fact that there is actually a canon timeline going on, and the implication through the Bosky event that you are only seeing these alternative timelines because curiosity got the better of you. You came into contact with technology alien and yet familiar, and as a result, your good little timeline where you just save a girl who tries to commit identity death turns into you having to watch from the third person a version of the world where you and Mizuki are potentially the only intelligent life left on Terra for all eternity.

(No seriously, this ending is fucked up, what the fuck.)

IS4, on the other hand, gives us a reality that is unraveling, so fragile and malleable that you can cause things to manifest out of sheer force of will, something there are explicit warnings about not doing. It's a land where the living become the shambling, almost mechanical dead, and the mechanical being living creatures. It's a world where the abyss looks back at you, and finds you to be worth destroying. Gravity isn't right, time isn't right, language isn't right, snow falls black and the dead rise once again to beckon you home. There's nightmares in the shadows, and they're eating away at everything.

Sorry shit I got dark there. IS5 is Nymph's happy little storytime where she explores future and alternative versions of Kazdel through the imagination of her and her compatriots. What if Theresis and Theresa worked together and Nasti completed her designs (and maybe committed a genocide????) and Kazdel was a flying utopia city? What if the Teekaz all walked in a different direction and became the Sankta, or all became the Anasa? You know, sometimes you lose your sense of reality and become dependent on the visions you see from the Revenants, sometimes you need a little bunny to pull you out, and sometimes those Revenants might have actually caused a new reality to exist but haha, don't worry about that.

What if, hahaha, just saying what if, there was a version of Amiya in a world where the Sarkaz barely exist, where she was given the crown by a dying Theresa with no guidance on how to use it ethically? Haha I mean, what if Kal'tsit wasn't around? What if, just theoretically, there was a version of Amiya for whom the most formative person in her life was the decaying mind of a man stuck as an AI program who kept his people alive for 10,000 years? What if, hehehehe you know, what if, there were special endings you got for each of the stories you told where you went onto fight her, showing up closing up those stories, those worlds, to eternally protect them until she can find the answer to all troubles? What if the Sarkaz prophecy from Chapter 7 kept coming up, over and over again, the prophecy of an Amiya who would melt millions of lives into memories over and over again? What if this was an Amiya so immediately dangerous that the Sankta version of Buldrokkas'tee doesn't hesitate in trying to kill her?

I mean that would be a really scary story if it was true. Really it's Nymph's special storytime with the revenants. Don't worry about it.

Anyways I love pretty much each of these takes (IS2 is definitely the weakest though) and it shows a lot of thought from the storywriters about how they wanted to integrate a roguelike mode into their game.

[concretejunglefm]

vampire!Noah feeds on you to break you and turn you into a more willing pet.

Pairing: vampire!Noah Sebastian x human pet!reader.

CW: blood kink, biting, claiming, dubcon, sadistic!noah.

NSFW below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

When you first arrived in California, you were young with aspirations of success—visions of achieving greatness, working behind the scenes rather than in front of a camera. You never imagined yourself as the star, but rather as the orchestrator, pulling the strings, and making others’ dreams come true. Yet, fate had other plans for you. You’ve now found yourself the star of your own gothic nightmare, the story you once envisioned playing out on a screen, now twisted into something far more unexpected.

Now, your mind is hazy and empty, making you pliable, just as they desire. The vampires who have claimed you as their human pet take turns draining your willpower and strength, until there’s nothing left but your body for them to feast upon.

The silk robe you wear offers little protection, barely covering you. It’s just a fragile veil against the sharp, predatory gaze that hovers over you from the shadows. A shiver runs down your spine, and a part of you yearns to pull away and fight it, but the desire inside you grows stronger with each passing moment.

“Little pet.” Noah’s voice cuts through the stillness, smooth and low, his footsteps deliberate as he approaches. His dark eyes gleam with something cold and cruel. You can feel the tremor in your pulse, thrumming in your throat, inviting him, urging him to come closer. When he kneels before you, his smile is slow, knowing, and laced with malice. “You’re not going to fight me now, are you?”

You’re a caged animal, held captive and reminded that there is no escape.

Noah reaches towards you, fingers stroking your cheek in a mockery of tenderness, a touch that is a sharp contrast to the dark plans swirling in his mind. His eyes flash, his hunger deeper than the thirst for blood that burns inside him.

His hand slides down your thigh, his fingers cold yet purposeful, sending shivers down your spine. Your breath catches in your throat, and you instinctively close your eyes, trying to block out his advances, but Noah is relentless. He presses on, his voice a whisper against the tension building in the air.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. “But your body knows who owns it now.”

Without waiting for a response, he dips his head, gently brushing his lips against the rapid pulse in your throat. It’s soft, almost reverent—a twisted mockery of affection—before you feel the sharp scrape of his fangs, sinking into your flesh without a moment’s hesitation.

The pain is sudden, searing, a hot flash of agony that erupts behind your eyes. You cry out, unable to control yourself as your body arches toward him, offering yourself. He accepts it, his arm tightening around you, pulling you closer as he feeds. Each drink from you is slow and meticulous, a possessive rhythm that makes your body sway against him as if it belongs to him.

His sharp and brutal bite serves as a stark reminder that you are nothing more than prey to him. With each draw of blood, a subtle shift occurs—a heat spreading throughout your body, an undeniable warmth teetering on the edge of pleasure, and an almost irresistible pull toward him.

You whimper, a broken sound, and Noah hums in satisfaction, as if pleased by how easily you’ve become malleable. A cold thrill runs through you when you realize your body is pressing against his, responding without your consent. You’re no longer resisting; you’re giving in.

When Noah finally pulls away, blood staining his lips, he looks down at you with an expression that borders on satisfaction. His pupils are blown, glowing with hunger—but not just for blood. There’s a new desire there, one that curls through you and makes your heart beat faster, heavier.

“There she is,” Noah croons, his thumb sweeping lazily through the blood on your throat, only to smear it across your trembling lips. “My sweet pet, finally giving herself over to be ruined.”

You tremble with a fresh wave of shame, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you welcome him. You don’t resist as he leans in, tasting the blood on your lips, his tongue sweeping against yours. He devours you, leaving his mark with each kiss and desperate stroke of his tongue, claiming you as his—body and soul.

[juricel]

yandere shadow milk x reader who's associated with pure vanilla? like an assistant or something?

thank youuu :3

a/n: apologies for the late reply! i didn't know what to do with this request and also because im in the hospital rn and recovering ^^; i'm supposed to rest but i wanted to write...

— yandere! shadow milk cookie x assistant! reader

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: surprisingly not much content warning, yanderes, heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, mentioned mindbreak, implied physical and emotional abuse, potential ooc.

𖦁 one of the knowledge that came greatly with being the assistant of pure vanilla cookie was one thing: the understanding of shadow milk cookie's wickedness. and with that knowledge came an inevitability—you would loathe him, despise him with every trembling fiber of your being. after all, how could you not, when he had inflicted upon your master a harm so insidious, so inhumane, that no visible wound could ever hope to rival it? his cruelty did not leave mere scars—it sculpted abysses in the soul, chasms of sorrow where light once dwelled.

𖦁 how faithful you were, a devoted shadow bound to your master’s light! for centuries, you trailed along pure vanilla cookie steps, as if orbiting him like a planet to its sun. and so, when he entered the spire, you followed after him—of course you did. shadow milk cookie was not surprised. no, he had long accounted for you, your loyalty, your inevitable arrival. you were as predictable as nightfall, as moths to flame, as a lamb led blindly to slaughter— just as he had planned. however, what gnawed at him, what curled like smoke in the marrow of his thoughts, was your devotion. what was so good about pure vanilla cookie? he didn't get you, nothing really was so brilliant about him. a brittle thing, so easy to prod and bend until he broke just right; that was one thing, yet, you—you—clung to him with such reverence, such maddening admiration for something else he could not see. for what? for who? what did he have that shadow milk did not? what pathetic, insipid warmth kept you so leashed to him? he could offer you so much more—more safety, more knowledge, more entertainment. he could carve out a space for you in his world, shield you from the soft, saccharine delusions you clung to so desperately. and yet, you still shied from him, still turned to that weak, flickering light. It almost made him laugh. almost. but laughter was for amusement, and he wasn't fond of this one.

𖦁 you should be /his/ instead. his dear, devoted follower, his ever-adoring shadow. why waste yourself on him—that brittle, trembling thing—when shadow milk could offer you so much more? oh, he would give you wonders, spectacles of illusion spun just for you, laughter so sweet it would rot you from the inside out. entertainment, delight, deceit. and surely, in time, you would learn. learn to savor the moment a mind snaps, to take fulfillment in the fragile shattering of conviction, in the exquisite collapse of sanity. it would be beautiful. it would be yours. you only had to let go of that fragile, flickering light, that feeble thing who could never keep you safe, him, who never understand you the way he could. pure vanilla cookie, with his trembling kindness and hollow reassurances, would never give you what you needed. not like shadow milk. no, never like shadow milk. he could strip away the illusions you clung to, peel back the layers of your mind until you saw the world for what it truly was—raw, malleable, his. he would guide you, shape you, cradle your thoughts in his hands until they became something beautiful. and oh, how beautiful you would be. how exquisite, how perfect once you learned to listen, to see, to believe. to hear the delicate, symphonic crack of another’s breaking mind and finally, finally understand the pleasure in it. he would teach you. he would love you. and one day, you would look at him not with fear, not with resistance, but with devotion.

𖦁 it’ll be fun, he promises, and you will see, oh, you’ll see, you’ll understand. the thrill, the ecstasy of unraveling a mind thread by thread, the art of peeling away resistance until nothing remains but pliant, trembling devotion. he will show you, guide you, remake you into something worthy. yet, when he asked—when he offered after graciously severing you away from those imbeciles—you declined. declined. his smile didn’t falter, no, but something inside him cracked. declined? declined? after everything he had done, after he had so graciously peeled back the veil, unraveled the world for you, made it so easy for you to step into the path made for you? and yet you still clung to that pathetic, fragile little light, that miserable excuse for safety, that wretched, wretched delusion? his fingers twitched. something inside him writhed. the shadows around you trembled, warped, twisted at the edges as if reflecting something he refused to put into words. you were testing him. pushing him. rejecting him. insulting him. but that was fine. oh, that was fine. he could be patient. he could wait. he could break you as slowly as he pleased. but make no mistake—he will break you.

𖦁 and the first step to that? through your master, pure vanilla cookie. he had always been the target, the delicate little thread shadow milk longed to snap, but now—now, there was more to it, more weight, more purpose. it was no longer just about breaking him, no longer just about watching that soft, trembling kindness crumble into despair. no, now it was about you. about making you watch, making you feel every fracture, every moment of his collapse, until the last of your useless devotion burned to ash. he would make you understand. he would make you beg. yes, yes, you will understand, you will see, you will learn the cost of your defiance, the price of your pathetic, meaningless loyalty. you think you can reject him, turn away from what he so graciously offered? no, no, no, it doesn’t work that way, not with him. you will pay for declining him, you will suffer for it. surely, you didn't think you could simply enjoy life as you go on after declining him, don't you?

𖦁 piece by piece, he peeled pure vanilla cookie apart. not carefully, not gently, but with a slow, creeping malice, like hands pressing too tightly around a fragile thing just to feel it strain before it snaps. he could have played his games longer, toyed with the unraveling of a mind with the same amusement as one might pluck the legs off an insect, but you had declined him. and for that, he would make you suffer. he dug into your master’s mind, not just to break him, but to strip him bare, to leave behind something unrecognizable, something that would make you wince just to look at. he did not speak softly, did not coax him into doubt—he let it crawl, let it sink, let it fester until every thought became a sickness. shadow milk made sure he saw, made sure he felt the weight of it, made sure he could not look away. he watched the light drain from his eyes, the tremor settle in his hands, the last of his certainty rot away into something limp, something pitiful. and you—you were forced to watch. to stand there, silent, frozen, as your master, your beloved light, withered into something small, something helpless, something that would never be able to save you. you could scream, you could cry, you could beg for it to stop, but the moment you declined him, you had sealed your fate. this was not a lesson, not a punishment—this was personal. he would take everything, carve out every illusion, pull apart every piece of you until you were empty, hollow, weightless in his hands, until there was nothing left but him. and then—then you would finally be his.

𖦁 yes, yes— yes! you were his, his, his, his, not by chance, not by fate, but because it could be no other way. the key was in his fist, his fist was in his pocket, pressed so tightly against his palm that the metal left little crescents in his skin, a secret little brand of devotion, of longing, of possession. you were his, weren’t you? not yet, not fully, but oh, you would be, you had to be. how could you not see it? how could you not feel it, the way your very existence was carved to fit into his hands? every breath you took without him was a mistake, a terrible, agonizing mistake that he would fix, because he loved you, because he needed you, because the world was wrong—wrong—when you were not his. you could fight, you could sob, you could spit those little refusals like a wounded thing too foolish to realize it had already been caught, but what did it matter? there was no world beyond him anymore, no future that did not end with you folded into him, safe, perfect, ruined beyond recognition. oh, he would break you so gently, so sweetly, so thoroughly that when you finally crumbled, you would do so with his name on your tongue and relief in your heart. because you were his, you had always been his, and soon—soon—you would understand that too.

𖦁 an odious cookie, a caricature of unrelenting cruelty, turpid in spirit, despicable in deed. he was cruel, yes—mean beyond measure, despicable in every conceivable way—but it was all for you. for the twisted devotion he felt for you, a love so suffocating, so sickly sweet, it made the very air around him thick with poison. he already had his devoted followers—his poor, mindless slaves who fawned and worshipped at his feet, their hearts hollow and weak. but none of them, none of them, were enough. not until you were beside him. you, with your innocence, with your indifference. you, the one thing that both tore him apart and made him feel whole. did you not feel it? the pull? the way his gaze devoured you, consumed you, as though you were the last breath of air he would ever taste? oh, sweet darling, how he longed for you. how he burned for you. had you not turned away, had you not rejected him, you would have been his, completely. and he would have been yours, bound in chains of obsession so tight that neither of you could breathe, and only pure vanilla cookie would've heen hurt. and yet... cradling your face in his trembling hands, he let his breath linger on yours, lips brushing against the fading warmth of your skin. your eyes—hollow and lifeless—held no spark, but he didn’t pull away. you were his now, no longer the person you once were, but a broken version of what he had longed for. still, he loved you more for it, for you were his creation, shaped by his devotion. his kiss was not of tenderness, but of possession, absorbing the last traces of your humanity with every stolen breath. no longer yourself, but still his. you were not the person he once desired, but you were his, twisted and remade, and forever—forever—his love would suffocate you, even as you faded into nothingness. your emptiness, the final proof of his devotion, was his greatest prize.

a/n: i got both pv and smc's costumes!! i'm so happy... i only spent 32k for them surprisingly,, they're both so adorbs!!

[suguru-getos]

୨・┈﹕✦﹕ Kinktober Day 21﹕✦﹕┈・୧

-> Event Masterlist

Neuvillette x F!Reader -> Ruts

the spring time of the year is much anticipated, it’s a lovely weather to have. a lovely season to fall in love with nature, and a lovely season to be shown just how desperate neuvillette can truly get for you. it’s the way he starts to come home early, it’s the slow intricate details that slowly emerge from your partner. he’s more possessive, easily jealous, eyes your outfits more, puts on his perfume on you before leaving for work, until finally… the hydro soverign’s most intimate, and stressful event commences. the rut, you’d find him going through a phase where he wants to create a nest for his pet, his little mate. you’d need everything you have. water, food, clothes. yet it’s somehow so cozy, you can’t help but awe at it. oh, and also — don’t put things here and there. neuvillette isn’t one for rage but he’d pout if you do so. do it at your own risk. ;)

now that you know what’s happening — its easier to guess that this predicament wouldn’t end until neuvillette’s satisfied with you. “god- you feel so good, i’ll breed you into the malleable little mate i have.” he groaned, thrusting deep into your puckering hole as you moaned for him, ecstatic under the feeling of his ridged cock taming you. a beautiful white ring forming alongside the base of it as he churns the mixture of yours and his essence for the third time.

“can- can’t take it- s’ too much, neuv,” you whimper out as your womb physically stops him from rutting & railing further, your knees shoved beside your ears as both his hands gripped them bruisingly. “you will, you are doing so good, my fragile little thing.” neuvillette praises you, leaning in and suckling onto your already bruised tits & marked skin. “you look so delectable like this, meant to be one with me.” neuvillette is exceptionally vocal today, moaning, groaning & saying words that are a mixture of utter sin & comfort.

“but i’m nowhere near done to loving you — angelic being.” neuvillette looks at you with tender eyes, spilling his load deep inside you as his precise movements of tenderness roam around your puffy clit, pushing you off the edge alongside him. you’re reduced to a brainless, overstimulated mess. little sniffles escaping from your parted lips and staining the pillow. you look so adorable like this— taking neuvillette’s cock as if it’s the only thing you’re supposed to it. it is actually, what better than being hydro dragon’s spoiled mate?

“ssh, it’s okay darling, you’re doing so well.” neuvillette praises, adoring you & kissing your collarbone. “let me give my little one some break.” as soon as the breeding haze fades from his mind into clarity, neuvillette is beside you that very instant, soothing you, helping you drink water, rubbing the areas he held too tight which are now reddened. how cute his little baby looks.

“gotta take a break from work it seems.” you chuckled teasingly, and neuvillette smiles with hum, “both of us, darling… both of us.”

[searchingforserendipity25]

hypothesis of care

afterwards, julian washes garak's hair.

standard procedure, after brain surgery. most saurian bodies tend to be too fragile for sonic washing after being operated upon, and he doesn't know enough about cardassian anatomy to be sure, only to avoid any shifts in body temperatur.

warm water, nearly scalding. there are clusters of blood where garak had pulled strands by the root in his agony on the third day of in internment, older spots and crusts, from different fits of pain - some scarring, where his claws had dug and pulled.

he doesn't heal any of it. garak had resisted medication and care and sedation and pain relief as much as he could stand, every step of the way; he wouldn't appreciate it.

he leaves it be, the same way he leaves a small, fine scar, though it would be the easiest thing in the world to pass the dermal regenerator over the line where he cut upon his friend's skull.

if garak wants to remove it later, he can - well, he may not be able to ask for it, but julian is fairly certain he has a regenerator of his own hidden away. he won't take the choice from him. he wouldn't have, even if he hadn't met enabran tain.

he didn't need to be an expert in cardassian physiognomy to note the similar width of the aural ridges, the same tilt of the chin when speaking in mockery. and the mannerisms, the grooming-tells, the affable malice.

garak wore it better, julian had thought at once, a sharp proprietary surge in the part of him that was not noting his odds of success, odds of survival, noting the vile pride and disdain tain held for garak, as a master to a favored slave fallen to disfavor.

he has rarely hated a person more, with such a clean and potent loathing. it is always easier to hate other people's cruel fathers.

julian bashir could talk anyone's ears off on biology and tennis and medicine, and often did; it could be very convenient, being remembered for that, and not much else.

months and years tending to mostly bajoran patients, working with mostly bajoran professionals most days. he had lunch with the only cardassian on the station once, twice a week, visited him, oh, an unsuspicious amount of times in his shop.

pity wouldn't be tolerated. it wasn't generally; no one wanted that from a federaji doctor. the truth of the matter was that the rot was dug deep, too depth to unroot.

the truth of the thing is that he read the old kardassi classics, and he could see the beauty, the shadow, the shadow of the idea that had once been cardassia, before it sickened to a rot that made sons into owned claims and all the wide sky's horizon too.

garak's medical readings had suffered, in his absence, a little worse than he had expected. not for any lack in the care given by nurse jabara, as much by what julian hypothesizes is a - an awareness of skinship, to some degree.

first, a careful rinsing, then a sterilization soap. careful, careful. he wore no gloves, didn't trust the material not to snag.

garak's hair is much thicker than it seems, not feather-like at all but thick and slick and only slightly more malleable when damp.

careful, with care, he pressed the edge of a soft cloth to the sides of his face to catch the last dampness, and pulled up a thick blanket, folded beneath his chin.

his shallow breathing gains a new ease and a new dimension, not quite a humming sound. even his vital signs improve by small increments, as julian goes about his ministrations - most species do benefit of some baseline level of touch, some level of trust.

now that julian has given him a forgiving grasp, it may be instinct to seek it out again. he doesn't doubt garak will seek to stifle it ruthlessly, when he's awake.

but for now, julian contents himself with a prickling pride, a pet hypothesis proven correct. sits himself down by the familiar bedside chair. close enough to leave a hand near the blanket, not quite touching, only giving heat. that will be a choice, too, though he's not holding his breath on that account.

he doesn't need to, to have lunch with him twice or thrice a week, a smug and sanctimonious and provoking presence across their small feasting table.

'alright,' doctor bashir says, peering down at his tablet left waiting in the same place it had been, before his brief sojourn.

an eye and two ears attentive to every reading animating his medical machines, but not unduly alarmed. the end of the vigil, and there is no reason to believe it would last longer than this night.

'where were we? i can't even tell with these repetitive pieces. alright, so it's the fifth generation of the bedrin family, and shockingly, not a one of them has yet sacrificed their loves and aspirations for the state, they'll get there eventually but i have a good feeling at least one of these witty cousins from lakar will be subversive about it -"

julian doesn't move away, doesn't press, doesn't impose. garak turns towards the warmth. even in sleep, he does that.

[sophont-guide]

The Xenrani

Smell is very common among species. This is often regarded as a common statement, that many would agree to. Scent allows for the communication of danger, arousal, or just knowing if you stepped in something unpleasant.

Unless, of course, you're one of many sophonts who do not possess the ability to smell, such as various crystalids or particularly intelligent shades of blue. In which case, the statement remains true outside of those species.

This brings us to the xenrani: a species that particularly enjoy the frequency of olfactory capabilities of most of the galaxy's inhabitants. Originating from outside our cozy little galaxy, the xenrani have a much older presence within the Affini Compact and are spread far and wide as our planty overlords benevolent caretakers spread through our galaxy.

Boasting impressive height, strength and bite force relative to many squishy and fragile hitchhikers, one of the first things any wayward traveler will notice is the absolute odor of the xenra coming to their aid or assistance. Whereas the affini have [REDACTED], the Xenrani have a partiucarly curious set of preputial glands that make interacting with them into a unique experience.

For reasons that remain unexplained to the minds of many inquisitive researchers, being around a xenra, especially in the vicinity of their musk, causes the non-xenra to begin to reciprocate the emotions of the xenra they are interacting with. Happiness, anger, arousal; all emotions are transferrable to other sophonts in the immediate vicinity. This olfactory offense also adjusts the temperament of their intended target so as to make them far more malleable and impressionable to whatever intentions that particular fox has in mind.

One thing to remain aware of is the frequent overlap of hunger and arousal within the xenrani. So, if a xenrani is trying to seduce you, making flirtatious passes and making sure you see its bulging genetalia? Be aware that you are equally likely to be impaled on a large canid knot as you are to have an appendage or two missing while your guts are filled with smelly fox seed.

As the old adage goes: "Once you're tied, kiss your digits goodbye."

[jadedwoman]

🖤 All of you are just so adorable. Always so weak, malleable, and docile~ just letting my finger lift your chin up to look at me as my tentacles circle your body, making you look deep into my eyes as you realize just how far gone you already are, and just how much further I'm going to take you. Not a single thought left behind your eyes except from those feelings of fear and arousal. So why don't you just give up any sense of resisting and enjoy the way your fragile mind snaps in my embrace~