#tw: implied sa

[characternerdocs]

"Never trustworthy?"

Jewel's words seemed to coax Heath back from the edge of a ponderous abyss as he echoed them back to her.

"In hindsight, I -I suppose she wasn't."

"Was it a murder attempt on you both? What happened?"

The question cast Heath plummeting over the precarious boundary as his nostrils filled with the awful scent of copper and acrid smoke. He staggered back from the force of the blast, stumbling into the wall behind him before his knees buckled underneath him.

As both the numbness and the red began to spread, Heath tried to cover the latter from his sight with his hands. Yet even with the gore hidden from his view, a crimson red continued to tint his vision as the dark clouds overhead finally began their downpour with a peal of thunder.

A pair of unkind hands heaved him off the pavement, their owner's whiskey-scented words muted to the words that were screaming within his own head.

“Red. Red. Red." “Thundering hooves steeped with gore." “Trumpets sound for new crowned War." “RED. RED. RED.”

Heath blinked, the milky look in his eyes subsiding, and he found himself in his kitchen, having just screamed out the colorful prophecy. He gasped for air, realizing that he had a death grip on the fabric of his shirt just above his left hip as heavy tears were streaming down his face.

He was too afraid to meet Jewel's gaze, not wanting to see her reaction to his odd behavior.

Heath swallowed the lump in his throat, but it didn't help as his voice cracked as he confessed. "She shot me. Ra-Ramiel shot me..."

"Emery's- she's the only reason I-I didn't die that night... She got me to a hospital somehow- des-despite all the blood. ...There was so much blood... I-I didn't realize how- how much Emery did to protect me from Ramiel until after the fact."

More tears started to well in his eyes. "I don't remember ever seeing Emery ashamed before. She would have kept it secret forever, but I- I found broken, red feathers under-under Emery's pillow... Sh-she said Em had the choice, it could be her or it would be me ... and with Emery's rep-reputation for -for it, Rai... she 'didn't see why it should be a big deal'..."

The other live-ins were clearly traumatized by this Ramiel. How could she not be interested?

Jewel intended to keep her end of the deal in being allowed to stay here. She kept an eye out for unwanted bodies, and it sounded like they preferred Ramiel never made it to the front door. She needed to know more.

"Is it possible that she was never trustworthy from the get-go? You could have been targets the entire time."

Heath let this hunter too close too quickly.

"Was it a murder attempt on you both? What happened?"

[the-epic-amphinomus]

”Amphinomus…”

-@the-true-telemachus

Telemachus.

[evilyn-is-gay]

MASM fans stop romanticizing drugging challenge 🙏

Love yall, love the art, but pleaseeee plsplsplspls don’t do the love potion stuffff… Sun is not actually consenting to any of that!!! Please just do stuff where it happens more naturally. The love potion is nonconsensual romantic activity, Moon is literally drugging and assaulting Sun. Plzzzz guys ☹️

[new-tella-us]

Patience

I decided to turn a Discord ramble into a Damien x Mika tumblr post about a short concept of Damien and Mika's first attempt at sleeping together. TW: Implied SA.

Why attempted?

Because on the night, something in Damien froze. A stone-like weight bore heavy on his chest leaving him unable to move. He couldn't commit to the action but won't back away either. And he doesn't understand why. Why was he nervous? He loved her and wanted to make her happy. He wanted... well he thought he wanted to embrace her. And yet his heart raced in discomfort.

Why did it almost feel like he was beside himself? Unable to fully control what his body or mind wanted?

His mind briefly dragged him back. Back to his adolescence. Back when people have tried to do things of this variety to him before. Sure, they used his very biology against him and he had to be saved by Sam but why did that matter? This is different. He asked for this, he wanted this, Why was he so scared? Some incubus he was...

Mika —clearly seeing the discomfort and confliction in Damien's eyes, the way he lightly shook above her— sat up and asked Damien if he just wants to cuddle instead. Damien hesitated since he really did want this... to some degree but Mika smiled kindly and said they can work up to it over time.

So they both laid on the bed in each other's arms. The creeping shame crawled into Damien's mind but as Mika held him his anxiety and feelings of being beside himself slowly faded. She asked if Damien was okay with her petting his hair and he agreed. She pet his hair gently, showing so much patience and love. She didn't judge him or hold his emotions against him.

And that's why he loved this woman so much.

[waltzing-with-butterflies]

a bone museum, my bedroom

soulless bits of trinkets

a liver stays out in the open

drenched wet, paints my face frozen

it can't be me that moves my fingers

can't stomach to hold you so tender

eyes fixed on scratches on the wall,

crawling warnings,

cover!

alas, never the one to desire embers,

to burn skin, for bruises to render

~stella

[backwardmind]

XXSTARWOLFXX (Comic I made about Roleplaying to cope)

[lyculuscaelus]

A Delicate Copy

(AU; a pretty old one-shot, finally got the time to upload it on tumblr)

Nobody greeted him “morning” this time.

He woke up on an unfamiliar beach. The sand felt different—coarser than the one he used to sit on in those last seven years. The air smelled misty, unlike the clear sky that used to embrace most parts of the island with her warm arms, a cycle lasting for seven years. He saw the trees growing in bloom, but they did not remind him of his homeland—for he didn’t find that forest anywhere, nor did he see his beloved Mount Neriton. There were only mists, mists that used to arise from the wine-dark sea, mists that used to hide the face of death where gods were lurking, mists that used to give way to the warmth of a cave, in the past seven years.

And that was when he finally realized he was lost. Again.

The tired mariner crumbled on the beach, and sobbed.

He didn’t check what his tears were made of, for he knew there was nothing but pain in them. Pain as found in the glimmering reflection, pain as found in himself. Twenty years of pain condensed into one single teardrop, and he held up his hands to wipe it from his face.

But he sobbed still.

He did not see the herd of sheep coming. He did not see the young man cloaked in a kingly air walking. He sobbed until he felt himself melting, and that was when he stopped, for his sorrow had brought him burning rage. Rage for an unjust promise.

“Where did the Phaeacians send me? What country have I come to this time?” he roared, clenching his fists. “Why did they leave me here—with all this treasure I cannot protect? Have those Phaeacians not promised me to send me home—to my homeland where I came into being? And now what foreign land is this? Those idiots…they did me wrong indeed. May Zeus, god of suppliants, grant them a punishment that is only too proper for them…but for now, let me just count these gifts, in case some of them happen to be missing.”

And so he counted. The tripods seemed untampered, and the cauldrons looked fine. Gold and silver, and all this splendid clothing—surprisingly, he found nothing missing. Then he rose to his feet, and again he wandered, on this unfamiliar beach, with a heart much-enduring he let out another wail of sorrow, another stream of tears.

And then, the young man came forward. A cloak across his shoulders, A spear in his hand—the tip seemed somewhat strange—the young shepherd stopped, and regarded him curiously.

“Friend,” he addressed the young shepherd quickly, wiping out his tears when his eyes were not coping. “You’re the first one I see here. Will you promise me no harm, if I greet you with open arms? For I’m entreating you, like I would a god, to save me, protect my goods, and keep me in good company. I’m begging you, as a friend on his knee. Now please tell me everything, so I can understand—what country have I come to? What people have I met? Is this a sunny isle, or a headland of the mainland reaching out to sea?”

“Stranger—are you a fool? Wait no, I don’t think you are, so you must be a traveler from a distant land,” the young man answered him, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But I’m sure men from different places have all heard of this island—because of its fertility? Maybe. But it’s a rugged place not fit for herding horses. You can find crops and grapes here, though, but it’s not like they’re uncommon. So I suppose it’s because of its heroes—stranger, do you happen to know the great Argonaut Laërtes, or Odysseus the sacker of cities? This is where they come from—such a place well-known, for I’m sure even lands far as Troy would still recognize the name ‘Ithaca’.”

He twisted his head, searching for memories. Ithaca—a name he had whispered so many times, to the goddess waiting in her cave, to the king sitting on the Phaeacian throne, in the songs he had sung in his pleading. He felt his lips lifting as joy swarmed up in his chest, but something about this place seemed strange…it still felt foreign to him, for some reason.

So he answered carefully. “Ithaca—a famous name indeed. I’ve heard of it even in wide Crete, somewhere far across the sea. Ah, so I’m finally here in person, with all these goods of mine. But there is more that I left when I fled from my city, when a dear son of Idomeneus fell to my own hands, for that swift-footed Orsilochus wished to take away the spoils I had won at Troy, for which I had suffered so much already—in the devastating war and on the dangerous sea. We struck him when he was heading home—me and my companions, with my bronze-tipped spear I ended him. But then I ran off to a ship, paying some Phoenicians to get me to other lands—I’d hoped they would take me to either Pylos or Elis, but the winds did not heed our command. And then here I was, worn out by exhaustion, laid low by sleep. But when I woke up, I found them all gone—and now it’s just me, alone with all my goods, here on this foreign land, seeking help.”

The young man smiled, and replied with a hand reaching out to his left shoulder. “Surely, Odysseus, one’s cunningness must be so wily if he is to outwit you—even for a god.”

He felt a jerk in his heart. How would a young shepherd like him see through his disguise?

“Yes, I know who you are—that pair of eyes I have indeed seen and heard of,” the young man continued gleefully. “But come now, Odysseus, do you really think there will be a celebration party waiting for you here? No, you will find troubles in your home, and I fear even you cannot defeat them this time.”

“What trouble are we speaking of?” Odysseus asked tentatively. “Then again, something feels wrong about this place already. If it is indeed Ithaca you’re speaking of, I don’t find any evidence—”

“You’re always thinking like that, aren’t you?” the young shepherd giggled. “No wonder people call you polymetis. Anyone else would’ve rushed to meet his wife and children—but not Odysseus. No, he’d test everything with trickery first, then he’d observe his wife himself, seeing if she’s still the Penelope he knew of—the answer is yes, even if you’d like to see for yourself. She still remains your wife—though not for long. At this very moment there are one hundred and eight suitors reveling in your house, spending your wealth as they wait for your wife to reconsider her marriage—a proposal she’s been denying for three years straight.”

He felt delighted, somehow, knowing that Penelope remained his own, even when he didn’t belong to Penelope alone anymore. For days he had been wondering if Penelope would find comfort in the fact that she didn’t have to wait for him any longer, and now…he could finally find out for himself.

“As for this place,” the young shepherd continued, pointing to the west. “I bet you can’t recognize it because of all this fog—it’ll probably disperse any moment soon—see? Now it’s gone.”

And then Odysseus saw it—Mount Neriton, where the forest was verdant; Phorcys’s anchorage, with an olive tree standing at the harbor head; the Naiads’ cave beside it—where one would make sacrifices to the nymphs to grant their wishes. And as Odysseus beheld everything, he fell to his knees, kissing the fertile ground with great passion, and held out his hands towards the nymphs with an utterance of prayer. The young man watched him with interest. But when Odysseus finished his prayer, the young shepherd replied. “Now let’s not delay but put these goods in some hidden corner of this sacred cave. Then I’ll tell you all the details about the troubles in your house before you go.”

And they brought them all into the cave—the shining bronze and gold, the fine clothes and all other gifts—and then they worked together to move a rock in place to block the entrance. When they had finished their work, the young shepherd was the first to speak. “Now, Odysseus, you can begin to plan for the suitors’ demise. That is a task I cannot assist you—but know that you can always trust your swineherd and your own son. So, stop by his house before you head for the palace. You can learn about everything that transpires in your house there.”

Then the shepherd gestured to him to go.

And Odysseus nodded with gratitude, then walked away. He didn’t notice how the young shepherd stared at his back, how a smirk revealed itself on his lips, how he slowly walked up, a spear in his hand, and all of a sudden—

Odysseus found himself falling to his knees, his back bleeding. 

And then the pain suddenly struck.

He knelt down to the ground, gasping in surprise and anguish. He barely caught a glimpse of the young man pacing beside him, as the shepherd finally spoke. “Well done, Odysseus, you have left your back open.”

“Why…why are you doing this?” Odysseus growled, his voice failing. “Who…are you?”

“A son you never had,” the young man smiled ominously. 

“Te…Tele…?”

“No,” the young man cut him off, looking away in disgust. “No, you’re the farthest thing I have to a father.”

“But…but why?”

“Touch your wound, and you’ll find your answer.”

So he stretched out his right hand with effort, and found the wound he did. Strangely, he did not see any red stained on his fingers—for there was no blood at all. Instead, a drop of water dripped from the tip of the finger, falling towards the sands. “What is…happening to me?” he hissed.

The young shepherd pointed at him with the spear, letting slip his words with wings. “I see you’re a good lier…but not as good as him. I know what you are at first sight—a shadow, a counterfeit, a phantom made of cloud—”

“What?” he exclaimed, his eyes wide open.

“Yes, you’re no Odysseus of Ithaca…” the young shepherd crouched down, lowering his face of mockery. “You’re nothing but a mere eidolon—of the man who is supposed to be here. I see you’re sharing his memories, his wits—but the thing is, you lack his spirit. The heart of a man is built upon hardships he endured, not hardships he remembered. For him, it’s been nineteen years since he had seen his home; but for you, it’s been twenty-seven days only.”

“How could you possibly know?” he snarled, ignoring his pain. “Who are you to judge my memory? The things I recall—the things I feel—They’re so real to me. I can smell the scent of gore as faces of men were smashed against the walls in that Cyclops’s cave, see the rays of Helios diminish as we entered the realm of Hades, hear the war-cries as we clashed with the Trojans…I have felt the pain of losses. I have known fear. I have suffered and sailed through the toughest of hells…and now you’re telling me that all these memories are nothing but fancy?”

“First of all,” the young man rose to his full height. A cloud of gold suddenly enshrouded the shepherd. The next thing he saw, the one standing before him had become a tall woman, armed with a panoply, her spear blazing. Upon her helmet, the red crest seemed as if drenched in blood. On the face of her shield, the head of a Gorgon stood out menacingly.

“…Athena?”

“I am to judge as I say so.” the woman allowed a smirk on her lips. “Second, no, these memories aren’t your fancy—they’re just not yours to begin with. Third, you are far from the man you’re trying to impersonate. For that reason, I have no use for you to clean up the mess here in Ithaca. Now, look at my eyes and tell me—where is Odysseus?”

He gasped, and raised his head painfully. His strength was failing him. “But I am…Odysseus.”

“Don’t keep fooling yourself. What you bear with you is not yours, and I cannot let you take what he has from him—his form, his memories, his sufferings…and his wife, his son, his family. I cannot allow you to have your ‘revenge’ while the real Odysseus suffers still,” the goddess glared at him, her eyes gleaming with rage. “I’ll ask you again—where is he?”

The pain was working its way through his veins as he once again crumbled, this time breathing rapidly as he felt his life slipping away. He had never felt the brink of death so close to him…but then, what remedy could he possibly find to appease the rage of a goddess?

Goddess…

“I don’t know…I’m sorry…” the words sounded softer than a whisper. He knew that death had finally found him—a sacker of cities, a man of twists and turns…

…a shadow of this man, at least—

—he accepted his death like accepting his identity.

He did not see the fluttering waves, forming a near-smirk on the face of the sea.

He did not see the goddess of wisdom plunging her spear into the sands, calculating new wiles for her scheme.

He did not see the wife of Odysseus weeping by her loom, wherein a shroud had been woven, her time run out finally.

For at that moment, he had drawn his final breath already.

All of a sudden, the fallen body melted into a rising cloud, erasing any trace of recognition. A gist of steam rose up silently, taking away one last sign of its existence. Staring at the emptiness where a phantom of Odysseus had once laid, Athena already knew her answer.

“Calypso.”

…………………………………………………………………………………

(TW: implied SA)

He beheld the daylight blankly, trying to blink away the memories of the last five days. Or the last few years—the number had already lost its meaning here.

But he’d never thought the goddess would be cruel enough to lock him up in the cave for five days straight. Five days without sunlight, five days without fresh air, five days without mourning by the sea, whispering hopes of his homecoming.

The door was only opened when he was in need of food…or when the goddess was in need of him. 

Why don’t you just close the door forever, and trap myself in? Why don’t you just leave me here dying of hunger, or simply suffocating?

Is it really necessary to open the door again?

Odysseus shook his head, continuing his walk towards the shore. He didn’t turn to see if the goddess was following behind—he couldn’t care anymore. It wasn’t even the goddess herself who freed him—he just woke up finding the door open, and took his chance. And now he had finally come out, no goddess in sight.

I’d rather die than let you take possession of me. It’s a thought he had whispered on the first night, when he was asked into her cave. When he was forced into her cave. Only now had he realized, he had been so simple, so naïve. 

He did not die, but he had been her possession ever since.

Sometimes he would just hope that the goddess would be merciful enough to simply let him die an Ajax’s death. Sometimes he would think about casting himself into the neighing sea, wishing for an end to all this misery. But he would always restrain himself whenever he thought of Penelope. He just couldn’t leave her waiting forever.

“But you already did,” sometimes he could hear the goddess’s voice answering. “You failed your comrades already. What makes you think you won’t fail your family?”

Is that really her voice? Or is it just an illusion? He could no longer tell the difference. Reality had become the nightmare he woke up to, and he couldn’t find solace in his dreams either.

It’s as if I’m dead inside…

But deep down, he knew he was dead already. Dead to the mortal world he knew of, dead to the people he loved and cared for. If anything, at least he was not physically dead yet.

But after five days of that kind of treatment…he only hoped to be long dead before then.

What are those five days for?

He had no answer. Although…some trees did appear to be missing. He’d always notice it whenever there was a tree missing. It was like an instinct, something he had trained himself when he used to garden with his father. But that memory had seemed so distant as Ithaca itself—so hard to access now. 

He had just reached the shoreline when he noticed a spot on the sea. 

Is that…a raft?

A raft in full sail, steered by a person with an oar, three large sacks beside them…

But then he saw the goddess, waving at the person on board, a pleasant smile on her face, as the raft slowly sailed away. The person on board—a man, as he saw that now, his face seemed rather familiar. It was as if…

Wait.

Is that…me?

Odysseus almost called, and stopped himself in fear of the goddess. That man didn’t seem to notice him, but instead turned towards the brightening horizon, a brave new journey ahead…

What on top of Mount Neriton is going on here?

But then he found the goddess approaching. The smile on her face had somehow turned malicious, and Odysseus wasn’t sure if he’d want to find out why. The goddess walked up to him, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Now that he’s gone,” the goddess looked beyond the wine-dark sea, beyond the lands and islands that had composed his wanderings, then whispered gently to his ears. “It’s like I promised, Odysseus of Ogygia: we shall have our eternity.”

[whump-since-2010]

Butterfly Whumpee - Inhuman

(Check tags for tws)

Whumpee finished her song, wincing back a cough as her throat scratched on the last note, and she faltered. Her eyes darted to his as a scowl tugged down on the corners of his eyes and lips. She shrank in on herself, the sudden urge to cover her body overcoming her in a moment at his disdain.

Cold exposure pricked beneath her skin, and a shiver raced down her spine. Icy steel of the chain cuffs stinging her flesh as a movement pulled them slack, and she gasped, choking on air.

"Come here."

Whumpee hesitated, trembling as she looked down. She opened her mouth, but the chain around her neck yanked her to her knees

"I said, Come here. Not speak. You're not a person, you're a pet, and pets obey orders."

Whumpee broke into a coughing fit, her throat burning as she shivered.

Whumper's cold fingers found her shoulder and gently trailed from her collarbone to her jaw, and forced her face within a few inches of his nose.

His other hand found the tentacle-like tendrils in place of her hair as his thumb brushed over her lips. "You're a destroyer. You're dead at a lift of my finger. You are mine."

Whumpee tensed, but Whumper yanked her chains tighter and slid his hands to her neck, hard ice on soft golden brown. "Open those wings for me, bug. You know you want to."

Whumpee grunted softly and shuddered into another coughing fit. She flinched away from him, but a clank of chains yanked her back.

His knuckles cracked across her skin in an instant. She cried out, collapsing onto her hands and knees. Blood trickled slowly from her flat nose.

"You're a monster, bug. A destroyer. It's in your name. You were never meant to live. The only reason I kept you is because I like the way you look. The more you disobey me, the uglier you get. First, the legs, now your pretty face. If you don't use those ears of yours, you'll cost nothing by the time I'm done with you."

Whumpee whimpered softly.

"You do sound so sweet when you beg." His nails dug into her tendrils. "You're losing time."

Whumpee's wings trembled open at his threat, and Whumper's face flashed into a smile. She closed her eyes as he moved her body where he wanted it, trailing a hand along the bone of her wing. He pulled her into a kiss, lips whispering over her skin as the words brushed her tongue. "Good girl."

Please comment... I would love it if you did :) - (Story changed, this one is more of a sample now than an actual installment)

First ||<<Prev|| Masterpost ||Next>>

[goesaroundcomesaroundwhat]

Inspired by Arkham Prince anons on @frownyalfred’s blog. An AP Bruce Wayne au where he is kept in Arkham Asylum because of a lot of murder.

[itsashowtime]

NEO TWEWY OC / HYOUSHIO tw // Implied SA

The way you look at me How you touch my hair Makes me wanna run back home to my bed

[scribbles97]

Artemis ~ Chapter 12

Read Chapter 11 Here

Warnings for Ao3 Link - depictions of torture, strangulation, waterboarding, fighting. Implied sexual assault.

“Merci.” 

“De rien!”

Lucy smiled at the baker as they handed over the bag of goodies to John, the five year old grinning as he reached into the bag for a Pain Aux Raisin. They’d left Jeff and Virgil back at the holiday cottage and taken the short stroll up to the village in search of breakfast items and a baguette to take with them down to the beach. It was only their fourth day in the country and John had already picked up common phrases as they had walked through the airport and then the market. 

He’d been delighted to hear Lucy speak so fluently to their host when they had finally arrived at the little cottage on the beach. Immediately he had started echoing her, testing each of the foreign words on his tongue as eagerly as Scott had been to taste the freshly baked bread at the airport. 

“Why does John speak French?” Scott asked as they stepped out onto the street and he took her hand, “I had lessons at school and he knows more than me.”

“I don’t know, honey.” She told him as they walked down the hill, “He just has an ear for it.”

She didn’t need to look down to see the face he pulled at her words. Sometimes she forgot he was still quite so young, he didn’t understand all the sayings that other adults would. 

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” She paused as they waited to cross the road, plucking the bag from John as he reached in for a second pastry, “some people just have to listen to something to understand it. Other people need to work on it a bit more.”

Scott looked around her to his younger brother, “You understand what they’re saying?”

John frowned at his big brother, reaching for the bag in his mother’s arms, “No.”

“Not until we get home John.” She told him, reaching for his hand as they crossed.

“But--” Scott chased after them, “Mom said you can just--”

She shook her head with a smile, “Not quite like that, Scott.” She looked down to them both, “John just learns differently to you.” 

Not quicker, not more clever, just different. 

She had no doubts that both of the boys would be intellectual as they got older, but it was clear that John absorbed anything put in front of him like a sponge. Jeff had mentioned enrolling him in the extra-curricular multi-language lessons at school when they had seen just how well he had taken to the French language. Lucy had been wary, knowing the holiday had eaten up most of their savings, and not wanting to push him in a direction she wasn’t certain he would enjoy. 

When he had walked up to the baker and asked for two Pain Aux Raisins in almost perfect dialect, she had quickly changed her mind. 

“I want to be better at French.” Scott had huffed, “Can you help, Mom, please?”

“Well,” She started as they turned down the street to the cottage, “How do you say please in French?”

“S'il vous plaît!” Scott grinned, “I know that one!” 

“Très bien.” She smiled back, letting go of John’s hand to reach and ruffle Scott’s hair.

“Very good!” Scott exclaimed, “I know that one too!”

John grinned, racing ahead towards the cottage, more interested in getting home for his pastry than he was in the French lesson.

“And I can count to ten!” Scott told her, “Une, deux--”

“Quelle belle matinée!” Jeff called from the gate of the cottage, Virgil in one arm and John in the other. 

Scott frowned at his father, thinking through the words for a moment, “Well, belle means pretty, right?”

“Sure does.” she nodded, “And matinée?”

“Is it morning?” 

“Yeah,” She grinned, swinging his arm, “nice job!”

“What about quelle?” The word was heavy on his tongue, the letters mixing themselves up.

“Quelle,” She corrected gently, “it means what.”

“What pretty morning?” Scott shook his head, “That makes no sense!”

She couldn’t help but laugh as she leant over the gate to kiss her husband, passing the bag of goodies across to John as Scott pulled at the latch. 

“Well we would say what a beautiful morning.” She explained, “But the French don’t make sentences the same way we do.”

“Is that why their English is funny too?” He frowned, “Like the man that spoke to me at the airport?”

Jeff laughed as he ruffled his eldest son’s hair, “Oui oui, fils.” 

“Who’s fils?”

They were still laughing when they got inside.

Continue on Ao3

[eveanderland34]

massive trigger warning since its now confirmed.. trigger warning: James, Sexual Assault, and talks of possible attempted sa.

I was rereading the "angry father" post, and realized something off about the suits and how they clash.

so me being curious, I look up the colour meaning.

of course, this didn't seem as plausable since, the colour seems not to mean that. sure they talk, but.. then i found out Teal is also the colour for.

sexual assault survivors.

oh god...

now moving on to bob. I noticed his white coat. he doesn't take it off until after confronting James. White is (as we all know) the symbol for purity, which is.. really interesting.

the way the creator used the white in this might symbolize that Bob didn't know about James's actions yet..

Bobs coat is even slightly off, meaning he's slowly becoming aware, since James tried to drink him unconscious. (which is seen via the multiple drinking glasses before this scene.)

yeah...

[koalasnooze]

Goretober |Witchtober |Tarotober 2024

Tw: Assault mentioned, partial nudity

°○Crying Ghost○°

(With filter)

(Without filter)

Mediums: Alcohol markers, colored pencils, white gel pen (?), + Oil pastels

-------------------•◇•-----------------

So...I tried something new...

Usually,I just do a solid block of shadow and usually no highlights-

But,I tried squiggly shadows and highlights to..varying degrees of effect.

I went a little too dark and far with the shadows,so the main focus is shrouded in darkness-

But,honestly, I like how it turned out,despite its flaws.

The little story is that this girl,was assaulted,and strangled as she died,hence the drapery,handmarks (that you can barely see 😭)and crying.

Here's the lineart version

That's it for now!

-KoalaSnooze

[thesouppond]

[ Safe Spaces ] // Previous | Next | Latest // [ TW: Cammie's headsnatcher incident, PTSD, Nightmares, Implied SA & violence]

// Previous | Next | Latest //

[wellthebardsdead]

Vivienne: *smiling watching the group let loose and party in the misty grove, quietly goes to sip his water only to spit it out again seeing it turned to mead* Ugh.

Sanguine: *suddenly creeps up behind him hugging him around his waist* What’s a matter with you huh? I’m trying to invite you to join in the merriment and you keep pouring my drinks out.

Vivienne: *shifts awkwardly to push him away only to get squeezed in tight against his bright red skin* I- need to stay sober and responsible so they don’t get hurt.

Sanguine: *suddenly responds in Vivienne’s own voice* I need to be responsible and care for them so they won’t blame me.

Vivienne: *looking visibly shocked* c-cut that out! I narrowly avoided Taliesin marrying a hagraven I don’t need you causing me more trouble. Now get off me! I need to keep an eye on them.

Sanguine: *leans down whispering in his ear in the dunmers voice* I need to be useful so they won’t leave me.

Vivienne: *shudders and shakes his head* g-get out of my head, get off of me- that’s not true! They’d never leave me! They’re different! They’re different!

Sanguine: Then why does it feel exactly the same when I serve them-

Vivienne: GET OUT-

???: Ugh my head- vivienne wake up- wake up love. I think we’re in the temple of dibella? Kaidan puked in the water basin-

Vivienne: *blinks open his eyes to see Taliesin staring at him and the statue of dibella behind him* tali…

[peculiardollart]

Hey, I'm making a short little fancomic for my Wei Clan AU, starting with Wei Changze's Cloud Recesses arc!

Here's a sketchy little WIP