#abuse reference

[daisy-mooon]

A reminder that Wilbur Soot has been trying to go by his legal name of Will Gold in some parts of the music industry. His full name is William Patrick Gold. If you see that name, that's him. Do not let this bitch ever get the chance to even try and rebuild his reputation.

#serious #wilbur soot #will gold #william patrick gold #mcyt #abuse reference #swearing tw

[envihellbender]

Michael and Gerard Keays, pre and post Distortion ?

Characters: Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay (The Magnus Archives)

Content: Doorkeay (Michael x Gerard), parental abuse reference, distortion Michael

—

Pre-Distortion

Gerard awoke a little disorientated at first, he saw white washed walls that weren’t from his flat. It took him a moment to realise he’d stayed the night at Michael’s. He groaned and shuffled around in the bed, or rather the mattress on the floor. He was wearing his Cannibal Corpse t-shirt and his boxer shorts, his skinny, freckly body curled up under the thick, warm duvet to see Michael next to him. He stretched and rubbed his eyes, yawning.

“G’morning, Gerry,” Michael mumbled, he smiled sleepily at Gerard, reached over and ruffled his hair. It felt strange for them to be in bed together, Gerard thought, it was nice… but having the first time he because he had a minor breakdown caused a guilt-filled twisting in his gut like he was overstaying his welcome.

“Morning,” Gerard responded as he curled up a little smaller under the duvet. “I’m… Sorry for just showing up last night.” He spoke quietly, and barely opened his mouth. The springs in the mattress were old and weak, and the lack of a frame mean his joints had begun ache. He’d have to get some pallets, he thought, something to prop it up. He couldn’t help but think about Michael sleeping on this then sitting at a desk for most of the day, he couldn’t have that.

“Don’t be sorry! Much rather you came to me rather than just… suffered,” Michael said. He stroked Gerard’s over-dyed black hair and pushed it behind his ear. He went to kiss Gerard’s forehead, but instead he met his lips when Gerard looked up and surprised him.

“I didn’t know where else to go, don’t really know anyone else. Definitely don’t know anyone else who’d… get it,” Gerard mumbled. He shuffled over in the bed and rested his head on Michael’s chest, smiling contentedly as he felt a too long arm wrapping around his shoulders.

“Do you wanna talk about it more?”

“Not much else to say. Came home. Found my flat had been broken into. Had a flashback. Had a panic attack. Came here,” Gerard reiterated awkwardly before burying his face into Michael’s chest and breathing in the smell of his sweat.

“Do you know who it was?” Michael was always so eager to help, and it always baffled Gerard.

“Huh?”

“Who broke in?”

“Oh! Dunno.” Gerard yawned and rubbed his eyes. He paused as he buried his face in Michael’s chest, trying to hide his awkward embarrassment. “Didn’t stick around to check. Couldn’t bring myself to go in. I mean. For one thing my bat was in the inside.”

“Well. Hopefully-” Michael bit his lip thoughtfully as he paused. “We’ll check it out. Together. With a bat. Whoever it is will be gone by now.”

“Maybe,” Gerard began pulling on his hair ask he stared off onto space distantly. “I just… what if it’s my mum? What if she comes back?”

“Then… maybe, I guess-” Michael paused thoughtfully. “We can go over, pack a bag, and come back here.”

“Yeah?” Gerard swallowed around a lump in his throat.

“Yeah. Your mum won’t find us here, Gerry. Promise.” Michael kissed Gerard’s forehead, wrapping both arms around his shoulders and giving him a long, loving squeeze. “If she does then we’ll just have to find somewhere else.”

“We?”

“Mhm. We.”

Post-Distortion

Gerard knew it was happening, sort of. He’d been prepared and was fully aware there was nothing he could do. Michael was changing, no one knew when he’d be back, and after the fact he might not even be Michael any more. The quiet flat him and Michael shared felt all encompassing, smothering, and empty. Every single corner reminded him no one was there, he had Cannibal Corpse blasting from the battered iPod touch on the docking station to try and cleanse the place. To try and trick his brain. If there was sound he wasn’t alone. He shook his hands as he walked, shaking them up and down and moving his fingers to the music as if he was playing guitar. He felt the change instantly, it was of the entire space had morphed around a new being.

Gerard stopped where he was pacing, facing the large The Dillinger Escape Plan poster on the wall, he tried not to look at Michael’s many, beautiful drawings. They hurt his chest now. He slowly turned round, and he looked directly at Michael. It was definitely him, they all said that Michael would be dead now but Gerard knew that wasn’t entirely true. In front of him was a Distortion wearing Michael’s face and behind his black pools for eyes he could feel the original Michael twisted up inside of him. It was like they had merged together. He didn’t know if it was a result of his mother’s experiments that he knew that or if it was something else entirely… He just knew. Michael had grown a couple of inches, his fingers lengthened and his hair was wilder, curlier, like literal spirals. As he stood he flickered in and out of existence, like a television losing its signal and showing grey static and different bars of colours.

“GerArd, yOu are Here,” Michael said finally breaking the silence, his voice pained and elongated. The emphasis of each syllable strange and the pitch and tone had so far made the humans he had interacted wince. Sasha had seen him and spun on her heel and walked away, after flinching and grabbing her head. Gerard on the other hand just looked and stared, his green eyes widened and watering slightly as he stood up as straight as he could and try to make his arms stay still. Michael could tell he was shaking even though he was repressing it. Michael could see the slight distortions in the air around them, the molecules were preparing to move around Gerard’s hand until they didn’t.

“Michael,” Gerard said quietly. “It is still Michael, right?”

“It Is MichAel SheLLY and Me.” Michael sounded a little bewildered as he spoke, as if the question confused him. “wE are One Being Now. He is mE and I Am HiM.”

“So… Michael Shelley is still there.” Gerard’s green eyes widened hopefully. Michael tilted his head, his neck bending a little too far.

“In A SenSe.”

“Could I speak to him?”

“I suPposE,” Michael mumbled. He took a deep breath as a pained expression crossed his face, his image distorted and flashed in and out of existence similar to television static. He crackled and displayed multicolour bars, until he slowly became more human and settled in it. Gerard let out an audible sigh and a sad smile as he saw his Michael in front of him. Without think he jumped forward, wrapping his arms around Michael’s waist and buried his face into his shoulder.

“Michael!” He gasped. Warmth and care filled Michael’s body. The Distortion has become baffled and curious by this, Michael holds Gerard gently, burying his face into his collar bone, feeling delighted by his long lanky body engulfing Gerard completely. “Are you… are you okay?”

“I’m … I’m me,” Michael Shelley said, his voice mode even and stable. “I’m…It hurts. Transforming. Shifting. But. My old body hurt too. My old brain hurt more than my current one. Michael- the other Michael, picks up the slack. I guess.”

“You don’t have to stay like this, you can- I don’t- not if it hurts you-”

“Wait. Boyfriend. Do you… You still want me?”

“I’m not going anywhere, not when you’re still here,” Gerard said, his lashes were wet with tears and his cheeks were sore red… it was obvious seeing Michael this way hurt. But at least he was free now. Gerard buried his face into Michael’s chest. “Come on. I don’t mind, I just want you not to hurt anymore.” Michael let out a relieved sigh and let his body return to normal, his arms lengthened and his hands become elongated and had too many joints. As he relaxed, Michael wrapped his too long arms and hands around Gerard, when he buried his face in the chest that felt both cold and warm, that felt like a gentle massaging static against his cheeks, it didn’t hurt. For anyone else it would. In fact, it felt just like before.

#envi writes #the magnus archives #doorkeay #Michael Shelley #Gerard Keay #distortion michael #abuse reference

[comfy-whumpee]

Tyler

Implied past abuse, homophobia and alcohol. BBU.

If you’re just here for the epistolary material, scroll to the end! Preceding piece: Everyone.

“See you later, Phil.”

The last person left the office. It was Friday night, and Roman had gone home with Dillon, Joel and Phil had finished up, and Tyler was left working late with Charlie on this stupid urgent Christmas thing. The world outside the windows was a dark void, speckled by street lights. The office was weirdly quiet without Roman washing up or pottering around tidying. Hell, if they stayed late enough the cleaner would show up.

Charlie had been quiet all week. Roman was fucking limping from his stress. They needed to make sure everything was sorted before they closed and all took the week off. Charlie didn’t want to be fixing shit while he was having Christmas with his girlfriend.

Tyler would probably go visit his mom. She got lonely at this time of year. Maybe he’d be able to take Ro, as well. Give him a proper holiday. Introduce him…

“Let’s stop there,” Charlie said, leaning back and running a hand through his flattened quiff, as if trying to coax more life into it. He always over-oiled his hair to keep it in shape. Shaking his hand now would feel greasy.

Tyler closed his notebook gladly, dropping his pen on top. Most of their clients wouldn’t be doing business during the festive period, but they also didn’t want the app to break. It was their first time closing the office for a week; last year they’d barely taken seven days off between them. Planning around the issue before it happened was how Charlie liked to do things, but it was a headache.

“I wanted to talk to you about Roman,” Charlie said.

His voice was low and calm, or it sounded calm. Tyler knew Charlie never let everything out at once. He built up to it. When he called Roman into the office, he started off venting, and only smacked him around after he’d worked himself up. It was cathartic, he said.

“We all know you’re gay.”

The statement was so fucking far out of left field that Tyler almost laughed. “What the fuck?”

“Nobody cares. Roman turns you on. Whatever. But we’ve all seen how you’re looking at him these days. Coming in early to hang out with him. Giving him hugs.”

Tyler sat very still, feeling his body start to burn. “Shut up,” he protested, but his voice had fled. His face was on fire. His blood was pounding.

“I’m trying to be nice,” Charlie snapped back. His eyes were dark, so dark. He was furious. Tyler knew it. It beat in his pulse. Like watching his dad neck a bottle of beer. “I’m trying to be nice,” Charlie repeated, voice calmer but harder. “I heard you talk bullshit about freeing him. Taking him away with you.”

He listened to them. When did he find out? Had he snuck in one morning to eavesdrop? Was there a day they didn’t hear the door?

“I haven’t told the others. I don’t need the hassle. But this is your one fucking warning, alright?”

Charlie still sounded so calm. He wasn’t calm. He couldn’t be. Tyler watched his hands, folded on the table in front of him. They’d move. Any second now. They’d throw the first punch.

“You stood there and planned to steal the most expensive company property we have. Over some fucking scratches on his hand. If I see you doing any of that shit again, treating him like your little boyfriend, having your breakfast dates and whatever, you’re out of this goddamn company. Alright?”

Tyler watched. Charlie’s hands didn’t move. His engagement ring would sting harder than the punch. Light shone off it.

His father had always said he had to be a man, and take his hits like one. Failed on both counts. The old man would have an aneurysm to know Tyler was a pet-liberating queer.

“Alright?” Charlie repeated. Anger pressing up against the word, threatening to break through.

“Alright,” Tyler repeated back mechanically.

“He’s not going home with you anymore. I see you taking him off this property, I call the cops. You don’t talk to him or get alone with him. Stop being such a fucking moron.”

“Alright.”

Charlie sighed. “Alright. Go home and download Grindr or something. Get outta here.”

Tyler got up feeling like every muscle was hardened clay. He picked up his notebook and pen. He walked to his desk, scooped up his bag and jacket, and left the office to walk to his car.

Charlie had been quiet all week. Charlie had been beating Roman every day. Had screamed at him, red in the face, embarrassing to watch. He’d stopped apologising after. Stopped feeling guilty.

Tyler hadn’t noticed. Still stupid. Still slow.

He’d have to stop talking to the lawyer. She’d want him to push on, be a whistleblower or some shit. Throw everything away to take these guys to court for an outcome Roman didn’t even fucking want.

What was the point?

They knew. They knew everything he’d tried to keep secret. We all know you’re gay.

He hadn’t. Not until he’d started getting close to Roman.

Tyler drove on autopilot, gaze skittering across the road and back again for hazards without consciously processing it. It was only when he passed a billboard with two dressed-up pets, blown up larger than life under the electric lights, that the dam broke.

Make a positive change this season.

Humiliation and anger took over, and the tears rushed up. He pulled over and cried like a child, alone in his car, three days before Christmas.

-

@neuro-whump​​, @rosesareviolentlyread​​, @mylifeisonthebookshelf​, @pumpkin-spice-whump​, @whumpsday​ @kira-the-whump-enthusiast​, @firewheeesky​, @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question​

#tumblr's image quality continues to be ass #bbu #epistolary whump #congrats to adobe who broke sparkpost so thoroughly i had to use canva #pet whump #abuse reference #alcohol reference #homophobia reference #tyler #charlie #roman #the birdhouse #my fic

[stripperariel]

I was literally just joking about how a psychiatrist "misdiagnosed" me with ptsd from growing up in a household with dv and being abused in my late teens

And now here I am, curled up under a blanket like a child, crying and hyperventilating because someone slammed a door while angry

#personal #vent #dv reference #dv mention #abuse tw #dv tw #abuse mention #abuse reference

[blackmagichedonist]

⁛ Numb ⁛

Content warning: Substance Use

Clean Version:

#miqo'te #black mage #gpose #photos #substance use #abuse reference

[teaboot]

Adult ProTip, from a security professional: If a kid tells you, "My parents are gonna kill me / kick my ass / kick me out" for something relatively minor, don't respond with shit like "Really? ;) that sounds a little extreme, don't you think sweetie?" because that shit really does happen.

Instead, respond as though whatever threat they are afraid of is fully valid, and offer whatever you can do to help- ask if they believe they are in danger of being hurt in any way, and work accordingly.

If they're overreacting, they'll usually realize and dial it back, self-correct and begin thinking a bit more rationally.

If they're not overreacting, and the danger is real, then they'll need a level-headed adult in their corner, not another condescending authority figure who doesn't believe them.

#References to abuse #Child abuse #CA TW

[becameundone]

min ; Stomach, Hips

HONESTY NIGHT QUESTIONS !!

STOMACH: Do you feel confident in your body image?

"Ick, are we talking about this? Fine. Right now, I'd say I'm pretty confident. For me, I've never had much of an issue with my body image but there was a period in my life when I felt a pressure to look perfect all the fucking time. I couldn't just breathe or relax. It got to a point of me feeling like, if I wasn't perfect on any given day, then surely I must be ugly. It might sound daft, saying it so bluntly like that, but it sort of haunted me. These expectations were being put on me at a time when I already felt like a total failure. I was just so desperate for validation and I thought my looks were the only thing left worthy of that. That was a while ago and I've got better people around me now. I dress how I like, I live how I want and I think I still look pretty bloody hot."

HIPS: Do you like to dance?

"I should fucking hope I like to dance. Only pushed my dad to the brink of disowning me because of it. I'll be honest, after I left uni, it took me a while to get back into dancing seriously because I was afraid I might end up hating it. But I didn't. At all. I had a bit of a rough time accepting I wouldn't be starting at the same level I left off but it feels so natural to me now. I'm at the studio a lot, I think it keeps me sane."

#« ᴍ ɪ ɴ » / 「 headcanon. 」 #abuse reference #it's not really mentioned but i guess it's.........vaguely implied? #also i feel like the answer to the first one is probably more complex and nuanced than that but those are the limitations of answering ic! #actually the thing about needing validation for his looks bc he doesn't have confidence otherwise is probably still true #i rewrote this so many times bc i wanted it to not sound flippant since it's a sensitive subject :'|

[virovac]

During one of my jumps from thought to thought occurred to me t theres a difference between wishing for someone to gain a disability in order to suffer (in which is messed up and ableist) and wishing a disability upon someone in dark thoughts because then they wont be a danger to you anymore.

(This isnt from life experience but bouts of hyperempathy.)

#rambling #ableism #abuse reference

[thesunnys1deup]

Homos :/

#gabriel ultrakill #i love him so much #i love them so much #ultrakill fanart #aaaaa #v1 ultrakill #ultrakill #gabv1el #sexed up abusive homos #class of 09 reference #v1 needs to calm down srs

[envihellbender]

h/c Carver and Fenris, Fenris finding Carber’s magic scars

Characters: Carver Hawke, Fenris

Fandom: Dragon Age

Content: hurt/comfort, scars, angst, evil blood mage Hawke AU

Fenris followed Carver into his room, holding his head down and walking quickly in hope that Hawke wouldn’t spot them. He sighed in relief when the door shut behind him with no issue. A feeling that was quickly replaced with anxiety as he saw Carver begin to unfasten his gauntlets. He stood awkwardly, he was unsure precisely what he was supposed to do and what Carver intentions were. Before he could fixate and worry however, his spotted something on the bare pale skin of Carver’s wrists.

Fenris recognised them instantly, the fractal patterned scars across Carver’s arms were something he had seen before. They weren’t uncommon among slaves, and even citizens, of Tevinter. Sometimes it was to mark a magister’s property, usually it was just the product of a fight or beating. In the south they were less common, however, as he saw Carver remove the gauntlets he always wore and unfastened the wrapping from his wrists … he was for a moment instantly brought back to the north of Thedas. Across Carver’s pale wrists were those scars that looked exactly like bolts of lightening flashing across the sky or from a mages’ hands. Deep purple scars that ran up to his elbows. He felt sharp pains shooting up and down his arms and legs as a blue glow radiated from him.

“Fenris?” Carver said suddenly, he took a step forward and his bright blue eyes widened in alarm. Fenris was instantly grounded, he blinked in confusion and shook his head. He glanced over Carver’s eyes, not the electric, unnatural blue of magic or lyrium. The deep blue of the ocean. It calmed him almost instantly, but he still felt a twist of sorrow in his stomach.

“I- I apologise,” Fenris said. “I just… your arms.”

“Oh, erm, right.” Carver’s cheeks burned red. He looked away and felt his muscles tense. “I didn’t think you’d be particularly repulsed by scars,” he said defensively.

“No. No, absolutely not. That’s not what I-” Fenris sighed and took a step towards Carver. “I recognised them. They are common in the Imperium. They’re caused by magic. I… someone… hurt you.”

“Oh.” Carver felt his anger turn to pure embarrassment as he wrapped his muscular, toned arms around his torso. He avoided looking at Fenris.

“You don’t have to talk-”

“S’okay. Not much of a story. Dad was particularly brutal with his punishments sometimes. And. He liked to test out new spells. Worked better on the kid who couldn’t fight back instinctively with fire I guess.” Carver sighed and perched on his large double bed. He kicked off his boots and sat curled up wrapping his arms around his legs, trying to make himself look as small as possible.

“Ugh. Of course. I should have guessed. Your father sounds far too much like your brother,” Fenris spat. He perched next to Carver on his comfortable bed, he always felt so strange in the Hawke estate. It was so huge and ornate, he half expected to see some cruel magister appear and grab him by the collar. He had to admit it was far more comfortable than his decaying mansion.

“Anders is helping me with them, the scar tissue isn’t as sensitive any more but without the gauntlets even the wind makes them hurt,” Carver mumbled. “It’s… pathetic.” He buried his face into his knees, he turned away and screwed his eyes shut. Fenris tentatively touched Carver’s back, resting his palm between his shoulder blades.

“Well, if aching scars are pathetic-”

“No. No that’s- that’s not what I-” Carver interrupted. He lifted his head and loosened his arms letting his knees fall forward. “That’s-”

“I know, I know,” Fenris said soothingly pulling Carver into his lithe, toned arms. “I… do you wish for me to stay here for tonight? I can leave if…”

“No. Stay,” Carver mumbled, he shuffled into Fenris’s arms and buried his face into his warm chest. Fenris’s breathing was so slow and deep, it was almost meditative and soothed the racing thoughts in Carver’s mind.

#carver hawke #fenris dragon age #dragon age #dragon age 2 #hurt/comfort #angst #fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #scarring #abuse reference #envi writes

[draw-the-squad-like-this]

Draw your character getting the chancla 🩴

#violence #2 people #tw violence #enemies #short and tall #screaming #angry #terrified #tw abuse #???? just in case??? #tw child abuse #????? #JUST in case just in case-- #fighting #hatred #anger #pissed off #draw your ocs #pose reference #draw the ocs #tag your ocs #imagine your ocs #draw your characters #draw your characters like this #child abuse #abuse // #child abuse // #cw child abuse #cw physical abuse #tw cptsd

[styllwaters]

351 / GAZI-MIAH

At last this monster of a ref is finished. Introducing the first canon Knight character for Vivere 44!

351 is a mountain Knight from Ferhaht, though their host is part Fejga; hence the brown fur and stocky build. They act as the secondary antagonist in parts 1 and 2 of the story. In part 3, the final 'season', they feature as a protagonist. 351 starts out as a ruthless, aggressive soldier working for Genizix, intent on completing the mission assigned to them. Under the direction of their officer, 909, 351 has been dispatched to quickly and efficiently eliminate targets who threaten to expose the company's activities in the Zhagaviit galaxy.

Eventually they come to realise that they are being manipulated by both the weapons company and their abusive superior, and in part 2 351 challenges 909. Their fight results in 351 gaining an array of scars and a terrifying near-death experience, and though they survive, they are permanently mentally separated. Unable to go into the Trance which binds the consciousnesses of the Helmet and the Host, they must learn how to work together as two people again. 351 escapes to their homeplanet of Ettera, surviving in the wild as they race against time to deliver an important message and rediscover who they are. During part 3, they discard their identification number and take on a new name, Gazi-miah.

More in-depth lore, facts, and extra art below the cut!

BACKSTORY

[cw: abuse, drug use, general dark themes]

351 was always told that they were born in Genizix like 909, though this is not the case at all. 351 had a life before they were turned into a killing machine, living on the Ihmna Stretch with their Ferhahti order. Their life was upturned on the day of their scouting Expedition, a journey that all Knight squires must take on before they can become full soldiers (More on Knight social structure here). They were tasked to deliver a message to an allied order along with two other temporary scouts. Upon arrival, however, instead of friendly greetings they were met with a chilling scene - the order was being attacked by another, the two groups set against each other in a fearsome battle. The fight was secretly orchestrated by Genizix in a plot to evaluate the strongest soldiers to recruit to their cause, unbeknownst to anyone but them. Feeling that it was necessary to aid their allies, 351 and their peers rushed into battle. They fought fiercely, but the young Knights were up against fully-fledged soldiers and 351's companions perished. 351 themselves was severely injured, and in the aftermath, blacked out - but not before catching a glimpse of strange figures.

When they awoke, they were not on Ettera any more; rather an unfamiliar place with black walls and machines. They could barely remember anything from the night before; and slowly the rest of their memories on their homeplanet receded as Genizix toxins that they were injected with took effect. Later, 351 would be introduced to 909, an experienced Knight officer with an extensive history of working for Genizix, and placed in their unit. They were assigned a number for a name and moulded into the perfect killing machine. 909 fed 351 a constant stream of lies about where they came from, and like all soldiers recruited into the system, promised that in fighting for the company they had a chance to participate in something greater than themselves; to see the real universe outside of Zhagaviit. But 351 was driven more by fear than the potential for glory. They had seen what happened to those who disobeyed the higher-ups, and what could happen to them if they did not complete the missions.

909 stripped 351 of their individuality and left nothing but brute force and a desire to please. What the agent feared more even than Genizix was invoking 909's anger, so they pushed themselves to do any dirty work asked of them. The organisation became their whole world, their 'family', and 909 made sure they could never leave their clutches - manipulating them, threatening them and twisting their worldview. The process was sped up by specialised toxins designed by Genizix intended to distort perception and slow brain activity, inducing a dreamlike state. On Knights, this had the effect of triggering and enhancing the Trance, making it incredibly difficult for one to mentally separate the helmet from the host. With time 351 came to believe that they were one person, and they had no reason to think otherwise as their exposure to information was carefully controlled. 351 was conditioned to see their targets as non-sophont and they were rewarded for using cruel tactics. The more time they spent with 909, the more they began to lose their sense of self entirely until they were nothing but a weapon. Such is the fate of most soldiers who have wound up working for Genizix.

Despite the deep emotional (and physical) scarring and conditioning, during the events of Vivere 44 seeds of doubt are planted in 351's minds. These would only germinate further as they gain more clarity of their situation. Standing up to 909 was the first step they took towards breaking free of their chains, although it came with a cost. 351's host was physically Separated from their helmet in the fight, an injury which in most cases is lethal. They were repaired by a scientist who stitched them back together and managed to salvage a sliver of the bond which connected their minds. 351 could never enter the Trance again, though the helmet and host could still exchange thoughts between each other. As they were two separate entities now, the helmet guides the blind host with directions.

Instructed by the scientist (an Arrow named Nimbus, who will be introduced later) 351 left the facility on a new mission - to deliver an urgent message to Jes-ren, a Kaata Plains Knight living on a Ranch on Ettera. They traversed the land they once called home, now unfamiliar to them, relearning how to work together as a pair that might as well be complete strangers to each other. They recover their memories; or at the very least parts of it, as they cannot remember their original name. However, they gain a new one; Gazitkaar-Miahlad [meaning: lost messenger / returned to us].

The road is long and tremendously difficult; Gazi-miah struggles to unlearn years of aggression, addiction and lies, all the while carrying immense trauma. They eventually find peace, and settle down with Jes-ren in Kaat following the climax.

PERSONALITY

During their time at Genizix, agent 351 picked up on a lot of nasty habits and traits from 909 who brought out their worst attributes. They became merciless, taught to discard feelings and remorse. 351 was not afraid to make a show of their strength, and at times was needlessly cruel and taunting. The toxins affecting their nervous system tended to spur on their host's prey drive to a concerning degree, and a part of them enjoyed the power trip they got from hunting down targets. Though everything they did, they did for 909's approval - and to avoid getting disposed of by Genizix.

When their host and helmet were Separated, and the effects of the toxins wore off, gradually their aggressive attributes took a backseat as they grappled with their new situation. With great effort they gain an understanding of both the horrors they went through and the atrocities they committed for the sake of a corrupted system.

Once they escape Genizix's hold, it becomes clear that 351 is incredibly socially inept and any interaction that isn't violence or taking orders is new territory for them. Freedom and agency are difficult concepts for them to grasp, but with the aid of others around them they begin to adjust to their new life.

The helmet, Miahlad (my-a-lad) is the more practical of the two. He has one goal in mind; keeping the both of them safe. Miah is resourceful and smart, though when it comes to social interaction he's just as clueless as his host. This doesn't stop him from offering advice via their mind-link. He is firm, distrustful, and judgemental, but cares deeply for Gazitkaar even if he won't say it. At first he is reluctant to uncover the truth in fear that it will harm them both, preferring to stick to familiar ground. Despite his realistic worldview, more than once he considers going back to Genizix due to the simple fact that it's all they've ever known - even if it hurt them. As a helmet he cannot speak out loud but relearns sign language to communicate with other knights.

The host, Gazitkaar (gaz-it-car) is constantly questioning everything. She is less focused on the personal safety and wellbeing of the Knight body and more concerned with the wider truth, always seeking to know more. Gazi is not one to back down from a challenge, whether it be traversing dangerous territory or mastering a new skill. But like Miah, she is averse to touch, and will bite if boundaries are pushed far enough. She is more open to listening than her helmet, and is a fast learner. Though she is more adaptable than Miah, her curiosity can sometimes go unchecked and lead them into trouble.

EXTRAS

They are 37 years old and tower over everyone, including other Knights. Their prescence could fill a whole room.

The engraved bone necklace was given to them by a Polar Knight commander from Ehtte Thannoeh where they first landed on Ettera. The carving depicts an Aikka deity whose horn always points northwards, and is said to watch over lost travelers from the northern lights.

Gazi-miah's piercings were put in by the scientist Nimbus, intended to firmly fix the helmet to the host.

As a Genizix agent their build is very toned and muscular due to their intense training and strength-enhancing substances which also speed up wound recovery. Such a lifestyle was placing immense stress on their body, and as they spent more time on Ettera they gained more weight and adopted a healthier diet.

Their build and design is inspired by bulls and rottweilers.

Their fur is spiky due to chemicals and unnatural cleaning products resulting in an unpleasant, rough texture. In the future it becomes softer thanks to proper grooming.

Here's some of the first concept art I have of them (and also showcases their pelt colours better)

Aaand a simplified version of the ref without all the notes for your viewing pleasure.

I'll stop here before this post gets insanely long but if you have any questions I shall be delighted to answer!! ;] Thanks for listening to my tedtalk

#a little later than anticipated but ITS HERE!! #my beloved #sorry for the infodump. can you tell ive been thinking about these guys a lot #vivere 44 #my art #knights #sophont #oc #original character #speculative biology #spec bio #speculative evolution #art #reference sheet #long post #abuse mention #drug mention #alien #character design #put them through the horrors but what else is new

[pipnchips202]

slightly dark/unhinged jason grace au where he keeps suffocating monsters by either keeping air from getting into their lungs or filling them with dirty air and every time they collapse with a wheeze before turning to dust leo is eerily reminded of his mother inhaling the smoke of their burning shed

maybe one day jason even does this with an empousa and as she falls to her knees clutching her throat her brown hair and eyes look a little too much like esperanza valdez to leo and he hates it, but is it fair to tell jason to stop using his powers when he’s doing it all to save them?

#leo valdez #heroes of olympus #dark jason grace #been obsessed with dark jason grace since last night i must confess #and also #valgrace #if you want to see it that way but really it’s optional if you’re not a vg fan #headcanon #leo valdez angst #sorry folks #jason grace #oh the pain #oh the angst #oh the misery #yes that’s a reference to akhlys. #oh the misuse and abuse of powers to save one’s friends

[thetarttfuldickhead]

It’s a little unclear, in the end, how the conversation gets there, because all in all the Richmond dressing room isn’t the site of that many sex jokes, not since Colin came out and no longer feels the need to make them. But they’re still lads, yeah, and young, mostly, so the jokes still happen, even if it’s just gentle ribbing, and silliness.

So: somehow, one morning halfway into Roy’s first year as head coach, the topic turns to sex, of the rougher variety. Roy’s only listening with half an ear, he’s busy sketching out the new trick plays Nate’s dreamed up on the whiteboard, and he doesn’t really catch the build-up, but when Jamie’s name is mentioned his ears perk up without him even really noticing. It’s become instinct at that point, keeping track of Jamie (even as Roy does his best to give all his players at least some semblance of equal attention).

“We know that Jamie likes it rough, though,” Zorro says, and the rest of the group oh:s and ah:s either knowingly or in surprised glee.

“Eh?” Jamie sounds startled by the assertion, but not particularly put off. (He never really is, as long as he gets attention, Roy thinks with an internal scoff that’s far fonder than he’d ever admit to.) “What makes you say that?”

“You told us!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy can see Jamie shake his head. “I don’t know what you’re on about, mate.” Still not bothered, but clearly not understanding what Zorro is getting at either.

Isaac throws him a disbelieving glance. “You don’t remember, bruv? It was when you first came here, before you started going out with Keeley.”

“Yeah,” Colin interjects, “You’d only been here for about two weeks, I think, but you came into training with these marks and bruises, and it turned out you’d hooked up with a girl the night before, but you hadn’t known she was a professional dominatrix before you got to her place.”

Hoots and titters at that, delighted and amused but not unkind.

“Exactly,” Zorro says. “And you told us you’d just gone with it because you have to try everything at least once, and it hadn’t been bad.”

Ah. Roy remembers now. He’d already been absolutely fed-up with Jamie’s attitude, the arrogance and selfishness and incessant need to put others down, and the striker’s total lack of shame and casual smugness about the marks had rubbed Roy entirely the wrong way. Not because people should be ashamed for liking that sort of stuff, of course (Roy wasn’t), but there was such a thing as common decency and unspoken rules about not parading around the dressing room like you were in a fucking porno or some shit and—

If Roy was honest about it, he’d mostly been pissed because it was Jamie, and everything Jaime did pissed him off back then (though, to be fair, most of what Jamie did back then was fucking shitty, so it’s not like Roy was wrong to be pissed. Most of the time).

“Oh.” Jamie’s voice is soft, suddenly. Small, in a way that has alarm bells going off like air raid sirens in Roy’s head. “Yeah. Um.”

The realisation hits Roy a second before it does the rest of the team, and his ears are already filling with a terrible ringing as the room falls silent behind him. He can feel himself grow rigid with rage, and with cold, curdling shame.

“Shit, man,” Isaac says eventually.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry.” It’s odd, the way Colin’s earnest, unhappy voice seems to be coming from so very far away.

“What?” Zorro, still not getting it, and then he does, and Roy, at a great distance, can hear his face crumpling. “Oh shit, Jamie, I didn’t mean—“

“No, don’t worry about it, man. It was a long time ago, yeah? It’s fine.” It’s a heroic attempt at sounding casual. Might have succeeded, too, back before they all knew Jamie as well as the do now.

Roy doesn’t stick around to hear the team offer their comfort and Jamie try to wave their concern away. He walks into the coaches’ office, and the only reason he doesn’t slam the door as hard as he can is because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. 

“You all right there, Coach?” Beard looks up at him from behind his book, brow creased in quiet assessment.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Nate jumps down from the desk he’s been perched on. “Did someone die?”

And Roy wants to tell them to fuck off. Wants to punch the wall so hard it stops his mind from spinning. But he’s been talking with Dr. Fieldstone about that, hasn’t he, how his maladaptive coping strategies are tripping him up, and fucking over the people he cares about in the process.

So he takes a deep breath. And he doesn’t look at them when he starts talking. “Back before Ted came here Jamie came in with these bruises all over his chest and back one day, and he told us he’d had sex with a fucking dominatrix. And I believed him, okay? I just… I fucking believed him, even though it was weird fucking bruises for— That’s not the fucking point. But because I thought he was an arrogant fucking prick and I fucking hated his guts, I told him— “ He trails off, looking up at the ceiling. Uselessly, his cheeks are burning. Maybe his eyes are, too, if he’d let himself feel it. “I told him I’d be happy to pay to see someone give him a trashing. Give ‘em extra if they knocked a couple of his teeth out so he’d shut up for once.”

Beard doesn’t say anything, but he leans back in his chair with a look on his face that lets Roy know that, yeah, he’d fucked that one up good and proper.  

“Oh,” Nate says. “So it was his dad who— That’s— But— I mean, that’s not good, obviously, that’s awful, but it’s… It wasn’t you who hurt him, Roy. And I mean, you and Jamie have said all sorts of thing to each other. Done all sorts of things.”

And that’s true, isn’t it. And mostly Roy is happy enough to write it off as tit-for-tat, old foolishness and bygones, Jamie a prick and Roy sometimes an idiot, and they’re both better now. And he doesn’t know how to explain to Nate and Beard how knowing that Jamie looked up to him ever since he was a kid, knowing that he never took that poster down, even after that, after everything, makes his casual cruelty and failure to protect Jamie all the harder to bear, even if he hadn’t known at the time that there was anything to protect Jamie from.

“Coach—“ Beard begins, but is interrupted by a knock on the door, and before Roy can tell whoever it is to fuck off, Jamie sticks his head into the office. Must have made his escape from the rest of the team, then. “Sorry, Coach, are we getting started or what? The lads— “ He catches sight of Roy’s face and his eyes widen. “Jesus, Roy, what happened? Are you all right, man?”

Under other circumstances, Roy might have found it remarkable how quickly and effortlessly Jamie makes the switch from Roy’s respectful star player to Roy’s friend, his entire demeanour changing as he moves into the room. As it is, Roy doesn’t say anything, but he must have made some sort of noise or moved some sort of way, because Jamie’s face twists in alarm, and then he’s across the floor and gently but firmly pulling Roy into a hug. “There, it’s all right, man, I’ve got you, lad, it’s all right.”

Roy blames all the fucking therapy he’d been doing for the past eight months for not pushing Jamie away but instead allowing the other to hold him, and allowing himself to hesitantly wrap his arms around him in turn. Fuck Nate. Fuck Beard. Fuck the team. Fuck anyone who thinks they get to have opinions on that.

He’s got an inch on Jamie, but Jamie’s broader, solid and strong. Steady, as he puts a hand on the back of Roy’s neck, murmuring nonsense that Roy knows is supposed to be soothing, and which maybe is. Mostly, it’s reassuring to have Jamie there, whole and hale and safe.

“What’s going on? Is Phoebe all right? Did something happen to your sister? Keeley?” Jamie is starting to sound a little freaked out, and Roy realises that he can’t just stand there mutely forever and let the fears grow in Jamie’s mind, he needs to fucking say something, explain.

He’d rather never say another word.

Tough fucking luck, Kent. “Do you remember what I told you when you said you’d had sex with a dominatrix?”

The way Jamie stiffens tells him that, yeah, Jamie does. “Roy—“

Roy tightens his grip, not wanting Jamie to pull away. “Don’t fucking tell me it was fine, because you were a nightmare for the rest of that day, you were absolutely fucking horrible to everyone.” Worse than usual, lashing out—not that Roy had known it at the time, or had thought it anything more than Jamie being a fucking prick for no other reason than to be a prick.  

For a few moments, Jamie doesn’t say anything. Then he lets out a long sigh, relaxing into the embrace and pressing his face against Roy’s neck. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, “it was all shit, mate. I mean, all of it was, it wasn’t just you— But, Roy, listen… “ And now Jamie does pull back, just enough so that he can look at Roy. His eyes are tired, but the set of his jaw determined. “You fucking hated me, right? Back then, I mean. You hated me, ‘cause I was a prick, and I hated you, ‘cause you were a bitter old cunt.”

There’s no fucking denying it, is there. Roy gives a sharp nod. “Yeah, but—“

“No, let me just— I’m not saying that makes it all right, yeah, I just— You hated me, okay. But, would you have said what you said if you’d known what really happened?”

Roy’s lips twist into snarl. “What? No! Of course I wouldn’t fucking have— “ He might have ached to put Jamie’s head through a wall several times a day, but he wouldn’t have stood by for Jamie’s piece of shit father—

“See?” The little twat has the audacity to look triumphant at that, as if he’d scored a particularly neat goal. “That’s what I’m saying, yeah? Even when you hated my guts, you wouldn’t have said that, if you’d known what was going on. But you didn’t know, ‘cause I didn’t want you to, or anyone to, and I’m an amazing actor, yeah? So, like, it’s not fine, but it’s… Don’t beat yourself up over it, man. You didn’t know.”

It’s absolution, the kind Roy doesn’t think he deserves and the Jamie is far too quick to offer. But Jamie is also right: Roy hadn’t known. Wallowing in guilt won’t do anything to change the past, or help Jamie now.

“All right,” Roy says. “But that was still a shit thing to say and I wish hadn’t done it. You never deserved any of what that arsehole did to you, and if… fuck it, when I made you feel like I thought otherwise, that was my fucking bad, and I’m sorry.”

Jamie nods. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, man.” And there’s a tremulousness to his faint smile that makes Roy think that for all his claims to the contrary, it had still been something Jamie needed to hear.  

It does Roy’s fucking head in that Jamie’s been up to see his dad several times since he got word that James Tartt is in rehab. But they’ve argued about that already, bitterly, and Roy has very reluctantly admitted that it’s not his call. All he can do is offer Jamie whatever support he needs, whenever he wants it.

Clearing his throat, Roy gives Jaime an awkward pat on the shoulder before carefully extricating himself fully from the hug. “We’re still on for dinner with Keeley tonight?” He’ll make Jamie’s favourite dish, he decides. Throw in some dessert.

“Yeah, of course, yeah.”

“Good.” He jerks his head to the door. “Go on then, tell the lads to get on the pitch, and we’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, Coach.”

As the door shuts behind him, Roy turns on Beard and Nate who – wisely – don’t say anything.

“I don’t want to fucking talk about this,” he tells them sharply. “I don’t want you mentioning a fucking word of it ever again.” Because maybe he’s gotten to a point where having a fucking breakdown and hugging it out with Jamie in front of them isn’t the end of the world (even if it’s a near fucking thing), but if someone tries to make him discuss it, he’ll need to start head-butting people, and he’s been trying to stay off that since he became manager, because it just isn’t a good look, is it, and he’s trying to be better about that sort of thing.

Nate and Beard glance at each other. Roy doesn’t really care for the knowing look in their eyes, but they merely offer a nod and a yeah, yeah, of course, sure in reply, and that will have to do.

In this messed up world, a lot of things would have to fucking do.

“Right,” Roy says, already moving to follow Jamie. “I’ll see you on the fucking pitch.”

---

A/N: This was supposed to be the fourth of the stand alone ficlets I call The Locker Room Conversations, but it got quite a bit darker (and less team focused) than I usually do for those, so I’m not sure. I’ll sit on it for a bit, maybe fiddle a little, and see where I put it when it goes up on AO3 eventually.

If you like the idea of the team uncovering sad truths about Jamie’s past and are into heavier angst (and more of the team taking care of Jamie), I highly recommend checking out i should be the poster kid for this shit by anotherlongstoryshort / babytarttdoodoo

#well-intentioned ribbing lead to unhappy revelations #and references to earlier abuse #and roy having all the emotions about it #there’s also a very long hug because a girl’s gotta get her kicks somehow #james tartt sr is mentioned and his own warning #hurt/comfort #angst #roy kent #jamie tartt #roy & jamie #afc richmond #a team of himbos #who mean well even when they get it wrong #fic #my stuff

[literallyjusttoa]

What’s better Christmas present than a bit of angst huh?

When Apollo was young, not yet a year old, he was banished from Olympus due to his crime of murder. Gaea called for his head, but Zeus shielded him.

“I will not rule as my father did,” he said “The boy can learn, he can be better.”

Apollo was sentenced to exile. Nine years, though he was not told this. No, Apollo was certain that he had lost his chance to join his family in the heavens. His father had spared his life, and as penance he now had to stay on the mortal realm for all eternity, alone.

The young god made due with what he had. He wandered through the fields of Greece, tending to the animals he found along the way. He would sing, as light and clear as the birds, and mortals would flock to the sound. Apollo was never allowed to linger long, but he fell in love with that feeling of warm comfort mortals seemed to carry with them, that joy that he could never quite reach. When he could, he worked, often for little reward. He wanted another taste, another glimpse of a less lonely existence. So he became a shepherd, a soothsayer, a musician, always a few steps away, watching but never being.

One day, in the middle of the coldest months, Apollo was hired by a farmer in the Vale of Tempe. He had a large herd of cattle and was in desperate need of a someone to care for them. Apollo traveled through the backroads and forests, making his way to the valley. When he arrived, however, he found no farmer, and no cattle. Instead, a lone man sat at the base of the river that flowed through the vale. The water was near frozen over, but the man did not shake. Instead, he turned, and smiled wide.

“Apollon,” Zeus said, “Olympus has missed you.”

Apollo was shocked. Had his father truly come for him? He dropped into a low bow, too nervous for words.

Zeus chuckled, low and warm, “Rise, son. There is no more need for humility. It has been decided you have done enough.”

“Truly?” Apollo asked, “May I truly join you on Olympus?”

“You may join me at home, Apollo.” Zeus responded, “Your home. Come, we shall perform a rite of purification in these waters, and then you will ascend to your throne.”

And so the rite was performed, and Apollo was cleansed. As far as the rest of the world knows, the two immediately ascended to Olympus, to the glorious applause of the other members of the divine court. Apollo took his throne, next to his dear sister, and began his immortal duties.

But there was a moment, one moment, which was kept away in that sheltered vale. Once Apollo had been cleansed, he stood at the bank, waiting for the next step. Any demand his father asked of him, he would have agreed too. But Zeus held nothing over his head. Instead, he summoned a cloak of sheep’s wool, and placed it over Apollo’s shoulders.

“A gift,” he murmured, “The golden treasures you were born with will bring you glory, but this my son… I hope this will keep you warm.”

And Apollo believed, with all his heart, that he would never be lonely again.

Time is a cruel master. As years bled into centuries that bled into millennia upon millennia, Apollo realized that loneliness would be his most constant companion. He realized that the source of this loneliness, this suffering, would often be the very man that promised to keep him warm. The fire of his father’s hearth burned everything it touched, leaving Apollo with blistered hands and a scorched heart.

But he still wore the sheepskin. When the loneliness crept into his bones. When the lightning crackled across his limbs with a burning pain, as warm as his father promised with an agony he’d never mentioned. When all seemed lost to the ground and the dust. Apollo found that wool cloak and cast it over his shoulders. Even broken promises can bring some sort of comfort. Even old sheep’s wool can bring an illusion of warmth.

I was his child once. He used to love me.

If only the bite of a king’s cruelty could be chased away as easily as the chill of a winter’s day. The wool does nothing, and the loneliness remains. Apollo shivers, and goes to rest.

#trials of apollo #toa apollo #lester papadopoulos #sunny speaks #fanfic #kind of? #tw: mentions of abuse #pjo Zeus #long post #I cannot overstate how the degradation of their relationship both fascinates and horrifies me #also for reference: the cloak mentioned is the one Apollo wears in my Fall of Greece design for him :D

[itsabouttimex2]

Ok, ok, HEAR ME OUT-

How about lmk Monkeifam and Bullfam with a Y/N who isn't afraid to throw hands —

Like i mean in a response to trauma or manipulation, becouse i fell it isn't explore enough in this situation -

Sure, your loved that you belived was a friend trapped /kidnapped/gaslight you is heartbreaking and of course you are gonna be sad and more incline to behave butttt-

There is always the other way of absolute rage that comes in once you realized you have been trapped/kidnapped /gaslight ecc- like i don't care anymore, i wanna throw hands, those people are death to me.(even thought this isn't the smarter choice considering the strenght of some of the people here) like them breaking Y/N down so they can comfort them to manipulate them, but then unsurprisingly the get the biggest smack/punch of their life . Just- wow the audacity.

Throwing Hands

Bullfam & Monkiefam

“…is this some sort of pathetic attempt at ‘rebellion’, Y/N? I am not impressed.”

Your hands straight bounce. Like punching a bag of wet cement, the Demon Bull King’s skin just shifts around under your fists, never breaking or bruising. You only shatter yourself against it, leaving you worn and looking foolish.

He might not even punish you, given that it’s likely that you break a wrist on impact.

“Now, look what you’ve done to yourself, foolish child. Did you truly think your mortal flesh could stand a demon king’s might? Well, now you know better.”

You lost your temper and struck him. Immediately, you learn better than to do that ever again, and he considers it lesson enough.

Surprisingly merciful, all things considered. (Partially because he finds it somewhat funny.)

I once said in my yandere alphabet that: “Red Son doesn’t want to waste his time doing something like caning or whipping you”. And though I think that viewpoint is usually true…

This changes that. It’s maybe the only situation where he would actively engage in any form of normalized torture “corporal punishment”.

Being physically attacked switches Red from ‘mildly reasonable, if a bit hair-trigger’ to ‘vicious and cruel’. Through brute force alone does he wrestle you into submission, binding your arms behind your back with a pair of metal cuffs.

He tosses you onto the nearest bed and couch before burning the lower half of your clothing off. He then takes up a thin metal rod to utilize in “disciplining” you, sharply lashing it down against your now unprotected skin. He’ll leave puffy, bleeding welts from the top of your rear to the bottom of your thighs, ensuring that you won’t even be able to think about walking for at least a week.

Problem is that not only does it not solve the problem of you being scared and angry, it also just… makes him feel bad afterwards. It breaks him, seeing you weep brokenly over his bed. Blood sluggishly trickles from the skin he’s lashed open, and you scream your lungs out into the sheets as you try to adjust to the pain.

And then he “has to” (wants to, in truth) settle in for some awkward form of aftercare, offering lotion and bandages. When you don’t accept, he forces you to drink a cup of honeyed tea loaded with sedatives because you won’t stop shrieking.

Antiseptic while you’re asleep, a few stitches here and there, then the lotion and bandages he tried earlier. And then a few cautious back rubs, trying to calm your fitful slumber.

“Gods, Y/N… what have I done to you? I… I was just… I was… no, I… I’m sorry.”

An outright dodge. Princess Iron Fan has no time for your nonsense. For trying, she’ll lock you into whatever room has been set aside for you, barring the door with powerful magic.

One shallowly-filled bowl of food every two days, adding just a little bit more to it each day. One ceramic cup of room temperature water every four hours. A change of clothes every three days. Instead of brute force, Iron Fan teaches you through deprivation.

After a month of this, she might see fit you allow you back out of your room, letting you mingle with the family you have been forced to adopt.

After writing her a letter of apology, of course. Two pages. Pray you have the mind to keep your pencil steady.

So very many tears to deal with, probably on both ends. MK knows that he’s doing isn’t all that great, sure… but it’s because he loves you!

Can’t you love him back, please? Ok, he’s been manipulating you! Maybe he’s been driving some friends away! Maybe he’s sent a few clones to tail you around the city! But, please, please- you can’t stop loving him! He just can’t risk having you hurt!

“Please, Y/N! You don’t understand! I’m just trying to keep you safe! You can hit me again, hit me as many times as you want! Just- please, Y/N… I need you. Please…”

His last resort is stuffing you in Shuilian Cave, given that you can’t escape with his or Sun Wukong’s help. Maybe a few ropes to keep you in place. He’ll cry with each knot tied, begging you not to hate him.

Sun Wukong tanks your punch and gives your head a little pat, frowning at the display. “Sorry, bud. Trust me, I know I’m not exactly the good guy here. Go ahead and let it out. I… kinda deserve it, huh?”

The Great Sage knows you have every reason to be upset. Really, you do. All there’s only so much waylaying of emotions to be done, unfortunately. You were going to crack eventually.

He stands firmly in place, one hand rubbing your back while you break your fists against his body, watching you scream and cry. The man is just… unsurprised? He’s starting to realize that he messes up a lot of things.. So just letting you whale on him seems fair, gently trying to shush your angry tears while your skin grinds to bloody pulp against his shredded abdomen.

“How about I make us some tea,” he offers afterwards, surveying your destroyed hands. “And I’ll patch you up. Then… I think you’ve earned yourself an early bedtime for the rest of the week, bud.”

“Oh, kiddo. Do you know what “screwing up” is? After this, they’re gonna put your picture in the dictionary as an example.”

Macaque does not tolerate having hands laid on him. Not by friends, not by enemies. And certainly not by his little student, who is supposed to be wide-eyed and placid, in awe of his every move and strike.

You are supposed to be sweet and respectful. You are supposed to be kind and loving.

And he’s sure that with a little bit of “training”, he’ll get you back to that disposition.

He’ll snap his fingers with an angry snarl, shadows springing all around you like cold wires. You are gagged with a cold ebon muzzle, both your hands locked inside a cuff of swirling black and purple. You want to act like an animal? Macaque will chain you to the wall by your new muzzle and treat you like an animal.

Maybe a few days spent so on a chain so short you can’t lay down will teach you better than to raise a hand against “the only person who even loves you, Y/N!” ever again.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Demon Bull King #Yandere Red Son #Yandere Princess Iron Fan #Yandere MK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere Macaque #TW: Abuse #TW: Physical Abuse #Macaque’s final section is a reference to how ‘pet’ and ‘circus’ monkeys are taught to stand up