I am never not thinking about TMA 81, and can’t get over Jon describing being routinely beaten up and stolen from by an 18-year old when he was 8 as “all very standard”
And then realized his “standard” was probably the bullying and beatings he got from kids his age at school
I AM ETERNALLY SAD OVER BABY JON
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It was my birthday so my family and friends were all having dinner together and then they started bullying me for wearing a masks when I go out in public.
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Part of being The Drarry Librarian is making educational posts to help our fandom grow and thrive. Today I want to address a problem that isn’t specific to our fandom, but sadly to all fandoms: sending hatred and harassment, anonymously or not. I’m not naive enough to believe I can solve this problem with a post, but I certainly hope that it makes people think twice and provides some resources to anyone who has been harassed or received hate.
Sending negative and hateful messages never accomplishes what the sender hopes. It’s just bullying, plain and simple. And just like real life bullying, online bullying negatively impacts both mental and physical health. It causes anxiety and depression, which can manifest into physical symptoms such as headaches, stomachaches, high blood pressure and puts even young people at a higher risk for heart attacks and strokes. Especially in adolescents, cyberbullying directly contributes to self-harm and suicide ideation/attempts and even in some cases, suicide completion.
I wish that making someone who sends hate aware of the hurt that they caused would solve the problem, but I also know that when the goal is to silence the recipient, people who send hate often don’t care about hurting others. I want these people to remember that nothing fandom related is worth this and that they are in charge of curating their own fandom experiences.
YOU have the power to unfollow, filter certain tags, or even block someone. It’s never acceptable to harass someone or send them hate over a difference of opinion though.
If you receive hate, please know that you’re not alone - this person has probably harassed other people too. It’s not your fault and you don’t deserve it. Reach out to a friend for support, because even if it isn’t bothering you in the moment, it might come back to bother you later. Document the harassment through a screenshot for reporting purposes, then block and report the sender. Delete the messages from the comments or your inbox so you don’t have to see them anymore. It’s tempting to respond, but most of the time it simply gives the person what they desire: attention and the knowledge that they upset you. If you continue to be harassed, you can change your tumblr and AO3 account settings so that only registered users can comment or interact.
Remember, you are so much more than what the hate says you are. Sending hate says far more about the person who sent it than it says about you. No one deserves hate, and everyone has worth.
We’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on…that’s who we really are. • Sirius Black
The @wolfstarlibrarian’s Guides to Betaing and Commenting
International Suicide Hotlines
A special thank you to those who let me interview them in the process of making this post. I appreciated your time, insights, and perspectives and was honored that you trusted me with your stories.
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Whumpee who is out-numbered and already exhausted from harder fights, putting their hands up defensively, hoping they can make it through but knowing the odds are against them.
They throw a punch and miss, someone shoves them and they stumble, a hand hits them in the face and they spin around to careen backwards into another's arms. They're pushed forward, back into the midst of the circle of attackers. Every hit they try to land misses the mark, and every pair of hands around them manages to cause pain or knock them down with hardly any force
Eventually they're on their hands and knees, and someone puts a boot on their back until they're face down on the ground. The circle of attackers laughs, they cringe, humiliated and knowing they've lost.
Does their team find them in time and come to a last minute rescue? Did they hold out long enough? Or is this it, the moment they get dragged off into enemy territory, thrown into a waiting car and secreted away? Or worse, will someone end them for good?
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Yandere Sorbet And Gelato: Courting Gelato’s Former Bullying Victim
(A/N: As an apology for falling behind on the yandere event for the past couple days, I wanted to make a little something in the yandere area. This idea was originally sent as a small ask by an anon and expanded on by other readers who liked the concept. I’ve decided to flesh it out a little more.)
Content Warnings: Yandere, Bullying, Abduction
You and Gelato went to the same school some years ago, before he was expelled at the age of 17. You were a number of years younger than him, which was a blessing in the sense that you only had to worry about bumping into him in the schoolyard, but a curse in that it made you practically defenceless against his aggression. You were far from his only victim. All of you were essentially targeted for a combination of money and physical release. He found it very vindicating to kick down on those weaker than him.
After Gelato's expulsion he disappeared from town overnight, and you were able to live out the rest of your school days without having to worry about seeing him. Unknown to you, Gelato meanwhile met and fell in love with Sorbet, became a wanted murderer, learned the skill of assassination and was recruited by Passione. He first saw you again, together with Sorbet, after you unwittingly moved into his town. He did not recognise or approach you, but he had a feeling he was about to become hooked.
Fast forward several days and Gelato suddenly wakes Sorbet up in the middle of the night. He's been doing some heavy ruminating, and he has come to a sudden realisation about their newfound object of obsession. You went to school together. No wonder he was so enraptured by you. Sorbet listens to his account and accepts that this is going to greatly complicate their courting of you. It's a good thing they chose not to reveal themselves to you just yet. No doubt you would have fled on the spot.
It wasn't like the couple weren't entertaining the idea of abducting you before. They were both so deeply attracted to you that if you slipped away it would have crushed them both, and a part of them truly enjoys the thrill of hunting you. Their plan is to wait until they've learned everything about you they possibly can, then kidnap you in the dead of night and trap you in their home until you accept them. Sorbet deals with keeping you restrained during the abduction while Gelato drives. You're so panicked with the possible intentions of the man threatening you that you don't even look at the driver's face. That was part of the plan.
It's as you're being led into the house, Gelato babbling non-stop about all the things they want to do with you that you finally recognise the voice. You immediately renew your struggle, and Sorbet has to lock you away at once to give you time to calm down. By the next morning, you're completely burned out, and Sorbet can reintroduce you again to Gelato without you having the energy to protest. Kneeling in front of you, Gelato swears his love for you and pleads forgiveness for all the awful things he did to you as a child. You don't believe a word of it.
Of course you don't trust Gelato. You don't trust Sorbet either for colluding with him, but at very least he seems to stop Gelato from pestering you much for the time being. It's through Sorbet that you learn about Gelato's past. The neglect from his parents, the bullying in term from older children. If it's true, you must admit it's certainly a tragic way to grow up. Sometimes, Gelato visits you at night, laying at your side and talking about how badly he loves you. He cries, sometimes. He just wants you to stop being afraid of him.
Gelato will do anything he can to earn your forgiveness. He coddles you with comforts, and any food you vaguely mention missing is brought to you that very evening. As time goes on, Sorbet becomes more and more pushing about you spending time with Gelato. When you ask him to whisk you away, he does so less and less often. You despair- you cannot bring yourself to trust your abductors. The fear becomes grating.
The first signs of change come late one night, about a month into your stay. As you gently drift off in your makeshift bed, the tiredness consuming you after a long day of crying, a figure appears at the door. Gelato mutters something you can't quite make out, probably about how cute you look. Undoing your ties, he scoops you up in his arms, blankets and all, and takes you upstairs. Sorbet is in the lounge watching TV, and he greets the two of you with a warm smile. Gelato lays you down across the sofa, your legs on Sorbet's lap and the rest of you on Gelato's. He pets your hair softly. You fall asleep, smiling.
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i wish there was a bigger fictionkin community on tiktok. it's the social media i'm active on the most and it's just so alienating. all the kin content we get is from people kinning for funsies or talking about that "dragonkin who ate gemstones" post and the "godkin who didn't remember making someone" for the thousandth time. it's just not safe over there man. all you get told is that you're disrespecting systems or stealing from psychotics or somehow disrespecting "actual" spiritual beliefs. everyone is just so mean.
even with the dragonkin who ate gemstones, it rubs me the wrong way how people drag this post through the mud. like, that was someone's safe space, that was a kin confession blog. it makes me wonder how prone any of us are to being made a laughingstock of on tiktok someday.
-#🎐🍀🧧(if that's even my tag lol I can barely remember. hopefully u all know who I am)
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A Gentle PSA & Reminder on Bullying and Mental Health Stigma in the RPC
A person’s Tumblr page is meant to be their safe space. Sometimes, it is their only safe space. People are free to adjust their experience to make it so for themselves, and that includes blocking, adding rules, banning faceclaims, or venting out of character sometimes. It’s okay if someone’s content or rules bothers you, the beauty of this hellsite is that you don’t have to follow them and you can even block them! What is absolutely never okay is bullying someone based on their content, and that includes out of character posts (in general, but today we’re going to focus on mental health).
Imagine just for a second that you’re having a horrible day, and your brain makes you feel as though you have no direct safe space (you pick up the phone and have no one to call, you feel like you’re bothering your friends, etc.) so you post on Tumblr that you’re struggling with a mental illness because the people who are your mutuals are the closest thing you have to friends, but you don’t want to impose. Next, imagine being bullied because you opened up about something hard in your life that is happening to you.
This happens with all kinds of illnesses and disabilities, but there is a particular stigma surrounding people who are struggling with their mental health. The bullying happens all the time and it has got to stop. As stated before, it’s okay to not have the brainspace to see things pertaining to someone else’s mental health, and it’s valid to have triggers. Blacklist the tag, or block and move on. Do not use this as a platform to bully someone. Life is absolutely already hard enough.
And, to people who see the bullying and aren’t sure what to think or whether they should speak up: please remember that a person’s mental health issue IS an illness. It is no less valid than a physical health issue, and treating it as such is ableism, whether intended or not. Don’t be ableist. Educate yourselves, please. There are so many people on this site that are struggling in one way or another with illnesses (both physical and mental) and life is too short for hurting people over something they have no control over, that has never once made them a bad person, just a sick person. Have compassion, and be kind. Curate your space to be safe for you, but don’t take someone else’s safe space from them.
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“And that’s why no one likes you!”
Stella looked over to see the quietest girl in her class on the ground in tears and a girl from the grade above smirking over her. She put on her meanest scowl and marched over between the two girls.
“Hey!” She yelled confidently as she stepped between the two and glared at the older girl. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Beat it, shrimp!” The older girl laughed. “This isn’t about you.”
Stella narrowed her eyes even further and mustered her most regal of voices to respond. “I am Stella Luna Lockwood, Princess of Whitebridge, and I demand you leave this poor girl alone!”
There was a beat of silence before the older girl burst out into laughter, surprising Stella. “The Royal Mistake is telling me what to do? This is hilarious!”
“The…. the what?” Stella asked cluelessly.
The older girl finally stopped laughing and her gaze turned positively cruel. “My daddy says you were a mistake. You aren’t even supposed to exist! You’re just a big old mistake that no one wanted who dresses in fancy dresses to hide the fact that no one wants you around.”
Stella stared at the older girl in complete shock. “That’s not true,” she forced herself to say with the largest amount of conviction she could manage. “Besides, this isn’t about me. Go pick on someone as ugly as you and leave me and her alone.”
The older girl sneered for a moment, but ultimately shrugged her small shoulders. “I don’t want to be seen around The Royal Mistake anyway.”
“Are you okay?” Stella finally turned to the girl and helped her up after the bratty older girl had walked far enough away.
“I’m fine,” the girl spoke softly. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”
Stella forced a confident smile and nodded. “I hate bullies. Besides, it was no big deal.”
The girl looked like she wanted to say something but ultimately thought better of it. “I should probably go.”
“Oh,” Stella couldn’t hide her surprise. Most girls would have loved it if she had talked to them, never mind saved them from humiliation on the playground. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of what the older girl had called her. “The Royal Mistake”.
“Thanks again for helping me,” the girl waved behind her as she had already walked a decent ways away without Stella noticing.
“Yeah… no problem.”
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In what way(s) did Michael (and his friends) bully Oliver?
Mostly by scaring them. Michael and his gang didn't understand just how badly it affected Oliver. They thought they were just a "crybaby" and "overreacting". There was never really any true malicious intent. They were just being shitty teenagers, and Michael was struggling with internal problems and coping in destructive ways.
No one knew why Oliver was so scared of the animatronics until it was too late :(......
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Martin is big.
Not in a strapping film-star kind of way. Not tall or broad-shouldered, not a ‘mountain of a man’ or a ‘tall drink of water’ or anything like that.
Just big (a dumb, blunt, smack of a word.)
He was big as a lad, he’s bigger now. He always had the kind of body that inspired too many teachers to push him toward wrestling, football, rugby even (apparently his dad had been involved with the clubs. Apparently he’d been a fair tighthead back in the day, before he left Martin’s mum, and left Martin to gather up the pieces, cutting his fingertips on every one.)
It didn’t take Martin’s teachers or schoolmates long to realize that Martin’s size did not equate to any sort of athletic skill. And once the - inevitable rumours started circulating around Year Seven, well. Any motivation he might have had to be ‘part of a team’ was drained out of him like a tire going flat (that metaphor needs work. Doesn’t really convey the violence, try again.) His motivation left him like the air being knocked from his lungs, shove after hard shove against the lockers.
Martin is strong.
Physically. He doesn’t know why - got it from his father, didn’t he - his wide back, his thick fingers, his solid legs. He took a cricket bat to the face once - ought to have broken his nose, blackened his eyes, but it didn’t. Got in a car accident when he was seventeen, didn’t even crack a rib. Flipped the whole thing into the ditch, and his mum screamed herself hoarse when she found out, but Martin walked away from it. Physically. He walked away.
He doesn’t bruise easily. If he cuts his hand chopping vegetables, it heals quickly. He doesn’t have any scars (he has stretch marks though, all over his stomach and thighs, and for all that he is strong, he’s soft. He’s soft and he knows it, all pudding and poetry and fear, oh, fear most of all. It's pathetic how easy he is, how quickly he caves, rolls over and does whatever's asked of him.
In most situations, anyway. With most people.)
“Why don’t you want me coming with you?”
Jon is in his office, seated in front of that bloody tape recorder as always. The sight of him there is so familiar, like the negatives from a film camera. Like even if Jon wasn’t there, the imprint of him would still linger, white as a ghost against the darkness.
He doesn’t seem surprised to hear Martin’s voice. Neither does he glance up from the desk where he’s shuffling papers, gathering up books. His hands move constantly, restless and bird-boned and Martin is always looking at them, even when he tries not to.
“I don’t want you getting hurt.” Jon’s voice is low, rough with exhaustion, and it makes Martin wince. Makes him want to fuss (when is the last time the man got a decent night's sleep? Someone should bring him a cup of tea, someone should rub his shoulders, someone should do something -
He knows he has a caretaking thing. He knows it’s not - good. And the sharp ones get to him like anything, he wants to win them over in a pathetic, salivating way. It’s a sickness, but -
- but there was a point when it suddenly stopped being about Martin’s Whole Thing, and just started being about Jon.
He’ll talk to someone about it, swear. A professional, even. If the world doesn’t end.)
“It’s fine if you get hurt, though, is it?”
Jon does look up now, and Martin forces himself not to take a step back under the dark-lashed scrutiny. The heavy eyebrows, the shimmer of scars. Sometimes Jon’s skin reminds Martin of the surface of a planet, a rough and distant moon. He wonders how it is that Jon can be so narrow, so small, and still take up so much room in the Archives, and in the world, and in Martin’s big (and soft and so so stupid ) heart.
“It is my job.”
“No. This - this is not your job.” Martin struggles to put the words together in the face of this vast, ridiculous injustice. “Going off to - what? Do battle with some sort of evil, circussy death-cult, that’s not your job . You don’t get paid for that.”
Jon snorts, derisive, and Martin wishes he could be angry. It’d be easier if he was angry with Jon.
But he isn’t.
“Melanie needs you here. And I can’t be - there, thinking about -“ Jon stops. He swallows and looks back down at the scattered papers on his desk. A snowfall of horror stories, laid out neatly on Hammermill Bright White. “Worrying about you.”
(“Leave it, Martin, I’m fine just - leave me alone -” Mum smacks him away with a vein-bruised hand.)
“Because I’ll make a mess of things - is that what you think? I can help you, I want to help you-”
“I will feel better knowing you’re here.”
“And how do you think I’ll feel? Knowing you - you and, um Tim and Daisy - are out risking your lives while I’m sat on my hands, drinking tea, being useless -”
“You aren’t.” Jon’s voice is suddenly loud, as if he’s in pain. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “And I don’t - I can’t - you’ll be helpful here. The Institute needs you, and Melanie needs you, and I -”
-don’t, Martin hears.
Though Jon doesn’t say it, Martin hears it.
“Right,” he manages. “All right.”
He should go. He’s going to go. But he lingers for a moment more, committing as much of Jonathan Sims to memory as he can. The angles of him, compact and rigid with anxiety. The fall of hair across his forehead, ink black shot through with grey. Thin pink lines that a blade left below his jaw, a ripple of lacy scar tissue on his hand (and Martin mostly, mostly doesn’t wonder what those scars would feel like against his own skin. On his shoulder or - or sliding down the length of his throat. At the back of his neck, tugging him into a kiss.)
Come back, come back, come fucking back. Martin isn’t religious, never one for church, but it’s as much of a prayer as he’s ever said.
“Is there something else you want?” Jon asks, terse and tired and - for one thoughtless moment he is the Archivist and only the Archivist, and Martin can’t help but gasp out a shocked, “yes.”
Jon knocks a book off the desk. It slams to the floor loud as a gunshot, and Martin flinches.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I’m sorry, I -”
“No, I’m - I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking -”
“It’s fine - I know you didn’t -”
“I would never -”
“But you can.”
There’s a horrible silence, like the moment after the tape recorder shuts off, statement ends. Martin feels sick to his stomach and Jon looks like - like -
He doesn’t know what Jon looks like. Maybe that’s why he keeps talking.
“You can ask me. What I - what I want.” Heat is rushing to his face, a blush that feels like thorns. Jon just stares at him, and this was a bad, bad idea. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Jon doesn’t even need to ask the question, probably knows the whole awful story just by looking at him. “If you wanted.”
When Jon says nothing, just keeps staring, Martin tries desperately to double back.
“Never mind, that was -” He flaps his hands a bit, moving towards the door. His shoulders hunch, an old defense mechanism, useless body trying to make itself look as harmless as possible. Trying to make itself so small it’s beyond notice (it never works.) “I shouldn’t have. I can’t believe I - just - be safe. All right? That’s all I -”
“That was - stupid, such a - I’m sorry, I only -”
“-what do you want?”
The words are spoken quietly. Barely above a whisper. But Martin doesn’t need to hear them - his whole body hears them, and suddenly every syllable feels golden in his mouth. Saying it out loud isn’t frightening or humiliating, it’s easy. Answering the Archivist is like falling asleep in a patch of sun-warmed grass, or gasping for air after holding your breath underwater.
“I want you to come back.” It’s honey dripping off his tongue. “I want you to come back for me. And I want the world not to end, and I want to know what your hair feels like, whether it’s soft or coarse and whether I can tell the difference between the black parts and the silvery parts just by touching them.”
Jon is absolutely frozen behind his desk. He might not even be breathing, but that’s okay; Martin can’t remember why anyone needs to breathe.
“And I want to help you. And the others. I want to matter. And I want Sasha to be okay, and I want Tim to be okay, and I want Elias to finally face some fucking consequences for once. I want to take you on holiday and - and watch you while you sleep so you know you don’t have to be afraid. I want to wake you up if you have nightmares and make you tea in the morning and bake things for you, and - and I want to kiss you, even if it’s just once. Only once, just so I know, and only if you want me to. That’s what I want.”
The sweetness ends the moment the last word leaves his mouth. Suddenly the honey is cloying and acrid, suddenly his heart is unsteady with embarrassment, skipping beats like he’s just had a shot of adrenaline. Martin chokes on a breath and slams his eyes shut against the spinning room.
“Fuck.” His voice cracks on the word, insult to injury, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh God - I’m - oh God. That was -” He barely remembers what he said, which is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. He just knows it was soft, pathetically soft. Even his fantasies are as weak as his jawline. “I’m going to - go, I’ll go. I shouldn’t have -”
Martin doesn’t want to open his eyes. But he does. Just in time to see Jonathan Sims stand up. Start to walk around the desk.
And Jon is not big. Or strong, physically. Martin knows a bit about anatomy, took a couple art classes, was always fascinated by the bones of things. As Jon steps closer, Martin can only see the breakable things about him. Collarbones, fingers, bridge of his nose. What’s that bone in the arm that everyone’s always breaking?
Jon is not strong, and he is scarred, and he is small and fragile and God he is the bravest person Martin’s ever met.
“Martin, you -” Jon stops in front of him and Martin looks down, gaze almost level with the top of Jon’s head. “You can ask me. What - what I want.”
He’s shaking, Martin can see it - and it makes him realize that he’s shaking too. He barely manages the “What -” before he forgets how to say the rest, forgets how words work (but Jon, Jon is brave.)
“I think - I would like -” Jon reaches for Martin’s hand, and lifts it to his mouth. Presses a dry kiss right in the centre of Martin’s palm.
It’s a ruining sort of softness, and Martin’s big (physically) and strong (physically) but somehow Jon knows where his weaknesses are - the loose dragonscale, the slipped disc.
(And of course, after this the world will almost end (but not quite.) After this, there will be Elias and Martin’s humiliating tears over a statement he knew damn well, a beholding that came as no surprise to anyone.
After this Jon will die.
Almost. Not quite.)
But now: Jon is murmuring, “I think -” as he leans up to kiss Martin (and his warm mouth is shocking and brief, a knife sliding home.)
But now: Jon is still shaking when their lips part, and Martin’s hands are on either side of his face, tips of his fingers settled lightly in Jon's hair (it’s softer than anything, as it turns out, and the silvery parts are softest of all.)
Their foreheads press together, both of them breathing harder than one kiss should warrant. And Martin doesn’t say any of those other things he wants, any of the white-hot words he’s scratched down on paper or typed into the notes app. He doesn’t say anything about the shape of Jon’s shoulder-blades through that thin grey t-shirt he wears, doesn’t bring up any metaphors about fading light or seaglass or breakable things that are also strangely beautiful.
Because what good is poetry at the end of the world?
“Be careful,” Martin says instead (and Jon won’t be.)
“Come back,” he says (and Jon isn’t going to. Not for a long, long time).
And hours later, standing in that empty office, Martin will see the lighter that Jon left on his desk. He will notice the black handful of ashes in the rubbish bin, and wonder what Jon was burning.
And Martin is soft. People-pleasing and pathetic and terribly, terribly in love.
But Jonathan Sims kissed him once (once) and for a moment, in that office, with a small blue flame leaping in his hand -
Martin is not afraid.
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the dichotomy of feeling validated when someone says they were also bullied by your abuser and feeling heartbroken that other people have to deal with that shit too. and this isn’t the first time someone has reached out to me about this. aaand this person recognized my alias so she’s still talking shit. (b*tch made me famous lmao)
gonna stop talking about this now and stay off the dash tonight because i refuse to let her negative energy ruin my night lmao
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School was over for the day; he had just spent the past half hour hiding out in the bathroom. Cleaning up his wounds and trying to rehearse an excuse for the split lip. Readjusting his backpack with an sigh before slowly opening the door up. Putting his camera bag in his backpack for extra cushioning in case got jumped again.
Hallway seemed reasonably empty wasn’t an after school activity sort of day. Most had dispersed outside, to their dorms or wherever. Pulling out his phone might as well see which parent would be picking him up or- if he needed to start trekking his way home. Wasn’t long before felt himself collide into easy to guess somebody else.
Barely having managed to mentally tell his hand to wrap tighter around the phone instead of throw or drop it. Stepping back an few in case was somebody who has an issue with him. “Fuck.” Could feel his nerves in the hand holding the phone start getting antsy so- shoved the phone and his hand into his pocket casually.
Not lashing out, or saying much just waiting to judge what headache bumping into them would or wouldn’t cause.
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M.B. v.s. Brenda
[M.B. is my Cadetsona OC, M.J. and Brenda belong to @sleepy-heads-blog]
It's another day for the Freelance Police, and M.B. is still in training as the Cadet. She knew that being a new recruit requires physical challenges, but she never thought that she would become almost part of Sam and Max's family. Other than the obstacles back at the Aquabear Theme Park, M.B. had to do grocery shopping, cleaning chores, and had to watch over their son, M.J., every now and then. Not that she complained - a job is a job, after all. Of course, spending time with M.J. is never a chore for her. On this particular day, Sam and Max received news that the Commissioner gave them a day off since there were no cases to be found. M.B. decided to take this opportunity to spend a day around town, going window shopping and getting herself a gyro for lunch. All was well, until she finds a rather upsetting scene.
[As she finishes her lunch, M.B. hears yelling in the distance. She looks over to find a distressed M.J. power-wslking away from a girl, who is chasing after him.]
M.B.: *to herself* "...the hell?"
[M.B. throws away her trash and immediately begins to go after them. Moving closer, she realizes who this person is: Brenda. Brenda is shouting obscene insults towards M.J., as if she was oblivious to the world around her.]
M.J.: *turns around in anger* "Leave me ALONE!"
[As he does, Brenda gets right up to his face and shoves him into the ground.]
[M.B. immediately runs up and gets in-between Brenda and M.J.]
M.B.: "What the f*ck is wrong with you?! Leave him alone!"
Brenda: "Who the f*ck are you, b*tch?"
M.B.: "A friend, now leave him be!"
Brenda: "Who do you think you are?! Get the f*ck outta my way!"
M.B.: "No! I said, LEAVE M.J. ALONE!"
[Offended by this outburst, Brenda swings at M.B., backhanding her right across her face.]
M.J.: "Miss M.B.!"
[M.B. yelps. The impact stings with pain, leaving a fushed, throbbing feeling on her cheek.]
Brenda: "Don't you f*cking yell at me! This is none of your business, so f*ck off and go to Hell, you Satanic-@$$ wh*re!"
[M.B. winced at the pain, her eyes watery. She stands silent for a moment. The urge to fight back rises up from her chest. Her heartbeat quickens with adrenaline and fury. M.B. takes in a deep breath.]
M.B.: "You're right. I will go to Hell. There's a place for me there." *turns to look at Brenda* "It's called a throne."
[With a snap of her fingers, a burst of green and purple aura shoots out and surrounds M.B. Both Brenda and M.J. jolt back.]
Brenda: "What the hell?!"
[M.B.'s face remains expressionless as she raises her arms, bending the strange aura to her will. It gathers in her hands, illuminating like small starlit galaxies. On the ground, a magical circle appears around M.B. and M.J. like a barrier. Brenda takes more steps backward.]
M.B.: "I suggest you run away... Right now."
[Suddenly, from M.B.'s back sprouts two giant, black skeletal bat wings. As they spread, three monstrous gremlins crawl out from the circle, snarling and groveling, all looking at Brenda. M.B. lets out a mighty battle cry and the gremlins charge for the attack. Brenda screams in terror; the chase begins. M.J. finally gets up and watches as M.B. follows behind. He is speechless. Brenda runs away in fear as M.B.'s gremlins inch closer and closer. She tries to dodge them by entering a long, dark corridor in-between shops. She is stopped at a dead end.]
Brenda: "Oh God! Oh God, oh God, oh... GOD!"
[M.B. and her gremlins catch up to her.]
M.B.: "Ah, there you are!"
Brenda: "GET AWAY FROM ME!"
[Brenda grabs a nearby rock and throws it at M.B., but one of the gremlins jumps and catches it mid-air.]
Gremlins #1: *cackling* "I caught it! I caught it!"
M.B.: *giggles* "Yes, you did." *lightly pats him on his head* "Good boy..."
[Brenda is completely cornered. There is no way to run except forward. But why would she run towards this powerful Goth chick and her "pets"?]
M.B.: "Hm. Not so tough now, aren't you? To quote Obi-Wan Kenobi, I have the high ground." *flips her off*
[Brenda back up, and instead of hitting a brick wall, she feels something moist and slimy. She looks up, finding her up against this huge mass of flesh, teeth, and boils. It squirms to her touch, excrementing saliva and mucus. A boil pops with pus every now and then. Brenda freaks out and falls onto the ground. M.B. and her gremlins laugh at her terror.]
M.B.: *looks up* "Oh look! They're hatching! You know, you'd make an excellent meal for the little ones!"
Brenda: "L-little ones?!"
[The wall of flesh begin to swell into one massive boil. Then it explodes! Emerging from this putrid crater are swarms of large baby maggots, chewing everything in their path. Brenda panicks as she is suddenly attacked and covered by them.]
M.B.: "Not only would you be a delicious snack, but you'd also be their new home. Soon your fresh corpse will be filled to the brim with them! Just think of all the games they'll play inside your ribcage and your intestines and your brain.... every nook and cranny.... until there's nothing left. And just think, your life will have finally made its purpose."
Brenda: *crying hysterically* "STOP! STOP IT! PLEASE STOP IT! OH MY GOD, PLEASE STOP!"
[Brenda opens her eyes. Silence. She finds herself on the ground and looks around.. No maggots. No wall of flesh. No gremlins. No bat wings. Nothing but her and M.B., face to face, within a dark corridor. M.B. slowly approaches her; Brenda scrambles back and up against the brick wall, flinching at its texture.]
M.B.: "If you ever hurt M.J., Geek, or anyone else again..." *leans down over Brenda* "I will show you what Hell truly looks like."
[Her eyes filled with tears, Brenda's whole body shakes in fear. Hesitantly, she inches herself away from her, still looking up at her, waiting for the next abomination to appear. M.B. backs away, allowing Brenda to run away and never turn back. M.B. sighs, examining her cheek with a touch. It still stings.]
M.B.: "Ah..! F*ck, it hurts... f*cking b*tch..."
[M.B. turns around to leave the corridor. There stands in front of her a shocked M.J., staring at her with large wide eyes.]
M.B.: "Oh, sh*t! Uh... I-uh...." *takes in a deep breath* "Oh... God... uh...." *clicks tongue and puts her hands together* "I... I can explain."
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fictive culture is being from a "cringeworthy" source and getting made fun of because of it
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Beau can’t even believe his eyes. He doesn’t really know how it happens, or when. Everything just moves so fast. He’s only snapped out of it when he sees the green haired boy running straight at him, having pushed past the other bullies to get to him.
“A-Are you okay?!” Beau clumsily asks before he feels himself being dragged, and now suddenly hes running alongside this boy while the other three yell and thrash behind them.
“Don’t just stand there!” The blonde barks at the other two from the ground. “GET THEM!”
“Talk later! Just RUN!” The greenette replies simply to Beau, leading the way now that they’re being followed. Beau easily keeps up with the human (thanks vampire endurance), but it was only then he realized... when did he grab his hand?
“I’LL MAKE YOU FUCKIN PAY FOR THIS, BOSTON! YOU HEAR ME?!”
Those were the last things that Beau and this boy heard as they just kept running, and running, and running..
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every time i talk about kin memories or anything fictionkin related my partner always calls me mentally ill or ‘sick in the head’ and it is very upsetting.. like yes i am ill but this, this is real!! even if u dont think it is please stop mocking me 😓😓
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Looking for a fic where Peter is in Rose Hill not sure if he grew up there or what but he was there. He had tattoos? Skulls I think. At the beginning Harley got beat up by other guy and Peter saved him and there was a truck that Harley and Peter kissed in at the end. Hopefully that makes sense, I've been looking for this for a long time and could never find it.
hi anon! we think it’s this one - the skulls and Harley getting beat up scene sounds the same, but we might be thinking of different truck scenes. let us know if this fic isn’t the one you’re talking about and we’ll keep looking :)
hitchhiking from the willow tree - by yeeharley ( @yeeharley ) - oneshot - 7.8k - cw: homophobia, past character death, past child abuse, bullying (all implied/referenced)
The tattooed boy moves to Rose Hill when Harley is seventeen, beginning his senior year of high school. Ink seems to cover his entire body, a network of black veins- thin lines jut out from the collar of his crewneck t-shirts, trace up and down his biceps, form little patterns on his legs that Harley can only see on the rare occasion that he trades his Levis in for well-worn, paint-covered shorts.
They rarely encounter each other in the halls of their town’s one and only high school, but the boy seems to have taken up a little spot in the back of his mind and doesn’t ever seem to leave it. Harley barely ever risks being spotted staring at him, for fear of being embarrassed by the new kid.
The boy is quiet- barely ever speaks, really, and when he does, he seems to not have very much to say.
His voice is soft.
A harsh contrast with the three skulls that march up the length of his spine.
(Harley’s only caught a glimpse of them once, when they were changing in the boys’ locker room and he pulled his shirt off. His torso is completely covered in tattoos; the most noticeable of all of them is the solid skulls, maybe the size of a penny each, placed carefully at intervals along his spine.)
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I really do miss Rapture. It might just be the meds I’m on, but God, what I wouldn’t give to be under the ocean right now. I miss my sisters, too. Yeah, we were monsters, but that wasn’t our fault. We didn’t have a choice. We were still people. We hoarded toys for the Little Sisters and collected little trinkets that reminded us of our past. We begged Delta and Sigma for help as we fought them. We loved each other so fiercely that we died for each other, because we had no-one else. In Rapture, we weren’t alone, and we knew we could fall back on each other. I felt a deep sense of community with my sisters, like it was where I belonged. Now, I’m just a Freakshow. Most of my friends just kept me around to point at me and laugh. What did I do to deserve it? In this life and that one? What did I do to deserve to be separated from my family? -A depressed Big Sister
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Disclaimer: the concept is not my idea
So I’m a demon, ok? Have been for, oh, I dunno, couple millennia? I get maybe three summons per month, get paid pretty well (about a thousand per summon, plus commission if I’m good enough, and I get to keep any souls I grab in the process).
Anyways, that all changed about three weeks ago. I was doing a “haunted tea party” torture on a soul I had pretty much just gotten, nothing too evil (I don’t like actively hurting them, just giving ‘em a good scare, y’know?), when I get this nagging feeling in my head, the kind that tells me I’m being summoned.
I go topside, thinking it was going to be a cut-and-dry, normal cult summoning. Nope. It was this pre-teen, doodling in a notebook. Now, I may be a demon, but I have standards. I don’t respond to accidental summons from kids. So I go back to my place and continue what I was doing.
About five minutes later, I get the feeling again. Not wanting to get up, I locate it. It’s the damn kid again. Typical. They find a pattern they like, and keep doing it, not even bothering to do their research on arcane symbols and demon summoning. I have a life, you know! So I ignore it.
Now the thing about the nagging feeling in a demon’s head during a summon: it hurts after a while. There’s a reason summoning spells and circles are so hard to find, it’s because we don’t like constant headaches.
But this fucking kid. They keep doing it. Every. Damn. Minute. Another headache. This has been going on for about thirty minutes, and the summoning migraine is killing me. I go topside to put a stop to this.
This kid. Has almost forty summoning sigils. In their notebook. I sigh, and stop time for everyone except the summoner (handy trick, really). I possess the person seated next to them, and yell.
“What the absolute fuck do you want!?”
They scream. Good. They deserve a scare for all the headaches they’ve been giving me. I flash my true eyes.
“You’ve been giving me a headache all afternoon, couldja maybe turn down the summoning?”
“What, the doodles? Those are summoning you?” The incredulity in their voice is genuine, and I start to feel bad for scaring them.
“Yeah, please don’t use that symbol unless you need it.”
“Oh. You could’ve popped in after a couple, I didn’t mean to annoy anyone.” They seem... hurt? Shit, I didn’t mean to do that.
“I suppose,” is the only reply I can manage.
“Would you mind if I summoned you to help me with the jackasses that bully me at lunch every day?”
“I don’t see why not, it’s the least I can do after scaring you.” It really is.
“Well, guess I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch.”
“See you around, kid.” I say as I exit my host and restart time.
The next day, the kid is all but forgotten. I just finish my lunch when my head starts to hurt. Nice. More money. I head on up. It’s the school. Oh yeah, I forgot about that.
Remembering what they wanted, I head to their location. Silently observing, I saw a level of torture I would never stoop to: demeaning the target’s existence. The bullies were relentless, and the summoning sigil is covered in tears. I move in, stopping time for the poor kid. I grab a random kid from nearby as my meatsuit.
“When you said bullies, I didn’t expect them to be this bad.”
“Please,” came their response through muffled sobs, “Just possess me and get rid of them. Or me. I don’t care as long as you make it stop.”
“I’m not gonna get rid of you, you don’t deserve this torment.”
“Possess me, please.”
With a sigh (it’s not often I possess the summoner, it leaves a lifetime bond), I switch bodies, then restart time.
The bullying resumes.
The bullies notice the body stopped making noises, and move in to try a more physical approach. I stand.
“The owner of this body is done. Leave. Them. Alone.” I growl.
I turn, and show only the tormentors my true head. Tentacles, teeth, eyes, the whole shebang.
The leader turns pale and shrieks, and I stop time again, for the bullies.
“This person is under my protection. Leave them alone or face my wrath.”
The three of them pass out from fear, and I restart time.
Nobody is gonna hurt Daimon, not under my watch. The lifetime bond often leaves us demons with friends in the afterlife, but also provides the human with an extended life. We will protect those like Daimon, my newest friend. They’re genuinely one of the best humans I’ve ever met.
Hope you enjoyed
again, not my prompt.
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