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#tw knife

too much current events take me back to when i was almost asleep and then [] stabbed me with a butterfly knife because i was so caught up in the joy of feeling at peace and safe enough to take a nap that i forgot i was falling asleep next to a dangerous communist and teenage delinquent in the making who believed that the only good society was anarcho-communism

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sweetie, sweetheart, sugar, don’t lose yourself

don’t let them turn you sour and hurt, don’t let them make you bitter with their harsh words, those words like knives in your heart

they will make you bleed your sweet strawberry blood but i can patch you up again with kisses and soft touches and maybe some bandages too

oh pumpkin, don’t doubt yourself, don’t listen to their hurtful hurtful words

they don’t deserve you in all of your gentle sweetness and they never did

they never did

don’t let them lock the real you away

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This blog is here for me to explore and express the darker and more sadistic side of my bdsm and ddlg lifestyle. I will try to indicate all triggering kinks I can think of here but consider this a general warning.

The themes I post here will be often sadistic and are either fantasy or themes I only condone between consenting adults.

Theme’s and kinks explored may include

-knife play

-orgasm control and denial



-cnc themes

-blood letting branding and marking

-mental conditioning

-encouraged self discipline

-task setting.

My inbox is open but if you message here expect me to respond from this mindset.

Note if you come looking for advice around this side of the community state that you are looking for advice first.

Now enjoy the show and hopefully you leave a little more corrupted than you arrived.

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je ne regrette rien

Title: je ne regrette rien

Word Count: 825

Pairing: very brief Royality, like really not at all this is just a roman fic

Warnings: death, murder, not like we haven’t done that before but, unsympathetic roman, knives, prostitutes, paris, sp00ky, no virgil

Summary: Roman Dumont is the son of a rich detective, an artist with a masterful vision. He saw the beauty in his fathers work, and wanted to create for his father, to please him. The slums of Paris, France may not be visually astounding, but the starstruck glimmer in a certain prostitute’s eye fills him with inspiration.

day 4 of 13 days of halloween


You can also read HERE on our AO3.

December, 1891

Paris, France

Roman Dumont was born to a young detective and his wife on a cold night in December. Rain outside pelted the dimly lit streets and tapped repetitively on the glass of the window, the rustling of trees and gentle thunder were the only sounds to rival the strained yells pulled from the throat of 23-year-old Madame Dumont as she clutched her handmaiden’s wrist until her fingers turned white. When another voice began to cry as well, the sound exploding from her dissipated immediately.

Her baby was here.

She cradled her golden haired baby boy in her arms. He only fussed for a moment, but was silent the moment his mother touched him for the first time. He yawned, and what looked to be a tiny smile etched its way onto the newborn’s lips. His father, whose days revolved around death, kissed his wife’s forehead as she cradled the life that they had created together.

The doctor chuckled. “That kid is already smiling. He’s going to do great things.”

As a child, many people said the same things. About how he was a little ray of sunshine, and he was going to grow up to be just like his father: successful, loving, and adored by everyone. He wanted more than anything to please his father.

They saw something in him; they knew that he would create something that would outlive him, that his name would be remembered forever.

So it would.

The strangers that had spoken to him when he was young had been right, he did do great things. He was a scholar, and successful like his father.

So there he stood in the dark room.

The clock ticked methodically. Its metronomical clicking pounded rhythmically against his ear drums, and he eyed it with a pointed intensity. The mechanical beat was distinct, the only sound in the otherwise deathly silent house. Enough to drive a man mad. Roman pinched the offensive clock hand, feeling as it tried to move in his fingertips, but couldn’t. The cogs clicked one last time before the clock ceased all movement, perpetually halted at 03h17.

Over the years, his hair darkened to a dull brown, and he examined his features in the mirror, shadowy and grim under the dim light.

The moon hung proudly over Eiffel’s gaudy tower, which he could just make out underneath its light. The moonlight poured directly into the seedy room — directly onto him.

His body lay on the table, and a glimpse of it caught his eye as he draped the large cloth over the mirror.

He was an artist, a mortician in his own right preparing him for burial like he’d seen his father prepare his mother. But his father had been weeping. Roman wasn’t.

He examined his body. He was almost done. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the dusty air of the room and paid his respects, recounting his actions in his head. This was good for the man, just.

He knew by the upkeep of his pathetic room how he’d struggled. Just a whore looking to get by with a few coins from a desperate man. He’d been standing on the corner, hair choppy and his clothes tattered. It was sad. But he was sin, a lusty incubus. He caught wind of Roman, flattening her rumpled shirt and batting his dark eyes.

Arrogant of him, to think that he could lure him in. Didn’t he know? There were plenty of him in Paris. But only one Roman.

Roman had approached him, and his brows furrowed in thought as he studied his face.

“Monsieur… Dumont?”

Satisfaction washed over him as he watched the recognition of a rich man’s son settle in his eyes. It was egotistical, admittedly, but he was satisfied because he knew him. Everyone did. But they had no idea who he was. Not really. And this gigolo was no different.

He placed a porcelain hand on Roman’s shoulder, pleading eyes not reserved for him, but the Francs rattling joyously in the rich man’s pockets.

“Why don’t we go somewhere… quieter, mon cher…?”

“Roman. Et toi?”



He pulled him close, tracing his lips over the other mans’, staring into his eyes as he dug a blade into his pretty chest. Roman watched as shock and fear destroyed the starstruck glimmer in his eyes. Satisfaction. The same feeling. No, a better feeling. More powerful. Exciting.

He exhaled the memory as he placed a singular rose into Patton’s clasped hands. He was beautiful, for once in his pitiful life. The police would find him tomorrow, maybe the next day, and see the man adorned by flowers, on display. In his prime. His father would see him, be shocked at what kind of mastermind could do such a thing. Create a masterpiece like this.

And it would be everything he’d been told it would be. Everything they told his father he would be. It would be great.

Author’s Note

day 4, and i’m sorry yall didn’t get better content today but the giants lost to the eagles so for personal reasons, i will be passing away

just kidding, love y'all

till next time,


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