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#tw rape
thesunfyre4446 · 17 hours
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I was on tiktok and I saw an edit about Jaehaerys death, most comments of the team black annoyed me so much.
"Jaehaerys Hightower" (and Rhaenyra's 3 older boys are real Targaryen)
"A son for a son" (FFS bullshit, it was Daemon that didn't want to be in a war were he didn’t do anything notorious in the start)
"I' m going to love watch this❤️" (peaple like this are sick and no one can chage my mind)
Honestly, peaple like this should just leave the fandom.
same. the way TB talk abot B&C is disgusting.
and i'm seeing a lot of "B&C was horrible... but--" there is no but. B&C is the worst thing that happened during the dance. and if you're excited to see a child gets beheaded & a man threating to rape a 6yo then you're in no position to criticize people for being TG.
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I just genuinely saw someone say Poison and the fetishization of Angel’s trauma is okay because “a lot of people have a rape kink actually so get over it”. are you genuinely deranged. Obviously I am not naming who because I don’t want to start a tumblr fight or whatever but holy shit genuinely the worst take I have ever seen in my life WHAT was that
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stuckinapril · 3 days
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These updates are fucking insane. Israeli forces are currently besieging 3 hospitals: al-Amal Hospital, Nasser Hospital, and Shifa Hospital. They even executed a doctor, Muhammad al-Nono, for refusing to leave his patients, while a PRCS worker was killed in the al-Amal shelling (they are terrorizing these hospitals all at the same time). A Palestinian woman relayed that other women have been rounded up from Shifa hospital and subjected to rape and torture. There are also accounts of Christian Palestinians being denied access to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday—all while Israeli settlers stormed al-Aqsa Mosque on this same Sunday. My heart is aching for these Palestinians. So devastating there are no words.
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sar-soor · 4 months
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This clip is taken from the documentary Tantura, which you can watch in full on YouTube for free. In it, the original Israeli settler colonialists responsible for the Nakba describe the atrocities they committed in the village of Tantura, Palestine in 1948.
**TW for rape, mass murder, genocide.**
via @ zein_rahma and @ rosypirani’s instagram
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toxicanonymity · 14 days
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The Spread
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PAIR: Thomas Hewitt (Leatherface) x f!Reader
WORD COUNT: 3.5k | MASTERLIST
SUMMARY: You hide and don't get slaughtered. Tommy secretly keeps you. He's kinda sweet if you're good.
WARNINGS: I8+ Canon-typical violence (implied) & setting, captivity, dark caretaking, manhandling, sleeper hold, oral f receiving, noncon unsafe piv, finger gagging, dark fluff, tommy has a praise kink, stockholm syndrome vibes. NO human skin mask: leather partial mask shown in photo. He is feral and naive due to his family. No use of Y/N. Divider by gasolinerainbowpuddles.
SIZE KINK - Reader is much smaller than Leatherface, can be carried and maneuvered. He is 6’5”, thicc and STRONG.
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You barely escaped the so-called law man, and your friends weren’t so lucky. They got chased right into the lair of a chainsaw-wielding giant.
“C’mon, Tommy,” the Sheriff encouraged the giant, “Just like the slaughterhouse.”
Heavy chains thrashed, and one of your friends groaned.
“Attaboy,” the Sheriff praised.
While they were distracted, you ducked into a nearby woodshed. You didn't dare go far – you had encountered too many hazards on the property to trust your footing, and couldn't risk calling attention. Instead, you sat there in the shed, paralyzed, listening to your friends get butchered. One by one, their squeals turned animalistic until a wet thwack or rev of a motor cut them off.
Finally, there were no more screams.
Huddled in a corner of the woodshed, you tried to keep your wits about you. The shed was about the size of a small dorm room. There were stacks of wood all around–some freshly cut, some rotted–and hay covered the floor.
You were in a tank top and Daisy dukes with cowboy boots that made you feel like an idiot. You had sap on your knees from crawling over the wood. Taking deep breaths did nothing but fill your nose with cedar - it was only a matter of time before you’d meet your fate. You picked splinters out of your hands as you replayed the chase in your mind. You began to feel sure “Tommy” had seen you run into the shed. If that was the case, you didn't know why he let you go. You could only guess he already had his hands full.
“Think we got’em all, son?” The Sheriff asked.
Tommy grunted.
“That’s my boy,” the Sheriff concluded.
-
Dusk was approaching. Not long after the Sheriff left, heavy footsteps crunched louder and louder toward the woodshed. Your heart pounded harder with each step. The rickety door busted open with a plume of dust. Tommy’s silhouette consumed almost all the daylight that remained.
The door frame would’ve been tall enough for most men, but Tommy had to duck on his way in. He carried an ax. Each step he took shook the entire structure. His breathing was loud, his mouth hanging open below the leather that covered his nose. The partial mask covered his chin too, but not his mouth. It was fastened with two straps behind his head nestled in thick, chestnut hair that came down around his shoulders.
He approached you cautiously and paused when he was an arm’s length away. You whimpered, knees held to your chest. He sniffed around like an animal. Then he brushed a stray section of hair out of his eyes, and you saw a glint of uncertainty in his gaze. You tried to compose yourself, wondering if your fear could trigger him.
He knelt down to get a better look at you. He reached for you, and you jumped. He grumbled and held up a massive finger less than an inch from your mouth, telling you to be quiet.
Something possessed you to reach for his hand. He let you move it.
You put his palm on your cheek and watched his chest heave in confusion.
He tilted his head and stayed crouched there for a moment, staring at you with his brown eyes softening above the leather.
“Attaboy,” you whispered, repurposing the Sheriff’s words.
Tommy huffed, then abruptly stood. He left the shed, ax slung over his shoulder. He ducked again on his way out.
He didn't return for a while. You finally dared to open the door just enough to look out, but not for long, startled by an older woman’s voice calling, “Tommy!!! Time for supper.” You shrunk back into your corner, afraid you had been spotted.
You sat there frozen, afraid to run.
-
Sometime later, you heard a squeaky wheel approach the shed. The door opened more quietly than it had the first time. The hulking silhouette was backlit by a buzzing floodlight in the yard. The man seemed to be more careful and quiet this time. He had brought a few blankets. One of them was tattered, pale yellow bordering what used to be white, and it had Care Bears on it. He put the blanket over your body, coming all the way up to your neck, and patted your head. Then he took a bundle of newspaper out from under his arm and handed it to you like an offering. It smelled like barbecue.
As he turned to leave, you whispered, “Tommy.”
He dropped his head and looked back.
“Thank you,” you said.
Looking at the wall, Tommy offered a short nod before leaving. Then he locked the door from the outside.
After he left, you opened the newspaper. It was too dark to see, but the contents felt like a charred bone with bits of flesh hanging to it. You weren't hungry anyway.
You wrapped yourself tight in the blanket, and to your discomfort, your heart fluttered at the man’s softness with you. You replayed the day’s harrowing events in your mind’s eye and saw him differently than you had at first. Maybe he was nothing but an attack dog. You began to doubt he would've hurt your friends at all if not for the older, more wicked man in uniform.
Maybe Tommy was as much of a prisoner as you were. You wondered if he could talk. You felt sure he could listen.
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After sunrise, you awoke to some commotion and heard a vehicle drive away. After a period of silence, you tried to open the door to the shed, but it was securely locked.
Soon, Tommy came back and unlocked it. He moved swiftly toward you with purpose in each heavy step, crouching slightly. The mass of his body strained his shirt. You'd never seen forearms like his. He could surely snap you like a twig, but something told you he wouldn't. Still, your heart raced when he lunged toward you. He reached over a wood pile and used both massive hands to force you onto your feet. He wrapped you in the blanket, then put you over his shoulder like a potato sack.
He put you into his wheelbarrow, then nestled some firewood around you. He looked around furtively as he did it. Then he covered you with another blanket and wheeled you across the bumpy ground, onto a smoother surface. He rolled a garage door down behind you and left you covered in the wheelbarrow as he rummaged around the garage.
You peeked out from the blanket and saw him placing shackles on a table. Your heart raced. You glanced behind you. The garage door was still lifted by a small margin. Maybe big enough to fit through.
You watched in terror as he brought out a mallet. Finally, your body unfroze.
You lowered yourself out of the wheelbarrow as carefully and quietly as you could and crawled toward the narrow opening. As you began to wriggle under it, your ass hit the door, making a noise far too loud to go unnoticed.
Within a split second, his massive hands were firm around your ankles, pulling you toward him, dragging you roughly across the concrete.
He manhandled you like a doll. He forced you onto your back and shook you, then wrapped a massive hand around your neck. Your life flashed before your eyes, and you kicked him. He grunted and grabbed you roughly by the shirt, then sat back on his knees. He held you with your back against his enormous thigh. Your Daisy dukes did nothing to protect your ass from the cold concrete. You thrashed, and he put the crook of his elbow around your neck, then everything faded.
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When you woke up, you were chained to the table, with cold, metal shackles on your wrists and one ankle. You were bottomless, and the air was cool between your legs. Your feet were bare. All you had left was your tank top, which you wore without a bra.
You didn't dare move. A foul dust in the air made you sneeze, then Tommy came into view. He was wearing a butcher’s apron, and the sleeves of his dingy, button-up shirt were rolled up to expose those big, hairy forearms. He held the mallet. His eyes were industrious.
“Please don't hurt me,” you begged.
He laid a heavy hand on your shin, and you flinched. He gently placed your free ankle in a shackle, then nailed it shut.
“Please,” you begged.
He laid a hand on your thigh and looked you in the eyes.
“What are you going to do to me?” You asked.
He huffed and put the mallet away.
You were relieved until he returned with a meat cleaver. You tensed and squirmed. He laid a hand on your stomach and his searing eyes told you to stay still. He slid the cleaver under your tank top, and you held your breath and looked at the ceiling. Your nipples hardened at the feeling of his knuckles between your breasts.
He violently sliced upward through the fabric, turning your wifebeater into a vest which burst open, freeing your breasts. He inhaled sharply at the sight and discarded the meat cleaver with a metallic clatter on a nearby shelf.
“Please,” you begged again, then he stuck his fingers in your mouth and peered in. His thick digits tasted like charcoal and salt. Three fingers were enough to stuff the orifice completely. When you stopped whining, he abandoned your mouth.
He cupped a breast, then cupped both of them. He hummed a curious “mm,” Then dragged his thumb down your sternum before stepping away to survey your body.
You felt like a cadaver sliced open for examination. As he slowly stalked around the table, it dawned on you that's what he was doing. He was studying you.
He stopped at a long side of the table – your left side. He brought his face–his leather mask–to your skin, just below your ribs. His hair fell onto your body, and the light brush of it tickled. He paused to loosen the strap at the back of his head. Then he dipped his face to your abdomen again. He turned his head and dragged his cheek, and the leather, over your bare stomach, to your breast. You could hear him desperately sniffing and wondered why he didn't take that thing off.
Lips, hair, and smooth leather dragged across your skin as he wiped his face along your chest. Then his face made its way into your armpit, where a dart of his tongue made you flinch and shiver. His tongue darted out again. He sucked the delicate skin slightly into his mouth before releasing it with a soft grunt.
He paused and pulled away. He pivoted to stand behind your head, then brought his hands to your breasts. Helowered his mouth to your neck and licked you. His hair fell on your nose and smelled like smoke and metal.
He seemed to savor the taste of your skin. He licked longer, harder, the strong slippery muscle of his tongue nudging your jugular. You felt a rush of arousal and shame. He tasted the other side of your neck and hummed in satisfaction. The throbbing between your legs made you wince.
He dragged his tongue down over your chest to lap at your breast. He flattened his tongue to lick your nipple, then began to suckle at it. One thing was clear - this was not for your enjoyment. He was entirely absorbed in what he was doing. He didn't even glance at your face. Whether it was for his pleasure or curiosity, you couldn't be sure. He moaned into your nipple and you knew you must have been gushing onto the table.
After a few seconds, he pulled away from your tit and began to sniff the air. He stalked around the table some more and paused at your shackled feet, staring up between your spread legs. He found the source. His hands dwarfed your thighs as he pushed them further apart. Then he dabbed a thick finger, only grazing your folds as he picked up just a taste of you from the table and brought it to his mouth.
“Mm,” he hummed quietly, staring between your legs. He licked his finger again and his eyes searched the air curiously. Then he grabbed your upper thighs and anchored his thumbs on your outer lips, spreading you open. His heavy gut rested on the table between your feet as he leaned forward. As he lowered his mouth to your cunt, you twitched and felt another rush of shame.
His breath was hot on your cunt, then he dipped his tongue, and you tensed.
He lapped at your entrance, and the physical pleasure made you exhale and relax, while your fear remained. He licked and sucked, and your moan echoed before you could try to cut it short. Your chest was hot with embarrassment, but if he heard the sound, he ignored it.
He fed on your juices like a starved animal. He sucked and slurped, and dug his lips and tongue in, searching for more. The squelching and gurgling sounds were obscene between your legs. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into your hips as he feasted.
The leather mask nudged your clit and made your hips lift into his mouth. He brought a hand to your lower belly to hold you still. Then his tongue plunged into you. You whispered, “good boy,” and your whole body felt weak with shame.
He paused and glanced up, then repeated the action. It was true, some part of you welcomed this, as afraid as you were. In any case, the heat and pressure building in your gut would have to release at some point.
He fucked you with his tongue, nudging your clit with the smooth leather, and you had to remind yourself to breathe. You'd never been eaten so voraciously. He moaned into your cunt and the tension was too much to hold. You whimpered as you began to pulse and twitch. His tongue paused as you clenched around it. Then he continued. Your back arched as he sucked it all out of you, swallowing every drop he could find. As your climax waned, you took slow, deep breaths.
Finally, he slowed down. He looked flustered for a moment, then his hand disappeared from your thigh. He pulled his face away, and the leather mask was soaked and shiny. Then he took his apron off. When he stood to put the apron aside, the protrusion in his pants made your breath hitch and your asshole flutter.
Your cunt spasmed once around nothing, and your insides churned as though making room for a massive guest.
You couldn't peel your eyes away. He adjusted himself, then palmed the bulge. His shirt had come untucked. The bottom button wasn't fastened, and his midsection strained the other buttons as his whole torso heaved. He eyed the mess between your legs as he palmed himself.
He seemed to be considering the possibility of stuffing your cunt with whatever monstrosity hid in his pants. He could take anything he wanted, but he didn't look proud of it. This didn't feel like something he did every day.
You decided not to fight back. You told yourself it was for survival, but you also twitched at the thought of him wrecking you. You looked at his crotch, then down between your legs, still gushing at the sight of him barely contained by his pants. The way his whole body wanted to bust out of his clothes made you weak in the knees. He was so solid and strong. You looked again from his crotch to your own, as though your eyes were instructing where to put it in defiance of your better judgment.
He grumbled as he picked up a hammer and approached you, making your heart nearly stop.
He pried the nails out of the shackles, and you cursed yourself for the way your heart fell. Your disappointment was quickly replaced by relief. A man this size, with these capabilities – he could have done serious damage to your body.
“Thank you,” you whispered. You laid on the table patiently looking at the ceiling as he went down to your feet and unshackled your ankles.
Then he grabbed you by the thighs and yanked you toward the end of the table, making you yelp. Your naked crotch came to rest flush against the bulge in his pants, making you ache with arousal. Your thighs trembled in fear.
You looked down toward him and he forced your chin upward, making you look at the ceiling. You pinched your eyes shut. You were at war with your body’s desire. He might kill you. He might actually split you in two. The dying squeals of your friends echoed in your mind. But his hardness swelled against you, and oh, fuck.
His hips backed up and you twitched at the loss of his warm package against you.
With your eyes still pinched shut, you heard his clothes jostling, then he spread your lips apart while he notched his tip against you. It was too big. He held your thighs again and pulled you toward him with a forward thrust and a grunt.
Being impaled with his cock felt like being split open. The girth burned as it stretched you, and you whimpered as your body tried to accommodate him. He stayed inside, and he sighed. You'd never felt so stuffed. He leaned forward, and the contact with your clit provided some relief as your body spread itself more. But still, your heart raced at the prospect of him moving. You prayed he would be gentle.
When you didn't stop whimpering, he stuck his fat, smokey fingers in your mouth again. He placed his other hand on your chest to hold you still, with the crook of his thumb close to your throat. You gagged on his fingers and he removed them. He wiped your saliva onto your nipple before kneading your breast.
Thankfully, you were wet and getting wetter. He held you down and slammed into you. The fullness pushed your thoughts out of the way along with your guts. You kept your eyes shut as he speared into you again.
His breathing and grunting seemed to echo through the room with every snap of his hips. His unholy girth twitched against your walls. He grabbed onto your hips and brutally pounded you. He used you like a sleeve until his moans were drawn out and his breath became ragged. He pulled you back hard and leaned forward, the weight of him resting on your lower abdomen. Your cunt fluttered in anticipation of his climax, but he paused. Your hips lifted, seeking friction for your front.
He pulsed once, making your chest flutter with pleasure, but then he swiftly slid out. He left you twitching for more as he finished coming outside. His cum painted your folds and inner thigh, and he grumbled and turned around. You lowered your chin to look just in time for him to release onto the wheelbarrow and floor. Then he stood there with his broad back heaving as he looked around.
You closed your eyes again and opened them when you felt fabric on your inner thigh. He was wiping you off with the bottom of his shirt. His face and neck were blotched pink, and he had fixed his pants. He was looking at you, chest still heaving when his ears perked up at the distant sound of tires on gravel.
He quicky put your shorts back on and gathered you off the table, nestling you in the wheelbarrow once more. He swaddled you in the old blanket, now wet with his cum, and opened the garage before quickly wheeling you back to the shed.
He placed you in the corner where you had been, just in time for the truck to park. As he turned to leave the shed, you said “Tommy. Can you bring me some water?”
He hesitated then gave a short nod before locking the shed again behind him.
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He came back later with a jar of water and a metal bucket. You were shivering in the corner when he came in. He set the bucket down next to you, then placed his hand on the crown of your head and gently moved his fingers as he looked around. Then he abruptly began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled you up from the corner to put the shirt on you. His chest was hairy and broad, and his entire torso was thick, just massive.
“Good Tommy,” you said as he finished putting the shirt on you.
He paused and left it unbuttoned. His eyes were big and brown. He held you by the sides, looking you up and down in the oversized shirt and Daisy dukes. Then he put you back where you were and locked the shed behind him.
The shirt was filthy, cumstained, and reeked of sweat, but it didn’t smell as bad as it should've. It didn't make you sick like it should've. When he left, you wrapped it tight around yourself, then looked in the bucket. There were apples.
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Thank you for reading and engaging! Love you guys 🖤
If you want more, please interact about it. I do have more thots! Feel free to send yours.
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wilwheaton · 8 months
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Brock Turner the literal textbook definition of a rapist
As a reminder, convicted rapist Brock Allen Turner now goes by his middle name presumably so when folks Google him, his conviction for raping an unconscious woman next to a garbage dumpster doesn't come up. So while convicted rapist Brock Allen Turner now goes by Alley Turner, he is still a convicted rapist. Despite the new name, the person is the same: convicted rapist Allen Turner raped am unconscious woman next to a garbage dumpster.
I sincerely hope this bag of shit does not get a single second of peace for the rest of his miserable life.
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neil-gaiman · 1 year
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Two poems by Roz Kaveney:
No matter what. My people will endure.
Kill us. Imprison us. Carve up our brain.
Out of your children we are born again.
Erase our past and future but be sure
We are among you añd will find a way
To know ourselves in fragments from the past
Constructed truths. You think you have locked fast
The doors of memory. Your world is gray
Lacks savour. We umami of the soul
Palate remembers taste it never knew
Your angry grand children will stare at you
Carve us from world and you will leave a hole
Negative space describes all that we were
They fill it with new flesh. He him. She her.
#
When they have killed us all, or maybe most
Of us, because some fragment will escape.
We are quite good at hiding. When they rape
Some young guy on your street and later boast
Taught it to be a woman, when they shave
That blonde's head bloody slash her by mistake
Across the cheek for being tall. And make
Pyre of our books. And in an unmarked grave
Neighbour or niece. Legitimate concern?
Will you still sleep at night? Will you forget
You sort of wanted this...perhaps not yet...
But soon you'll stand and cheer and watch us burn.
Then later say it was not in your name
You never meant it and are not to blame.
(Twitter links follow.)
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tikkunolamresistance · 4 months
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from “Women, Race & Class” by Black revolutionary Marxist, Angela Davis.
Read here:
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TRAs to minors: you need amputations and chemical injections or you're going to fucking kill yourself. rush rush rush rush rush as FAST as you can. LIE and THREATEN SUICIDE to anyone who stands in your way. here's a script of fake statements to make to your doctor so you can get the amputations and chemicals as fast as possible. doubt is the enemy. if you even THINK about not going through with it RIGHT NOW, you're permanently hindering your ability to pass as an adult. which means you WILL KILL YOURSELF AND THERE IS NO OTHER WAY. YOU WILL KILL YOURSELF. YOU WILL KILL YOURSELF YOU WILL KILL YOURSELF THERE IS NO WAY OUT THERE IS NO ESCAPE
TRAs when someone detransitions for literally any reason: you were a fucking liar and never really trans you nazi piece of human trash. nobody would ever pressure you like that or tell you to lie. the least you can do is shut your fucking mouth and toe the line, and stop trying to convince people there's any alternatives other than amputations + chemicals, or straight up killing yourself. you're a fucking conversion therapy supporter and deserve to be beaten to death and raped
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tocomplainfriend · 2 months
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HAZBIN AND SA (+HB)
TW: SA and RAPE
THIS ITSELF DOESN'T TALK ABOUT THE SCENE! But the surrounding context.
So I really hate everything about how this has being treated. I am a SA victim and wanna talk about some stuff. If you didn't know, in episode 4 (I think) there is an exploration of Angel Dust SA, before going to do that lets see some stuff first:
She made a "cumming" joke about the song Poison (that accompanies the SA scenes)
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This person over here worked on HH/HB (draws r-pe/non-con)
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BLURRED AND CUTTED IMAGES: (Some are more or less explicit)
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You know, that whole thing of shipping, and drawing porn of the canonical sexual abuser with the victim?
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They also left this comment, under a comic where Val threatens brutal r-pe on Angel.
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This person also worked in/directed the scenes of Angel dust Sexual abuse in the episode. The person that ships a r-pe ship and does all this shit is the one to work in this scene?????
ALSO????
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Like??????? What happen here?
Also...
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(The pinkie pfp person is 15 here too)
Why does Angel sexually harrases Husk non-stop (which is acknowledged by Vaggie)? Why is Moxxie SA by the succubus played for laughs? Same with Chaz or Blitz harassing him sexually or touching him without consent? Why did Stolas do so many unwanted advances towards Blitz, and that's literally the endgame couple of the show? (All of this are jokes, or by the Husk x Angel shit "ship moments"
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WHY THIS TOO?
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And yes you are "correct", something like Hypersexuality Trauma-should not being shamed. You are not a bad person, for dealing with this. BUT HEY, that doesn't mean you get to sexually harass people like Angel does to Husk or anyone.
Also, the problem is not having an SA victim's story. The problem is how it is treated and all the context that surrounds it. All of this above is that context! Why is so much SA jokes in Helluva? Why is that funny? You want to tell a story of SA, and anyone calling out the problems with it is deleting victims feelings and stories... YOU AND YOUR STUPID FUCKING JOKES DO THAT ALREADY. WHEN SA IS A JOKE FOR YOU, YOU ARE DIMINISHING SA AND R-PE.
There are also a lot of random fans saying that "Viv is an SA victim too"- #1 Where the fuck did she say that, cause you randomly saying that she said it doesn't mean shit. #2 DOESN'T DELETE THE WAY SA HAS BEING TREATED! THIS IS NOT EVEN CLOSE TO MAKING A JOKE AS AN SA VICTIM ABOUT YOURSELF- SHE/AND OTHER IN THE TEAM ARE WRITING CHARACTERS GETTING SEXUALLY ASSAULTED AS THE JOKE. -OR NOT UNDERSTAND LEGIT POWER DYNAMICS AND THE GROSS THING THAT STOLAS DOES TO BLITZ. OR THE LITERAL "SHIP COMPILATION" THAT IS PURELY ANGEL SEXUALLY HARASSING HUSK.
"Is important to represent SA survivors stories- specially men who-" BROTHER ALL YOUR OTHER MALE CHARACTERS SEXUALLY HARRASS/ASSAULT OTHERS AS A JOKEEEE. "They are in hell" BITCH A HUMAN, A REAL PERSON WORKING ON THE SHOW WROTE hahaha Moxxie gets violated by the succubus so funny lol. IT'S NOT "LOONA IS A BAD PERSON FROM HELL THAT'S WHY SHE MADE FAT JOKES AT MOXXIE" NO IT'S WRITTEN AS IF THE SA WAS FUNNY IN ITSELF!
This is also not a scenario where there was a realization of the problems in HB with all those jokes and the harassment, so it was trying to be fixed with a serious story in hazbin. NO, THAT'S NOT IT!!!!
If there was an apology of how the sexual assault was treated in previous works! "We'll make up for it!" (the fact of that was a thing in the first place, it's still bad). That would be a little different. BUT NO, IT'S NOT! IT'S HYPOCRITICAL AND GARBAGE BULLSHIT.
I think purely by the context already given here that I think the representation it's bad. I don't feel like it comes from a good place, due to the hypocritical shit, the comments, and the artist who directed it.
We could go really back and forth with the direct scenes of the episode. BUT THIS IS ABOUT THE CONTEXT SURROUND IT rather than the scenes themselves. (Which is partly connected to the fact that it's incomplete)
Here is the scene "Tuca and Bertie". Is Bertie telling her friend of her assault. It's amazingly respectful and well written. It's not graphic, and tells the story really well.
youtube
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m-ushroomtale · 5 months
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On November 9, 2004, Iris Chang killed herself with a handgun on the side of an interstate highway in California. Nineteen years later, we can still remember her and her book.
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张纯如 Iris Chang (March 28, 1968 - November 9, 2004) was a Chinese-American writer and historian whose ancestral home was Xindu Street, Huaiyin District, Huai‘an City, Jiangsu Province. Iris Chang is a second-generation Chinese American born in New Jersey. Iris Chang is noted for her use of novel and unique methods to illustrate Chinese life in China and the United States, revealing little-known important historical materials of Chinese history and Chinese immigrant history in the United States, through books such as ‘Qian Xuesen's Biography’, ‘The Rape of Nanking’ and ‘The Chinese in America.’ In particular, ‘The Rape of Nanking’ published in 1997 describes the rape, torture, and murder of large numbers of Chinese civilians in Nanjing by the fascist Japanese army. The book was listed as recommended reading by the New York Times and named by the Book Review as one of the best books of the year. She is best known for her English historical book ‘The Rape of Nanking’ which broke into the New York Times bestseller list within a month and was named the most beloved book of the year; William Kirby, chairman of the history department at Harvard University, believes that it is the first book in English in all of human history to fully study the Nanjing Massacre.
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sad-cinnamongirl · 5 months
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rape is a hate crime based on sex. it should be counted as one.
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maaarine · 4 months
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The sexual assault of sleeping women: the hidden, horrifying rape crisis in our bedrooms (Anna Moore, The Guardian, June 15 2021)
"Naming specific acts, rather than using broad – and loaded – terms such as “abuse” or “rape”, her survey asked more than 22,000 women if, for example, they had ever been spat at, or strangled, kicked or bitten.
It also asked respondents if they had ever woken to their male partner having sex with them or performing sex acts on them while they slept.
To this question, 51% answered yes.
This was not randomised sampling – the survey was widely shared online and participants were self-selected. For this reason, it’s hard to extrapolate from the findings.
The results sparked a predictably polarised online response. “This was extremely validating for me after years of thinking, ‘Am I being raped?’ I’m not alone”, tweeted one woman.
“It’s why I now jerk awake if someone even gently brushes against me while I’m sleeping, 13 years later,” wrote another.
Other comments included, “Only chance I get!” and “the other half was OK with it!”
Katie Russell, spokesperson for Rape Crisis, says she was “not massively surprised” by the findings.
“There isn’t a lot of research into the multiple ways women experience violence from known men, but we do know the numbers are so much higher than any official statistics,” she says.
“Rape myths are still incredibly pervasive. It’s commonly believed that if it’s your boyfriend or your spouse, if you’re sharing a bed, if you’re naked, if you consented earlier, then it can’t be rape.
There is a really big difference between gently waking your partner and initiating sexual activity and actually doing something sexual or penetrating someone while they’re still asleep. (…)
In Martha’s case, the rape happened once, but for some men, seeking sex with a sleeping woman is an active preference, a fetish known as somnophilia.
Svein Overland, a Norwegian psychologist, is one of the few to have studied it – his interest sparked partly by his work in prisons, trying to understand the motivations of sex offenders, and also by his work with victims of what Norwegians call “after-party rapes” – attacks on vulnerable women who were either sleeping or drugged.
Overland believes somnophilia is part of the wider growth of what he calls “one-way sex”.
His research into online porn showed a steep rise over the past decade in categories such as “sleeping sex”, as well as other forms of sex that are based on unresponsiveness, on only meeting your own needs.
(“Flexi dolls” is another example – where women pretend to be sex dolls.)
These preferences overlap with porn itself, says Overland. “With one-way sex, with porn, with masturbation, there’s no dance, no seduction, no interaction and no pressure to perform,” he says.
“The more I looked at this area, the more you see that a lot of men are afraid of having sex.
Society is becoming more pornified but, at the same time, many studies show that people are becoming less sexually active. We have young men buying Viagra, unable to keep an erection.”
A sleeping woman is no threat – she’s absent, an object, a receptacle. (…)
“There seems to be a perception that something like this is a ‘lesser crime’ because it might not be at the hands of a stranger but your partner.
But what would feel worse? Being pickpocketed by a stranger or robbed by someone you love and trust?” she asks.
“The idea that you’re asleep so it didn’t require violence is also very dangerous. Penetrating someone’s body without their permission is an inherently violent act.
“Imagine being asleep and waking to find someone going through your personal things,” she continues. “Now imagine it’s your actual body that has been intruded into.” (…)
“When I first left him, I wouldn’t sleep. I’d lie awake all night and have hallucinations – him raping me.
Those flashbacks, that trauma response, was the mind and body trying to piece things together.
Even now, nine years on, I still wake at two every morning. I don’t even need to check the clock.
We know that the body stores memories of trauma – and I think 2am is when it used to happen.” (…)
In February 2020, she told the jury: “There has never been a part of me that has not been profoundly impacted,” and that in the immediate aftermath, she suffered PTSD and had tried to take her own life.
She said she had felt “unsafe everywhere”, frightened to trust anyone, even her parents."
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intersectionalpraxis · 2 months
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Someone also wrote a brief description about these massacres and brutal systematic raping and often killing of Vietnamese women and children by these despicable and depraved US soldiers. It is absolutely horrific. I hope these soldiers are eternally damned.
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I will be adding this to my reading list. This was recommended by someone in the comment section for those who haven't read this one yet:
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cathy-plus-e · 4 months
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If this post gets 50k notes before July 7th of 2024 I'll do anything possible to go to therapy and investigate if I really got rapped when I was 10 years old so I can stop living with an uncomfortable feeling of doubt and insecurity with my own body
This got extremely specific I'm sorry
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hotwings0203 · 5 months
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“Daddy?”
You moan and weakly toss your head to your left as you hear the cellar door open
Tw: noncon, blood, kidnapping, abuse, whipping, the usual shindig
His chuckle reverberates throughout the dark room, and you can’t help but flinch at every footstep coming down the rickety steps. Your head is pounding, your heart seems to be caught in your throat and the dingy light in the cellar keeps swaying amidst the draft.
His figure descending towards you makes you nauseous, but you're not dumb enough to fall for his good-natured demeanor as he descends and approaches towards you.
Full eye-contact, a smile as best as you can manage it, and body turned toward him.
As if the chains wrapping around your body like some fucked-up gift wrapping allowed you any mobility anyways .
"Hi there, princess," he coos at you before squatting in front of your weak and bound form, lifting your chin up at him gently with his thumb and forefinger.
You hum quietly and try to swallow the cotton that seems to invade your mouth at the dark humor in his eyes.
"You miss me?"
Nodding as vigorously as you can, you scrunch your eyebrows together and pout your lips the way you know hope melts him. The healing cuts across your forehead and cheeks sting as the scabs are pulled taut with the way you're manipulating your facial expression, but if that's the price to pay to satiate put off his sick desires, then so be it.
"I-"
You cough and desperately try to wet your lips with your tongue to get rid of the raspy warble, and instead attempt to don a soft, higher pitched voice.
He doesn't like it when you give him the impression he's neglectful.
"I m-missed you daddy. Wanted to have your arms around me and feel you, and, and.."
You trail off hopelessly as you scramble for what else he'd want to hear, but in the time your hesitation settles uneasily in the air, his hand has already reached around behind his back to produce a strange black silk bandana.
"Yeah?" He simpers at your panicked expression seeing the new toy. "Guess you can't have missed me that much if you stopped screaming for me."
Your face falls.
That sick fuck
He slaps your face, hard, and violently rips your thighs apart. You yelp and flinch as he cups underneath your knees and brings them up next to your head.
Your legs shake at the strain of being folded in half after being immobile for so long, and you feel the threat of a severe cramp creeping in your calves. He merely grips your legs tighter and shoves you harder against the wall, practically slamming his hips against your own at the easy access.
He grinds slow and deliberate, almost painfully as your lower half buzzes from the attention. You sob as you strain your head to the side to avoid his leering grin right in your face, hair falling over your eyes as a temporary shield to his sadism.
"Aww, look at you. You that shy? I thought I fucked it out of you the first couple times, but I guess the lack of attention really did wonders for you."
"Daddy, please," What you're begging for, you have no idea, but you know your silence will enrage him further.
As he's done so kindly to remind you about.
His raspy growls continue right in your ear, words hot and fierce as you wince in terror. "What, I leave you down here for two days and you only need me for bathroom breaks? For food? What if I just cut that all off, huh? Would you need me then, you ungrateful fucking brat?"
He seethes and suddenly gnaws your ear.
"No! Nonononono daddy, m-my throat hurt after calling out the first couple of hours, I promise!" You wail as he continues to painfully rut and grind against your sore mound.
"Nah, don't start begging now. Your punishment hasn't even started. This is just warming you up, my pretty girl," he breathes into your open and wet tear-stained mouth as he deftly undoes your wrist shackles. His mouth never leaves yours as he lifts you up tightly against him and carries you to the other side of the red room.
The second he places your unsteady feet on the floor he grabs the ropes swinging lightly overhead and immediately starts tying your chaffed wrists again. Even though you're standing now, you feel as though your position bound now in the middle of the room is even more vulnerable that when you were sitting against the wall.
"I'm sorryyyy," your sobs wrack your body as he lets go of your now-bound wrists. Your balance is lost as you let go of your weight and let the ropes hold you up. And yet, you're still not even sure what you did to piss him off.
"Yeah, just like that, keep screaming for me pretty girl," he mutters under his breath as he stalks around the room looking for something.
"I thought the waterboarding and knives were enough to get it through your thick head, but I'll spell it out for you...on your body"
His rummaging around the room stops as he positions himself behind you, much to your terror. At least when he's in front of you you can protect whatever part of your body he's targeting.
All you hear is the pathetic sound of your own sniffles and his heavy breathing.
You make one last attempt before submitting to your own fate.
"Daddy...I thought you couldn't hear me. That's why I stopped calling for you. I-if I had known you could hear me I wouldn't have stopped!" The rest comes out in a rush as if he'll silence your excuses, and your dry throat feels as though it's ripping in half.
There's a very pregnant pause before you hear a shuffling behind you, and he starts to peel your flimsy, dirty nightie off of you.
Your lip wobbles as the silence continues, and he begins to shove his hands up your body, first trailing up and over your hips, past up your sides, and then cupping your bruised tits. You hiss slightly as his thumbs press into your sore nipples as his palms massage the globes in circles.
His breathing picks up again as you do nothing but whimper at his violations, his hips having a mind of their own and rubbing up against your bare backside. You have no idea when he took his pants off, but you definitely feel his unsheathed member dragging hot and heavy over your asscheeks, teasingly releasing precum over the skin.
"Oh, I'm not mad at you baby. I'm gonna let you continue your silence. In fact-"
His rutting and ministrations stop as he seems to have worked himself up to a climax, and you gasp lightly as you feel a cool silk fall over your eyes. You feel him secure it snugly behind your head, and moments later you hear the sound of duct tape being ripped from its coil. Sure enough, your mouth is covered, and you're rendered mute, immobile, and blind within a matter of minutes.
He voices your terror. "Like a lamb waiting for slaughter," he croons as he places his palms flat against the hollow planes against your torso your breasts, pressing you closer into his uncovered erection and chest. It seems as though he can never get close enough to you, even within his grasp.
"Spread your legs." And now his voice is monotone, devoid of the lilt mere seconds earlier.
You're too terrified to do anything but obey, hoping if you react well enough this punishment will also end in minutes tops.
You smell rather than hear the leather first, with its pungent factory scent drifting up to your blood-caked nose, making your nostrils wrinkle in disgust.
And then, you feel it.
He places the bottom of the handle of the whip firmly against your poor widdle clit, and starts grinding in circles, imitating the way he was earlier when you were in his arms.
You squeal against the moist tape and thrash, your wrists aching something fierce as the ropes holding all your weight above prove to be unyielding, merciless.
He laughs cruelly at your distressed state, and continues to rub your bud faster. He rambles on like a madman, and you feel like your ears will bleed with the filth he spews.
"Yeah, yeah, you like that? You want it that badly, slut? I'll make sure you never stop begging me, begging me to love you, to hold you, to fuck you like you need me right now," all the while he rubs his member over your asscrack and cover you threateningly.
His other hand yanks your hair to the side, and he lowers his grinning mouth to the unblemished nape of your neck, fighting for balance against your skin as you try your utter best to thwart his evading teeth.
He bites and sucks at your skin like you're nothing more than a chew-toy, all the while moaning lewdly and growling like a fucking dog.
All the sensations inflicted on your poor, abused body cause your hips to rock in their own rhythm against the handle of the whip, which hasn't stopped its incessant stimulation.
There's a tense moment of re-adjustment as he shifts the handle to his other wrist to prevent his own hand cramps, and he stops his rutting as well as his assault on your neck.
While he straightens up to continue the torture, you however, have not stopped bucking your hips amidst the handle stilling on your clit.
You let out a wail of frustration- at him, and being violated like this, and needing to cum because of it.
When he realizes your hips are actively still bucking and chasing the revoked high, he barks out an incredulous laugh.
"Seriously? And here I thought this was punishment. You sick little freak, you're not supposed to be enjoying this."
And sure enough, you feel the handle shift from stilling against your clit to pushing inside your quivering hole. You moan loudly at the feeling of the lightly ribbed tool rubbing agianst your puckering walls, albeit a bit painfully.
You can hear him exhale in awe as he angles the handle at a place that makes you jump and lift your hips as best as you can just to lower them against the shaft. he keeps it there, letting your buck your hips and work for it yourself, teasing you by bringing it lower and finding yourself unable to drop any further due to the short leash above your head.
But hes a kind master, and soon begins fucking it up into you himself after the sight of your drooling, empty pussy isn't enough to simply satiate himself by molesting your tits.
The squelching sounds of your wet cavern and your girlish moans, along with the sight of your ass shaking from his spanks are too much for him, and he yanks the handle out of you yet again right at the cusp of your climax.
"Not yet baby," he rasps, wiping literal drool off his mouth. "Daddy's gotta feel you cum around his big, fat cock," and with that whisper, he plunges three fingers back inside you. He shudders at your needy howl, and begins dillgently pumping inside of you.
With you distracted on creaming his digits, he grips the slippery handle of the whip and cracks it against your ass.
You whine and thrash again, your orgasm yet again ripped from you, but he merely pumps his fingers faster.
"Louder," He growls.
He lets it crack on the other cheek, marveling at how tight you squeeze around his fingers while the skin blooms a beautiful blood-red.
You scream this time, sure you can taste blood from your parched throat. It's exhausting your body at this point, the pleasure and pain mixing into one while he has his way with your battered skin.
He lets the leather taste your skin once, twice, curving it around your sides to let it lick your tits, making them jump deliciously and creating small rivulets of blood in its wake, behind your knees to make you buckle and fall painfully further on his pruning fingers, on your back to make you writhe.
And finally, when you do cum at his thumb finally, mercifully swiping across your long-forgotten bud, he makes sure he positions himself in front of you to hear you, loud and clear, like you were supposed to the first time.
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