Hello, I'm koda. This is my space for pro/yume/com shipping, Fucked up fanfics, Fluff, And of course, kink.
My values/Stances:
🤍Pro-Ship/Fic
🩶Anti Contact for the big 4 Paraphiles, AKA, Zoophilia, Pedophilia, necrophilia, and raptophilia.
🖤Fantasy≠Reality, it does effect reality but it is not harmful unless non consenting or unwilling parties are forced into it.
🩶I'm big on expression through fiction, so art, ships, music, books, or any form of self-expression for anything has my support.
🤍Consent is key to everything. If someone doesn't enjoy something, they shouldn't be forced to interact. However, if you willingly interact w/ things you dislike, that's on you and no one else.
🩶I do not tolerate harassment, death threats, or threats of harm.
🖤I don't tolerate Abusers, especially ones who hide within communities.
🩶Paraphilias are not evil, nor are they wrong. Actions can be evil and wrong.
🤍Animals, children, and dead bodies can't consent.
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My paraphilias:
Autagonistophilia: Being on stage or on camera. (Camera for me)
Autassassinophilia: Being in life-threatening situations.
Autohemofetishism: Making oneself bleed, a type of hematolagnia.
Autopedophilia: The image of oneself in the form of a child. (Ageplay)
Cannibalism: Ingesting human flesh.
Chronophilia: Partners of a widely differing chronological age. Basically LARGE age gaps.
Entomophilia: Insects
Hoplophilia: Firearms, guns.
Hybristophilia: Criminals, particularly those who committed cruel or outrageous crimes.
Odaxelagnia: Biting or being bitten.
Piquerism: Piercing the flesh of another person.
Somnophilia: Being asleep or unconscious.
My kinks:
Masochism, Blood, Knife, PetPlay, AgePlay, CNC, BDSM, Monsters, Spanking/Hitting/Punching/Kicking, Free use, Degradation, Praise, Feral/Pred-Prey play, Self harm and many more.
I like tumblr because (most) people here are nuanced. unlike tiktok where you’ll be nailed to a tree for daring to utter that sending death threats over ships isn’t ok.
This is legit dangerous for hunter & their followers. Children should NOT be anywhere near kink content. They should be blocking & avoiding it when it pops up, actively interacting as a minor is a HUGE breach of consent for the adults posting and is actively putting Hunter in danger of predators. Bc yea, there ARE predators in all spaces including kink, ESPECIALLY online kink.
good grief, i took my sweet time with this one just because it's so taxing to argue a child.
hello, dani. surprised you're still lurking, enjoying yourself there? if you want to shut the fuck up, like you said, then just do it, just a small helpful tip.
cutoff because this promises to be lengthy.
starting off strong with claiming you suspect that you have aspd, eh? that's amusing. i can assure you, you don't have it. source? you're talking to someone they call a low functioning sociopath. i'm not willing to armchair diagnose you with something, and it's not because i'm not knowledgeable in psychology - i don't want to gravely insult people that struggle with mental illnesses by saying you're one of them. if you want a doctor to help you figure out what's wrong with you, here's a list of things you should tell them: you're erratic, you think in black and white, the idea of being in the wrong makes you spiral. that's just off the top of my head, i'm not very good at remembering things i don't like, sorry.
"before you get on my level and start saying i should die and demonize someone with mental illnesses..." - so you do recognize that your behaviour is inappropriate, yet you don't want to change it? let me tell you, society at large doesn't like deviants. they don't like me for having the emotional capacity of a rock, and they definitely won't like you for throwing tantrums at mild inconveniences. besides, whatever you're ill with, you're a walking demonization of it, actually, because if your first thought is to pin your behavior on your (as of yet nonexistent) diagnosis, you're a walking stereotype of an abuser. by the way, disorder abuse isn't a thing, but shitty people that happen to have disorders are.
that's what i was saying when i, all the way back in spring, said you're a spoiled brat - if you never had to take accountability for anything in your childhood, you either were perfect and just woke up a terrible person one day, or - which is more realistic - are sheltered. i would assume you haven't gone through anything that'd actually break and bend you, and mold into a person that you never wished to be - you are doing this to yourself. being called out online is your first and biggest hurdle, and instead of being a compassionate, understanding, or just decent human being you're actively choosing to bark and bare your teeth. and with that, no one owes you the same patience your mama and papa would give you.
you should. handy guide on how to tell: if you know you can't tell your parents that without feeling ashamed of it, then it is in fact something you should feel guilty about and genuinely apologize for. refer to my guide on apologies for reference.
you should feel sorry about it, yeah. but the thing is, the focus in the phrase "i did it on accident" is on the "i did it" part, not on the "on accident".
i really don't want to commit to commenting on the rest on this image, let me play around with pointing out fallacies.
"everything else is literally fake..." - we start off with not a fallacy, but a straight up lie!
"are you just of lower intelligence?" - ad hominem.
"i'm not here to debunk anything which will cause a chain reaction" - slippery slope.
"choco pulling shit out of their ass and are a troll" - ad hominem x2.
"ik they are gonna use the worse things i've done..." - in wider context, tu quoque.
"literally every teen has done that" - bandwagon.
"it didn't trigger me as much as it does now, happy hoes?" - appeal to emotion.
was that six? i'm very tired right now.
love the classic "the group i dislike can never be in the right" stuff. you made a post filled to the brim with self-serving bias and reactive devaluation (exactly what you're doing here too by the way) poorly disguised as an apology letter. yeah, it wasn't a manipulation, it was a "fuck off". you are, in fact, not a master manipulator, just too full of yourself.
this has come out of your own mouth before, those who you call friends barely talk to you, of course you wouldn't manipulate them. plus, anecdotal - we don't know how you talk to your friends and can only trust your word, which we know cannot be trusted.
again - not aspd. some sort of emotional dysregulation though.
pinning your behavior that genuinely harms others on your anger issues again, tsk tsk.
"i can't control..." get help. asap. i'm not even being snarky, i'm not joking around.
if you have a life outside tumblr, get off for good and live a happy offline life far away from evil trolls and haters, then.
also, assuming the worst (admittedly rightfully so because you make bad decisions instead of listening to criticism).
say no more and just leave, god you're exhausting.
Plz for God's sake, learn what ASPD is before trying to self diagnose yourself. Nothing against self diagnosis, but its also fucking exhausting seeing ppl only try to self diagnose to get out of a situation or use it as a tag to blame every action on.
I learned last night through personal experience that you can in fact fist a neopussy, and it made me realize that so much of the propaganda against bottom surgery, even the really small ways that "a neopussy isn't like a *real* vagina" are complete fabrications.
I get wet when I'm horny, I have a vaginal microbiome, it feels like a cis vagina to partners who've been with cis women, and it can take a whole fucking HAND.
I just want to remind folks that the medical technology we have available is amazing, and that there are people and groups out there that have a vested interest in making sure you don't know that.
If you're on the fence don't listen to the propaganda. At the very least talk to a post op transfem before you decide.
Neopussies are the real deal and I just want as many folks as possible to know that.
your crime family needs help. to get that help, your brother sells you to john price in exchange for a loan of money and man power. but you're not for john price. you're for his ruthless, right hand man: simon "ghost" riley
slow burn, mafia au
you moved the chess piece across the board, hitting his own. "check," you said, snatching up his knight. It wasn't going to take much for you to win, one more move and you would have his king.
your older brother stared at you, a mixture of annoyance and amusement written on his face. "how the hell did you get so good at chess?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. there was no point in trying to make his next move, not when you were inevitably going to win.
with a smile of your own, you made that final, winning move. "i played with mom while you were off with dad," you said and snatched up the white piece that represented his king.
you kept your mouth shut, stopped yourself from saying something stupid that would get you into trouble. you loved your brother dearly, but he got his temper from your father.
still, you held up the chess piece. your way of celebrating your win; you did it every single time.
the two of you were siblings, grew up side by side, but you were raised so damn differently. he was raised to be a ruthless killer, to run a mafia family. you were raised to be the perfect mafia wife, to stand by your husband's side, nodding along to whatever he said.
your future had been decided for you.
"have you seen dad recently?" you asked. leaning back in your chair, arms folded over your chest. if your mother was still here, she would have chastised you. her ruler would have smacked her hand and you would've instinctively straightened your spine.
your brother shook his head. your father was a very busy man. a paranoid one, at that. once the leader of the most successful family in America, he was the shell of his former self.
he once was the lion, now he was the lamb. frantic, panicked, always on the phone with a shrill voice, always hiding out of sight of windows.
he was an embarrassment.
you knew your brother wanted to take over the family. it might have been the only way to save it. your father hadn't been the same since the death of your mother. erratic, out of control.
he terrified you. he wasn’t the man you remembered growing up, wasn’t the man that loved your mother. he was crazy, out of control, and somebody needed to put him down.
at least, that was what you’d heard your brother say. it wasn’t exactly a meeting, wasn’t something he’d warned you away from. just him and a few of his men, the men he claimed were his friends but started every week with a fresh paycheck for doing just that, in the drawing room.
you didn’t linger long for that meeting, just long enough to hear that phrase. but the cigar smoke was thick enough to be wafting out of the room, to have you nearly spluttering as you tried to listen. you left before you could get anymore details.
“I only go when I'm called,” your brother muttered. “it's best to stay out of the way.”
you knew what he meant. in your world, your father was known as a loose cannon, a madman. he had been ever since the death of your mother.
that what what had driven your father so mad. the not knowing. the desperation for answers. operations in the family had halted and money was quickly drying up.
even you knew that. you, the sheltered daughter. trained to be the perfect wife. you had no other skills. being a wife, that was all you were meant for. hobbies and interests weren't allowed to be anything more than that.
“what has he called you in for recently?” you asked, setting the chess set back on the board as if to begin another game. your brother wouldn't compete in another game, you knew. not when he was too busy.
he was singlehandedly keeping the family running.
your brother pushed his chair back. “business,” he said and stood up. “nothing you need to worry about.”
the way he said it made you worry. the family was going to shit and you had nothing without it. no transferable skills, no job experience, no references. without the family, you would be utterly lost.
your brother left you in the library with the chess set ready with another game, you stood and wandered around, looked for something to read. something you hadn't read before. new books hadn't been put on the shelves since your mother died.
with nothing new, you picked up the same book as always, one you had loved ever since you were a teenager. notes were in the margin from the fourth time you read it and your favourite pages were dogeared.
a well loved book. your mother would have flipped if she was alive to see the state.
as worried as you were about the family, your life was peaceful. you had no responsibilities, no etiquette lessons, nothing. you were just waiting, biding your time until your father found somebody to marry you off to.
you just had to wait.
as a child, you thought about running away. starting over again, going to school and getting a degree. at sixteen, your bag was packed and your father’s car keys were in your hands. but you didn’t make it, stopped when your brother asked you just two words.
you okay?
he was older than you, took it upon himself to look after you. he was the first born son, the future head of the family, the favourite. but you were his favourite. his baby sister. he was going to protect you, no matter what.
you were what the business had been. you had been the business you brother had been speaking to your dad about. now, he wasn’t ready to tell you this. how was he supposed to say ‘yeah, dad found you something to marry and i don’t think i can stop it’?
sitting on the sofa by the window, you tucked your legs under you and began to read. there used to be men in your garden, surrounding your house. protection that was needed in this line of work. but slowly, they'd been let go.
no finances, no staff. your family was slowly becoming nothing.
after leaving your in the library, your brother strode down the halls of the house. your father's office would be empty, he knew. it always was nowadays. not enough room for all of his papers, he liked to say.
papers. for most heads of family, most leaders in your world, their papers were all about business. deals, trade routes, people to take out. your fathers papers weren’t that. his room had become a hub of information, walls plastered with papers on the whereabouts of your mothers killer. some of it was ineligible, covered in coffee stains, and some of it just didn’t make sense.
nobody was brave enough to tell him that. he was determined, as if it would somehow bring her back.
he let himself into the office and sat in his fathers seat. his seat soon.
opening the laptop, he read through the email correspondence from england. he knew john price was as powerful a man as his father had once been. but his father had ruled cities with an army, john price had done it with just three men behind him.
he was as terrifying as he was impressive.
two weeks, the email said. two weeks didn't feel like enough time but that was john price's answer. any attempts to push the date back had resulted in the same answer.
two weeks.
that was all you had left. two fucking weeks and you didn't even know its he typed out a response, didn't have it in him to beg for anymore time.
now, he just had to find it in himself to tell you.
you had been raised for this, to be the perfect wife. but not his perfect wife. not that monster.
a sigh left his lips as he sat back in his seat. you never should have been involved in any of this. you were all he had left in the world, but he had no other choice. it was for the good of the family.
for the good of the family.
***
for two weeks, he tried to find an opportunity to tell you. it wasn't an easy thing to say ‘hey I'm sending you to get married to one of the most ruthless men in england’
he couldn't stop imagining your reaction. horrified. but then you would run away, hide from him. you would hide from everything if you could.
but you were prepared for this, for being married off to another family as if part of a deal. a shiny prize to be sold to the highest bidder.
this just so happened to be the ghost.
your brother wasn't sure how much you knew about the ruthless killer. assassin turned right hand man. those who were smart feared him. those who weren't ended up with a bullet in their brain.
only three days now. three days until he put you on a plane and shopped you off across the world. it would be just any plane, but john price's private jet. your family hangar had already been cleared for it.
“hey,” he said, slipping into the seat beside you.
you slipped your bookmark between the pages and put your book down “you okay?” you asked him, anxiety swirling in your gut. you knew your brother too well to know this was a social call.
he breathed in, his breath shaking. “what do you know about john price?”
“the man who runs the 141 in england?” you asked and your brother nodded.. “I know he started with nothing, slowly spreading over england and now he pretty much rules the place,” you said.
your brother linked his fingers together. “what do you know about the men that work for him?” he asked next.
“the three he built his empire with?”
again, your brother nodded his head.
your shoulders raised with a subconscious shrug. “nothing,” you said sincerely.
but then something sprung to mind. “I've seen a picture in dad's office. I think he was part of the 141. the man with the skull mask over his face. I had nightmares about it for weeks.”
guilt immediately started bubbling in his stomach. you were marrying someone you were afraid of, and it was all his doing. but this marriage would do some much for your families alliance with the 141. it would save your family.
“pack your bags,” he grunted out, his tone harsher than he meant for it to be.
“you're going to england.”
you looked towards your book on the table. weathered and dogeared with age, but, in a strange way, this was where it belonged. in the same way, this was where you belonged.
“for what?”
no answer. instead, he strode out of the library and called for one of the many staff members in the house. never seen, never heard, until they were needed.
“hattie?” he called and the young maid came running. she hadn't been employed for very long, but you knew your brother had a soft spot for her. hers was the only name he remembered.
harriet ran into the room. she smoothed out her skirt and clasped her hands together as he waited for further instruction. something your grandmother had expected if the staff, the current head of staff had kept it going.
“take my sister upstairs and make sure she packs her bags for england.”
she bowed her head. “of course, sir,” she said. knees bending as she dipped in acknowledgement.
“hang on, harriet,” you said as you stood, finger raised in her direction. “I'm not going anywhere until you tell me why and for how long I'm staying for.”
your brother turned away from you in a fashion that was entirely too dramatic. but that was your brother; entirely Roo dramatic.
he braced his arms against the table that held the chess set. “you're not coming back,” he managed through gritted teeth. “you're to stay in england with the 141 and maybe we're got a chance at saving this family.”
his fist hit the table and the neatly arranged pieces on top of the table rattled. “don't argue with me on this,” he said suddenly. “this is hard enough.”
but you wanted to argue. of course you wanted to argue; he was uprooting your entire life and moving you across the world. anyway from everything, away from everybody, that you knew and loved.
in your desperation, you looked towards harriet. but she couldn't help you. nobody could. nobody but your brother, and he was the one sending you away.
“when?”
you didn't have it within yourself to ask anything else.
the expression your brother looked at you with was so damn sad. "three days," he said.
you swallowed uncomfortably. for the good of the family, that's what he was saying. for the good the family, but what about for the good of you?
“Harriet?” you looked towards the young maid. “I'll meet you upstairs.”
“of course,” she said and rushed out of the library, leaving you with your brother. you waited for her to pull the door shut, waited until you heard it click, before you dared speak again.
arms by you side, back straight, as if that would hold you together. “what did you get in exchange for me?” you asked him, trying to keep your voice steady.
a sigh left his lips, leaning against the table as he threw his head back. “help,” he said “we need help. price is gonna loan us the money and the men we need to rebuild.”
“but why me?”
he shook his head. “I don't know,” he confessed. “you're not for price, though. you're for one of his men.”
one of his men.
“which one?”
he didn't answer.
“which one!” you insisted, face growing hot.
he opened his mouth, eyes searching your own ad he found the right words. “simon riley,” he finally confessed.
simon riley. not the ghost. you released a breath, the anxiety squeezing your chest easing slightly. “what does this mean for the rest of my life?”
“I can't say,” your brother answered. “but it's happening.”
the way you nodded, it was like you were being controlled by something else. you walked out of the library in a daze. he didn't stop you, didn't follow you as you walked down the hall and up the stairs.
harriet packed your bags while you sat there. there was nothing you could do, just sit there while harriet put everything you needed into your suitcases.
“if there's anything you need I'm sure the 141 will buy it for you,” she said, as if trying to be reassuring.
you nodded, the movement mindless. the 141. your new family. the thought had bile burning your throat.
three days. that was all you had. three days, you spent them in bed, too upset and drained to do anything.
if anybody came to your door, you shouted for them to go away. food brought for you was left half eaten, nibbled on. you were numb and upset, but you knew you had no choice.
and suddenly, the three days were up.
it was a sharp knock at your door, one you weren't used to. grabbing your pillow, you put it over your face and hid beneath it.
another knock. you didn't make a sound.
the door flew open.
you moved your blankets down slightly, watched as the two unfamiliar men walked into the room, flanked by your brother.
you wanted to shout, to scream, to tell them to get the hell out, but you didn't have it in you. your brother had sealed your fate with nothing more than a signature.
“aye, this ‘er?” the first man asked. no hair around the sides of his head, just on top.
“I'm sorry,” your brother said before the men could get any closer. you just spied the other one, close cropped hair and an unfairly, effortlessly pretty face. “I'll have her maid dress her and get her ready for you.”
the apology wasn't for you, you realised. it was for making them wait, not for ruining your life.
as they left the room, harriet entered. “come on,” she said and pulled your covers back. “let's get you dressed.”
you let her pull you around the room, getting you into your little black dress. minimal jewellery, and harriet picked your makeup.
“they're waiting for you downstairs, miss,” harriet said, grabbing your bag from your vanity. it had everything you might have needed for your long flight. phone, lip gloss, kindle, hair brush.
as harriet handed you your bag, she fixed your hair, pushing it just out of your face. “tell your brother once you've landed safely,” she mumbled, hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “I'll try and work on him, get him to bring you home,” she mumbled.
your hand found hers. “thank you, harriet,” you mumbled and stood.
the rest of your life was only moments away and you were terrified.
harriet followed you out of your room. without her behind you, you wouldn't have continued. you would have stopped, run into another room, and hidden yourself away. but you couldn't, you couldn't turn and run with harriet there.
when you got to the top of the stairs, there were three sets of eyes on you. one familiar, the other two strangers. they stared, but you couldn't move.
“hello, love,” one of them said. your bags were by the door, ready to go. he held his hand out to you. “ready when you are.”
“erm this artist’s style is a little weird…im worried that they might draw fetish art in private…” ok awesome i hope so. i wish Michelangelo painted inflation vore Mario in the sistine chapel instead of boring church shit. who fucking cares !!!!
this take is hilarious, because it proves the exact opposite point of what TOH was trying to say.
the very first episode establishes the Conformatorium as an allegory for censorship and purity policing. they literally get locked up for writing fanfiction, shipping “weird” pairings, and making characters kiss. the show is openly mocking the idea that there’s such a thing as the “right” way to create or imagine relationships. you know who wanted only “reasonable” and “orderly” ships respected? the Conformatorium guards.
celebrating the TOH fandom for being “anti-proship” isn’t some moral victory—it’s you proudly saying you’ve learned nothing and decided to become the villains the show warned about.
and dragging Hazbin into this just makes it worse. “Alastor is shipped with literally everyone”? yeah, that’s called fandom. people play with ideas. some ships are silly, some are serious, some are messy—that’s the point of fan creativity. policing that doesn’t make a fandom “grounded and orderly,” it makes it repressive and joyless.
what you’re praising as “for the best” is actually American purity culture talking—the exact same mindset that fuels book bans, censorship, and moral panics. It’s not about “protecting” anyone, it’s about control. and it completely contradicts the spirit of TOH, a show built on freedom of expression, self-discovery, and rejecting oppressive systems.
so no, the TOH fandom being anti-proship isn’t some badge of honor. It’s proof that a lot of people missed the point of the show entirely.
being price's arm candy at a military gala. paraded around all nice in a pretty dress. but really you're a higher ranking officer than him, and you're the one getting an award tonight.
You let all these full-of-themselves rookies gawk at you and comment on how low cut your gorgeous dress is. You don't bat an eye when they lean to John and whisper loudly.
"How much did that pretty bird cost, sir?"
With sleazy grins on their sleazy faces.
Both you and John let it happen. He'll wrap an arm around your waist and tug you close.
"Ah boys, this ones priceless."
Because at the end of the night, when they call out for the 'honourable General Price', the looks on their faces are satisfaction enough. Standing on stage being handed your medal and being able to look across the room to your proud husband.
You'll have him sobbing beneath you in the car later. Pulled over on the side of the road because you just couldn't wait. Dress bunched up around your hips. Making him beg for his general to go slower while you ride him like you deserve.
It's actually devastating how the terms transfem and transmasc have been co-opted.
When they were first coined (as I remember it, at least) they were made to be expansive.
They meant "literally anyone who's gender is more feminine than masculine" and "literally anyone who's gender is more masculine than feminine" respectively.
The other common usages I saw were "literally anyone who's transitioning towards femininity/ masculinity".
They were very broad classifications. Purposefully so.
These terms allowed nonbinary people to have language that expressed masculinity or femininity without disavowing/erasing other (gendered) aspects of themselves.
And there was no expectation that everyone had to use them. They were just two options. There for anyone who wanted them.
Now these terms are (most often) used as synonyms for trans women/men. Now there's discreet "transfem" and "transmasc" experiences. No room for overlap or complexity.
It's become just another way to ask "yeah but are you a man or a woman"?
If you think someone’s entire sense of morality is so flimsy and shallow that one dark fanfic could “corrupt” them, that doesn’t say anything about the dangers of dark content. That says everything about you.
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