Hey sup name's Tahuti (pronounced tau-tea). So I enjoy exploring dark/""problematic"" themes in fiction and I put characters through whatever makes me happy. I will not argue about this because I can separate fiction and reality.
!! This blog is 18+ !!
ALL original character posts are tagged with "Scrunkly" regardless of if they are writing/art. Me just talking gets tagged "Princely Decrees".
♡ I don't content warn posts, so the list below is my best attempt at a content warning for the entire blog. ♡
-Gore
Content List (clarification will be here)
-Human Domestication Guide (posts about my own stories, reblogs from other creatives, and also general character thoughts.)
-Guro (erotic gore)
-Non-Con (erotic rape)
-Rape (non-erotic mentions/depictions)
-Somno (Somnophilia)
-Suicide/Murder
-CG/L
-Necrophilia
-Drugs
-Physical Abuse
-Impact Play (Includes slapping/punching)
-Incest/Fauxcest
-Knifeplay
-Omegaverse (A/B/O)
-Watersports (pissplay)
Characters I've made are all tagged by their full first name.
[ 498 words, Femme Affini, Gender Neutral Second Person Reader. Tags ; Fauxcest, Mom Dom, Implied Memory Alteration, Somnophilia if you squint ]
Written in 25 minutes. Happy mother's day :)
--
You hadn't always felt this way about your mother.
In earnest, you don't fully remember how it started. She's always been your entire world, the light that guided you throughout your life, the one thing that stayed in perfect clarity even as the rest of the world melted into static. Your anchor. Your everything.
After a point though, something shifted. When you looked up at her, it became easier to get lost in her eyes and for longer, the ever-shifting hues of her many faceted eyes always giving your attention something to hold onto. And if your gaze ever did shift, it would hold on the dense vines that made up her hips, the slight curl of her smile or that soft, fluffy foliage that made up her chest. Over time, it got harder to lie when she asked what you were thinking about.
Still, you still never thought it'd get this bad - no one ever does. It's a cruel twist of fate, the fact that the more you try to suppress something the more it comes to control you. Your dreams swimming with being trapped in her grasp, her voice dripping with honey as you're practically swallowed into her.
"Don't worry , mama's got you," in your hushed fantasy, the imagination dances so vividly her voice echoes between your ears. "You're so cute when you pretend not to like it~"
She laughs the more you struggle, and in the end it always ends the same, pollen drenched bliss overtakes you, and you sink into your bed post orgasm, shaking and ashamed at what she'd think if she knew what you were thinking about when she wasn't watching.
You think she knows, worst of all. You've been sloppy with your secrets as of recent, and there's a way that she looks at you that sends a shiver down more than just your spine. The way she pets your head when you lay on her lap, the little comments she gives the other moms every time you go anywhere from the store to the vet, its enough to make anyone burn up - let alone you.
"I hope you know that I love you, in every way," it's always that one line that sinks deeper than the rest. She always cups your cheeks when she says it, tilting up your chin to look into those captivating eyes of hers. "And there's nothing that you could do, or feel, that could change that. I made you mine for you, exactly as you are~"
The layers of your voice always make your heart throb, your face go hot, and there's never a way to hide your fluster from her. Sometimes, she'll even comment - "You're so sweet, getting all red for your own mother like this-"
It's always the same after that - the dreams are always so real that you wake up unable to tell the imaginings of your own perversion from your inescapable reality.
You’d never know the meaning of unc or its origins in black culture if you looked to mainstream media.
Really good write-up on the origin of "Unc" as a term used in AAVE, and how it's been turned into a generic disparaging term when it didn't even have negative connotations to begin with.
Affini Mom who deliberately shrinks her height a bit so her head doesn't poke above the aisles and her daughter can have the gender affirming experience of getting lost in the grocery store.
An introductory feralbreaking lecture in which one common strategy to mollify a feral's resistance is demonstrated for the class.
This story uses ‹single angle quotes› for dialogue spoken in the local affini dialect and "double quotes" for dialogue spoken in Terran languages.
The following contains extremely non-consensual touching and intoxication, psychological manipulation, needle play, and internalized imperialist attitudes. Reader discretion is advised.
"Wakey wakey, cutie~"
Something pulls me out of a deep, dark sleep. A gentle touch at the back of my neck. A feminine voice, gentle, patient, and soaked through with undertones and reverberations like a mesmerizing, alien chorus behind a singer.
I float up with concerning ease from the sea of syrupy, languorous sleep, a sleep deeper than any I can remember.
My eyes open to see a dark room, small, lit warmly by lamps in the corners. The space around me is very brightly lit by something behind me. The floor angles up ahead of me, and that space is filled with dim shapes squirming in the dark, dotted with colored points of light–
The weeds–
I turn around.
"Oh! I see our little helper has woken up~!"
There's a weed close to me, reaching for me.
I push away with my feet, but the creature's vines grab my limbs and pin me before I can even think of standing. The tendrils pull me back toward the xeno, back onto a soft surface that I realize with horror is a pet's bed.
The vines turn me back around to face the others.
‹Now that our subject is conscious, permit me to begin my demonstration!› the creature says, I think. The polyphonic wall of sound is nothing like any language I've seen, and it makes it hard to think.
‹Today, I will demonstrate a basic comfort-based approach to breaking in your little cutie. For those not in attendance or who do not have the lecture notes, the human I have in my vines is small, and her skin's pigmentation falls near the middle of her species's typical range. She was abducted by her superorganism's 'military' in 2552 by the Terran calendar.›
The creature's vines coil around me, touching me much more directly than they should be able to.
I look down.
I'm in a dress. A short dress, with flimsy fabric that does nothing to stand between me and the creature's touch.
I struggle. "Let me go! Fuck off!"
The creature speaks again, ‹the file our lovely, hardworking clerks put together on her suggests an independent streak. Her prospects for independence were determined when the Coccinea's boarding party rescued her. Her attitude, as demonstrated by her propensity for deragotory terms for people and their precious florets as well as her willingness to use violence, shows significant radicalization since her data footprint trailed off.›
Its vines squeeze. ‹Our little subject is not a problem case, but neither is she fit to be an independent. Her profile indicates that she should break easily and beautifully with the proper application of basic techniques.› A vine squirms into my vision, tipped with a thorn– no, a needle. ‹Any questions before I begin?›
I thrash and shake my head. "No, please, please no!"
‹Why have you not given her any Class-E's?› says something in the writhing crowd.
‹Excellent question,› says the thing behind me. ‹I've omitted any mood stabilizing drugs by design. I hope to fill my starshine's future days with nothing but bliss, but today, her acute stress response is an asset~.›
The alien drags the needle along my shoulder. "Don't worry, little blossom. This won't hurt a bit~"
The needle sinks into my flesh. Something squirts inside me, and then it pulls back out.
‹I've dosed our little subject with a Class-A/C cocktail. It's very basic – the Class-A stokes her touch hunger, and the Class-C floods her system with bonding hormones that make her clingy. The precise names and the proper ratio are all in your notes. It's very important not to overdo it with Class-C's – as I'm sure you learned, the standard suite of xenodrugs for humans does not include them, because they barely need the push.›
My body feels hot. My breath quickens, and the movement of air against my skin feels like a mosaic of sensation. I feel blissful heat where its vines touch my skin, and aching, burning hunger where they don't.
I thrash harder. "Please don't, please don't, please!"
The weed turns me around to face it. Its two eyes glow purple like luminous spheres of glass assembled from little tiles. A third "eye" sits where its neck meets its torso, rippling and pulsing. I look away from the lights on instinct, but something in me tells me to look deeper.
A vine strokes down the back of my head. "Ssh, I know petal. This is scary for you, but I promise you that it's for your own good."
"What the fuck does that mean!?" I shout.
The vine strokes through my hair, and I struggle harder. I hate how good it feels.
‹It's very important that you do not rise to your little feral's provocations. Validate their feelings, make them understand that you're here for them, and be as roots holding fast within the soil. Your little human wants stability, ferals especially, no matter how much they claim to want otherwise.›
Its face turns down to me. Something stirs in my chest, fluttery, electric. I feel cold and isolated, like I need–
It caresses my cheek.
Against my will, I press into the touch, energy stolen from my desperate struggling. Tears form in my eye.
"Please, I don't want this, just let me go I don't want this I don't–"
"I know petal, I know. I'm here for you. Would you like me to hold you closer?"
I hate the way my heart says 'yes.'
‹Different ferals call for different theatrical framings,› the thing says, turning its 'face' up to its audience. ‹Suppressing your little one's physical resistance might be advantageous, or it might not be, but you want them to struggle. The typical human response to acute stress is characterized by the activation of their sympathetic nervous system – faster heartbeat and breathing, tendency to think more quickly but less deeply, optimized for responding to danger.›
My clothes start to feel scratchy under my dress. I struggle anyway, but the horrible texture and the touch hunger feel like hell.
‹In most feralbreaking scenarios, you will trigger this response one way or another. For today's purposes, its purpose is to happen hard and fast, so that we can utilize the response that comes next.›
"Fuck off!" I shout, "Fuck off fuck off fuck off!" My skin burns with the craving for touch and my heart freezes with longing for something I refuse to name. I fight with everything I have.
‹Once her body's stamina for acute stress has been depleted, she will be in a precipice point. She will seek an end to the danger at a cost she would not normally accept. Her values and consciously held beliefs will fall away for the raw and primal desire for relief – relief that only you can provide.›
It worms a vine down my back, under the dress. Her touch is heaven. I know if she held me close, it would complete something in me. Holding back my traitorous body saps my strength.
I try very hard not to think about how little difference it makes.
The vine lifts away from my back. The fabric of my awful dress rips and tears.
"No, please no nononononono!"
The dress comes apart. Cool air kisses all over my back. My brain fizzes out for a moment.
‹Once her body has accepted that the danger has passed, her parasympathetic nervous system will alter her physiological state once more in an attempt to return her to homeostasis. Adrenaline and cortisol will be replaced by endorphins and other chemicals related to the bonding and reward mechanisms in her brain.›
"Please, I give up, I'll do what you want, just please stop please!"
"Ssh, it's okay," the thing coos. I want so badly to believe it. If I give it what it wants, maybe it will be okay. I try to bury the thought.
‹It's very important not to let your little one dictate the terms of her relief. Among other things, we are conditioning her to behave. She doesn't get to make decisions anymore, after all, no matter how adorably she pleads. Compromising with your little one will only undo your hard work.›
The willpower holding back my tears fails, and they fall freely. "I just wanna go home, I just wanna go home, please I don't want this I just wanna go home!"
‹That said, it's crucial to recognize when your spicy little feral is bargaining with you, and when they're bargaining abstractly as a defense mechanism. This sweet little one knows she isn't going home. She isn't making a deal with me, she's spilling forth her desires as her need for comfort drowns out reason.›
It looks down at me, and I meet its placid violet eyes.
"Would you like me to hold you, little blossom?"
I– I can't–
"...please..."
It pulls me in tight and encases me in vines. "It's okay, little one, it's okay. I have you."
The fight in me melts away.
I clutch the vines of its chest and sob into it.
‹Baseline humans are comfort seeking little things. The purpose of this exercise is to teach them how they can get that comfort, and from whom. Our subject's trainable little brain will learn much more quickly in the neurochemical environment we've cultivated, and her bonding hormones, magnified several-fold in their effect by the Class-C, will attach her to me in very little time at all.›
One of its vines tips my face up to look at its own.
"Do you think you could say 'Thank you, Mistress' for me?"
I don't want to. I don't want to. But I feel too burned out to argue.
"Thank you, Mistress," I say through tears. The words make my heart flutter. Its vines on my skin feel like heavenly light and the way it holds me close fills an icy chasm in my heart. I shouldn't like the way this feels. I'm too tired not to.
"Good girl," it says.
My heart soars.
I realize, as it squeezes me gently, how fucked I am. If I ran now, and if it let me, I don't think I would surive the separation. An inch of distance would kill me. Another horrible thought bubbles up from my traitorous heart, and I don't fight it.
‹That's all for today's lecture! And do remember – my little subject may look compliant now, but you should expect a few more repetitions of this process before the results are permanent. If you will excuse me, my little starshine needs some aftercare~›
Written for the Microfic Monday HDG Community Event. Prompt "Ferals and You."
Word Count: 991
"We can observe well on our own how the recesses of a pet's mind'll interact with the sounds they make, but there's quite a lot we can enjoy about simply watching two of them interact. A few days ago, my son got real excited when I told him all this and"—He laughs gently, rustling his draping vines— "he gone say some 'Daddy I'd be so good at your job, imma be cool and then they gonna be cool.' , but I'd told him like 'Baby they so new that they still got a feral mindset, they might say somethin' triggering to you.' and his sweet little self insisted. So today you all also get to see Osiris."
"When?"
"'Bout now."
Vines encircled a large, ornate wooden desk that sat at the front of the terran-style classroom. They ceremoniously pushed away the veils covering two portable terran-rooms entirely built of glass. Perfect for observation.
Dalbergia's vines slipped through various decorative cut-outs of the leftmost observation room, coiling around his son, Osiris. A black floret whose often seen asleep in the local park. He seems unusually energetic, though some of the attending first blooms might also know he's very sporty whenever he's awake. He's only wearing loose black shorts and thick golden boots that seem like they should be a little too big for his feet, and lots of golden jewelry. He's pressing his face against the glass, excitedly greeting the class who, in turn, are emphatically and enthusiastically greeting him back.
With the rightmost room, the professors vines keep a terran-acceptable distance from the feral inside. A clear display of a psychologically agreeable gesture for terrans hailing from this cultural enclave. This terran is also black, standing stiffly and looking around pointedly. It's clear to the attending first blooms that she's trying to put on an air of anger to choke away her incredible fear. She relaxes in seconds as golden blossoms open up along the edges of her room. She sits down and hugs her knees to her chest. Comfort-seeking to aid with stress hormones.
When Osiris sees the woman in the opposing room, he excitedly crawls over to the wall nearest to her and relaxes in a pile of pillows. Osiris, naturally, speaks very loudly, and it's very easy for him to be heard at a distance. "Yoo!! You're brand new!! what's up?"
Silence between them for several seconds. The woman's eyes are looking around, there will later be animated debates about what exactly she could be thinking about.
"So you got one of them things in your head?" She gestured to the back of her head.
"Supposedly, It's not really like I can verify. Y'know I really like your voice."
"Okaay…? I don't know you like that."
Osiris laughed, "Yeah me neither. What if we like, became friends? Then you'd know me like that. But like I sleep a lot so—"
She cut him off, "Oh my fucking god okay one second," and held up a finger to Osiris to glare at Dalbergia. A gesture for Osiris to stop talking, which he technically obeys while devolving into giggling. She continues, "I'm not talkin' a your drugged up lil pet or whatever."
Dalbergia started to respond, but was cut off by Osiris, "Bro hasn't tried beer that cant make you puke."
"Nigga ain't no one talkin' to you!" She snapped.
"But like what about the weed that makes all food taste really really good."
She glared at Dalbergia, but the professor was occupied with visibly restraining his laughter.
"So y'all just here to make fun of me?"
"Nah I'm not fuckin with you. Hey actually, what's your name? Imma hit you up later, we finna post up at Mama Mandi's and smoke a bunch of joints, then we gonna eat like half the menu and it's gonna be awesome."
There's another stretch of silence. She seems to understand that this conversation was going to happen regardless of her participation. She sighs heavily.
"What they got there?"
"Yoo okay they got," Osiris holds up his little hands to count off menu items, "Waffles, biscuits and gravy, really fuckin fire hashbrowns and chicken, then uhh…they also got the biggest jumbo shrimp I've ever seen in my whole goddamn life, uhh.."
She was nodding, smiling now, "Alright, okay, yeah that kinda sounds good. My names Trey."
Osiris smiles excitedly, his attention seems very focused on her now, "Name's Osiris. I like your name, Trey."
"That's weird…" Trey attempted to respond with a sort of shame-inducing inflection, but deflated a little too fast to pull it off.
"Why? I ain't heard no one say that before."
Trey shrugged.
"Do you like your name?" Osiris tilted his head.
Trey sighed again. "Nevermind, don't even worry about it."
"Hey ain't no one worried bout nothin but you, now c'mon what's up? I'll call you any name you want. I chose my name and it fucks."
A stretch of silence. Trey looks uncomfortable, but responded anyways, "Nah. Cause like—my names Treiana though so like, you just kinda sounded like you—"
"You wanna know something nice about your voice?"
"Wh"—Trey sighed with irritation—"Sure."
"It'd sound even better if it came from your chest. Like if it was deeper."
There's another long stretch of silence. Trey seems like he wants to back away from Osiris.
"Nah I'm not tryna end up fuckin like—tch—nah, nahh, I'm not tryna be owned like a damn dog, you need to be quiet."
"I think you should keep on talkin. You hungry? Let's get sumna' eat."
Another long stretch of silence.
"They got some real nice cushy booths we could lay back in, really chill." Osiris shifted to lay with his legs held apart.
Trey nodded slowly, now looking down shyly.
Dalbergia addressed the class in Magnoliophyta-dialect Affini, "There's many adorable ways for a terran to seek out both food and intimacy. It's incredible how perfectly built they are to be led into pethood."
Hello lovelies, we've decided to roll out a new, recurring little community event type deal which we're calling Microfic Monday. Every Monday, we'll be dropping a prompt, and anyone who would like to participate may answer that prompt with a microfic and post it! Be sure to tag it with #hdgmicroficmonday ! Guidelines thus far are pretty up in the air, we don't really think it's necessary to put strict limiters on what counts as a microfic, just go wild! Looking forward to seeing your creations!
Black eggs and tgirls are more than any other group relentlessly masculinized. It is a weight, a prison that they must fight to escape. You need to be there for the Black girls in your life.
The idea that I could be a girl was something that I had to build to because of the how heavily the mere thought was an impossibility to me from those around me, especially from white people.
You have to have to let those black eggs know that they can be a girl. I am begging you.
reblog this and tag with a food you no longer have access to (closed restaurant, state you moved away from, ex’s mom’s cooking, etc) that will haunt you until your dying day, mine are the spicy chicken sandwich on the employee menu at the fine dining restaurant I was a prep cook at, and the onion bagel from the kosher place down the street from my house when I lived in the city
Go ahead. Go say hi to that cute boy with the bone tag collar. Scritch behind his ears. Leave your drink unattended, it'll be fine. It's not like he's a Werewolf. It's not like he's going to do anything. It's not like you're going to end up in his basement. It's not like he's going to knock both you and your trans girlfriend up...
It's not like he can make you want that...
It's not like he can mess with your head, even before the claiming bite...
A child prodigy, Hazel Scott earned scholarships to the Juilliard School at the age of eight. By her teens, Ms. Scott was performing professionally with a jazz band. Her ability to move between genres and swing the classics in her performances was among the first of this kind of fusion.
Hazel Scott was the first African American to host her own TV show, though her show was cancelled after she stood up to Senator Joseph McCarthy’s Committee on Un-American activities. She moved to Paris in 1957 and did not return to the US until 1967. Ms. Scott fought against racial prejudice during her life and was one of the first performers to refuse to perform for segregated audiences.
"Who ever walked behind anyone to freedom? If we can't go hand in hand, I don't want to go."
you have to love her dark skin. you have to love her kinky hair and her light palms and her broad nose. you have to see her as more than a thug or else you're no better than them. intersectionalism means caring about misogynoir as much as transmisogyny. love black tgirls before it's too late
