#cw ptsd mention

[cac-deadlyrang]

Bluey Future AU: Bluey Headcanons

33 years old as of 2045

She/they

The only non-queer member (but still an ally) of her generation of the Heeler family

Married to neither Mackenzie and Jean-Luc, but a Lessinia and Lagorai Shepherd (Pastore della Lessinia e del Lagorai) named Smudge

Mackenzie and Jean-Luc were best men at her wedding

Lives in an apartment on Warren Street in Fortitude Valley with an interior color of red.

Tradie (specifically Aircraft Maintenance Engineer)

Works at Brisbane Airport

Nearly died to canine distemper at age 10, Has minor neurological issues (particularly winking and chewing gum fit tics), PTSD, and chronic pain as a result of said distemper

Has implant dentures for some teeth due to having said post-distemper hypoplastic natural teeth removed

Epileptic

Type 1 diabetic

Is on a Mediterranean diet (since they were 10)

Has 1 child, an 8-year-old Pastoreeler named Stripe (after her late uncle).

Can speak French fluently

Has a sense of humor similar to Vinesauce Joel

Takes CBD oil

Swears too much for her own good

Favorite animal is a raccoon

Likes bushwalking (hiking)

Owns a Soviet Panamka hat gotten from a thrift store, didn't really know the significance

Furry (which is kinda ironic, being that she’s an anthropomorphic dog)

Worst nightmare is dying to SUDEP

Went to university to become a writer, but became dissatisfied with their work and constantly plagued with writer’s block, dropped out, and went to trade school instead

Forklift certified

Flying fox otherhearted

#bluey #bluey headcanon #bluey au #adult bluey #bluey heeler #bluey spoilers #cw terminal illness #cw ptsd mention #cw epilepsy mention #diet headcanons #vinesauce joel #mackenzie border collie #jean-luc bluey #fanfic #raccoon #dentures #furry fandom #cw sudep mention #type 1 diabetes #cw diabetes #writers block #forklift certified #bluey surprise #otherhearted #otherhearted headcanons #alterhuman headcanons #bluey oc #Pastore della Lessinia e del Lagorai #australian cattle dog #border collie

[pandorem]

Thinking about in Dead Boy Detectives, after the Devlin case, Edwin and Crystal are trying to get Charles to open up and talk about what happened and how I kind of appreciate how it’s portrayed? Like Charles does have to work through a lot of stuff and IS bottling up a lot of anger and trauma that is going to explode by the end of the episode but Edwin and Crystal trying to get him to talk about it doesn’t actually help, and they do back off once he makes it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Not going to go too into it so that I’m not trauma dumping, but I remember an experience where I felt like I owed someone my emotional honesty and vulnerability and tried to push myself into talking about something I wasn’t ready to express or process and almost immediately slid into what was either going to end up as a panic attack or a full on dissociative episode. Which would be the first time I ever had the latter. Thankfully I recognized that pretty quick and stopped trying to push myself. Sometimes we are just not ready to talk about things and that is ok. It is actually incredibly important to be able to recognize your boundaries in that area. That is part of good communication too.

In fiction, fanfiction especially but general fiction as well, I have gotten very used to characters saying “you HAVE to talk about this in order to heal” and pushing people to confront their traumas without knowing if they’re ready, and always being right. It bugs me a lot. There’s a reason why the first phase of trauma therapy is often establishing trust and safety with the therapist and not getting straight into the source of the trauma. Heck, there’s a reason why exposure therapy for phobias need to be done in a controlled environment with the patient’s full consent, at the patient’s own pace, because otherwise it’s just going to make things worse.

I remember seeing in another fandom, people were getting upset with a character for reacting poorly and lashing out at others when put into a situation that was triggering to him, all of them saying that his ptsd and trauma wasn’t a get out of jail free card for his hurtful behaviour, and there is a point to that, but they were all ignoring that the character had expressed his distress several times and his desire to get out of the triggering situation, but other characters and circumstances wouldn’t let him. He tried establishing boundaries, and when the situation wouldn’t let him, he lashed out.

In DBD, these characters are teenagers, and I really don’t expect them to know all of that when it seems like a lot of real world adults don’t seem to get it. Of course they want to help, and of course the way to help is to listen if he needs. But Charles keeps getting angry when they ask, and while Charles has a lot of anger that he’s never learned to properly express/process, it’s also important to note that anger seems to be his response to being confronted with triggering stimuli. So like, yes he is trying to bottle up and ignore what happened which is not good or helpful but also. It feels obvious to me that he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

Talking about things like this in fandom spaces can be important bc shows can influence people’s feelings on real world situations, even if subconsciously. Especially if they don’t have any first hand experience with it. But it was in part messages in media like that, like “you have to talk about this stuff with people or you’re just ignoring the problem” that made me feel like I should try to cross my own boundaries. If the guy I was talking to tried to push me to keep sharing after I started shutting down, it would have made a bad situation way worse.

Idk. I just wish that I’d see more of a balance both in and out of fiction, where talking can absolutely help, but we also were aware that talking when you aren’t ready to can make things worse.

#dead boy detectives #charles rowland #cw ptsd mention #cw dissociation mention #cw panic attack mention #idk this is a ramble about trauma both fictional and real but doesn’t get too deep into the trauma part I think

[k-nkypills]

I know I talk a lot about kinky stuff and fantasy but with the PTSD I have I wanna post a ‘first time’ themed fantasy in a way that works with my kind of ptsd, because I don’t consider my previous sexual experiences w other people outside my partners to be positive or healthy.

I’ve been thinking about how timid I am due to ptsd, being unsure and insecure of myself bc I haven’t had a positive experience in the past. I don’t even think I have the mental space to be dominant if I tried. So nothing risky or forceful of course, not even bondage just to be safe. I keep imagining being held and constant check ins, making sure the glaze over my eyes isn’t from dissociation. I don’t know why but the intimacy of being checked on and held n going slow is more flustering than actually doing anything sexual.

Just going slow, extending foreplay before anything more to give a slow transition into actual sex, no rushing, just light touches, removal of clothing as I’ll allow, praise and ‘I love yous’

Asking if they can touch certain places before doing so, asking where I’d like to be held, if I’m comfortable. I’d love being held to one of their chests, letting me relax into the contact and petting my hair while the other explores with permission, finding what spots we enjoy touching on one another and what’s comfortable.

I despise and I’m afraid of being seen like that, but the feeling of being safe and having a say for the first time in a while is something else. The touches would turn a different direction, slowly and carefully and clearly communicated.

Soon thighs spread revealing all insecurity and need, skin against skin and slow soft prodding at my entrance with their fingers, cooing at my reactions and attempts to hide my face. Little thrusts onto their fingers and being called pet names. I wanna feel safe as I drift into a soft bliss, the end result isn’t to orgasm, just to experience something once traumatic in a safe environment, if it happens it happens kind of deal.

My mind would blank as my muscles tense, their hands holding open my legs, not forceful, propping my legs over their shoulders as their lips wrap around my t cock for the first time, soft and curious licks and sucks as I’m praised and held tenderly. I think the overwhelming feeling of being safe and cared for would instantly turn my mind off. Just a soft expression and whining as I’m called a good boy, as my skin is littered in light hickies and kisses.

<3

#agender nsft #trans nsft #cw ptsd mention #cw ptsd #bd/sm switch #nsft trans #‘nsft’ #mlm ns/fw #mlm nsft #t4t bd/sm #pills for my beloved #nblm nsft #poly nsft #🦎Gecko #🌅Haven #shitty writing

[langernameohnebedeutung]

Liv + Common PTSD Patterns

We think you have PTSD. You go to a boat party and a bunch of crazy drunks start killing each other. And then the fire… I can't even imagine what you must've seen.

The really annoying thing is how right they are. But I don't have post-traumatic stress. I have post-traumatic ennui. Post-traumatic defeatism. Post-traumatic: "What's the point?"

#it is interesting how hard it was separating zombie-symptoms from trauma-symptoms #strengthening my take that zombism is about trauma (and burn-out and a lot of other things. But also trauma) #liv moore #izombie #fandom #cw trauma mention #cw ptsd mention #cw mental illness mention #jumpscare #just a little

[pokeglitchden]

mind does your muse have any mental conditions that affect their lives? What are they? How do they handle them? And how do they cope with them?

// Simon at this point has pretty severe PTSD related to his time spent in the Mystery Zone and other research related accidents. As a result he does suffer from infrequent but severe derealization episodes that can cause him to believe that what he's seeing around him isn't real.

He is also left with an extreme fear of the dark from the experience among other things. He is training his Kadabra, Zee, as a service pokemon to help him cope, but likely still needs to seek healthier coping mechanisms.

�aver and Professor Zzazz often aid in grounding him during these episodes.

#glitch pkmn irl #pkmn irl #cw ptsd mention

[outoutdamnspark]

OC Thoughts: Reina

- Reina doesn’t think her birthday is anything special; if anything it’s just A Day to her, and she’ll often forget it entirely for like two weeks - though it does make her sad sometimes, because her little sister’s birthday was the day immediately after.

- Not only has she never been in the driver’s seat of a car, she's also never learned how to swim. She can probably tread water at least a little, but that’s it.

- [PTSD and food mention] Sadly, due to a lifetime of PTSD, she is a bit of a food hoarder. Nothing perishable, and she makes sure to use everything before it goes bad, but her pantry is always, always, always fully stocked. She’ll rotate her stash in the “First-In-First Out” method, so that anything new goes behind all the rest and the stuff that’s been in there the longest gets used up first. She probably has a hidden “emergency” stash of a rationed three-days-worth of canned goods somewhere in her apartment. Anything going to waste makes her extremely upset - whether it’s at herself or at somebody else.

(She would probably also tear up if someone she cares about surprised her with homemade food, because it means they care about her enough in return to make it.)

- So long as they didn’t outright hurt her or her pokemon, Reina would... probably easily accept being in a yandere situation if she was into the person(s) enough. Someone she thinks is cute yoinks her away and promises to keep her safe and happy for life if she agrees not to run? Sold! Let her keep her team and grow a balcony garden and she’s all yours! She’s pretty starved for stability and affection - to the point where her judgement might not be all that great anymore.

- Gonna be honest, she’s not someone in the healthiest of mindsets. In a relationship she’d honestly be kind of clingy (though not distrustful or paranoid), seeping over the line into codependent. She’ll try and be more aware of it if called out, but it’s definitely there.

(In the Age Gap verse especially, with the way I headcanon Barely-Holding-It-Together silverfox!Emmet to be, his and Reina’s relationship - while mutually so, and not actively harmful - really isn’t the healthiest. It works for them, certainly, but it’s worth noting that the pair of them are just a liiiiiittle too obsessed with each other to be normal. Being away from one another for too long probably gives them both some hella anxiety...)

- In addition to her little potted garden that takes up almost her entire balcony, she also has probably half a dozen or so indoor grow boxes scattered around her apartment for her more delicate plants.

- Speaking of, her Nimbasa apartment came furnished. Yes, it added to her rent cost a little bit, but she reasoned it would take her forever to save up to buy any sort of furniture (if she could make herself spend the money at all), and also what would be the point if she decided to leave again one day?

- (She has a tiny, portable memorial alter to her sisters when she thinks they’re dead, made out of an old jewelry box. She wants to upgrade it and give them a better one, but she’s afraid of having to leave it behind if she goes back to wandering.)

- It’s a utilitarian apartment, affectionately called “the shoebox.”

(Move the front door to the kitchen and put a sliding glass door out to the balcony on that living room wall and this is basically what it looks like. She has to use the coin washers in the apartment building’s basement.)

- She doesn’t like to sing but her voice claim is Rain Paris.

Expectation vs Reality

- She calls Kana “nee-sama” because she practically idolizes her, and Hina “Hi-chan” because it’s adorable. Kana is 5 years older than her, and Hina is 3 years younger, but Reina is equally close to both of them; she acted kind of like a bridge-gap for the other two for a while there, since Kana and Hina are 8 years apart.

- She will not tell you when she’s sick. She just won’t. She’s not used to having anyone to help her except her pokemon, so it genuinely slips her mind that she even can ask for help. (Gingersnaps, her carnivine, knows how to operate her phone. He can’t read, but he can recognize her contacts from their pictures, and knows what button to hit to call them.)

#oc reina kageyama #spark writes #spark queues #cw food mention #cw ptsd mention

[remarkableheroes]

welp i had plans to work on things today but now i'm sitting here fighting panic attacks because of this couple that has been violently screaming at each other for months now...im around , but might only be able to get to shorter stuff today. i need a distraction but man is the brain wanting to just shut down from the ptsd. if you have my discord...you can also hit me up there. i'm just not doing super great with the yelling.

#𝙰𝙳𝙼𝙸𝙽 ⁚ // bucky!mun. #and yes we have called the cops #they do nothing here #so we have to deal with it #and i aint even #looking at the guy #no thank you #cw domestic dispute #cw domestic violence #cw fighting #cw ptsd mention

[teaboot]

Every so often someone IRL gets on my ass about a dumb shit thing I'm doing and it's fine usually except sometimes it's really condescending and holier-than-though and after I've tried a few times to say "yes I know this" and they haven't shut up I kinda wanna just

yanno

#Venting #It's chill to reblog I'm just cranky #Ptsd #Trauma #Trauma cw #Death mention

[canisalbus]

Adding onto the Vasco nightmares thing: it's not uncommon with real losses for the mourner(s) to struggle with dreams where they have to reach an end goal (ex. traveling across the country as fast as they can to reach them) in order to "save" the one they lost, or to be completely taken out of a dream because the lost appears in them (knowing that something isn't real because the mourner KNOWS that this person is dead and can't be alive like they are in the dream).

It could be compelling to explore that side of Vasco's grief more

.

#oh right I think I've heard of that #I only get the ones where people that are actually alive die in a dream #it's much nicer to wake up from those and realize it was only a nightmare #than other way around #Vasco developing some level of ptsd is very likely outcome and something I had thought about way back in summer #for a period of time after it he gets intrusive thougts and involuntary flashbacks both awake and asleep #answered #anonymous #death mention #cw death mention

[reimeichan]

I've been slowly learning to reclaim things that I love for myself. So many of my hobbies and passions are tainted by history: piano was forced upon me as a child and was a huge source of trauma by itself, dance was fun until my teacher started shit talking me about my weight, even photography sucks because it's something my parents enjoyed and god forbid I turn out anything like them.

But I'm teaching myself to decouple the past from these activities. I acknowledge the trauma associated with piano, and also that I miss playing pieces I enjoy. I allow myself time to hammer around when I can and to take breaks as long as I need to, to make the music making enjoyable in a way it never was for me as a child. I learn new dances from youtube, and giggle when I get the moves right. I still can't record myself, but I'm re-learning that my body shape has nothing to do with my ability. And while I still don't take a lot of pictures, the people around me do and I'm starting to associate picture taking with them instead of my parents. I guess this, too, is a part of healing.

#mental health #trauma #ptsd #cptsd #ask to tag #cw body image #since it was mentioned figured I should tag it #by purple #by gray

[disabledprincesses]

Some advice about living together when you both have trauma

You will at some point trigger their panic response, and vice versa.

Even if you are both the nicest and most careful people, its going to happen.

Especially in cases where the person lived with an abusive partner or guardian etc. this is because abusers can turn anything into a bad experience.

Something as simple as asking them to do something while they're talking, or moving something while cleaning etc. can create a trigger response to a time when they were bullied/abused for something involving that sequence of events.

And they will likely trigger the same reaction in you at some point.

Its important to remember to openly communicate and have plans for how to help. Ask them what they need when it happens, and try to talk about how to best avoid / work with the trigger.

Some triggers are unavoidable, they're just a part of life. Some take time to work around. Be patient, and if you're the one who got triggered, tell the person your thought process so they can help empathize with you, if you can.

Remember that the way we approach correcting that conflict too can be helpful or harmful. Leaving to let someone be on their own and collect their thoughts may register to them as you walking away from them and abandoning them.

On the other hand, going back to them after a few minutes to explain yourself may feel like you're running back in to continue the fight.

The most important thing you can do:

1. Have a game plan of what to do when it does happen (for both of you)

2. Be patient with each other

3. Know that it will happen again, even with true love and trust, that it the nature of the trauma.

#cw trauma #cptsd #living with ptsd #ptsd #abuse mention

[lady-phasma]

Happiness at the end of the world

Chapter 2 of ?

Daryl Dixon x OFC

Warnings: 18+ MDNI; this is really different than anything I have ever shared on Tumblr before - it's fluffy and has lots of feelings and quite a few warnings; Smut, Kinda Friends to Lovers, Awkward Flirting, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD, mentions of past SA, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Demisexual Daryl Dixon, p in v sex, ultra-Light Dom/sub

Summary a/n: I'm terrible at these, it's just more fluffy smutty stuff like chapter 1. No beta. 3.6k words.

They lay in the fading light, drowsy, him on his stomach, her on her side. Kristina had tucked an arm under her head and was tracing lazy circles and swirls on his back with her other hand. His breathing was slow and relaxed. She watched his back rise and fall with each breath. Sometimes the shiny scars caught the light. She was brave and occasionally traced one, outlined it, caressed it. But mostly she stayed away from them. She wanted him to feel her adoration not feel like a freak show for someone to stare at. She understood that feeling too well.

Their friendship had graduated quickly as a lot of things seemed to do in this new world. There wasn’t time to get to know people the way one used to. There had been a couple of nights of safety and beer with him. One night of utter drunkenness with some others in Alexandria. Mostly there had been stolen moments of respite between runs and work details and fear. She had told him a lot of things about her past and intuited a lot about his.

Daryl stirred and turned his head to face her. She smiled down at him. She felt so relaxed with him. Possibly she had never lain naked without even a sheet with anyone in her life. She was honestly amazed at how comfortable they both were.

“Whatcha thinkin’?” he asked somewhat sleepily.

“Lots,” she replied. “Too much to say right now. Also thinkin’ about how perfect your ass is.” She drug her fingertips down to the hollow of his lower back but not quite to his ass. She watched a shiver run through him. Well it is perfect, she thought.

“Sure,” he replied. She could almost hear him roll his eyes. He brushed his knuckles over one of her nipples. He shifted to lay on his side and kissed her nipple, her breast, her shoulder, gently he kissed her lips. He let his lips linger and breathed her in. Then he rolled and stretched like a giant cat, arching his back and groaning. They weren’t young anymore and they would hurt tomorrow. The muscles they had used today were different than the ones they used when killing walkers. When he laid back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, she rested a hand on his stomach just below his chest. He was so tough, so taught. After all this time she was still soft in places, smooth, round. He apparently had no body fat, just exquisite muscle.

She liked touching him. She couldn’t get enough of him. But it nearly broke her heart to really see that his chest was as covered with scars as his back. New ones over older, faded ones. Dark, deep scars alongside barely visible ones. He was a tough motherfucker for sure. Not all of these were from something horrible and scary but how many were? She had so many questions. Which were made since the world ended? Which from before? How many from The Sanctuary? All horribly invasive questions that she would never ask, only wait for him to drop crumbs of information.

“What’s this from?” he asked and she jumped a little. Almost as if he had read her mind he touched one of her scars. It tickled when he did. It wasn’t large but it was noticeable. It sat low on her belly just to the right of center. It had a smaller, less obvious sister on the left.

“Oh,” she rolled half onto her back but didn’t pull away from his caressing fingertips. “Before everything, I had a partial hysterectomy.” She laughed a little. “I didn’t want kids and I had a condition that couldn’t be cured so they took out most of my lady bits. They left one ovary and my cervix. Because of my age I guess, pretty young.”

His eyes were wide but not judgmental. A little concerned perhaps so she explained.

“Endometriosis. A big word that means a lot of pain and bullshit but isn’t usually life threatening. Fortunately for us I made this decision ages ago and that’s why I didn’t freak when you didn’t wear a condom,” she smirked and winked at him.

“So ya can’t ever…?” he trailed off.

“Nope, no baby making equipment in there,” she grinned. She stroked his arm from wrist to shoulder, still trying to touch every inch of his skin. “It was definitely a perk after the world went to shit, no periods either.”

His hand rested on her lower belly, almost spanning the width of her. He felt like a giant sometimes even though she wasn’t particularly short and he wasn’t abnormally tall. She liked the illusion. She sighed, enjoying the weight of his hand, the ease of being with him. She felt his fingers tracing her scar again, finding the other of the pair, following the jagged lines of her stretch marks. Walkers were a great weight loss plan, she hadn’t always had this small body. And she had never let anyone touch those much less felt like she could almost enjoy it, especially with his rough hands. But it did still make her twinge with that familiar insecurity, just a little, and she felt herself accidentally recoil. Without missing a beat Daryl grabbed her hips and pulled her on top of him, kissing her roughly. He held her for a moment, her laying on him, his hands on her ass, her head on his chest.

Her mind raced with all the things she wanted to do, say, ask, and then her stomach growled. She held her breath hoping it had been her imagination until he started laughing. It was contagious. He laid her on the bed, still laughing a bit while she giggled and covered her face with her hands.

“Hungry, huh?” he goaded.

She nodded and answered with a muffled uhuh behind her hands, more giggles. He stood up, grabbed some presumably filthy jeans from the floor, and yanked them on. She couldn’t help watching him, jeans sitting low on his hips, as he walked to the kitchenette.

He came back to the bed and plopped down. He brought what was beginning to be the norm for every meal: part of a loaf of homemade bread, some fruit, some meat jerky that was mostly just salt and probably venison. He sat, legs crossed, barefoot, hair a mess, no shirt, and looked as happy as a little kid with a new toy. He might not smell like he was still in the woods but he ate his food like he still was. This thought made her giggle and he looked up at her with a side-eye that sent her into snorts of laughter. She yanked the sheet over her lap as she sat up to eat before he inhaled everything.

“Chew often, Dixon?” she teased while trying not to inhale a bite of bread.

“I’ll teach ya to laugh at me,” he growled as he crammed the last of his bread in his mouth. She squealed and he pinned her down. Food crushed between them, flew off the bed. He continued chewing loudly and comically while kissing her sides, her stomach, her neck, and chest. His unshaven face tickled her even more. She raked her hands through his hair and laughed harder than she had in years. Her stomach and sides ached with laughter. He finally swallowed the last of his bread and took a deep breath, flopping onto his back with dramatic flair and a huge exhale.

Still struggling to catch her breath Kristina laid her head on his chest. They both stared at the ceiling, small giggles bubbling out of her occasionally. She felt around above her head until she found his arm and she hugged it across her breasts. He maneuvered the sheet down from her chest so there was nothing between their skin and cupped one breast.

Dog had padded into the room to investigate the commotion. He looked at Daryl with accusation.

“Ah shit,” Daryl groaned as he stood up. “Imma take ‘em out.” Before he stepped off the mattress he placed a kiss on her forehead.

She heard them when they came back in: some yipping and a lots of whosagoodboy. Daryl kicked off his boots before sitting on the bed.

“You got one of those nasty rolled cigarettes handy?” she asked.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he went into the living room and came back with a small leather pouch. Like so many guys she had known in high school and college were able to do with weed he balanced the components on his lap. Pinch, roll, lick, voila. He handed her the nearly-perfect cigarette and started working on his own. She scooted up so she was leaning with her back against the wall. Still naked, still relishing being comfortable naked. He lit his cigarette and held the flame out to hers then clicked the lighter shut. He was fastidious in a lot of his actions but not his housekeeping, he dropped the pouch on the floor and sat on the bed facing her. Cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth he reached down and snagged an empty bottle off the floor for their ashtray.

She adored the way he sat cross legged and grinned at the thought that he hadn’t put his underwear on, grinned that she could take his jeans off and have him again if she wanted. She tapped her ashes into the bottle and picked some tobacco off her lips.

“Damn this shit is rank, Dixon,” she exhaled a cloud of the stale smoke. “But thank you for sharing.”

He grunted toward her, ashed, and took another long drag on his smoke. “It is but it’s all we got. Nobody’s tryin’ to grow anything ya can’t eat.” They smoked mostly in silence.

Kristina put her cigarette out. She stood up to go pee, wobbling a bit on her weak legs. She wasn’t going to take the sheet with her but wasn’t quite ready to walk naked in front of him. She looked down and spotted one of his button down shirts in the floor. She leaned over, holding the wall for balance. He was finishing his cigarette and watching her. She dropped the sheet, slipped the shirt on, and started to button it.

“Where ya goin’?” he mumbled.

“Gotta pee,” she flashed an almost embarrassed smile at him.

“Unh-uh,” he wasn’t smiling. “Take that off.” He tipped his head toward her, indicating the shirt. She groaned in her head, it couldn’t have been that easy. She slowly shrugged the shirt off her shoulders. She hadn’t had time to button it so when she shrugged it started to fall, catching only on her breasts and now-hard nipples. She tugged at the hem and it fell away completely. She was too aware of her breasts while she was standing, how different they looked from when she was laying down. Ugh she thought again because literally every body part she had she now wanted to hide. Wanted him to stop looking at her. He didn’t stop.

“Better,” he said. He jerked his head toward the bathroom and took a long drag on his cigarette. His sign that she was free to go but to do so she had to be naked. She wanted to die. Shrivel up and disappear. But she set her jaw and carefully stepped off the mattress. She was conscious of every imperfection and movement, feeling things she realized she hadn’t felt since before. She wasn’t angry with him exactly, not thrilled but not angry. She felt cracks in her armor. But she put one foot in front of the other and made her way to the bathroom, in reality only a dozen steps or so but in her excruciating thoughts it felt like miles.

He never took his eyes off her after he put out his cigarette. He shifted, adjusted for the increasing erection he was getting, his pants becoming uncomfortable. She didn’t close the door all the way and he listened to everything. Something about her allowing him to hear this excited him. He tugged at his jeans and tried to be still when she came back into the bedroom. He couldn’t get enough of her. She walked toward him carrying the lantern from the bathroom. He hadn’t even noticed that it was almost dark now. It cast an unusual shadow, lighting her from the side where the lantern hung from her hand. Her full hips, the slight slope of her belly meeting the curve above her naked pussy, he couldn’t look at anything but her.

She sat the lantern next to the bed. Before she could get back on the mattress his hands caught her hips and centered her in front of him. He was sitting so low that his eyes were almost level with her pussy and she blushed, hard. Her hands flenched to cover herself and he stopped them. Even in the dim light he could see her blush move down her face and neck and flood her chest. He looked up at her leaning in closer and closer. She was mortified but incredibly grateful that she had kept up shaving at every opportunity. She was pretty sure the end of the world had ushered in the revival of the huge bush but she couldn’t stand it. Somehow shaving her pussy completely felt like armor, powerful, and all signs pointed to Daryl Dixon liking it.

“Damn,” he sighed as he closed the distance and kissed her just above her clit. Kristina felt her head swim, thought she might pass out, and he had her wrists. She couldn’t hold onto him for balance but she also realized he would never let her fall. Her vision blurred but she forced herself to focus on his searching eyes. He was looking up at her. Disheveled hair, scruffy beard, heavy-lidded eyes, and he was kissing. Just kissing but she was shaking all over. And then it wasn’t just kissing.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling a hum against her. His tongue was slow and gentle. He had never done this before. The porn his brother used to watch didn’t make it feel like this. That stuff made everything look… gross. But none of this was, would be. This felt completely natural. She tasted wonderful, salty and a little bitter but he thought part of that was from their sex earlier, that if he did this first it would be nothing but salt and sweet and whatever this other amazing taste/smell was. He wanted to go slowly, not just for her but because this really did seem natural. He could feel her tremble while he held her. That he wasn’t entirely sure was natural but he was still learning to pay attention to her queues.

He paused and listened, looking up at her. Her breathing was shallow and not at all like how it had been before. This was more like gasping. He stood up and cupped her face in his hands.

“What did I do?” he asked softly, gently.

She shook her head in hands. “Nothing, not you. I need to sit for a moment.”

She sat down on the mattress and had the silliest thought Well fuck, that escalated quickly. She knew what to do but not how to communicate with him in this moment. Especially in a way that wouldn’t wound him, push him away, or make him doubt his instincts, his perfect instincts.

He didn’t reach to comfort her or hold her or touch her at all. He wasn’t afraid or anxious. He was confused and his brow knitted together expressing that but otherwise he was a rock, solid, reliable, there. So she took a deep breath and struggled to find things on her list: 5 green things or something similar. She did reach out for his hand while she scanned the room, sure she looked like a wild animal but not able to care. He held her hand or, more accurately, let his hand be squeezed. He used his other hand to pull the sheet over her. He thought she would want that. She finally mumbled the last brown thing of 5 because goddamn if Daryl didn’t have the most monochromatic life ever with only brown, grey, or black to choose from. This made her smile. She was coming back to herself, grounding. He noticed the smile and moved a little closer to her.

“Hey,” he whispered, searching her face for some clue as to what he needed to do. “Hey. Ya okay?”

“Um, yeah, I will be, I just need…” she mumbled. “Water maybe?” So of course he got her some. She gulped it and breathed and leaned back against the wall.

“Hi,” she opened her eyes and looked at him. “So I can explain that or we can pretend it didn’t happen and talk about it later but I have to tell you either way: not your fault.” She reached for his hand again. He took hers and gently, soothing, rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.

“Ya can tell me anythin,” he said, his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Imma good listener,” he teased her and they both smiled.

“Well, if you were anyone else, Daryl,” she said, “I probably wouldn’t but you are truly the coolest cat, no judgment, and ya have this fundamental understanding that life hands out shit nonstop.” She smiled to soften her words but he looked down at their hands anyway. God now she wanted him closer, pressed against her, wanted that small, safe feeling.

“Do me a kindness, Dixon?” she asked. “Come over here?” He nodded, let her hand go, and sat beside her, back against the wall. She was working up the words, the ways to speak around things, to communicate pretty awful shit without saying it. Plus she didn’t want to talk about it all night or have it tarnish everything they had done before. It was helping that he was next to her, gave her some stability as she stumbled forward with this pseudo-confession.

“So ya know how I told you I had seen shit too, like before, and we talked about some of it, or mostly I talked and you grunted?” she began, throwing him a smile to emphasize the teasing. He wasn’t having it and reached out and took her hand in both of his and just rested them in his lap.

“Well when I was young, younger than I want to say, but it’s important so I have to,” she watched Daryl’s jaw clench. “When I was four years old a man did things… I’m not comfortable talking about. You know what PTSD is?” She continued when he shrugged, yeah/kinda/maybe. “Well it’s a bunch of words that mean ‘something bad happened that fucked you up for a long damn time.’ Most people know it ‘cause soldiers get it from combat. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Means that a trauma was bad enough, wrong enough, that our brains can’t deal with it. Shit, I figure now everyone has it and it’s just the human condition but before it was a diagnosis. Anyway, short version, some people who have this get flashbacks, like the thing is happening again right then and there. Like those Vietnam Vets in movies who hear a helicopter and dive under a table. That shit’s not made up. That is fact. And it fucking sucks.” Her voice broke on the last two words and what she feared would happen, did. She started to cry silently.

God fucking dammit I didn’t want to do this, she yelled in her head. But perfect Dixon only waited and rubbed her hand. She sniffled and gulped some air. She wanted to get this done.

“One of the things he did to me I can see and hear and feel when the flashback comes and unfortunately it’s what you started to do. So I kinda go into survival mode, well my brain does, and I don’t get a choice.” She looked at him, tried to read something in his face this time and was startled to see his eyes were wet. He wasn’t going to cry but she knew then that he had them. She had suspected, as any good psychologist would, that he had PTSD from childhood trauma of some sort but she wasn’t positive his manifested with flashbacks. Now she was. Her protective instincts kicked in and she reached toward him, every intention to ease his pain but he intercepted her. He pressed her back against his chest and she curled her legs up next to his, not quite in his lap. He put both his arms around her and she let her head drop back onto his chest. She closed her eyes.

“So that was not anything you did. And hey, check this out,” she turned a little awkwardly to make sure he was listening. Satisfied she put her head back. “I want you to do it. I mean I really, really do. I want Daryl’s mouth and only his mouth on my cunt.” She felt his hips shift a little when she said the last word. “I just need to work up to it or have some notice. It’s perfectly normal and even wonderful that you want to do that. I just can’t do it without some mental preparation. Maybe you know things like that in your life, ya kind hafta get your mind right first? So yeah, too heavy for you?”

He took a deep breath and cautiously said “Heavy, sure, but I got ya.” He sighed and tightened his arms around her.

“So does that mean you still wanna go down on me? Try again soon?”

“Fuck yeah,” he replied, the gravelly words vibrating through his chest into her. “Hell yeah I do. Ya make me wanna do a lot.”

“Good, that’s the best answer a woman could hope for.”

Chapter 3

#daryl dixon #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixion smut #cw sa mention #tw sa mention #cw ptsd #daryl x oc #daryl dixon x ofc #twd fanfiction #demisexual daryl

[eclaire-went-bam]

how did, in the late 2010's, we saw a lot of "stop stigmatising mental illness!" "stop using mental disorders as casual adjectives!" "stay educated on mental health!" "don't say stuff like 'just go outside' or whatever!" only for, in the 2020's, we begin seeing a lot more stuff like misusing therapy terms, or using using mental health labels to describe normal experiences, or treating self-diagnosing** as a trend, or romanticising people experiencing the negative effects of their mental illness, or letting people with temporary experiences & no psych degree educate ppl w/ chronic conditions on how to Get Better™ w/ the same condescending "just do x y & z!" language as before

**i do NOT mean educated self diagnosis, i'm pro self-dx & also self-dx myself. i'm referring to stuff like this

and for the thing right after, i'm SO tired of brainrotted terminally online ppl making jokes abt my symptoms as i'm experiencing them (espec when as far as i know, they don't), bcs oooo i'm mentally ill too but in a different way so i get to make jokes on mental health (pebble brain take)

i need to actually stop seeing people say literally everything is a boundary. "i don't want my cats outta my sight" "LOL you're like, that's my boundary!" i get it's a joke but tf does that even mean. and actually making abuse easier by watering down abuse terminology, or normalising ppl saying that you not letting someone overstep your comfort is their boundary (can u tell this is personal)

i feel like we went from undereducated on mental illness & wanting to spread awareness, to everybody now knowing & misusing terms. we collectively, espec if you're online, know more, but somehow we're at the same place as back then — just with the tables flipped.

i have mdd & npd so i get severe depressive episodes, but the Narc Pride™ makes it rlly hard to talk to or reach out to others. i hate looking like a human with sad emotions & often times my depression only manifests as anger, because i hate being Pitied & anger warrants little to no pity. but i've found being straightforward with "i've been depressed" is easier (still difficult) to say than other healthy ways of conveying it. it quickly identifies the problem so the other party knows what's up and they can help of they want I Guess, but the meaning of "depressed" as been so watered down that ppl assume i mean Just A Little Sad™, or that i'm using mental health termsto make them feel bad ??? even when i could actively be having si ????? i actually hate it here

& stuff like dissociative disorders, or schizospec disorders, or personality disorders, are ultra-stigmatised either way i guess

#cw abuse mention #mental health #mental health awareness #depression #anxiety #bipolar #autism #adhd #schizophrenia #cluster a #cluster b #cluster c #ocd #ptsd #did #dpdr #ppd #spd #stpd #npd #bpd #hpd #aspd #ocpd #apd #dpd #cw suicide mention

[pokkiebaby]

Read this if you grew up with guilt

warning: heavy mention of parental abus3

no pink for this post

feel free to reblog and add to this !!

So I see a lot of people, even my friends as well as myself feel guilty when they’re distant toward an abusive mother who had a moment of kindness.

None of my friends have been able to pinpoint why we feel guilty, or why we feel the need to stay distant by default, or why our mothers have “clarity moments” we call them, which is where they will act kind or do something for us instead of the usual which is screaming hitting or some other form of abus3.

But I have-

We feel guilt when being distant for multiple reasons:

1: Abus1ve mothers tend to hold over our heads that they do everything they can to support us, such as food on the table and a roof over our heads, and then state how hard they work for it, so instead of telling them how we feel (in a negative sense) we take our own emotions and bottle them up because “mom has it worse” even though that same parent does traumatizing things to us, we will still think that “mom has it worse” even subconsciously.

2: We tend to stay distant by default during a clarity moment because we’re scared that if we let our guard down, the clarity moment will end, and we’ll be yelled at or hit for pulling off our mask of being the “tough child” who can take all of their parents high and low emotions, and rants. Because trust me, an abus1ve mother WILL vent to her child and expect the child to take it. But that same child will not be allowed to express their own emotions without being told “mom has it worse” by their own mother and being told that they’re “overreacting” or “attention seeking” and that they don’t need help.

3: When a mother does have a clarity moment, it may just be by chance, never by her own guilt, unless you have spent hours making her feel a slight bit of guilt. So she’ll do something for you, it might be something small the first time she has a clarity moment, such as making breakfast or doing a chore for you, and you’ll accept it this first time, and let your guard down, and then she’ll complain about you being lazy, that she does too much at work and around the house. That’s when it kicks in that you need to keep your guard up, that you CANNOT get close to your mother or let her see you crumble or even smile in some cases.

(warning mention of S/A)

4: In worse cases.. an abu1ve mother may S/A her child, it’s rare but it happens, and it can happen in a lot of different ways, this form of abus3 will cause the child to always have a wall up, to the parent and to everyone in their life, they’ll push people away, or not, but they’ll always carry the worst guilt out of most cases..

-

It’s different for every kid and mother.

Some kids are lucky with amazing mothers, some have to endure the absolute 7 rings of hell, not everybody loves the same life, but this post is just to show people that their guilt is valid, that they don’t have to feel bad for keeping themselves safe from a mother that has hurt them in some way.

You have done your best as a child, you made it this far in a household you couldn’t change, and for that im proud of you.

For everyone else.. please don’t belittle a friend who feels a lot of guilt, some have carried the weight of it since they were a child, some have only had it a few months, but be surprised if they apologize constantly, don’t talk a lot, or have high anxiety. Guilt is a small curse that some of us cannot escape, but it’s a very valid struggle as well.

#depressing shit #mother #childhood trauma #trauma #complex ptsd #abuse survivor #emotional abuse #therapy #s/h #self h@rm #cw s/h #cvtaddict #cvtt!ng #s/h tw #988blr #tw s/h mention #tw s/h #hitting styro

[ikemenomegas]

Omega!Fukuzawa x Alpha!Reader

Maybe Every After

For the record Fukuzawa is a zaddy and I don't think anyone is going to argue with me on that. But he wasn't always a zaddy! You have to grow up a lot to earn the title and Fukuzawa had a lot of growing up to do even in his thirties.

Meet cute?-

Fukuzawa met the person who would become his Alpha at some stuffy local function he attended because of his status as one of the five greatest swordsmen.

While they hit it off well, commiserating over the oppressive self-congratulatory nature of these kinds of events, it was not love at first sight. Fukuzawa was able to carry on pleasant, engaging conversation with them

Fukuzawa was by turns a little awkward, eccentric, curious, and the sense of duty, justice and good judgment that characterizes his throughout his life permeated the conversation, leaving a lasting impression on you

Fukuzawa's work and his superiors are all top secret, but despite that, he does not try to make himself come off as an enigma and his intentions and ideology are largely transparent, which in the time of the Great War, the first ability war, and with Fukuzawa's position being what it was, was surprising and refreshing

You meet with him a few times as new friends in between whatever it is he does when he's not with you

Some time after those meetings begin would be around the time that he is ordered to begin assassinating war-hawk ministers

You see him change as those assassinations pile up and see him apparently lose the feeling of rightness that was in him when you first met at that party

He disappears soon after resigning his position in this mission, cutting himself off from the world that had descended into the misery and chaos of war, from the deaths he had caused, and from you, the person who had become important when he was still young and full of naive idealism

Meet again-

It's by chance you meet again when he is spending his work hours as a bodyguard.

Or maybe it's not chance. It's a certain circle of people that can afford the services of someone as skilled as Fukuzawa, as much as he tries to keep apart from those kinds of people. His reputation took a hit after he left his government position, although you don't know the circumstances around his departure, but people say it's because he isn't a patriot. The word makes you disappointed. The are parts of every war that are not about patriotism, where blood is no longer spilled for the love of one's country but because there are those who have lost their way.

Reconnecting is hard but maybe because you understand the rumors this way, it is not as hard as it might have been. Fukuzawa Yukichi is loyal, that you have known almost since you met him. He is loyal to the people who walk down the street and do not know him, he is loyal to all the people of the nation who make their way slowly through life alongside him, he is loyal to some ideal of justice that you don't necessarily understand but that you believe in too. You see sometimes the pain that the rumors cause him, but you believe in him, whatever that might mean, and so he lets the pain wash over him and away in the truth of his intact honor

It comes up at some point that you are still not a mated Alpha. There is no one else waiting for you as your tea times meeting with Fukuzawa continue. It just hadn't felt right, somehow, to try and make that kind of connection in the years that have passed. The great war turned everything upside down, including something inside of your good and most principled friend.

One day, he'll tell you about it, about what turned his heart inside out, but that is many years in the future

For now, you're the one who asks him if he wants to meet and restart first

He seems tired and you're surprised that he accepts, but he does. Once. And then twice. And then a third time. And it's almost like it used to be, even though you're both older and a bit more jaded, maybe with a few more hard edges. The meetings extend longer, and become more frequent. It is no longer tea on his days off or when he has time between jobs. There are late night meals after his employer dismisses him and lunches on the occasions he is released early. On one memorable occasion, you find yourself taking an early morning walk through a dew studded garden watching the sun rise pink and cold after a night on which you could not sleep

One thing led to another-

Eventually, Fukuzawa asks you to be his heat partner. It's a bit of a surprise and something that makes you nervous since Fukuzawa effectively ignored you for years.

You had once slept together in what was essentially a platonic way, or perhaps some kind of experiment. It was fine, oddly peaceful, especially at the end when you just passed a bottle of water back and forth, but you'd sort of wordlessly agreed to not do it again

He tells you he's sure though. His heats aren't frequent because he's on suppressants, but they do happen, and this is one of the different things. Fukuzawa seems to want, to have a restlessness that is more apparent to you, lingering beneath the surface

You already suspect it's the loss of purpose, the loss of public reputation somehow which had carried with it its own sense of purpose. He's a famous swordsman, one of the best in the country. Even a tame wolf desires to hunt.

So you spend his breakthrough heats together.

And you remember why the two of you never had sex after the first time. It makes you wonder if you remember the "silent agreement" wrong, or if he remembers it differently, and reminds you why you didn't dwell on it.

It's not earth shattering, the sex that is. It's just heat sex, just making sure he gets off so that he can sleep through the intervals between his body temperature spiking. Except you're in his home, the gauzy curtains drawn, scent patches off, and it's disturbing how clear the memory of the last time overlaps with this one, even after so many years.

It's like being in the middle of a monsoon storm, pressure and torn leaves, and summer heat and all. And while you thrust into his wanting body, he watches you. The heat-haze is obvious and his eyes are half-lidded in the associated exhaustion, but he tracks you when you lean back to swipe the back of your hand over your forehead and there's something hungry in his gaze when he looks down to where you're connected

You remember the first time and how intrigued you'd been by this particular mannerism of his, how he keeps his eyes open. He had been watchful and curious even as you'd laughed with him over your shared fumblings. His gaze had been heavy and consuming when he'd shown his aikido skills, at your request, and tumbled you from over him to pin you to the floor.

This time there's a lot more kissing because if you're close to his face, you don't have to see his eyes, but the way Fukuzawa opens his mouth for you with trust like you've been doing this for years makes the strategy nearly futile.

You have to work right after that first heat tapers off so he's still in his nest when you're putting on your shoes, weekend duffel in your hands.

It's late afternoon going on evening so the apartment is dark. His hair is splayed out on a pillow. You're satisfied though that he has pre-made meals in the fridge and you've changed out most of his nest bedding so he can rest in a clean spot after you've gone. Fukuzawa's not saying anything, watching while you rub a sore spot on your neck, which makes him smirk. You're convinced this will be another scenario just like last time where you don't talk about it, when he speaks up, stopping your hand on the doorknob. "Same in three months?" he asked instead. Despite the stab of apprehension, you smiled. "Same in three months," and left to catch a flight.

You don't let it get quite that long before you contact him again. You don't see him, but you text him and he texts back, which is at least a relief that he's not going to vanish again into whatever new twilight he inhabits.

It's the same in three months, apart from the weather outside. His eyes, blue like steel and watching you while you bring him over the edge, the sense of being in the eye of a summer storm, that feeling of trusting familiarity when you lick into his mouth and catch the sound he makes when you crook your fingers inside him. It's the same how it's only his response that changes when you kiss him later and are more gentle about it, running your teeth against his jaw before going to cradling his head and kissing the corner of his mouth.

There's laundry in the machine and porridge on the stove. Fukuzawa's heat had settled sometime in the very early hours of the morning and the two of you were more or less clothed for the first time in days. Fukuzawa was however leaning in the door, watching you put shredded seaweed, pickled plums, and katsuo tronçons on small plates already laid out on a tray. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, watching him almost lazily watch you. But, you paused in using a pair of chopsticks to pluck out a single ginko nut from a narrow jar. There was something almost tense in his posture. He was barely out of the thick of heat and you could see the faint tremble in his wrist before he folded his arms to hide it. You checked the pot with the still yet-to-boil rice and then ducked under his jaw to brush your nose against the scent gland there. The way he shivered, still sensitive, was almost enough to make you feel bad. "You should go lie down," you murmured, smiling in apology, "I'll bring the tray over." He hesitated, but then nodded. Something pulled at you behind your navel, similar to that familiar sensation when you had worked him through the heat. Only this time, out of the haze, you followed it and followed Fukuzawa to his nest. Its fresh linens were soft and sweet smelling as you guided him into it. He sighed when he was lying down again, a long exhale that gave nothing away. He was just watching. You tucked a blanket over his hips and let your hand linger a touch too long, feeling like you were falling into his eyes. He made no sound when you pulled away and did not return until the meal was ready. Although you did stand in the doorway he had just vacated, leaning so you could see Fukuzawa, loosely tied deep blue and light grey layers of his yukata falling half open as he rolled over to keep you within line of sight. He ate every bite of food, still maintaining that tense, anticipatory silence. You didn't remember this from the first time. His gaze only flickered from the tray and your hands to your eyes when you accidentally let out an encouraging rumble as he ate and immediately felt heat flash up your neck, mortified. The corner of his mouth twitched as he brought his chopsticks to his lips and nibbled at a bit of fish. You've read romance books, once or twice, seen the pervasive tropes pop up in just about every drama, imported or otherwise. People talk about finding someone that you feel you've known your whole life as something magical. No one talks about how unsettling it can be, how it could get all consuming all too quickly. It's disturbing in some way, the way you can sense the ease with which that could push into entitlement, envy, or just an endless fall. That is why after the first time you and Fukuzawa Yukichi had slept together, passing a bottle of water back and forth after and watching the rim indent into one another's lips when you took a mouthful, throats flexing to swallow, you had never spoken of the event again. You had never invited it happening again, and up until now neither had he. There's something at the bottom of that drop. There's always a hard landing. Somewhere. It felt too easy, being with him. You had fallen in as friends harder than this, feeling out the edges of one anothers' code and ethics, where you could push boundaries into asking about personal and professional interests. Although you never touch them, you knew where one anothers' cracks were.

Just as you never asked him directly about the things he had done in the war, about his suddenly cold reception among the circle you'd met in, he never asked you how you really felt about those people. He never asked if your heart too had broken somewhere during the Great Ability War. The stifling feeling of knowing both too much and too little about someone who trusted you far too much for what you knew suddenly stole all the moisture from your throat. A sip of tea helped, but Fukuzawa's posture had gone back to that waiting. Master swordsman: master at reading any opponent. You told yourself heavily that you were perfectly willing to continue being his heat partner, at least until the way you two distinctly did not push boundaries bored him. He had a competitive spirit to a point. There were goalposts that only he could see, standards to which others were not often held. Stagnancy had never quite suited him. Stillness did. Was that what was at the bottom? Was it the stagnant life of saying nothing and doing nothing and keeping a status quo? Or was it blissful stillness, knowing nothing would catch you and nothing needed to?

It takes almost a year for either of you to bring it up and it's only at the cusp of realizing this is becoming an unhealthy new normal that it happens. It is still incredibly difficult to broach the fact that the physical intimacy makes you feel like strangers but every conversation in between makes you feel like you could get to know him forever.

It's around this time you finally start to really talk. You know how you can know someone for ages, and even be really close to them, but there are long stretches of time where you don't talk about anything important because you're afraid of making the other person do emotional labor for you, and you don't know if they'll mind? That's the first year Fukuzawa and his Alpha have after he comes back.

He acknowledges that you've done things rather in reverse order, as far as the typical trajectory of reconnecting with friends goes. You start to date, more or less, making time to see one another every week or every other week as your schedules allow.

It's a bit strange, to suddenly realize the ways in which you both have changed. Fukuzawa is as principled as ever, but he's unmoored now, without the ties he severed to the military police and the mission it brought. You are somewhat more stable, older and more settled into your own career, but heavier in your soul, sadder. Yokohama is reviving, black towers and tidy apartment buildings rising on the horizon, but it took too much to get here, too much blood before the nation sickened of it.

Fukuzawa won't let you court him.

You're in one of the old cafes that survived all the conscriptions. The owner's son moves around with a tray and a flour dusted apron and the atmosphere is oddly cheerful, despite the recently terrible weather. The last of the summer storms are making a good showing this year and it's limited the places you and Fukuzawa can go. Museums, restaurants, the occasional wander around a particularly well constructed public part of an office building - usually places near your work or his.

You'd tried other things, shopping for food or clothes and paying maybe too much attention to his preferences. You'd tried things like flower viewing or afternoons trying wagashi in specialty shops. While Fukuzawa had seemed to enjoy them and settled easily into the traditional etiquette sometimes called for in these places, he never acknowledged that these might be early attempts at courting.

When you spent time in his apartment he let you scent items in his nest while lounging around or before his heats. If he was at the little rooftop house you were living in, he would sometimes choose one pillow or blanket to curl around and carefully leave it on your spot on the couch when he left.

You looked at him over the rim of your mug and one of his brows went up. When you said nothing, he looked away, tracking the movements of people on the street.

You still partner him when his heat hits, but the sex is worse, as far as that unsettlingly settled intimacy goes. It's wonderful, he's wonderful. Sex itself is not that interesting as a rule, and you're both too aware of the delicacy of the situation to attempt anything like adding toys during his heat or a simple scene to the build up or cool down. But every time after, you want to stay longer.

Fukuzawa shifts his nest, ever so slightly because he is picky about it, but enough so that he can always see you as you move about his home when you need to get food or nesting materials for him, so that you don't have to anxiously flit between the stove and the door in order to sate the need to know that he is safe and comfortable in the aftermath.

You think it's going to end, that the pained distance Fukuzawa now puts between himself and the world is going to pull taught against the growing need to be around one another, to care beyond the dedication of a close intimate friendship.

Everyone can see it-

And then he accidentally adopts a super genius.

This is one of the funnier things that's ever happened to your friend since you've known him and you make sure he knows you think so once or twice.

Once Ranpo is secure in his place as Fukuzawa's ward a few years later, you come up with a way to let Ranpo know he's the best thing to ever happen to your mate and also that you will never ever get tired of imagining the look of shock you know took over Fukuzawa's face when all four and a half feet of teenage whoop-ass came banging through the door of that office.

But that's years from now.

Ranpo peers up at you when you meet Fukuzawa for lunch and a film a week after he's started tagging along with your friend

The boy isn't very tall, but he's got a maturity to his features that you chalk up to either the orphan thing or the child genius thing. He had taken one look at you, seated at the back of the restaurant away from the windows, and it felt like someone crowding into your space even while he touched neither you nor Fukuzawa. You are perhaps overly sensitive of other people's attention. It's another thing that makes being with Fukuzawa comfortable somehow. He's observant, but not oppressive with what he does with that information. Only the second time you'd met he'd helped extricate you from an incredibly uncomfortable conversation with a junior minister in the local commerce department. Now the kid looks at you and at Fukuzawa and pouts impressively. "You're single." He says it like an accusation and an assignment and you could almost laugh at Fukuzawa's wide eyed expression if it weren't for everyone three tables deep around you staring. You raise an eyebrow at him. "He's allowed to be single," you chide, reminding yourself that you are talking to a child still. It's a bit funny, you admit, smiling when the boy glares at you. The waitress comes over when you beckon, bringing tea for Fukuzawa and a sweet layered sort of beverage for the kid. Fukuzawa had told you about the boy's obvious sweet tooth and even though he huffs at you, he takes the tall glass eagerly, poking a straw through the layers. "Does it bother you?" You can't help it. Fukuzawa had said the child was a genius, observant to the point of misunderstanding, his incredible intelligence looping in on itself and making the rest of the world occasionally incomprehensible. It seems unlikely for a child to hold the kind of incredibly conservative prejudice that says omegas should be mated, but he seems put out. Ranpo sulks behind a menu before saying, "I'm never wrong." The meal is quiet, and gradually people stop looking at your table. Fukuzawa excuses himself on the walk to the theater to purchase something from a convenience store. It's there you lean up against the mouth of an alley and look down at the kid. He's really short, you worry someone isn't feeding him enough and the realize that Fukuzawa is going to be that someone. "We're not together," you said. Ranpo looks up at you, clearly still sulking. "You don't have to lie to me," he says, but he sounds a little uncertain. "We're not together in the way you would understand it," you say, "or the way most people understand." Ranpo sees your emotions in your eyes, and suddenly wishes he didn't understand. Your gaze is filled with longing, but he doesn't know how you can't see it's for something you already have. Almost. "He's ashamed of something," Ranpo says quietly. You hunched over a little. "I know. Adults are often ashamed of a lot of things though." He looks at you and wonders what you're ashamed of. "You should probably ask him about this one. He's not very good at saying what he means, but most adults aren't." You're laughing when Fukuzawa reappears.

To everyone's surprise, he actually sits through the movie, happily demolishing the little fortune you'd bought him in caramel popcorn and boxed candies, even if he complains about figuring out the plot five minutes in when you leave

Ranpo doesn't parent trap you two exactly, he doesn't have quite that level of interest in involving himself, but Fukuzawa is good to him, and he sees you often and you are good to him too. Neither of you always understand what he understands, but you show him kindness without ulterior motive, you try and show him how to safely exist around other people.

Fukuzawa is asked to be a bodyguard for Mori Ougai and something about engaging with that man, even though he can't tell you about the job itself, makes him tell you, in a desperate whisper under the moonlight, that it was him who assassinated the war hawk ministers during the peace debates. It's him who is bloodying his blade for something he hopes will be better, even if it turns his stomach, even if it means he doesn't know who he is anymore.

"I know who you are." Fukuzawa tenses in your arms, and you think frantically that you have certainly made a mistake. But you don't take it back. You don't want to. You do know who he is, your friend. You know how lonely what he's done has made him. Only you didn't know what he had done. Now that you know, it doesn't seem to matter. It's distant, the way all bloody things are distant when you don't see them. You've never had all that fond a feeling towards the wealthy people that profit from the abject misery of others. All the hunger and desperation in the world are distant, abstract concepts to them. Why should their deaths not mean the same to you? Of course, you can't say this to your friend, your sometimes lover, lying in your arms. The moonlight drops over his cheeks, turning them pale. His eyes are closed for once, his face turned into your neck, as though he is afraid of what he will see in your eyes. You understand it was not simply one or two storybook villains. There is no human in the world who has done only bad their entire life. Fukuzawa was not prone to exaggeration, even if drama appealed to him. It seems likely he meant it literally when he speaks of wading through blood to put an end to those who whipped up the populace into a frenzy, who wanted for the death never to end. "I know." You stroke your thumb near the corner of his eye, brushing your cheek to his brow, pressing a chaste kiss to the curve of his cheek. "Honor doesn't always mean doing the honorable thing," you say softly. "It means making difficult choices. You regret having to make it, but do you regret the outcome?" He is quiet for a long time. You know he hasn't fallen back asleep, despite the languid warmth between your bodies. He's quiet for long enough that your heart rate returns to normal and you rub your knuckles up and down his back. An occasional burst of deep, faint purring lets you know this is at least appreciated, if not necessarily something he thinks he deserves. You've taken to sleeping together at this point. The mounting danger as different organizations wage new war across the city drives you both to it. Besides, it is simply easier to manage an antsy teenager if you're in the same place, wherever that might be, rather than passing him back and forth like the result of some amicable divorce as you both work to keep him safe and out of the hands of those who would use his intelligence. "No," he says, as you knew he would. "There is nothing to be attained in the way of peace by letting war simply continue until each side is beaten into exhaustion. Withdrawing with our strength intact is the only thing that would save the nation and its people." He says it like he's said it to himself many times. He goes nearly limp in your embrace, pliant as he nudges against you until your forehead is pressed to his. You wonder though- "Is this the first time you've said it out loud?" "What I did is a secret few are aware of." "But the investigations..." "They won't find me," he said, but you felt a shiver go through him, felt gooseflesh rise on his arms. If they did, it could open the possibility for those people to be made martyrs. It was natural for him to be afraid. "They won't," you said lightly. You didn't know what you could do to make that true, but some things needed to be said aloud. "If they catch me, I'll face whatever is decided," he said quietly. "But I won't get caught." "You saved a lot of lives." He sighed. "I know." You rubbed slow circles over the middle of his back. "The sword isn't meant to be used like that. They had lives, families, I-" he swallowed "-I ended that. I enjoyed it. And I have to live with that." His eyelashes too were silvered in the moonlight. "You have to live with it," you agreed, even as he flinched, "but you don't have to punish yourself for it every time you live." You pretend not to feel the wetness on your clothing as Fukuzawa shudders into your collar.

Forever love-

You're truly together and officially courting by the time the Agency is three years old, which is the first more calm year since the Agency opened. Turns out opening a business is a huge pain in the behind and that an ability user Agency with less than half a dozen workers, two of whom are genius teenagers who have totally reasonable problems with authority, is an even bigger pain.

By the time the Agency is four years old, you're mated to Fukuzawa, your mark on his shoulder and his on yours. Ranpo grouches something terrible that the two of you could only get your shit together before he turned eighteen, but he's not a legal adult yet, so you get to officially be one of his guardians for at least a few years. Yosano thinks Ranpo is being ridiculous, but she gives you the biggest bouquet of flowers for your and Fukuzawa's home and insists on choosing the restaurant where you all celebrate.

It's been a very long road. You've known Fukuzawa Yukichi for almost thirteen years, an unexpected friend you made in your adult years now your mate. Now someone who you feel, finally, you've started to earn the feeling you've know them all your life, even though you're still learning about him.

He takes you to his home near Osaka, to his family home on Kyushu. He meets your parents, who consider him a bit quiet, but very dutiful. You meet Natsume-sensei, once, and receive his very feline brand of approval and a quiet gift after your official mating. Fukuzawa takes you back to places he particularly enjoyed during those failed months of courting him. You spend season after season getting to know him, pushing boundaries, debating over philosophies, arguing over interior decorating, agreeing over meals.

Your mate, your partner, a soulmate if you have ever believed such a thing, let alone that it would come to you. You're watching white strands of hair like starlight shoot through his natural grey. The wrinkles around his eyes are deepening. It takes him longer to get up from bed than it used to. His silences are longer, but so are the times when he just looks at you, looks and looks like he can never get his fill. His voice is still strong, but you can feel that layer of age crackling under it. And you love him.

You love the man he has grown into, the one who can bear the weight of hard choices placed upon his shoulders, the one who can bear happily having people who work alongside him. You love his patience with Ranpo and his encouragement of Akiko. You love how he holds his hand out for you if you fall behind on your walks, or how he comes to you and stands close enough for his scent to wrap around you while you point out some small natural beauty.

Love can be horribly consuming, it can stagnate where it was once immediately comfortable or grow jealous at its own ease, unsure if it is charm or affection that ties you together. It can grow desperate and possessive. There are still things that can be so hard to say, old things that left old wounds that are still hard to talk about, but there's something to be said for age and wisdom.

Things aren't perfect, love should not be perfect, and something in you delights in knowing that with Fukuzawa it will always be incomplete. Things will not grow still, there will never be a moment there is nothing to know about him. You have grown into yourselves, the both of you, and this is the love you will grow old with.

#bsd #fukuzawa yukichi #fukuzawa x reader #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse #omega!fukuzawa #alpha!reader #io.omegas #cw: mentions of potential break up (they don't but there's major relationship growing pains) #cw: oc's and fukuzawa's anxiety #cw: mentions of great ability war and likely ptsd in fukuzawa but also probably oc and ranpo #cw: adopting a child? does that deserve a cw? no idea but ranpo is fukuzawa and oc's love child in all but actual physical truth. #I think Alpha low key adopts Yosano too #baby Alpha is their very adopted kid. Yosano was practically raised by Mori (shudders) #so Alpha is very much the foster parent #she's way more independent and suspicious of being coddled compared to ranpo who wants to be mentored/parented #happy return of bsd this is literally my favorite show sorry to everyone who already wants me to shut up about it

[astrology-bf]

May DWC Day 4: Celebration

@daily-writing-challenge

(CW: Death Mention, PTSD, Mild Spoilers for A Realm Reborn)

The success of Operation Archon was nothing short of miraculous. Still struggling to recover from the Calamity and barely united in the face of internal and international disputes, Eorzea nonetheless stood free in the face of both Garlean and Ascian machinations. There was every reason to celebrate.

And yet…

Y’shtola’s face was somewhat pensive as she made her way through the halls of the Waking Sands. Much like Eorzea herself, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn struggled to rebuild in the aftermath of tragedy; the demands on their organization were proving a bottleneck to replenishing the ranks, so their desert headquarters remained uncomfortably empty. Truth be told, Y’shtola herself had business elsewhere were there not a more pressing concern demanding her attention.

There was every reason to celebrate. And yet, the hero of the hour, the man who rode out of the burning ruins of the Praetorium on the back of a magitek reaper after having defeated van Baelsar, the Ultima Weapon, and Lahabrea himself… seemed not to care.

Ifan had wasted not a moment in celebration before immediately returning to work. He seemed disinclined to spare time for socializing, let alone revelry, and Y’shtola had begun to notice a distinct pattern of Ifan being conspicuously elsewhere whenever Thancred was around.

All of that bothered her. Ifan was a hard worker, yes, but this recent display of ascetic diligence would have put a Studium valedictorian to shame: it was unlike him to forgo his indulgences, Thancred included. But what bothered her the most was his incuriosity about the more arcane aspects of his encounter with the Ultima Weapon and Lahabrea. He was disinterested in discussing the subject outside of formal meetings, and even during those he largely stayed silent beyond answering direct questions. Not a single insight, nor even idle speculation. Very unlike him, indeed.

Her ears perked as she heard a door open and close from the corridor ahead of her. Sure enough, Ifan rounded the corner a moment later. He stiffened briefly as he caught sight of Y’shtola, then smiled and gave the sorceress a wave that was too casual by half. “Hey, ‘Shtola. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.” he greeted.

“I had heard you were due to stop by here. It is good to see you, Ifan.” Y’shtola replied with a graceful nod. ”Might we have a word, if you’ve the time to spare?” she asked.

“For you, always. What’s up?” Ifan answered brightly, crossing his arms. 

“That was my question, actually.” stated Y’shtola, watching Ifan carefully. “Is aught amiss?”

The magician failed to hide a momentary flag in his expression. “Amiss with…?” he asked, only for her gaze to provide all the clarification needed. “Ah. Do I give that impression?” Ifan hummed as his smile became sheepishly sedate.

“I feel I know you well enough by now to say that you are not the sort to spurn chance to celebrate a victory. And lately you have achieved a triumph beyond what any of us could dare hope.” she said. Her voice was gentle, and her expression softened as she stepped forward to close the distance between them. “Ifan. If my perspective on things is skewed, you needn’t feel like you can’t correct it.” 

Ifan’s smile cracked. He sucked on his lips and closed his eyes, expression twisting. “...I can’t get anything past you, can I?” he let out in a strangely tense tone, as if breathing pained him.

The sorceress’ expression grew more serious as the tips of her ears lowered slightly in concern. She reached forward and placed her fingers over Ifan’s, feeling his digits twitch at the contact. “Do you remember the Navel?” she asked as she peered up at him. “You confided in me about you being a black mage, and then bade me promise to check your ambition. I should think that includes reminding you that you have people willing to help shoulder your burdens.” 

There was a long and ugly silence. Then Ifan opened his eyes and let out a choked noise like he’d been struck in the chest, his other hand gripping his shirt. “Lahabrea, he k-... I died...” he forced out, tilting his head to hide his eyes behind his hair as if unable to close them of his own volition. The confession itself was almost inaudible.

Y’shtola’s ears twitched as if uncertain they’d heard him correctly. “You d-” She leaned back slightly, looking him up and down as her hand tightened around his. Then her lips pursed as she bit back all but the most relevant questions. “...You live now, yes?” she asked, leaning forward to peer at Ifan’s face again.

Ifan’s face was twisted up, teeth bared in a grimace and eyes fixed on a memory. “I don’t… I don’t know. Maybe? I…” he mumbled, hand trembling against hers. He took in a choked breath, fighting back tears. “T-thought it was Thancred, that he’d got control back, and I… I hesitated…” 

Y’shtola’s ears fell flat upon realizing what it was Ifan was implying: how Lahabrea had gotten the best of him. A faintly horrified gaze broke through her usual composure, and she reached up to cup his cheek with her free hand. “But you were returned to us? How c–" A breath escaped her.  "Ah. Hydaelyn. I see.” The sorceress lowered her eyes to Ifan’s chest where his other hand was wrenched into his shirt so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He was hunched over slightly, and he seemed to labor for breath: the very image of a man remembering being impaled through the chest. Y'shtola placed both her hands over the straining knuckles, her fingers gently coaxing him to release his death grip on the white fabric and take a breath. 

Ifan's fingers laxed, his eyes slowly closed, and he inhaled shakily. “...’Shtola, what if I’m a…” he whispered, then trailed off. He seemed unwilling to finish the sentence.

“Even assuming that is true, what are you afraid would change?” she asked.

Ifan took a while to answer. He tensed repeatedly, as if struggling physically with the question. Then, at last, he spoke. “I don’t want to have to fight my friends again. Every time Thancred laughs, or even just reaches for me, I’m back there. It’s not even his fault, it’s m…” His hand left his shirt, moving instead to cover his face as the tears began to fall. “I ca… I don’t want to do it again. Can’t. Sorry. Y’shtola, I’m sorry…”

He was still speaking as Y’shtola stepped forward and threaded her arms around his chest, a hand placing itself opposite where he’d clutched his chest and rubbing in soothing circles. “You needn’t apologize, Ifan.” she said quietly. “I merely grieve for you, having had to endure something so…” She grimaced and shook her head. “I cannot imagine."

Watery hisses escaped between Ifan’s teeth as he stifled his weeping in an effort not to attract the attention of passersby within the Waking Sands. His face remained hidden behind his hand as his other arm clung tightly to the sorceress embracing him. “Don’t tell the others. Please.” he managed, his jaw resting against Y’shtola’s temple. “Hurts too much right now, I can’t… When does it stop hurting?”

“I’m uncertain.” she answered quietly. Her voice remained even, but the sorceress was privately grateful that the fabric of Ifan’s shirt quickly wicked away the moisture from her eyes. “But you have my word that I will still be here for you even after it does.”

#maydwc2024 #writing #ffxiv #ffxiv oc #y'shtola rhul #ifan kaleid #thancred waters #lahabrea #cw: death mention #cw: ptsd #pray return to the waking sands #the revised ending to 2.0 is kinda f*cked when you think about it lol