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chronicbeans · 3 months

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Romantic Lucifer x Maladaptive Daydreamer, Sinner Reader

Not me self-projecting or anything 👀. Plus I love the whole "dreamer and broken dreamer" dynamic I can make with this, even if it isn't the same type of dreams. This is based on my own experiences, but I'm trying to make it more generalized lol.

TW: Maladaptive daydreaming, mentions of depression and anxiety, escapism and dissociation, poor self-care from forgetting, fear of disappointment and disappointing others

• You probably met him at the Hazbin Hotel, to be honest. Normally, he wouldn't even look at a sinner. You're also not outwardly that different, either. The only thing that he might notice is that your eyes always look a bit distant, but he'd probably not question it. Why have a conversation with someone who is not present and in the moment?

• Charlie would have to introduce you, too. As said before, he wouldn't see the reason to talk to someone who doesn't seem to be paying attention. If Charlie wants him to talk to you, though, he'd do so. He wants a closer relationship with his daughter, and if simply introducing himself to you makes her happy, he would! Though, he is shocked to hear you are, according to her, an interesting person to talk to.

• So, he follows her over to you, all while she's saying "(Y/N), this is my dad, Lucifer! Dad, this is (Y/N), a guest at the hotel! They're a bit spacey, but they're trying their best... They're pretty unique, too! I'm sure you both will get along!"

• Once he gets a closer look at you... yes... you're very unique, to say the least. You look a little disheveled, but at the same time, like you're trying to look presentable. The look in your eyes also seems to flicker between paying attention and drifting off into your own head as he talks. When you respond, though, it sounds like you're at least retaining the basic information of the conversation.

• It takes a long time for him to actually become interested in spending time with you. Sure, you're an odd sinner, but still a sinner, and sinners are the worst in his opinion. However, he does visit the hotel every now and again to check in on Charlie in person. He's realized that calling her is not helping them get closer, even if he's still a bit confused as to why, so he's been visiting in person. Over time, he begins to notice odd things you do...

• You usually sit in the lobby, with a few other sinners, but don't talk to them often. Instead, you just sit there, making odd facial expressions every now and then. At first, he just assumed it was you reacting to the conversations the others were having, until he realized many of your expressions don't fit the topics. They'd be talking about exterminations, while you look calm, or about a pleasant event, with you looking sad or angry. Then, they'd be talking about fashion, and you'd look mortified. This sort of behavior interests Lucifer... You aren't like any other sinner he's seen. He, honestly, probably just assumes you're hallucinating or something. He'd rather ask Charlie, though.

• Unfortunately, she doesn't give away much about you. Something along the lines of "not wanting to talk to much about someone's personal problems without their consent", or whatever. He understands, but come on! He's her dad! A little gossip would be better than what he sees as a long silence between them. She does assure him, though, that you are not hallucinating. That, and she pushes him to interact with you, saying that his perception on sinners might change if he talks to some of the ones at the hotel.

• It's something that frustrates him... however, he pushes himself to do so. Anything for Charlie. Though, to him, it feels less like he wants his views to change and more like she's trying to to avoid talking to him. She never calls, after all... He still tries talking to you, though, and every time you seem extremely distant. That same flickering attention and that same disheveled look. Though, you definitely look worse than when Charlie called him to visit the first time, probably because you were caught on a regular day.

• You do make a few interesting statements, though. Mentions of days flying by fast, barely remembering parts of your life, a journal Charlie recommended you begin writing... Now you're getting interesting! Like a little mystery. He wants to figure you out.

• He'll try prying to get you to speak about yourself. What was your life as a human like? What were your sins, or biggest sin? Why do you look so... distant, all the time? Give him an answer! He'll take what he can get, and won't get upset.

• Daydreaming. That's the answer you give for looking distant. You don't really explain your answer, as if it should speak for itself. Though, you do mention that you're aware it's a "big problem", at this point. Dreaming... ugh... He doesn't even like the word, at this point, even if your type of dreaming isn't the same as his.

• You don't seem to want to tell him what you daydream about, outside of saying it's the types of things you can write a book about, instead of a simple self-fulfilling fantasy. You've got him hooked, now. This mystery has shifted gears. No longer is he as interested in you in general. Instead, your dreams are what he must know about. Which, granted, they probably will tell him a lot about you if they're so personal that you won't tell him.

• Whenever he spots you writing, he tries to sneakily look over your shoulder to read it. Usually, though, you spot him walking over before he can even try and close your journal. You do the same when anybody else walks by... except for Charlie. It honestly doesn't surprise him, since most everybody in the hotel seems to trust her, to some extent. He's just so frustrated. He wants to know more, but you won't say a thing, and Charlie won't, either!

• So, he decides to bite the bullet, and ask Charlie for help. Not the answers to his brewing questions, but instead about things you like. Interests the two of you might share with one another. Surprisingly, he learns that you and him share a lot more in common than he'd have expected a sinner to...

•He decides to try to talk to you about music, instead. What types of music do you like? Can you play an instrument? Do you have a favorite song, perhaps? The entire conversation is fascinating. Do you want him to play you a song, sometime? He'll be sure to bring an instrument the next time he visits.

• Once you do, eventually, listen to his music, he's absolutely entrance by the way you react to it. He's never really bothered to take notice of how you react listening to music before, assuming it's just like anyone else. He should've known that wasn't the case. Instead of a smile, or an attentive gaze, you're completely zoned out. Your expression is dull, which he'd normally be offended by, but he's quick to put it all together, now. That distant look isn't necessarily boredom or a disliking of the music... It's a dreamy look. You're daydreaming to his music. It only becomes more obvious once he changes the tones and your expression changes a bit, as if your daydream is changing alongside it. He's seen people dance, he's seen people sing, he's seen many types of reactions to music. However, to sit there and daydream is one he hasn't seen... At least, not so obviously and intensely.

• He doesn't want to embarrass you, so once he finishes playing his song, he won't mention it to you. He'll simply ask if you liked the song or not, then ask why. He'll slightly giggle, though, if you call it something along the lines of "inspiring" or "thought-provoking". A tiny little hint that he's slowly figuring out what is happening.

• Alongside your reactions to music, he does notice other things. Such as how sometimes, when he walks by your room in the hotel, he can hear the sounds of constant footsteps from behind the closed door. Sometimes he even hears tiny whispers, too, which sounds like your voice. Again, he doesn't say a word. If you're so secretive about such things, he won't pry... Which he, himself, is finding a tiny bit odd. He usually doesn't hold a sinner's privacy to such high regard, under the idea that he's King and needs to know what is happening... That, and his own anxieties making him feel the need to know as much as possible... But, for you, he's becoming a bit more aware of how odd that behavior can be when brought to a certain degree.

• So, he waits for you to tell him about it, yourself. And once you do, mentioning your little prancing, pacing, and your slight habit to act out your daydreams, he's ecstatic! For one, he's earned your trust enough for you to tell him such a thing. The other reason is that he has an idea! Why don't you try dressing up as the characters? It'd be an interesting way to engage in it. He's a musical man, he's probably heard of musicals, if not been in one! He could try getting you an outfit. If you don't want to, though, he's fine with it. It might be strange, after all...

• It takes a while, but soon, you both become close friends. Close enough that he's probably talked to you about feeling a bit lost and depressed, feeling very anxious for Charlie's well-being... In which case, he's probably a bit shocked to hear you relay the fact that, similarly, you are lost. Be it you feel depressed and or anxious, as well, or perhaps it's because you can't stop daydreaming. Either way, you let him know you feel similar, and he's shocked. He's always kind of assumed you daydreaming would help you escape from those types of feelings, not contribute to or possibly cause them.

• He listens more to your concerns and worries... and he relates more than he'd like to admit, in certain situations. Dissociation? You both kind of do it, in your own ways. Your daydreaming, you mentioned, might be that. You've never gotten checked, though, because therapists in Hell aren't the best. He knows all too well that he dissociates, from time to time, because Lilith pointed it out to him shortly before she left to do... whatever she's doing. You both forget to take care of yourselves, in your own ways. You daydreaming for so long, causing time to fly, and eventually forgetting whatever you forget... And him working on his rubber ducks to cope, focusing too much, and forgetting to do whatever it is he needed to do.

• He does get worried for you, and you probably get worried for him, as well. However, while he's not so sure about you, he's taking his worries for you and his daughter to try to better himself... Though, with you and him sharing things in common, he sees you as being a big reason to specifically better his mental health while Charlie is his reason to try to be a better father. How can he provide any sort of help to you when he's suffering, himself? Any advice would either, in his opinion, be bad, or be good but seem bad from the hypocrisy of him not following his own advice. So, he's got to help himself, yeah? He can do it all on his own, too! Watch him! He's not going to burden anybody else!

• Yeah, no. He's failed. Now, he feels worse. Luckily, though, you're there for him to go to! He would go to Charlie... But, he doesn't want to burden her with it. Quite frankly, he doesn't want to talk to you, either, but you can at least relate to him a bit. That, and he knows that keeping it all in is a part of what's made him feel horrible. So, again, you have your talks about life together... You mention your problems and he mentions his. You give him advice. Pretty good advice, actually. He gives you small tips on a few things to make life easier. Then, as always, the conversation shifts to happier topics. What made you happy, recently? Did you have any nice food today? Stuff like that.

• Though, one day, you seem to be thinking about something. You look from him, to nothing, then back to him almost on a loop. He simply assumes it's one of your daydreams, and instead speaks about whatever comes to his mind, being patient with you. From how his relationship with his daughter and her girlfriend is going along, how his rubber duck creation is going, to what he thinks of a few of the other guests at the hotel. However, he is a bit shocked when you begin speaking, very suddenly.

• You start talking about a seemingly random daydream you had, recently. Beautiful music, nice outfits, fun dances... You describe a scene of you dancing with someone on a glorious night. However, you don't say who it is you're dancing with. You just describe a beautiful scenario, which is about you dancing with someone. When he asks who it is, after you finish talking, you kind of just stare at him awkwardly.

• It takes him a few moments, then once it hits him, he begins to laugh hysterically in disbelief. No. You couldn't possibly be implying it was him! Once you outright say it, and add that you love him as more than a friend, though, he's both ecstatic and terrified. He feels the same way, yes, but he knows he has his own set of problems he'd be adding into your life if he got with you... And then you start talking about how you are worried you'd make him feel bad, as you know that your daydreams can hype up future events, like dates and such, to an unachievable expectation... then everything is disappointing, despite it being perfectly fine.

• He, however, wants to change that... or, at least your outlook on it. He will happily hold out his hand and admit that he feels the same. He feels the same love for you, the same worries for the future, but that doesn't mean it isn't worth trying. Just because something wasn't to your expectations, doesn't make it bad, yeah? Once you realize that you still had fun, you'll learn to still enjoy your life, even if it'll never live up to your daydreams.

• That's how you two began dating. You're both used to helping each other through rough times, and comforting each other, so there wasn't really a big adjustment period of having to learn to do so. Instead, the first few months were spent on sweet dates, as well as helping you with your daydreams causing expectations that can't be met. As each date goes by, he asks if you had fun, even if it wasn't all you dreamed up to be. As you realize how often you say "yes", you begin to feel much more confident that everything will be fine and doesn't need to be perfect.

• He's gotten into a little habit of planning a secret date or surprise every once in a while. That way, you don't have the chance to build up such high expectations of what it'd be like. You'll come home to see that he's made the most delicious looking dinner buffet, and spread it out over his dining table. Or, you'll come home, and he'll say that he wants to take you out to go dancing somewhere. Small little surprises.

• He's going to make a rubber duckling based on you. Or two. Or three... Or twelve dozen. He can think of so many designs based on your lovely stories. He knows that he shouldn't feed into the habit, and he's actively doing his best not to, but he wants to show you that you can create beautiful artwork with your daydreams. Music, paintings, books, plays... If you find that you can't daydream less, you can try to at least transform them into a real, tangible thing that others can see or hear. His duckies are just an example of that.

• He sometimes wishes he could create something that catches your attention more than your daydreams, but he can also understand that you may not have complete control of it. So, instead, he'll try to gently get your attention if he needs you, just wants your attention, or wants to remind you of something you need to do. Be it a little tap on your shoulder, him calling your name, or walking into your field of view and doing something silly.

• He's sure to check in on you daily, asking if you've been making sure to take care of yourself. Did you eat today? Did you take a shower? Did you drink a glass of water? You gotta stay hydrated! In return, whenever you can, you do the same for him. You both take care of each other as best you can.

• If you're one of those daydreamers who has trouble falling asleep because your brain won't turn off, he'll do whatever he can to at least help you relax. He'll cuddle you, try humming a little soft tune, or get you something to drink to help you relax a little.

• Sometimes, although he'd never admit it, he's a little jealous of your daydreaming. Yes, he's aware the grass is always greener on the other side, and that's why he wouldn't say it. He knows you'll chew him out and reminding him of the issues it's caused you. He can see them, so you don't really have to remind him. He's just... missed the feeling of having such an imaginative mind. Sure, he still has had one. Ever since he was dropped into Hell, it's been a bit harder to do so... then, once Lilith left, it has gotten worse. He's been a bit too depressed to dream...

• Though, he knows that you can dream enough for the both of you, and that you'll happily share ones you think will cheer him up. He loves you for how much you've reminded him of the importance of dreaming... Just, in moderation. He'll be there to ground you, whenever you need it.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar hazbin hotel #lucifer headcanons #maladaptive daydreaming

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autisticsupervillain · 9 months

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Autistic Avatars not realizing that they're Avatars because they're just "like that": a thread

The Eye

Special Interest in the supernatural = constant food for The Watcher

You know about Interest? TELL ME EVERYTHING

"Hey man listen to me infodump about this horrifying ghost story I read for twenty minutes, alright?"

I need to Know everything about something before I partake in it.

"How did I Know that? Eh, I probably hyperfixated on it at some point."

I cannot be misunderstood so I'll beam the facts into your brain.

The Web

I must plan everything 200 steps in advance before doing anything.

I have prepared for all possible outcomes, I can now have this one conversation.

If I set up all these variables long in advance, then I can do everything correctly and Win the social interaction.

I cannot do anything before The Plan says to.

"I practice my social skills by talking to my spider friends." -Martin "Autism" Blackwood

The Stranger

I cannot socialize without being Uncanny.

If my socialization seems like an act, that's because it is. I practice it in the mirror every day.

Theater Kid

How do you Normal Human?

The Anatomy Class.

Assuming fellow Stranger Avatars also just have the 'Tism. They're not trying to be creepy, honest.

Can't do faces. Doesn't notice when you get replaced.

Being subtly off is too subtle for me.

The Lonely

"I have failed the social interaction. Let the fog reclaim me."

Talking to people is draining my batteries even faster than ever. I need to be alone for approximately 384,400,000 years.

Nothing can overstimulate me in the cool, blinding fog.

Nothing unpredictable can happen in the fog.

The fog is your friend.

The known connection between autism and depression feeds the fog.

The Dark

Why is the sun so god damn bright? I'm going to blow it up I swear.

Night Owl.

Everything's decently quite at night and people leave you alone.

Same overstimulation preventatives as the Lonely tbh. Dark and fog are good concealers.

The dawn is your enemy.

The dread florescent lights shall never bother me again. They break upon my arrival.

Can and will infodump to the monster under my bed. Even now it feels like it listens.

The Spiral

Autism makes getting other mental illnesses recognized hard.

Autism dissociation from body and mind. When did it become 3 AM and why do I hurt? Why am I grumpy? What vital self care task did I forget?

Literal mind doesn't often match reality. Reality is specifically unspecific.

Spaced out and wandered off. Where the fuck am I?

I'm not a mental baby, please stop treating me like it.

I'm not inherently dangerous, please stop treating me like it.

Memory problems my beloathed. Did that happen? I dunno.

What Is Time?

What Is Me?

The Gender

Why do things only make sense to me? What does no one else make sense?

The Flesh

Autism Genderfuckery = Flesh fueled dysphoria.

Meat is the only texture that's palatable. Especially the Mystery Meat.

Will never try any other foods. Too picky.

Infodumps about the horrors of meat processing at dinner and ruins the meal for everyone. More steak for me.

Hates PETA.

Double the arms means double the stim. You weren't using them, right?

Working out is a great stim.

The Corruption

Practices social interaction with the bugs who live in my walls.

"Insects are disgusting. I love them!"

Will protect endangered insects by any means necessary.

According to all known laws of aviation-

Relationship boundaries struggles.

Difficulty noticing sickness symptoms.

Is that nausea or am I overstimulated? *Accidentally causes supernatural plague outbreak*

Difficulty getting diseases diagnosed because of both Autism and noticing too many symptoms so the doctors assume they're faking.

Forgot vital hygiene needs.

The Bugs Are My Friends! They keep me company when I'm sick!

The Buried

Weighted blankets are insufficient, I need the Earth to reclaim me.

Avoid social interaction by tunneling everywhere like a mole.

101 facts about worms.

Forgor hygiene again. Time to become dirt.

Digging a hole is good stimming.

That guy who had to be buried alive to sleep properly. What do you mean you don't want to be buried?

The End

Aradia Megido from Homestuck.Com

That's it, that's the list.

The Desolation

The Autism Temper.

Losing relationships and friendships to ableism and your own disability constantly.

The Fire is a wonderful stim board. Watch it crinkle.

Just watching candles melt for hours.

The fire and thrill gives my life passion again.

Jude Perry.png

The Vast

Accidentally terrifying people by infodumping about the horrors of nature.

The stimulus of falling.

Nature/Space/Weather Documentary on in background always.

Okay, but from how high did you fall? I want to calculate your velocity as you fell through the void.

Weirdly enough... power scaling?

Power scaling is just the art of determining how easily your favorite characters can destroy mankind so... yeah, I can see it.

Brain empty, only terminal velocity.

The Hunt

Cat Autism

The inherent hyperfocus of the hunt. The chase. Your prey.

Studying the habits of your latest hyperfixation/Hunt assigned prey for days at a time.

I've spent so much time hunting in the woods that I forgot about human society. The Missing Person's Bureau have written you off for dead.

Returning to society to sell your wears and realizing you aren't human anymore.

That's okay. Social interaction is random. The Hunt makes sense.

It's black and white. Predator and prey. Humans hunting monsters. It Makes Sense.

The Slaughter

The incredible human WW1 documentary.

"Did you know?" *Describes horrible historic warcrime*

Takes apart puts back together guns from their collection.

The list of known casualties from this war is incomplete. With my help, they can expand it. :)

The Extinction

The world is spiraling towards its end and only you seem to care.

It hurts to be this passionate about a lost cause.

You Will Make Them Care.

#the magnus archives #autism #the eye #the web #the stranger #the lonely #the dark #the spiral #the flesh #the corruption #the buried #the end #the desolation #the vast #the hunt #the slaughter #the extinction

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kairiscorner · 7 months

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My fave thing abt Miggy is that when you first meet him, he’s all cold and has a tendency to brush you off aand now he doesn’t even want you to go out of bed 🤭🤭🤭

He’s just so whipped for his Mr/Mrs/Mx. O’Hara fr!!!

HE FR IS !!! i'm gonna include some bonus scenes from my AUtober day 1 fic if you don't mind ~~~

˗ˏˋ ✮ kairi's AUtober !

double feature 2: he's not smitten with you. miguel o'hara x gn!reader

"hey, miguel."

"..."

"mig, mig, hey mig!"

"..."

"miiiiiiigueeeeeel!"

"..."

"dammit mig, would you just look at me?"

he sighed and begrudgingly turned around, his light brown, chestnut colored eyes piercing into your gaze. he ran a hand through his wispy, tousled, dark brown hair and grunted. "what do you want?" he'd always act like he wants nothing to do with you, and that's probably true–about a year ago, he was the aloof, dissociative man everyone in the spider society came to fear and revere all at the same time. he had this tendency to be dismissive and brush people off, being all sarcastic and witty to express how he wanted others to leave him alone or to go away. you always fell victim to that snarky, rude miguel, who you've dubbed as, 'grouchy'.

"oh, grouchyyyy!" would ring through the headquarters' walls, and you didn't mind the fact that miguel would reprimand you for such a 'disrespectful' nickname–you didn't mind how furious he'd be with you for basically mocking him and pointing out his attitude; no, all that mattered was you getting a reaction out of him whenever you'd call him that, and you succeeded in this very venture every. single. time.

he'd scoff and roll his eyes at the nickname, folding his arms over his broad chest and crinkling his thick eyebrows at your little pet name for him. "quit it." he'd command you to do so every time, but it only made your teasing little moniker for him more frequently heard; and ironically... he gradually stopped chiding you for using it. he came to terms that you wouldn't quit calling him that, and he decided not to fight that feeling anymore and just let you call him whatever. but only behind closed doors, mind you–he'd strangle you if you ever called him 'grouchy' in front of the other spider people.

half a year passes, and you went from calling him 'grouchy' to 'miggy'. you honestly believed that hearing that nickname would piss him off, but it kind of had the opposite effect, really–he grew accustomed to the nickname and would pause for a minute before telling you to, 'call him miguel'. you never did call him just 'miguel', and he was sort of hoping that... you wouldn't stop calling him so. on random days when you'd call him 'o'hara' or 'miguel', he'd do a double take and nod, acting a little disappointed that the first thing that came out of your mouth was a–

"oh, yeah, don't forget to take care of yourself–miggy."

oh, fuck.

his heart is aching at the sound of that, throbbing and palpitating rapidly. and though it was for a mere few seconds, his heart skipped too fast for him to keep up with; he... had never felt that before. not ever before this moment–it was... wow. "i... yeah, y-you too." he'd reply, the words escaping his lips sounding foreign as he asks himself in a billion different ways: 'was that real? did i just... say that?'

eventually, some time passed, and miguel followed your stead and reserved a nickname for you: "mi dulce", his... sweet. he never continues it, because to him, there's not really any label for you–you're not quite his friend, he's closer to you than that, and you... aren't his lover yet; though you are the sweetest, you are his sweet.

and a year later... he's calling all kinds of names–from 'cariño' to 'mi amor' to 'mi ángel'–he's really outdone you in pet name department several times over. not a day goes by anymore without him being the one to fuss over you, make you snacks and meals when you come to visit him, remind you to drink water, sleep on time, and to eat at least three times a day, and... calling you his beloved, each and every day, with less embarrassment the more you smile at him and share the same sentiment with him and for him.

"mi amor–"

"yeah?"

"...take care out there, mi dulce amor."

"of course i will, and so should you, miggy."

and with that... he smiles.

nothing else could make him smile like this all genuinely and gleefully, not anything, not anyone else–just you and your perfect smile.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @hearts4gabri @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @fictarian @yuridopted0 @simsrandomstuff @luvstarrstruck @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @arachnoia @melovetitties @fable-library @ophanimgold @smokeywhalee @capnshtfce

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 fanfiction #atsv #atsv x reader #atsv x y/n #atsv fanfiction #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse x reader #spiderman across the spiderverse fanfiction

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biteofcherry · 8 months

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Sentence Prompt: I'm so proud of you for using your safe-word.

AU: Ruby Gardens

I'm not in the BDSM world but stories where the Dom almost immediately praises their Sub for using the colors/safe-words really make me feel more inclined. I hope that makes sense.

More precious than rubies

Dom!Steve Rogers x plus size reader

warnings: none really; BDSM setting; Dom/sub dynamic; safe, sane and consensual; safewording; aftercare; communication;

Your heart was still pounding like crazy, even though Steve's hand provided that warmth of support as it rested on the small of your back.

You felt cold and shaky. And it had nothing to do with the fact you were naked. It was the wave of cold sweat that turned your skin clammy; anxiety filling your stomach with acidic dread.

"Is it okay if I hold you, or do you prefer me to step back?" Steve's calm, but worried tone reached you through the haze of chaos that was still messing with your brain.

You blinked a few times, trying to find his face in the blur of colors and focus on it.

Steve had a beautiful face. Chiseled like a perfect statue of Adonis. Nah, no Davids nor Adonises or other heroes could compare to how handsome you found him.

But mostly it was his eyes - so blue and so full of emotion - that held you captive.

"Hold me, please," you managed to croak out.

Steve didn't hesitate, instantly pulling you off the bench and lifting you up into his arms. Your dynamic has been developing for a few months now, but you were still stunned with how easily he could pick you up and carry you. As if you were light as a feather, though the scale showed something completely different.

"Sorry for all of that," you sighed once he settled you two down on a small chaise.

Steve adjusted you in his lap, so that you were more comfortable. He ran a finger along your cheek, before tucking it below your chin and tilting your head so your gaze met his eyes.

There was a slight frown marring his gorgeous face, but it wasn't annoyance. More likely worry.

"Never apologize for using your safeword," Steve said. "Whatever happened that made you do it, it was significant and heavy for you."

The scene wasn't hard. You doubted Steve even got you into half of what he planned on doing to you after you negotiated the general scenario for the evening.

Being under his care usually made you feel so safe and taken care of, that sometimes you considered revisiting some of your softer limits with Steve to see if maybe he'd like to explore some of them. Because with him you were willing to maybe poke at them and check them out.

But the blindfold, while not a limit, made you anxious.

At first you thought it's because it's a step of sensory deprivation and you had very little experience in that. Then your other senses started heightening, hearing most of all.

Instead of focusing on the sounds of Steve moving, or what implements he could be preparing to use, your attention went to the sounds a little further out.

To the laughter. Some other club members, who probably were just engaged in some conversation, or were watching a brat get disciplined. But your brain instantly screamed at you with horrified humiliation - that they were laughing at you.

At how you looked. How pathetic and ungraceful, and comically ugly you had to look there. Especially right next to Steve.

"I'm so proud of you for using your safeword," he assured you. "Not only because it let me know that you were in serious discomfort, which is something I as a Dom should look out for and react in time."

"But because it means you were taking care of yourself."

Steve's eyes softened as you stared at him a little confused. He changed his hold on you slightly, now running his fingers along your naked body in a warming caress.

"Upon feeling distressed, you didn't withdraw, didn't dissociate, you didn't grit your teeth to push through it. You safworded. You set a boundary and demanded it being recognized."

"You put yourself and your well-being first.

It stunned you. You didn't think of it the way he saw it, but now you started to understand why Steve said he was proud of you.

Not only in the BDSM aspect, but for your personal healing.

And Steve supported that more than anything else.

#anonymous #biteofcherry's birthday banquet #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #dom!steve rogers #more precious than rubies #ruby garden #ruby garden series

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mrsnancywheeler · 3 months

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More Finnick brainrot because that one line I wrote about how Finnick and his sweet girl would be wanted at the same time got me thinking.

Imagine Finnick who has to sit on some leather chair, watching as his sweet girl is taken by some capital man. He knew how rough the capital men were, he’s seen it, he’s experienced it, he’s felt the pain. And yet…seeing his sweet girl, the girl who should only ever be treated gently, be treated with such violence. A rock sat in his stomach as he was forced to watch the man defile her, pull her hair till it stung, slap her, choke her, laugh and moan as she cried.

And he couldn’t do anything. He failed her. He failed her again. He couldn’t stop this. He as forced to watch, if he looked away she’d be treated rougher, that’s what the client said.

He guessed it was some sort of sick pleasure the man took. Two victors at once. A way to prove his masculinity. He would be able to fuck the beautiful girl as her lover, the embodiment of masculine beauty was forced to watch.

Finnick never knew what he hated more, watching his sweet girl be taken in such a way or be forced to act that way to her as people lined up to watch…

heart breaking rn

triggers for nsfw talks, trafficking, violence

but like in chapter 6 of the lakes when there's that smut scene, finnick is literally always asking if she's okay, always making sure he's not crossing boundaries, always ready to stop at any point because she's his sweet girl, he only wants what you want

so to have to watch someone treat you like an object for abuse makes his soul wilt away. because he's so close and so helpless, when your cry, when your hurt, he can't do a thing until the client is gone. maybe that's the blessing, you're not stuck up here alone in the Capitol trying to deal with it yourself, when it's all over he can take care of you. but it's so hard to not look away, to have to watch his sweet girl like that.

and he blames himself because this is the sacrifice he made by getting you so many sponsors, they expected you both to pay them back for their 'generosity' in the arena. if he tried to do anything snow would probably make things worse somehow, so you'd both decide to take it without a complaint. when you were in the Capitol there was makeup artists so you could keep up appearances if there was something off, bruises, a split lip, a hickey, nobody but the elite and other victors had to privy to it.

maybe the worst nights were when he had to do what they did to you. how was he supposed to hurt his sweet girl? even if you said it was okay, that you didn't blame him, that you weren't upset, that it wasn't his fault it would weigh on him constantly. it's not like he dissociate either when they wanted him to spew the most hateful things to you. it was better if they wanted him to take you from behind, so he wouldn't have to look into your eyes, watch you wince, and cry, and dissociate when you could.

and he hated how he felt like you were being so strong about it, finnick ached to protect you, and you tried to hide the hurt most of the time. his sweet girl putting on such a brave face for him.

"you're gonna have to hit me harder this time, they weren't buying it last time." you were putting in more mascara, it was better if it ran down your face and people could see the evidence of tears.

"angel, I can't do that."

"finn, we don't have a choice." you'd cradle his face, so comforting when your fingertips played with his hair. "I'm not gonna be upset with you, promise. I'll be okay, I can handle it."

his sweet girl loved to try and act like she was okay so she could focus on him, but he needed her to know how much she was valued so much and couldn't. so when you flinched away from his touch after and apologized each time or didn't want to be touched at all for a few days he was drowned in guilt. you'd take care of him and try to close off, it broke him

#wanda 💋#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick odair x y/n #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair angst #finnick odair x reader fluff #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x reader angst #the lakes #the river

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cosmic--dandelion · 6 months

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Something I think a lot of people forget about Stolas and Blitzø is how much "Ozzies" changes their dynamic.

Before that, they're a patron and a client. Stolas might indulge in some not strictly sexual damsel-in-distress fantasies, and Blitzø might occasionally match Stolas's absurdly horny energy, and there's s few hints at affection here and there, but at the end of the day, Blitzø wants the book and Stolas wants to be the sub in a bdsm relationship, and that's that.

Their "date" at Ozzies turned their entire affair on its head. Stolas is alone and miserable at his huge empty mansion; Octavia is his only emotional outlet, and Stella's whisked her off somewhere.

He has no friends, no family who actually care about him aside from his daughter, and he's not even close to his servants like he was as a child. Stolas is desperate for any positive social interaction. Then Blitzø calls out of nowhere, asking him on a date. Stolas literally chokes on his Lucky Charms he'd so desperate to get to the phone.

Stolas is in full infatuation mode. This is probably his first real date in his entire life. He was forced into an arranged marriage with a cold, hateful woman and became a father against his will when he was around 19 at most. So he shows up dressed like he's about to be crowned Emperor of the Universe and even bows to Blitzø. Again, just like in "Loo Loo Land," he'd completely oblivious to how obviously unenthusiastic, distracted, and borderline uncomfortable Blitzø is.

Blitzø is legitimately taken aback when Stolas starts trying to make conversation and shows interest in his personal life beyond the carnal. This isn't some sort of machiavellian scheme on Stolas's part. He's being completely sincere. But he's ultimately still projecting his fantasies onto Blitzø instead of actually engaging with him, only this time they're romantic instead of sensual.

Shit goes down, and goes down HARD. Not only does Stolas hide his face in shame when Asmodeus publicly exposes their affair, Blitzø gets it rubbed in *his* face that their "arrangement" destroyed Stolas's reputation and family and is even starting to turn his own daughter against him.

Stolas tries to salvage the evening, but it's way too late.

"Stolas, don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you. You make that very clear all the time. Buf I just can't tonight. I'm sorry."

This is single-handedly one of the best call outs in the entire series, and HOLY SHIT does it hit home. It throws Stolas into a complete tailspin, and he probably came close to drinking himself to death that night. It's what he always does, burying himself headlong into whatever he thinks will bring him temporary happiness until whoever he's dragged along with him practically has to scream in his face.

It's telling that the very first thing he does is scroll through his phone to reassure himself that he and Blitzø have something more, only to see that Blitzø doesn't look happy in any of his photos, and he was deluding himself the whole time. Ouch. A well-deserved ouch, but an ouch nevertheless.

I think this is where Stolas actually starts to develop feelings for Blitzø, or at least realizes he has them.

Before this, their affair was more of a distraction and an outlet for his pent-up sexual frustration. Stolas went from being so emotionally and physically repulsed by his own wife he had to dissociate when Octavia was conceived to jumping right into a hardcore bdsm contract with a near complete stranger. It's incredibly cathartic for him, but not necessarily good for his mental health. It leaves him deeply psychologically dependent on Blitzø but unable to put aside the kinky bedroom stuff for the basic emotional labor and personal growth a serious, long-term relationship needs to function. For now.

Stolas changes after this. Not all at once, but the lesson sank in. It sinks in even further in "Western Energy". We see that Blitzø has been responding to his walls of text with one or two word replies and blows off his rather tepid apologies and attempts to be considerate. He doesn't visit him in the hospital, doesn't text him more than a half-hearted "git bevver swoon :(".

If Stella hadn't called off the hit, his last words would have been: "Blitzø will...[save me]", followed by a knife through the heart.

Stolas treats Blitzø VERY differently in season 2. While he'll still call him "Blitzy" on occasion, it's hard to imagine the Stolas in "Seeing Stars" or "Oops" calling him his "impish little plaything" or pinching his cheek or embarassing him in public. Stolas is trying so hard not to step on Blitzø's boundaries ar this point that it actually seems to annoy Blitzø, who's so convinced that Stolas could never love him that he seems like he'd almost rather things stay as they were. For all his good intentions, Stolas hasn't given Blitzø any reason to trust or forgive him, at least not yet. Bur he's trying, and I think that's important.

In my opinion, whether you have faith in this relationship ultimately depends on if you think people can truly change.

#helluva boss #stolas #blitzo #stolitz #meta #long post

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sprout-fics · 1 year

Text

Stitches (Part One)

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Three of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Wordcount: 6.1k Tags: Slow Burn, Heavy Angst, Trauma, Found Family, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics, Major Character Injury, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Unreliable Narrator, Self Esteem Issues, Referenced Familial abuse, Hospitalization, Self Sabotage Warnings: Explicit Injury mention, Forced sedation A/N: The needed, heavy, heavy chapter for Fix. Please head the warnings and read carefully, and practice self care if you need to

The first time you need heli-evac, it's in Venezuela.

Tracking down a cartel supplier to AQ forces, Laswell tells you. International arms dealers. The mission is off the books, quiet. Clean house, harvest intel. Price and Gaz could have cleared it easily, but for some reason Laswell mandated the full task force. Something about the intel not adding up, too many loose ends. You know better than to question her, all of you do.

Unfortunately for you, Laswell's prophecy comes true.

You see the rug on the floor shift a moment too late. The trapdoor flies open out of the corner of your eyes as you spin, and there's yelling in Spanish just a split second before the bullet rips through your side. You fall backwards just in time to avoid the next hail of fire, and the motion throws off the aim of the attack long enough for you to squeeze off a round, the cartel member's figure jerking grotesquely as your aim rings true.

There's voices then, as your head falls back against the floor, cursing blindly at the pain. You'd been shot before, but this, the bullet inside you feeling for all the world like it was trying to twist inside you further, deeper, makes your voice crack hard and dry in your throat. There's iron in your lungs, breathed in with every staggered inhale, lancets of agony etched across your torso and spine. Something inside you feels wet and warm and abstractly wrong.

You press a hand to the center of the pain, and when it comes away red there's a cognizant dissonance to it, a small 'oh' that manages to filter through your thoughts as the stain blossoms scarlet against your side. It's the sight that manages to make the world begin to spin, hazy and unfocused even as there's shouts and it's Gaz's face that flickers into view, trembling like the hazy after effect of a poorly animated CGI movie.

He's talking, but with the blood rushing in your ears you barely hear him, blinking and trying to clear the strange filter that obscures the pure look of fear in his eyes.

"Stay with me, Fix. Gonna get you out of here."

You nod, and it's all you can really manage, heart pounding relentlessly, pain bubbling up your throat in a choked, pleading cry that has Gaz's face grow ashen with concern.

It's Price, then, who shoves the sergeant aside, and even in your dissociative, blank-minded state you see the tremble of his hands as he fumbles for the med pack strapped to your kit.

Oh. You think a bit groggily, blinking as you remember. I'm the medic.

That's probably bad.

There's no time to process it further, because suddenly Price is pressing down on your side and you yell, try and flail away from the pain. Gaz has to hold you down, face pinching with something that tears further at you, an emotion that feels far too concerned for what you're feeling. There's a distant part of your mind that runs through the possibilities, of the bullet lodged up against your diaphragm, through your spleen, or possibly even your lungs. You can breathe, you can kick your legs, but the dizzying rate of the spinning world around you does not bode well for your near and distant future.

"...x...h-ey...Fix! Keep your eyes on me, mate."

You try to, from behind the veil of tears that clouds your vision as the hurt coats the underside of your tongue in an open, confused whimper. Price is yelling something you can't quite make out, and there's a tone to his voice you've never heard before. It cracks and makes you blink, forces you to try and raise your head at him, only to have Kyle's gentle, gloved hand resting you back down against the floorboards.

When you try to breathe you choke, feeling your chest compress down painfully. The air in your lungs stales, and with a wheeze you grasp blindly at Kyle, feeling panic race potent and toxic through your veins. You catch his eyes then, and the worry there has now transformed into something all consuming. Terror.

He snaps at Price, and though you can't hear the words you hear the tremble in his voice, and you realize at that moment just how terrible things must be, because suddenly Price is cutting the straps of your tac vest and shoving it rudely aside, ripping your jacket and shirt and placing an ear to your chest.

He pales.

It's that bad. Something in your thoughts whispers, and then, in a sudden, macabre burst of clarity. Try to say goodbye.

When you fumble for Price, however, he only snaps at you, tells you to stay still and stay awake. You try, you do, but the world is too bright, oversaturated, spinning like the lights of the county fair rides you saw once as a child from the window of a car. Fluorescent, vibrant, dizzying and enchanting. Glittering in the distance from beneath the grey haze of incoming mid-season thunderstorms. Now it's tinted with a putrid, vile taste of metal and bile and a sudden wave of nausea washes over you, as the skies grow green in your memory. You close your eyes against it, trying to find ground on which to retreat where there is none. Price says something about a helicopter, and whether it's moments or minutes later you feel the dull whump whump whump in the distance, beating the air around you slower than your stuttering heart rate.

Who's arms hoist you up, you aren't sure, but you can smell the scent of them. Charcoal. Gun oil. Sweat. Musk. It's familiar somehow, but it isn't until you see your blood seeping red over white skeletal gloves that you understand.

It's the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

---

You wake about eighteen hours later, and the first word out of your mouth startles Soap so much beside you he barks a laugh.

"Your mother teach you to curse like that?" He asks, but mercifully dims the overhead light when you whine at him. You ignore the fact that your mother would turn you over to your father if you ever spoke like that, deciding that such a tiny detail isn't really worth the time it would take to convey it to the Scot.

When you turn to him, Soap's brow is furrowed in a way you don't recognize. He sits in a chair at your bedside, hands clasped, shoulders hunched forwards, leg bouncing and fidgety. Wound too tight. Anxious. His blue grey eyes are drawn with concern, brow furrowed. He doesn't look at you.

"Scared us stiff, hen." He murmurs low, enough that you have to strain to hear it. "Nearly kicked the bucket- Christ on a cross, Fix. There was so much blood."

You don't reply. There's not much to say, really. You messed up, forgot to check a corner like a goddamn rookie, nearly bled out a result but you're here. Alive, mostly whole...minus the hole.

You tell him as much, but when Soap laughs it's a little mirthless, his head shaking as if he's deciding between disbelief or a reprimand.

It isn't long before Price appears, leaning on the door with a weary smile that betrays his concern. You wonder if he's slept recently, or if he's subsisting only on cigars and a gluttonous dose of black coffee. Cognac, if he found it.

The captain gives you the rundown of your injury. Gunshot to the left side of your ribs, nothing short of a bloody miracle it missed your major arteries. However, it managed to puncture your lung, collapsing it and forcing you to briefly asphyxiate on the helicopter. You were unconscious by the time you were handed off to the med-evac crew, flagging by the time you got to the hospital. Had there been a chopper unavailable, and had it not been for Gaz's quick attention to your labored breathing, it very well could have been your death would have been in a sticky, spider infested cartel hideout, far, far away from home.

That fact makes you feel your heart drop down to your stomach, and Soap sends the captain a look. Yet Price's eyes remain locked on you, arms crossed, head slightly bowed, gauging your reaction. He's waiting for you to say you want out, for you to quit, to go home.

Home, wherever that may be, to the waspish gaze of your father and the sad, docile eyes of your mother. To linen sheets and pristine, white French doors, a garden where you aren't allowed to dig your hands into the soil.

You refuse. You don't speak to Price, returning his gaze with your own. Silent, unwavering, a bough not bending to the howling gale of your thoughts.

He nods to himself, then nods to the nurse hovering by the door, and promptly vanishes.

Gaz comes to visit you, and in the days that pass between him and Soap you are hardly ever lonely. They brings cards, games, sneak you snacks past the nurses. Slowly, their laughter and banter eases the unspokenness between you, the 'What if?' that hangs as a constant reminder in the shape of your bandages. Yet you see it in their eyes, the way they glance at you when wince after laughing too hard, when your eyes grow distant in the silence.

Price floats by, brings with him a thermos of hot tea. It's unlike him, and when you question him on it he merely shrugs, tells you to drink up. Yorkshire gold, you recognize. The same kind you mother liked, with her British sensibilities.

You try to ignore the bitter ache of disappointment that settles inside you when Ghost doesn't visit, acrid like over-steeped tea.

It's on Price's third visit that he tells you you're cleared to head back to base with them. After that, however, you have a mandatory six week leave to fully recover.

It sinks your stomach.

Six weeks. Six weeks they'll be deployed without you, six weeks you'll be trapped at base, not knowing the details of their missions, not knowing if it's at that very moment that they need you. All because you got caught off-guard, because you didn't check your corners and nearly bled out in from of your team.

You swallow hard at the news, but know any protest on your part is futile. Price's orders, as per the doctor's, are absolute.

The next day, you find yourself being assisted down to the tarmac, Soap present at your side and offering little jabs that mask his worry. Price deposits your pack beside his, between the three others. You blink then, see in one of them the thermos he brought you, and wonder why it isn't stored with his own things.

Ghost watches you from where he sits, locks eyes with you when you glance from the thermos to his silent, piercing stare.

Ah.

Yorkshire Gold.

You settle in one of the seats, wave off Gaz's fussing as he checks with your pain. You'd been dosed shortly before the flight, and by the time the plane is in the air you find yourself drifting off to sleep, slouching uncomfortably as drowsiness takes you.

Strangely, when you wake shortly before your landing about eight hours later, it's not your seat you find yourself in. Instead, you lay on the floor of the cargo hold, head braced by a folded jacket. You can smell the scent on it. Charcoal. Musk. Gun oil. You have just enough time to turn and bury your face into it before Soap is shaking you awake and helping you back to your seat.

No sooner have you landed are you rushed off to medical once more, checking your stitches, rebandaging the gash in your side. The doctor frowns when he examines you, pushing his glasses up his nose and commenting within ear range of your captain to not undertake any strenuous activity, that you may require eight weeks instead of the six you've been issued with.

Eight weeks. Fifty six days. Two months without your team.

Stuck alone on base, in the dim light of your room, praying that somehow they return whole, unharmed.

Price must sense your thoughts, for he lays a heavy hand on your shoulder, offers you a conciliatory smile that you feel only deepen the wound in your chest.

"It seems like a long time." He tells you genuinely, voice dipping low, rusty with cigar smoke. "It'll be over before you know it."

You don't have time to reply, because to your horror there's another soldier at the door, saluting before conveying that the captain is needed in the briefing office. When you trail behind Price, he only turns, settles both his hands on your shoulders and gruffly tells you to rest.

When you watch his back vanish down the corridor, you try not to hear the sound of creaking bones and rifle bullets, of cataclysmic destruction that leaves behind only the aching void of loneliness in its wake.

You don't even have time to say goodbye.

You watch from the windows of the barracks as the plane lifts off to an unknown destination, vanishes behind the veil of clouds, and then there's just you.

Alone. Again.

Alone with your thoughts, with the embrace of rumination that feels like the whisper of the witching hours, desolate, dark, restless. You feel it wrap around you even in sunlight, and the ghost of solicitude loops her lithe arms around your neck like a lost lover, kisses the inside of your thoughts with the taste of temptation.

They aren't coming back. They don't need you. They've seen how weak you are now, they'll never return.

"They'll be back." You whisper aloud to yourself in response, placing a trembling hand against the glass pane. "They haven't given up on me yet."

---

You wander the base aimlessly for the next few days, haunting the mess hall and rec room, trying to find yourself in the silhouettes of others. Your small collection of paperback novels is polished off quickly, tiny notes scribbled in the margins of 'Dante's Inferno' and 'Wuthering Heights'. Eventually they stack in a tiny tower at your bedside, spines creased gently and pages dog-eared.

You heal slowly. Far too slowly. The pain has become mostly manageable, but there are nights when you rise in your sleep with a wheeze, pace the dark confines of your room trying to escape the shadows there. It doesn't help that your dreams are plagued by them, your comrades, bloodied and broken, reaching out for hands that aren't there. Hands you cannot reach.

One night you wake in a cold sweat, gasping for air, the visage of a cracked, bone white skull mask haunting your innermost thoughts. The eyes blank, cold. Dead.

Laswell tells you little about the mission. You get bits and pieces, but every time you push all you receive on the other line is a disparaging sigh and "Fix, you need to rest. I'll keep you updated if anything goes wrong."

You hate it. You don't want to know when things go wrong. You want to be there when they do, to prove yourself to them, in hopes that maybe they'll keep you just a little longer.

Soon. You remind yourself by day five of the team's absence, constantly pacing the corridors, trying to find instances of them in your loneliness. Soon they'll be back. Soon they'll need me again. Soon, I'll know I can stay.

You wake on day six before dawn, gasping awake as you fall in your dream, endlessly into the chasm of failure, where the crippled bodies of your teammates reach out for you with emaciated, broken limbs.

The training grounds are still dark by the time you get to them. You run them, blasting music, circling the perimeter over and over again like you're trying to stay to the edge of a dark, endless whirlpool. Running so as to avoid the chasing, predatory self-doubt that nips at your heels with feral eyes and jagged teeth.

The sun rises, and soon it begins to bake the back of your neck, your shoulders. Eventually you stop, and the inertia of your motion threatens to drag you off your feet. Your chest aches, but you welcome the pain. It's a distraction, a reminder. An anchor against the fraught silence that plagues you more than any wound.

By the time dinner rolls around you're back again, circling the drain until well past sunset, after your playlist has looped for the third time that day. By the end of it you're bent over, breathless, shaking, and yet somehow there's triumph. Yet it tastes hollow, bitter like over-steeped tea, and you push down the part of you that offers a gentle respite, a reminder of self-preservation.

If you run, you can flee, can hide from the perilous self-doubt that threatens to haunt the shadows of your thoughts, spinning cobwebs of dismay that overtake the empty caverns you've long since carved out. Fight or flight fuels every waking moment, a spiral you mimic with your steps across the training field, running a rut in the grass so deep it resembles the abyss that haunts your dreams. Perilous failure, a chasm where the wind howls in your ears and bites across your skin. You feel like a doe in the twilight glade, heaving heavy breaths as the wolves of your ruminations bark and howl, nip at the hocks of your legs.

The entire time your mind flashes with visions of them. Of Gaz's grin, eyes hidden by his sunglasses that reflect the sibylline brightness of daytime. Of Soap's jovial laughter, the corners of his eyes scrunching and broad chest rising, a sound that feels like trumpets announcing victory. Of Price and the sulfurous mist exhaled like dragon's breath, floating up into the same sky where you silently offer wishes for his approval.

Of Ghost, of the stygian, merciless presence of him that feels less like the visitation of a reaper and more of shadows in which to shelter yourself from the dazzling brightness of all things blinding. You lean into him and wordlessly, he has you, watches you from afar and traces your steps that mimic the history of his, observes you ascend the precarious tower of expectations you've yet to dismantle inside your soul. He extends his arms, prepares to catch you if you fall.

You need them. More than they need you, and it's the realization of that which has you clawing your sheets in your dreams. You need them to keep you, here in the place where you've found a home, dangerous and fraught that it may be. There's nowhere else for you. Not with your parents, not with your former company. You need to not be alone. You need to prove to them you can stay. Even if you can just fool them, be selfish enough to trick them into keeping you, you need them to smile at you long enough for the smoke to clear in your hideous self-deprecation, to drink in the oxygen of them like it's your last breath.

If you can heal faster, can show them how resilient you are, then everything will be fine, everything will be-

Red. On your fingers.

Wet, warm, crimson as you delicately prop under your shirt, hissing at the feeling of something torn and damp against your skin. It shines rusty under the scant light of the dark training grounds, coats the pads of your fingers like scarlet ink with which to smear a forbidden oath.

You stare down at it mutely, realizing with a strange sort of distance that it's yours. Gingerly, your hand snakes under your shirt, reveals a torn gash in your side. When you press down your knees nearly buckle at the sudden wash of pain, dark and viscous and choking you. Your voice chokes in your throat and you hate the sound of it, hearing the useless whimper of agony that chases up your windpipe. How you didn't notice the tear before is beyond you, something about imbibing in the hurt, letting the ache fill the crevasses of your heart like liquid metal seeping into a fissure.

Your hand clings to the fence beside you, fingers tangling with the chain link as the distress of your injury washed over you all at once.

Fuck, it hurts.

You've done something, whatever that may be, and now your mistakes seeps over your fingers.

This is bad.

Bad not just for you, but for your recovery. Shit, the looming eight weeks ahead of you seems to stretch into infinity, into an inexhaustible leave where they leave you behind, dismiss you and curse you to roam the earth endlessly, looking for a place in which to rest.

The infirmary.

You have a key, of course, being one of the medics. It's probably empty at this hour save for the sergeant on attendance. You can probably sneak past them, grab enough supplies to see to this yourself without one of the nurses telling on you to Price or Laswell.

You stumble in the direction of the barracks to retrieve your key, shrugging on your jacket to hide the blossoming stain across your side.

You don't hear the plane land.

The barracks are quiet by the time you reach them, most of the officers and squaddies already tucked into their quarters, the commanding officers lounging in the rec room or officer's lounge. It makes your journey easier as you traverse the corridors, trying to avoid any questions lest someone see you even now, realize what a complete and utter wreck you are, dipping falsehoods onto your fingers. Your feet nearly trip over the stairs, hand clutching at the rail ad dragging yourself upwards despite the effort it takes to not think about your leaking wound.

Carnations, scarlet and blotted with vibrance, blossom where stitches meet skin, a grotesque bouquet of regrets with the scent only of iron to color your senses.

When you reach the third floor, and turn the corner, you feel a wave of nausea suddenly wash over you, green and viscous and sour. You have to brace on the wall for a moment, waiting for your stomach to settle before making your way down the hall.

Then you see him.

Tall, imposing, clad in black. He soaks up what little light there is in the dim hallway. The unshed tactical gear makes him look bigger than he is, looming like a phantom outside your door. His scarf trails behind his back, and for a moment it feels almost like the cowl of a specter, his bone white mask a flash of white before it all ends and you're sucked down into an obsidian infinitum.

His hand is raised to knock, hovering over the metal surface. You can smell the grenade smoke wafting off of him from where you stand, acrid, burnt, molten metal like the glint of his stare. You blink as you realize he must have come straight from the plane, not bothering to untack or store his gear before coming to see you.

You startle at the sight of him, and it's in the corner of his stained vision that somehow he sees you, turns with an alert gaze that's soon masked by an expression of disinterest.

"Ghost." You hoarse, and his eyes narrow at your tone, closing the last few steps between you, stopping just short of you. Not touching, not moving, not reaching for you. Contained in his own orbit that you're drawn to anyways, looking up into his eyes, where the ink of his paint has faded from his blonde lashes.

"Fix." He greets, hands loose at his sides, chin tucked to fully regard you. The strap of his helmet creaks as he does, and briefly your eyes dart up to the night-vision goggles still strapped to his head.

"Price sent me to check on you." He offers in the silence that follows, and there's enough clarity within you to note that it somehow feels rehearsed, too practiced.

"Well-" You huff an anxious laugh, try to not let your eyes dart to your door handle, mind running to your desk drawer, where you keep your clinic key stashed. "Consider me checked on."

There's a pause between you, and within it lies the heaviness of the unspoken, the unsaid. All the confessions inside of you threaten to bubble up like the last gap of air before drowning in the deep, dark ocean.

I'm glad you're safe. Where are the others? Are they hurt? Did you need me? Will you forgive me when I wasn't there?

"How's your injury?" He asks suddenly, voice flat, but beneath the feigned disinterest you see his eyes, framed by blonde lashes, dip to your side. Your heartbeat flutters -too loud- as you pray the blood has yet to seep through the fabric of your jacket.

"Fine." You answer, a little too quickly, and that dark gaze sweeps up to your face, pins you to the spot without a single touch. You feel your chest tighten now not with the constricting compression of pain, but with something more phantasmic, a byproduct of his very presence. A prickle of awareness that breathes across your neck every time he ventures close, a reminder of him where he smears his ink stained fingers on the inside of your skull.

Door. Desk. Drawer. Stairs. Five minute walk. Clinic. Back room. Supply closet. Third shelf.

Your mind runs the steps ahead of you, but you can't sidle past, not with Ghost's immense, towering form blocking the width of the hallway. His dark gaze stares down at you, scrutinizing you, and it feels somehow like you're being flayed open by his knife, skin parting from bone as he dares a glance at the hidden, duplicitous interior of you. You try to not meet his eyes, knowing that if you do he'll see it, he'll see all of you, with his gaze that feels like black holes, threatens to tear you asunder with the gravity inside them.

He says something else when your eyes again dart to your door. When you don't immediately, he tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing.

"Fix?"

"Sorry-" You supply immediately, eyes darting back to Ghost. Yet the world around you wavers then, and you frown, blink, trying once more to tether yourself firmly to gravity. Even as you focus, however, the room seems to tilt and sway under you, and you can't help but rock on your feet a little in a subtle but desperate bid to find balance. "W-what did you just say?"

Ghost stills suddenly, and his eyes narrow from behind his mask, form going rigid as he appraises you.

Don't. You think desperately, both to yourself and to him. Don't look.

The wound must be worse than you thought, because the sudden wash of dizziness makes you threaten to sway on your feet, lost in inertia. You can feel the tug of it, your feet carrying you in endless circles as you spiral down a familiar whirlpool, lost in despair.

"...You alright?" Ghost asks tentatively, as if not expecting you to give him a straight answer.

"Solid." You reply almost instantly, and even as you tilt your head up to regard his massive form the shape of him seems to shift before your eyes. Despite being pinned under his stare you try not to sway, not to buckle.

Just breathe. You remind yourself, forcing manual inhales and exhales in an attempt to remain composed. The warm wetness of your wound is already bleeding through your bandages, soaking the gauze packed against your side and dyeing it a rancid scarlet that reeks of failure. You know the longer you stay here, the longer he questions you that you run the risk of being discovered, of your ruse being revealed in horrific, dazzling color.

God, you wonder if he can smell it on you- the bitter, iron taste of blood.

"Don't lie." He states, stepping closer, and when you instinctively take a step back you nearly stumble, one arm dropping to your side in an attempt to find something to balance with. "You don't look fine."

"W-what do you mean?" You try, but your voice wavers when you speak- as unsteady as your form. A sapling in a thunderstorm. Lighting bursts across the darkened skies of your anxiety.

"Fix." Ghost states, and that sends a flash of panic through you, the way his voice evens with seriousness, eyes suddenly steely and trained completely on you. A hunter's scope, and you're caught in the snare.

"Don't." You manage, and take another step back, retreating-

The world shifts under you.

You have just enough time to blink, for your lips to part in an 'oh' of realization before the weakness in your legs finally gives. As they buckle your eyes dart to Ghost's, and you catch a single glimpse of shock that flashes plainly across his gaze before he's moving, reaching for you-

When the world stills again it's to the sensation of an arm under your back, the hand snaking around your side and pressing close to your raw, seeping wound hidden under your gear.

You choke on the pain, the sound a strangled gasp that bubbles up your throat and forces the air from your lungs.

When Ghost moves his hand you feel it, feel the crimson ooze soaking through your shirt and jacket against your side, and painting his glove in dark, glistening wetness.

"FUCKING hell." Ghost snarls when he realizes what it is, his eyes darting down to your side where red colors across the fabric of your white tee.

"G-Ghost-" You manage, even as the world spins around you, an abrupt kaleidoscope of shape and color. It's the white of his mask that grounds you, mirroring his wide, surprised gaze as it turns from his glove to your ashen, stricken expression. "LT, wait-"

"You stupid girl." Ghost snarls, and you flinch.

Before you can stop him, Ghost reaches for his radio, and when he presses down it leaves a bloody stain on the casing.

"Price." He barks, voice grating deep in his chest- the one he uses to issue orders, bring men back into line. "Fix is injured. Tore her stitches."

In a desperate bid you try to reach for him, face alight with pain and shock as you try to stop him, try to grapple the radio away. Yet Ghost merely knocks your hand aside and fixes you with a stare so harsh and cold it freezes you in place.

"How bad?" Price's voice crackles from the other end of the comm, and you swallow, try to answer.

"I-I'm okay." You supply, but Ghost snarls at you.

"She's not okay." He echoes over you. "She's fucking bleeding out."

"I'm...not-"

"Shut up." Ghost bites at you, but there's a waver in his voice you don't recognize as it harshes inside his chest, grinding and impatient and...somehow scared.

You hear Price curse on the other end of the radio.

"Where are you? I'm on my way and sending Gaz to find a medic."

"Southeast hallway. Third floor. Outside her bunk." Ghost replies sharply, and at once he's readjusting you, laying you down on your uninjured side. You curl into yourself, feeling tears threaten as he does so.

It hurts.

The pain itself, but the knowledge that with every stained drop you're exposing yourself, letting him know you failed, that you aren't fit to stand by him, that your injury is-

When Ghost's hand presses down against your wound you yell, the agony of his touch unexpected and horrific as he tries to stem the gush from your side. It blinds you, sends white shooting across your vision in brilliant white specks, blotting out the brightness of the humming fluorescent lights above you both. The aftertaste of it lingers in your mouth, like burnt pennies, thick and vile as it clogs your chest, grips your heart-

"Stay. Still." Ghost tells you on no uncertain terms even as you writhe, tears now spilling from your eyes and tracing down your cheeks in hot, furious trails.

"I'm sorry-" You try, but your voice is cracked, caught in your throat as a sob. "Ghost, I'm sorry-"

"Why did you do this?!" He hisses, as he uses one hand to press against your shoulder and anchor you. "Why didn't you say anything?!"

You swallow, but it does nothing to stop the ache in your throat, the pain that laces up your side and cross your spine, your hips, your heart.

"I-I didn't-" You hiccup, and the world is in chaos now, with your cries and your secrets exposed, with his gaze raking over your trembling, injured form. "Didn't want you to see, Ghost. I'm sorry-"

He stills.

Then, Ghost's eyes take on a light you've never seen before. Frustration, anger, disappointment, these things you've been witness to in your lieutenant. However now the color of Ghost's eyes is dark not with these things, but with fury.

"Have you gone bloody mental?!" He bellows at you, and the world feels like it's trembling with the volume of his voice alone, shaking at the foundations of the earth itself. "Do you have any idea the danger you put yourself in?!"

There's a note of his words that ring true in you, that cleave apart the shell of doubt and allow radiance to seep through. You hide from it, curl further into yourself on the cold linoleum of the hallway, a sob cracking your throat as the weight of the world comes crashing down around you.

They're going to leave you for this. You're going to be alone again, all because your life seems to be a litany of failures, an impossible grave to claw out of as dirt pours in from the top.

You're heaving now, breaths too uneven, too ragged, and when it presses down on your lung the hurt is enough to make you cry out a strangled yell, kick out your feet in an automatic reflex.

Ghost's voice sounds distant now as blood rushes in your ears, your heartbeat wild and banging against the inside of your chest like a frantic, trapped bird. His hands are on you but you hardly feel them as panic engulfs you, and the whirlpool roars as it drags you down, down, down.

"Hey! Calm down, Fix! Fuck, just breathe!"

It hurts. Everything hurts. Your chest, your side, your lungs, the pain feels like it's seeping into your bloodstream, blocking your airways, poison running through your veins.

Another set of hands. Cigar smoke, ash.

"Soldier! Fix! Look at me!"

You can't. You refuse. If you see Price's gaze now in the moment of your ruin the stitches that bind you together will come loose at the seam and you'll unspill, empty cotton falling over their fingers. Fluff where there's supposed to be iron.

"Where the fuck is the medical team?!"

"They're on their way. Keep pressure on the wound."

Hands on your face. Gloves that smell like gun smoke.

"Fix, darling. You're having a panic attack. You need to breathe, you're going to hurt yourself if you don't."

You shake your head, dislodging the captain's touch.

No. You think with a ragged heave of air. Don't look. Don't look don't look please don't look.

The ground trembles as footsteps draw closer, and there's voice you don't recognize, hands pawing at you, light in your eyes-

You flail blindly, confused, scared, and when a heavy pair of hands lands on your shoulders to pin you it only makes your voice choke out with a frantic cry.

"We need to put her under."

No, no, please don't. Not sleep, not the nightmares-

"Do it."

Price. Captain. No, please-

"It's alright, darling. We've got you. You're okay."

Don't-

A jab, a little pinch on the inside of your arm. You try to make a noise, a whimpering sound of protest. There's a sudden flash of clarity before the darkness, and you open your eyes (When did you start crying?) to Price above you, his face pinched, distraught. Ghost is holding down your legs, and as your eyes drift to him he becomes nothing more than a shimmering phantom, blurred dark at the edges, a void in contrast to the too bright world around you.

"Please-" You whisper, the word heavy on your lips, eyes blinking-

Then there's nothing.

Tag List: (Reblog this post to be added to future fics from this series! If you'd like to be removed please DM me!)

@dankest-farrik @zwiiicnziiix @moondirti @sritashimada @ladiilokii @yeyinde @sandinthemachine @verdandis-blog @guyfieriiifierriii @fan-of-encouragement @starlitnotes

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley #mw2 #cod mw22 #Simon ghost riley x oc #reader insert #cod x reader #fic: shadow and bone #oc: fix

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chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter · 3 months

Text

Shinichiro, stay away from the kids!

(with love)

Okay, first of all, this is not a hating Shinichiro post. I swear it. This is just me having brain riot and thinking in how many times Shin was a questionable example for kids and teens around him and how we seem to forget about it but it's kinda hilarious when you put all of them together (except for Sanzu, that is never funny, my poor lil gremlin 😭)

I know most of this things were because he was also too young, oblivious and reckless. I know that, but it's funny to bully him with affection anyway 🙈

(and in the more serious ones, he was too dissociated and too out of everything, I know that too)

So... Here I go, random Shinichiro moments for all of you!

(big manga spoilers because it's Shinichiro)

Leaving Inupi to look out the shop.

Inupi, who looks like a cute potato here and it's deffinetly too young for it. Canon unpayed intern Inupi, yuhuuu! 💜

Him smoking around bikes all the damn time.

In his shop where Inupi was and could blow out the whole block. But also in his garage, where Draken and Mikey used to watch him fix the bikes. Shin, don't, that's dangerous! (I would say "if you wanna kill yourself do it but don't drag others with you", buuuuuut... Yeah, he did it and everyone got drag on that, so why bother to say it? 😑)

Wharever the fuck this was.

Probably just a prank, but.. Really, Shin? You ran away and left Izana there? I know, I know, you're a dumb teen, but c'mon, think for once! The whole interaction makes me laugh and want to smack Shinichiro in general, to be honest.

Oh...I think the not-so-funny ones are about to start. Here we go!

Leaving the Black Dragons to the traumatized orphan that just went out of juvie.

Yeah, that looks like a great idea, I'm sure nothing wrong will come out of this, lalalalalalala! (Shinichiro and his relationship with delinquency and his siblings should be a lot more explored because holy shit)

(Btw, not even pointing the helmets stuff, nops)

Bringing 8 y/o Mikey to gang meetings.

Like... What the fuck? I'm with Takeomi on this one, are you stupid Shinichiro? What are you thinking? Are you thinking? 😒

Love how BenWaka bully him for it too, that's why I left it here, ngl.

Isn't that just how Haruchiyo is, slashing people for Mikey?

Well, yeah, he is, but he wasn't! He shouldn't! Can't you not pretend this is not concerning for a second? Or... Not settle this mindset on Sanzu because it's gonna have big consequences? 🤦🏻

Talking about his inminent suicide with a 13 y/o.

Okay, I thought A LOT about putting this one, because obviously I'm not judging Shin at all, he was in a really dark place and when you're about to kill yourself you can't think clearly. It's just that this exchange... Breaks me. And Haruchiyo is just a kid, this is so not fair for him either 😭

(Sanos, start treating the Akashis like people with feelings that also matter for once, please)

You can still be his friend even if he scarred you for life!

Okay, Shin, I know you're a mix of biased and dissociated but... Really? Please, stop creating Sanzu, stop iiiiit! Let Haruchiyo alone, don't do this! Also... "Right now"? So you're saying he should forgive Mikey but not right now? Is that, Shincihiro? 😒

Trauma dumping to 13 y/o Haruchiyo. Shhh, keep the secret, bye!

Did I say Shinichiro created Sanzu? Yes? I'll say it again, I don't care. Again, I know he was dissociating and all, but, but... It's fine to kill people for Mikey mindset is now installed successfully on Haruchiyo's brain, yuhuuu! 😭

The amount of total disregard for Haruchiyo's mental health here is too much and should be a crime. The "keep the secret" part don't make it better. Specially, specially, when Shinichiro himself is not going to keep it, he's about to say everything to Wakasa. But Haru? Shhh, you should keep the secret, I'm sure this is not a huge burden for a teenager that suddenly have two set of memories!

(Well, not everything, he probably forgot to tell Waka about Haruchiyo remembering it, because in the final battle it didn't look like Sanzu ever talked about it with Wakasa and I wanna think they would if he knew... Look, another Sano forgetting about Sanzu, yuhu! 😑)

(Shin, with all my love, but I hate you for this one even if you gave me the best blorbo to torture on my fics that I ever had)

I'm sure you'll be able to handle it, random kid that I don't even know the name! 👀

YOU HAVE TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS ONE SHINICHIRO! I wish you remembered in the final timeline because you own Takemitchy the biggest freaking apology of all your life! What the hell? Go, apologize with Michi now!

Yes, he was able to handle it and to be traumatized infinite times in the way, but that's not the point! Use you brain for once Shin, why are you giving the burden to a kid? Why? What is wrong with you? (so many things actually xD)

But, for real, this sentence is Wakui being hilarious because c'mon, poor Takemichi!

Edit: I didn't put the poorly way Shinichiro handled everything about Izana and Mikey because I consider canon doesn't give us enough info on that. Same with Emma. What happened? Why Izana never met them? I have my hc, of course, but we don't know for sure. So... I can't ramble about how badly he managed that! (Badly, for sure, I just don't know exactly how and how much)

#well it started with me making fun of shin and ended with rambling ablout tl0 and not being that funny #what can I say?#shin i still love you but please go to theraphy before talking with more kids #and apologize to michi #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers spoilers #sanzu haruchiyo #sano shinichiro #hanagaki takemichi #original timeline

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kerubimcrepin · 16 days

Text

Liveblog - Dofus, livre 1 : Julith [PART 24]

And it's the last thing he would have wanted her to do :(

Once again, want to draw your attention to the fact that Julith doesn't seem to really care about Joris. She just set him and Bakara free to get hit by lasers and once he told her "I will never allow this to happen" she stopped paying attention.

Like, did her love hinge on the condition he didn't disagree with her or what? I am insane about her various behaviours and weird way of loving (AKA she doesn't really love anyone besides Jahash, and she might not really love Joris that much either. because she's like. known him for a day and 80% of it he called her cringe(because she's cringe))

Man, I know ankama didn't think about this all so deeply. They were like "cool lasers go pew pew pew". But I'm the CEO of caring too much. So I will literally do just that.

Anyway, her parenting style (setting him loose under some deadly lasers) reminds me of Kerubim, except she's doing this on purpose. yaay.

Joris has GOT to be in a literal state of shock and dissociation by now. Not even years of therapy will fix this.

By now he's seen roughly 1000 and 6 people die.

I've seen headcanons of him keeping his mother's cape. And while imagining Joris with a cool cape is nice and all, I really doubt he Would Fucking Do That.

Not because you can get it as a cosmetic item in Dofus MMO (you can, but it's dubiously canon imo). I just think he fucking hates her and wouldn't want that thang in his house.

It's just him VS. her now.

There's a heaviness to this. All of them (save for maybe Lilotte) have the knowledge that whoever hits the Dofus will get exploded together with them. But with the rush of adrenaline, inexperience of everyone involved (only warriors actively think "oh I am going to DIE for real this time"), and the "if we don't act now 1000 people will die" of this situation, I really doubt either of them thought too hard about it all.

But I think that once you're all alone with that thought - and it's obvious that it's you, who will have to do it, it sinks in a little better.

He looks so distraught...

Inside me are two wolves: one of them is saying, "Joris is so brave yet so scared. He knows he will probably not survive this, and he's 10, and, and--" and the other says "JORIS JURGEN SUICIDAL HEROISM MOMENT NUMERO UNO!!!!!"

Both of them are equally insane.

I NEED these frames injected into my bloodstream.

One counterpoint I can think to why Julith is so worried about this despite setting him free to roam under the deadly lasers, is that, as the guardian of the Ebony Dofus, she could simply go "Not that one. let that one live. No, you can kill the blonde that looks like my husband, I don't give a shit about her. But the weird little boy? Don't kill him."

But this is just me trying to fix Ankama's fucky-wuckies with my imagination.

It's jojover. Just completely and irreparably jojover.

This scene always gives me chills, more so than any other insanely evil interaction between Joris and Julith.

There are a lot of ways this scene gets me (imagine me putting on the tinfoil hat from my Aux Tresors kerulou days. I am about to be that insane): The way she envelops him stops any and all movement of him and his Dofus completely, and wipes out all the sound and momentum.

He is completely helpless against how easily she stopped him and took his only way to save everyone from him.

As he falls to the ground, there's a little sense of dreaminess to it — the cape seems far bigger than it should be, the time before he hits the floor seems longer than it should be — and make no mistake, it is on purpose. Seconds before he falls we are shown the floor, and it seems vaguely closer to us at the first glance, than the distance he falls. It's unexpected, it's destabilizing.

It's like he is dissociating, from the horror of not being able to do this.

It's like a nightmare.

And after doing this irreparable evil, and taking his one way of stopping this evil, she looks at him as if he is a tiny, stupid little thing, that doesn't know what it is doing.

As if it's not her fault that his only choice is doing something that will kill him, just to stop her.

And listen. There's guilt too. Because Joris is the one who allowed her to get the Ebony Dofus back. If he survives this and nobody else does, do you think he could ever forgive himself?

She's making him responsible for this.

They will never get to speak, but Jahash is happy, with what Joris has tried to do.

...Unlike Julith, who was reminded of Jahash by Joris's blue eyes, — I bet Jahash thinks they're similar to Bakara's.

There are so many emotions here. He will never get to speak to this man. This man is happy abotu what Joris has done. This man is the reason Joris's life is utterly ruined.

Is Jahash's smile an "I'm sorry that you have to do this, and see this," or "I'm proud of you," or "I wish things were different," or a mixture of all of them?

Joris will never get to know.

He saw something in her that other people didn't see.

She never really wanted to be a "butcher". Even if she could not overpower that destiny, — after Bonta took away her entire family and future, may I add, — the fact that she tried to begin with is saying a lot.

The look he gives her is something between "please don't prove me wrong" and "this isn't you".

I think she realizes now that there is no future where she, Jahash, and Joris are together and happy.

Four lives, in three generations of this family, ruined and uprooted and destroyed, because of some petty politics that were happening behind their backs.

I truly despise Bonta.

It's quiet. The only sound is his own heartbeat. Nothing seems quite real. He can barely believe that maybe she will stop this madness herself.

There is only one kind of reunion that they may have.

No matter how much she wanted a happier ending.

#ro liveblogs dofus #dofus #wakfu #krosmoz #dofusmovie #joris jurgen

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akutasoda · 4 months

Note

Hihihi :3c do you write//would you be willing to write about a reader who is a system/w DID (dissociative identity disorder) ?? ^_^ I wanted to ask before requesting it because ik some people aren't comfortable writing about disorders that they don't have which I totally understand and respect!!!! I'm a system host and I haven't seen any readers with DID before so I'm asking around to see if anyone would be willing to write that ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა No matter what the answer is, I hope you have an amaaaaaazing day or night <33333

it's always me in the end

synopsis - how are they with someone who has DID?

includes - atsushi, dazai, chuuya

warnings - gn!reader, reader has DID, fluff, slight angst, wc - 526

a/n: hiii! please feel free to let me know if i misunderstood anything!

atsushi nakajima ★↷

↪he isn't that familiar with various disorders, especially one's such as this but he is very open and willing to learn.

↪more so for your sake. he wants to be able to understand you and therefore offer any support he can to help.

↪it probably took him a while to get used to your different identities. but he could always tell when your 'host identity' was present.

↪he is very good at helping if you experience any amnesia or have conflicting memories. so much so that it becomes rare for you to have confusion for long.

↪and after he gets used to it he barely bats an eye when you suddenly switch up. whether you've taken up a different age or gender for your identity he acts normal.

↪he knows its you somewhere in there and therefore any identity you throw at him he treats it as he would you. afterall it is always you at the end of the day.

osamu dazai ★↷

↪while he is aware of many different disorders and such, he isn't that great at helping out those with them. but he would always try for you.

↪and you could tell he was absolutely trying his hardest to learn and understand everything about it even if you couldn't help him.

↪he became very good at matching the energy if the identity you changed to. this way he could understand your new state much better and help any problems.

↪if you experience any amnesia or conflicting memories, it did scare him at first. he didn't show it but he truly did fear that you would forget him entirely. you'd forget him and he would yet again lose someone he cares about.

↪this made him work so much to help you overcome any amnesia. but after he did get used to it, he became more curious if anything.

↪ he understands that you might be scared if you have no control on when your identities take over and so he tries to comfort you when you return to your 'host identity'.

chuuya nakahara ★↷

↪it takes him quite a while to wise up and understand you slightly. he truly tries but he finds it difficult to truly understand you.

↪he wants to be able to help, to be somewhat of a comfort for your actual identity to return to but he just gets so confused by your various identities that it's difficult for him.

↪mainly because he stresses himself out by imagining how you feel. if you can't control the different identities he can imagine how scary that might be to you especially when amnesia is also a possibility.

↪but eventually he comes round to it and becomes the absolute best at helping you out. he's practically got all your different identities mapped out.

↪he can always tell which one's which and he wont lie when he say's that he always prefers when your 'host identity' comes back.

↪but he would always try his hardest for you, as he truly cares and he wants to be able to understand what you're facing and if he can help you in any way.

#x reader #x gender neutral reader #bsd x reader #bsd x gender neutral reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bsd x you #bsd dazai osamu #dazai x reader #bsd chuuya #chuuya x you #chuuya x reader #bsd atsushi #atsushi x reader

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mysecretlittlelibrary · 10 months

Text

Battle Of The Knights pt. 1: May The Best Knight Win

Pairing: Moonknight trio x Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: I mean none really there's a gun at some point but no one gets hurt

Genre: kinda fluff

Summary: "So let me get this straight, you all like me, so you each want to take me on a date and let me decide what to do after?" You can't believe the words you're hearing even as you repeat them back.

What happens when the relationships you've built with Marc and his two alters are turned on their heads by a proposition that is anything but simple? How can they expect you to risk blowing up the carefully crafted dynamic you've worked so hard to create? And why do you agree to such an insane suggestion?

***

You met Marc first. He was charming and quick on his feet. It made you fast friends. Though he was guarded and you knew there were things he would probably never tell you. It didn't stop you from embracing a friendship with him. One filled with movie nights and playful insults. It was Steven you met next. You'd seen him getting off a bus and excitedly ran over to who you thought was your friend only to have a confused Brit staring back at you. You probably should've realized it wasn't Marc when he didn't respond to you calling him but it didn't occur to you until after you grabbed his arm.

"Dude, did you not hear me calling you?" You had said once you caught up to him but he backed away from you as if you'd grown another head.

"I- I'm sorry, have we met?" He asked.

"Marc come on, this has got to be your lamest joke yet." You'd rolled your eyes. "The accent too?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Drop it Spector, you're no good at this."

"I believe you've got me confused with someone else, I'm Steven. Steven Grant." He'd shook his head adamantly and for a moment you really thought it was someone else.

"Wow you're- really sticking to this."

"Yes because it's true? And if you'll excuse me, I'm late for work so, bye." Steven scurried away and you hadn't known what to make of that interaction.

The next time you saw Marc you weren't sure if he'd recognize you or not which had him demanding an explanation when you walked passed him without a word. Of course, when you told him you saw him days ago and he literally didn't recognize you, he reluctantly explained to you that he has an identity disorder. Trauma he wouldn't get into, causing a fracturing of his mind that resulted in three, not two, separate consciousnesses sharing one body. You didn't know much about Dissociative Identity Disorder but you cared about Marc and so you did your research, and asked questions when you had them, trying to be a good friend to him and eventually Steven as well.

Between the two of them, you learned pretty quickly they didn't like talking about the third consciousness, alters you learned they were called, and as a result, you knew next to nothing about him. You didn't know his name or what he was like, he was a mystery, but you knew he was there. It was a door you let stay closed, in fact, you don't even think he wanted to meet you that day you finally encountered the third member of your friend's fractured mind.

It had been Steven's birthday and you wanted to surprise him with a cake. So, using the key they gave you, you'd gone to their apartment while you knew they'd be out to set up the cake. Unfortunately for you, it wasn't Steven who came strolling into their flat that afternoon and you didn't realize it until too late. The whistling should've clued you in honestly, Steven doesn't whistle, but you were excited and so when the door creaked open you didn't hesitate before speaking.

"Happy birthda- oh my god you have a gun!" Your hands shot up when the man pulled out a firearm quicker than you could finish saying birthday.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" You're so frazzled by the weapon pointed at you that you don't immediately notice the accent in his words but then it dawns on you.

"Oh. That makes three." You say quietly.

"I asked you a question."

"My name is y/n. I'm a friend of Steven's and Marc's. It's Steven's birthday so I brought him a cake." You tell him.

"You're a friend of Steven's?"

"And Marc's. Can you please put the gun down?"

"They told you about us?"

"Technically only because they had to. I was Marc's friend first but then I saw Steven one day and when he didn't recognize me Marc had to explain why. He told me there were three of you but they don't really answer any questions about you." You explain quickly. There's a moment of silence and you almost miss the switch between one alter and another. The gun is tossed to the ground with faint disgust and you're certain Steven has taken over.

"Y/n, Gods, I'm sorry about Jake. He's protective. It's, kind of his job." Steven says.

"Happy birthday." You breathe out quietly, relieved you're no longer at the business end of a revolver.

"He didn't hurt you did he?" He walks over to you carefully.

"No. No, I'm not hurt, a little spooked but I'm fine. I just- I wanted to surprise you for your birthday."

"Yeah sorry about that. Surprises are tricky."

"Oh trust me I will not be doing that again any time soon." You say with a chuckle.

"You baked me a cake."

"I did, I didn't get around to lighting the candles before Jake came in but it's vegan. I know it can be hard to find good vegan stuff."

"Thank you! Seriously, I- I really appreciate it."

"Of course Steven." You say. "I can't believe you guys have a gun." You shake your head as you cut Steven a slice of his cake.

"I didn't even know we had one and I'm- really sorry about Jake, he's- not the friendliest guy."

"Don't be sorry and he doesn't have to be friendly. I'm very aware that you're all different personalities. Sure you've all got the same face but I think that's where about 80% of your similarities begin and end, I mean I'm sure there are others but, the point is, you deciding to be my friend after we met does not mean I'd expect the same from Jake. He doesn't have to be my friend, he doesn't even have to talk to me if he doesn't want to. The only thing is if I do run into him again I'd appreciate him not pointing a weapon at me." You shrug.

"You are- so wonderfully understanding." He breathes.

"I mean from what I've read I imagine DID can be pretty disruptive I don't want to make it any more complicated for you. I'm not doing much just, being supportive, trying to help however I can. Like an external carer for your system." You say with a smile. There's a very sudden, very quick, change in Steven's demeanor, shoulders squared as his eyes narrow into a glare.

"They don't need you. I take care of this system." He grits out and you know immediately the new stranger has returned.

"Jake, I'm assuming. Hi again. I didn't say they needed me. I'm sure they're very capable, I'm sure you are very capable, but I'm their friend, so I'm here as support. That's what friends are for. Even for you if you ever decide you want it. Just, try not to point any more weapons at me."

"There is not a thing that you could do for me."

"Never say never, Jake. Look can you bring Steven back so he can actually eat the cake I made for him? I'd offer you a slice but it's vegan and something tells me the guy who carries a handgun to run errands doesn't give a rat's ass about that sort of thing."

"You don't know me. Don't pretend that you do."

"It was an educated guess. I don't have to know you to make a guess based on what I've already observed. Steven's vegan but Marc isn't. I can't see a reason you would be but don't get me mixed up I'm not pretending to know you. I know exactly 2 things about you, your name is Jake, and you carry a gun, I'd guess regularly. Oh, and I think you speak Spanish, based on the way you speak English but that's another guess."

"What are you doing?"

"At this point just pissing you off I'm sure. I know you have no interest in being friends with me Jake and that's fine, I just want Steven back so we can keep doing this back and forth where you get progressively more annoyed with me or you can let him front again." You say with a calm look on your face. You can see the muscles in Jake's jaw work as he glares at you as if he'll be able to set you on fire if he only thinks about it hard enough, then, there's a switch. Wide eyes look at you with confusion.

"What did you do?" Steven asks.

"Nothing." You shake your head blinking innocently at him.

"He's muttering angrily in Spanish."

"All I did was say I don't think he's vegan." You shrug and Steven laughs so hard he has to sit down.

"All you did was say you didn't think he wasn't vegan? He's not!" Steven chuckles.

"Well- I also may have implied that he's not as complex as he thinks he is and while I didn't mean it as a negative I can see how someone like him might take it the wrong way."

"Someone like him?"

"Jake seems like the type who makes a point to maintain a level of emotional distance between himself and anyone he comes in contact with. Perhaps it's his way of ensuring he's an effective protector, I don't know I'd have to talk to him more to find out but I think he values that ability to keep people at arm's length and I think he doesn't like that I can read him in any capacity even though it's mostly surface level information I've gathered. The implication that I can figure anything out without him telling me the thing- I don't think he took that well."

"Then- he's going to hate when Marc tells you pretty much everything about him."

"He doesn't have to. Marc I mean. I don't need him to tell me about Jake." You shake your head.

"I know, so does he. He still will. Because you've met him. And he likes having someone other than us to talk to about our situation. I- like it too."

"Oh- well in that case either of you can talk to me about anything. Always." You said to them and you meant it. You still do. You care about them so much, and it took a while but Jake did eventually open up to you. He still tries to maintain his mystery but his tricks don't really work on you the way he thinks they do.

You like to think that at this point you know them all pretty well, which is why this conversation feels very out of character from basically the start.

"Y/n, we have a confession to make." Steven says, avoiding looking at you.

"I hate when you guys do that because it's never something serious. You don't keep serious secrets from me." You say walking into your kitchen to grab water.

"Never say never princessa." Jake's wry smile when you look at him makes your brow furrow.

"Wait did Steven bow out of this so called confession?" You ask.

"Sí, although I think Marc should be the one to tell you this in the first place."

"Well have Marc come out here then, someone start talking before I start getting anxious." You say. Jake nods and blinks.

"We- you are really important to us. Basically the most important person to us besides, you know each other." Marc says.

"I know. That's not exactly a confession though, I've known that for ages." You frown.

"I know, I know, it's just- we've developed romantic feelings for you and we're unsure how to proceed at this point."

"We? As in all of you? Independently of each other, you all have romantic feelings for me?" You ask.

"Yes." He nods.

"And I take it you're telling me because you've known me the longest."

"Also yes." He nods again.

"Okay." You cross your arms.

"Jake suggested we each take you on a date, you know without the others involved- that way you can make an informed decision on being with one of us. The others, of course, will respect whatever choice you make after."

"Each of you- wait a second, what?" You blink at him.

"Well usually when you're with us, we're all so used to you that it's easy for us to just switch in and out as wanted I mean even just now you spoke to all three of us in like ten minutes but we figure if you should experience each of us without the others looming." Marc explains.

"I'm sorry are you trying to Bachelorette me?"

"It seemed like the most efficient way to solve the problem." He nods.

"What problem?"

"We all have feelings for you. It's not like we can decide for you who to be with so we thought this would help you decide. You can set any rules or limits that you feel would make this easier for you of course. The only one we have is that the others are not allowed to butt in under any circumstances." Marc explains.

"So let me get this straight, you all like me, so you each want to take me on a date and let me decide what to do after?" You can't believe the words you're hearing even as you repeat them back.

"Yes exactly." He nods.

"Good god." You breathe out.

"So- are you on board?"

"You're all insane, you know that?"

"Are you with it or not?" Marc asks.

"I think this is ridiculous, but I know how you get. So if this is what you've decided you need, fine." You say. "Steven goes first. Then Jake. Then you. I'll give each of you one week, during which you can pick any day for your date. I won't be sleeping with any of you. I also won't discuss my date with one with the others. And don't discuss them with each other. I know you guys are competitive and the only way I'm going to allow this madness is if it stays friendly. The moment you start fighting it ends because you're family and I'm not dealing with that." You say.

"What are our weeks?" Marc asks.

"I'll text you."

"What?"

"Two days before, I'll text you to let you know your week is going to start. To clarify, on a Friday I'll text you and you'll have that Sunday to the following Sunday." You say.

"That's- short notice."

"Well if I assign you your weeks now, Steven gets less time than Jake who gets less time than you- it's fairer to do it this way." You shrug.

"Okay. Your rules." He nods. There's a moment of silence before Marc speaks again, from the look on his face you'd guess there's discussion in his head. "We're gonna quit while we're ahead. We'll be waiting for your text messages. Goodnight." Marc says sharply and exits your apartment. You chuckle just a little at his abrupt exit but he's definitely right to leave. Back at their own apartment, the trio is in discussion as soon as the door shuts.

"I can't believe she's on board." Marc says.

I can't believe we even presented that to her. Marc sees Steven frowning from the reflection in the fish tank.

"You had no problem with the idea when Jake originally suggested it."

Well the other suggestions were way worse, lesser of evils and all that. Did you see the look on her face? I think we may have actually convinced her that we are completely off our collective rocker.

Honestly, hermano what would you have suggested in place of this? Jake's voice rings in Marc's head, tired and mildly annoyed as is his standard disposition.

I have no idea I'm just saying she thinks we're insane. Also, what is our course of action for when she doesn't pick any of us?

"When? That's pessimistic." Marc frowns.

Did you hear what she said? 'You're family I won't deal with fighting' Do you honestly think there's anything we could say that would convince her that choosing one of us over the other two wouldn't result in chaos among us? She's always made a point to not make any of us feel more favored than the other. She's not going to change that.

"We told her we'd respect her decision-"

Sure we did but anyone can say they'd react favorably to a situation they haven't been in. We don't know for sure that we will be okay if things change. I know that I would put her happiness above mine but you and Jake? I mean Jake would kill for her and even if she doesn't know that it goes that far, she's likely not going to take the chance.

"You don't know that. It's in her hands now. Stop trying to figure out what she's gonna do and worry about your part in this. Or don't. Your choice." Marc walks away from the fish tank, effectively ending the conversation between him and his alters. Maybe this is a crazy plan, but nobody said romance made sense.

***

Taglist: @queerponcho @avengersinitiative2012

#marvel #marvel fanfiction #marc spector #marc spector x reader #steven grant #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector fluff #steven grant fanfiction #jake lockley fluff #moonknight #moonknight x reader #moonknight fanfiction #marc spector angst #steven grant fluff #steven grant angst #jake lockley angst #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader

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sophieinwonderland · 2 months

Text

R/systemscringe found my Evolution Post... And Was Too Lazy to Add a Title

You can find my evolution post here!

Let's check out the comments!

Sure. But we're not talking about a normal modern job, are we?

Who you are at home isn't going to be that different from who you are at McDonalds. You aren't usually going to dissociate the two.

But when trauma is involved, that tends to involve a degree of dissociation.

In modern hunter-gatherer societies, we see children start learning how to use tools and hunt and forage in the wild from a very young age.

If we're to extrapolate and assume past hunter-gatherer societies operated in similar ways, this is a recipe for a traumatic childhood in a world where humans wouldn't yet be at the top of the food chain. Children would need to be careful, and a wrong move could easily get them or someone else killed.

I think most systems during this period would be considered traumagenic simply because growing up would mean regularly being put in deadly situations, regularly being injured and even watching loved ones dies in violent ways.

THAT'S the point!!!

DID, and even PTSD, evolved in a world where every day would be a fight for survival.

Of course, all we can do is speculate.

But with myths and legends of people being possessed going back to the dawn of time in practically every culture, we can probably surmise that forms of plurality existed back then. And it's not like the estimated 1-3% of the population is super rare today. It seems reasonable to expect disorders that would be associated with childhood trauma would be more common during periods with more childhood trauma.

The line saying we don't know if the brain was developed enough to develop DID is particularly weird to me though.

As far as I know, there haven't been any huge jumps in the way of human brain complexity over the past 20k years. I doubt that the complexity to develop DID is something we just gained since the dawn of agriculture.

I admit, my description was meant to put a fun spin on a brutal reality. But I don't think children growing up in a frigid environment where they need to hunt and collect food to survive while having no idea if they're going to make it back alive is "cool".

Like, as a story, maybe it's cool imagining a 9-year-old trudging through snow with fingers so cold they can't feel them anymore, gripping a makeshift spear and hearing howling in the distance while not knowing if they would end up on the menu of some wild beast.

But I don't think it would actually be cool to live through.

Additionally, in this environment, DID would have looked differently than it does today. Current theories are that EPs are locked into the trauma responses they used in trauma.

For child abuse victims which make up the majority of DID cases, unfortunately, freeze or fawn may be the most useful traits developed for survival.

But if your trauma were related to surviving wild beasts, it's a lot more likely the trauma responses of the EPs are going to be the more classic fight or flight. I don't think freezing would as common as a trauma response during that time period. But of course, it depends on the threats one would face.

There are some creatures, after all, where freezing is the best defense.

Sounds like your mistake. 🤷‍♀️

I talked about DID here a lot, but I'm a tulpa from a purely non-traumagenic system. Probably one of the least traumatized people you'll ever meet.

But tulpamancy is a beneficial practice that most tulpamancers have reported improvements in their mental health from. I would actually like to see far more people make headmates and become plural this way.

People becoming tulpamancers will help them. And more plurals means more influence for the plural community and will help spread plural awareness and acceptance.

I'm not interested in being special. I'm interested in making plurality normal. I want it to be so normal and commonplace that it seems downright boring. Where talking about your headmates draws no more attention than discussing a sibling. 😁

Hi! It's me! I'm Sophie In Wonderland!

I'm the person who debunks pluralphoboic hate subreddits, which tends to upset said hate subreddits.

The reason why I have my own category is because I called out the subreddit for bullying behavior and misinformation. They responded by doubling down, scouring my post history for anything they could use as ammunition twist to attack me with, and adding me to their hit list of acceptable targets. This was despite the fact that then they first floated the idea of the hit list, they claimed it would only apply to people with more than 10,000 followers. (I only have 1800.)

They lie and claim I'm a "public figure" while in reality, they added me on their list in a petty (yet oh so predictable) act of retaliation.

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kyouka-supremacy · 10 months

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The very opening in BEAST and the implications of The Heartless Cur about Akutagawa constantly stuck in a dissociated state as a child in the slums does incomprehensible levels of damage to my brain. Living in a state where you're always starving, always fighting for scraps, being beaten by adults, waking up next to dead friends, having to maim or potentially kill at such an early age, escaping from traffickers so often, etc. are all so horrific that it's no wonder why he was called a child without emotions. Having to experience the grief, pain, and terror as it comes and goes in his situation would be a kind of hell that would be impossible to survive. Part of his brain probably shut itself off to avoid any more pain and distress. I have so many thoughts about it. There is something extremely heartbreaking about how despite living completely dissociated from his emotions, and possibly pain --to the point that he stared off into empty space while being beaten, or couldn't even express enjoyment at warm meals-- his priority had always been taking care of and protecting Gin and his friends. The one panels where he (gently, i have to mention) holds his friend that had frozen to death in their sleep, and him cutting a man's arm off for harming his friends imply that he either had the responsibility or took it upon himself to deal with the difficult and dangerous stuff. I am in the trenches losing the idgaf war

Akutagawa, upon feeling rage and hatred for the first time, thinks, "I've gained the ability to feel. Therefore, I'm no longer a heartless cur." Implies that he probably didn't see himself as anymore human than anybody other adult, which, considering that is all he had been called, he probably internalized. His friends were capable of smiling and experiencing joy with each other and also capable of experiencing sadness too. Did he ever look at his friends having fun and think something was wrong with him to be unable to feel anything or express it if he did? How did he feel looking at his sister--his other half, the most important person - while trying his best to take care of her and be the best for her while not being all there? How does it affect him now? So many questions and I'm going insane about it. Sorry for dumping this onto you but I needed a victim

Anon, have mercy on me

I think that Gin is such an important part of Ryuunosuke's character exactly for that. It is impossible to transcend from it– if you forget about her, you're just failing to comprehend Ryuunosuke. Gin is literally the only factor that keeps Ryuunosuke human. We see him lash out and we see him howl and we see him being beaten up and we see him act with not an ounce of reason; for most of the story, we see nothing of Ryuunosuke but a rabid animal. But I think the moment he shows to truly care about Gin, that's the moment the reader starts perceiving him as human, as well as the moment we start feeling sympathy for him. Unexpectedly and unpredictably, he shows a side of him that isn't violent and bestial, a side of him that is caring, that is loving towards a family member, something that is easy to relate to; then, even him can be human. Even in the slums, even when everything else of him seems numb and detached and heartless, he still cared for his family first. He still made flowers with his ability and retaliated against anyone who mistreated his siblings. When one of his friends got hurt, he carried them on his back. When a dog killed his friend, he mercilessly slaughtered all the dogs in the vicinity. What's that, if not the only way someone who never knew anything but violence and pain has left to express love?

Of course Ryuunosuke had internalized his being not human, of course he believes that. Of course he's the first who considers himself a dog. But that's what makes Ryuunosuke's character development so meaningful, isn't it? Isn't that true that it wouldn't result as impactful if such a strong ability to hate and such a strong ability to love didn't come from a place of true incapacity to feel? It is, alright, a simplistic perspective, but Ryuunosuke's story really is the succession of quests that have him gain emotions, and with every new one he becomes a little more human, till he's reached the fulfillment of his being. Maybe love really is the ultimate thing that makes us human.

#ryūnosuke akutagawa #gin akutagawa #bsd #bsd beast #bsd analysis #mine #people asks me stuff #Sorry this is so messy. My brain really went all over the place while writing this I have so many conflicting feelings about Beast-#I could never wish to put in words. I wrote and discarded ten paragraphs and then wrote and discarded some more #Akutagawa was good since the start. I think that's the case even where the author pushes to make the reader think otherwise #because I believe in the inherently good nature of humans even if the author doesn't. End post

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satancopilotsmytardis · 3 months

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For the prompts:

"Keep your eyes on me"?

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: E

Contents: Chronic pain/illness, dissociation, (brief) derogatory mentions of sex work, anal sex, anal fingering, BDSM, dom/sub dynamics, aftercare

Sex is possibly the only good thing in his life. Broken body, homeless for years, isolated throughout that time, and not having a hope of getting justice for what was done to him? Yeah, no, after the first time he'd stumbled into a situation that ended up with him losing his virginity when he still felt like his body wasn't even his from how much it changed after his coma, Dabi was hooked. It was the only time when he didn't hurt. Actually, that probably isn't entirely accurate. Because things tend to go like this when he manages to get someone into his bed:

One: Things start heating up. Everything is already at a low level of pain unless he's already high or drunk.

Two: Get into proper foreplay if there's time for it. Pain starts to spike everywhere that his partner is touching. Pretend it doesn't. Focus on the ways that it can feel good. Suck it up if they're being too rough, it's worth it in the end.

Three: Actually fucking. Usually the pleasure is starting to outpace the pain at this point, but his nerves still feel like they're going to snap apart.

Four: Orgasm. Bliss. Everything goes away for ages. He's gone. The only other time he's ever felt this distance from his nerves was in the last few seconds before he lost consciousness as he burned. When the shock that the severity of the burns had caused enough nerve damage to make everything so perfectly numb.

He's addicted to that time when he can't feel anything at all. So if he's not plotting his revenge, trying to survive, or, now, doing work for the League, Dabi is looking for someone to get off with. The League is not a great place to do that. Compress is gay, but not interested. Magne is interested, but wants a top and Dabi can't float as high when he tops, which doesn't really make it worth it for him. Toga and Mustard, of course, are literal children that he is absolutely not interested in. Spinner is kind of repressed and he has big inexperienced vibes that don't work for him either. Kurogiri is a robot, he's pretty sure, and not of the fuckable variety. Muscular is such a violent, repulsive douchebag that Dabi's pretty sure he'd come away from that encounter with so many staples pulled out he wouldn't even get off. Moonfish, similarly, would probably be more interested in actually eating his skin than he would getting Dabi to a good climax. And Twice is blatantly, and painfully, heterosexual. Which leaves Shigaraki.

Dabi can't quite get a read on Shigaraki. His initial reaction put him in the same ballpark as Spinner, inexperienced gamer bro who would probably dust him instead of going to bed with him, or nut way too soon to be worth his time if he propositioned him successfully. So Dabi doesn't bother, he just starts to go out whenever he can get away from the League and finds other ways of getting what he needs. Does it quite a lot, but given that it's the only thing that he can do to take away his pain, Dabi doesn't really care what the others think about it. Not until Muscular throws a handful of bills at him to get him on his knees. He burns the money, is about to go further than that before Shigaraki steps in and makes the barbarian fuck off for a while.

"I'm not thanking you for that, I had it handled." He snarls as he heads upstairs. It has been an awful pain day, the first thing he did today when he woke-- three A.M., tears bleeding from his eyes-- was run to the bathroom to puke. Has been pale and shaky all day, can't even clench his fist without his whole arm shaking, and had had to run off to puke from the agony twice more throughout the course of the day. He needs the relief, but that had been a loud and clear message that says what the rest of the League actually think about him and his antics. He thought that they would just ignore it. He likes to sleep around, so what? But if they're not taking him seriously, if they think he's been prostituting himself this whole time, then he's definitely not going to get taken seriously when they start to do actual villainous shit whenever AFO lets them off their leash. Shigaraki stops, foot on the first step to follow him up, nails in his neck, brow furrowed, frowning at him.

"...You don't have to thank me. I just wanted to make sure you're alright." He hesitates, "Toga said that you smelled like blood all day."

Dabi stiffens, which really just makes everything worse, the tensing of his muscles makes his nerves scream, and he needs to get off. "Stapled together, sometimes they bleed. It's not a big deal, Duster." Fine, pivot then. He moves back down a couple of steps so that he's right in Shigaraki's space. At this point, a dusting might actually be the lesser of all evils just to get rid of the pain. "Not a whore fucking around for cash. I just like to have a good time." Lowers his voice, makes his eyes half-lidded as they drag over Shig's body, tilts his head to the side a bit and gives him the slow, lazy smile that has gotten so many other people into his bed. "Something wrong with that?"

And Duster doesn't go bright red or look like a deer in headlights like Spinner had. Instead he blinks, like Dabi's managed to surprise him, and then his gaze goes a little more calculating. "No, I don't care about that, Dabi. As long as you don't get caught or lead anyone back here, you can do whatever you want."

"Whatever?" Nearly a purr now.

"Dabi," slight warning in his tone. But he hasn't moved an inch to dust him and Shigaraki can't seem to help the way his eyes flick over him before he can stop himself and refocus.

"What? Thought you liked to have a good time too. Or are you really always just playing your games for the achievements?" Risks reaching out slowly, deliberately, and is allowed to hook a finger in the v of his shirt, moving even closer, until they're barely six inches apart.

Shigaraki doesn't even blink. "Are you sure this is something you want to do?"

"I know what I want, Duster." He wants to stop hurting. He needs this to make that happen. "Just a matter of if I'm allowed to have it."

Duster moves then. Hand catching Dabi by the hip and backing him against the wall of the stairwell. He thinks that should probably worry him, but it just makes him desperate. "What do you want, Dabi?" And his voice is definitely lower, hotter.

He chances dancing his fingers over Shig's collarbone, up his neck and to the scars scratched into his skin. "I want you to get me off. If you do that, then you can do whatever you want to me short of anything that'll fuck up my seams."

"'Anything'?"

He hums in agreement. As long as he gets off, he won't even notice anything else. He'll be too far away. "And once you're finished, you leave. No cuddling, or a smoke, or chatter, we both get off and you let me enjoy my afterglow in peace."

Duster hesitates for a second. Huh. Didn't take him for the cuddling type really-- but then he says, "I can do that." And he's caging him against the wall, mouth slanting over his. Dabi gives into this readily. He knows how to make a kiss good, how to make things hotter, and he uses every trick in his book to have them both out of breath and making their way upstairs as soon as they part.

One.

They stumble into his room, Duster kicking his door shut behind him, and Dabi already has his hands in the other man's shirt. His seams are screaming over being made to move as fast as Dabi wants them too, but the sooner they get to the good part, the sooner they'll stop hurting. Clothes get scattered around his room, and when Dabi pulls Shig to the bed, the other man doesn't even hesitate to push Dabi down onto it. He bites his lip. It hurts, but it won't for long.

Two.

Shigaraki is definitely not a virgin. He knows exactly how to wrap four fingers around his cock and stroke him, knows how to keep his touch safe even through lust, and is completely undaunted about taking charge and pushing forward. Which is perfect for Dabi. Doesn't even make him get on his knees or anything first. Instead seems more keen on finding every place on Dabi's body that draws out a whine or a moan-- and he doesn't need to know that there's a fifty-fifty chance of those being from pleasure or pain as things get hotter and hotter.

Three.

By the time Shigaraki's pulling his fingers out of him, Dabi is desperate for it. He was already desperate, his nerves have been on fire all day, but now the added heat of his pleasure is making him burn for it. Moans so loudly he shoves his knuckles between his teeth as Shigaraki sinks a gorgeous, big cock inside of him. He wants to give him time to adjust, but Dabi rocks back immediately, and when he keeps doing it with more little gut-punched sounds of pleasure, Duster starts to fuck him, hard.

Four.

No idea how long it takes, but his nerves are screaming. They're going hotter and hotter. Dabi is lost in his own world. He can't survive this. He's going to combust, he's going to fall apart, he's going to--!

Calm. Gone.

He stays gone all night. Doesn't come out of it until the sun is doing its damndest to come in through the mostly sealed window at the back of the building. And there's no Shigaraki in sight. Fucked him good, tossed the condom, got his clothes and left from what he can tell. And his nerves are back to the constant low-level pain that he can tolerate. He's also got a fresh, but familiar ache in him, but that one he doesn't have any complaints about. It's the best lay he's had in ages and it was definitely also the most effective too.

So a couple days later when the pain gets bad he goes to Duster again. And Shigaraki doesn't seem to mind. Sends him a million miles away again. And again. And again. Dabi stops having to look for other hookups. He ends up permanently shoving a blanket behind his headboard so that the cheap frame doesn't slam into the wall and alert anyone to what they're up to when he drags Duster into his room in the dead of night. And when he accidentally tears one of his staples biting his knuckles to keep his moans quiet, Shig gets him a ball gag which probably should not feel as sweet or hot as it is. And they keep fucking. All the way to the training camp job.

After it too, even when everything falls apart. When they're in a shitty two-bedroom apartment safehouse and the rest of the League absolutely knows they've been fucking because they immediately give the two of them one of the rooms. Toga and Magne have the other bedroom. Compress, Twice, and Spinner are on the shitty couch and air mattresses in the living room. Not sure how long they'll manage to stay here, but it's a place for them to catch their breath temporarily as Kurogiri runs down some cryptic final lead that AFO left for them.

They're settled for all of a day before Dabi can't wait anymore, pain wracking his body, and he really doesn't think the others will ignore it if he ends up locked in the bathroom puking his brains out if he lets it go any further. Gives up and doesn't hesitate to go over and get into Duster's lap. Shig blinks, but immediately settles his hands against Dabi's hips.

"Sir," Got a little more into things the longer they've been doing this, and he grinds into his lap, letting him feel how badly he needs it.

Tomura doesn't protest, wraps a hand around the back of his neck and draws him into a kiss instead. Doesn't make Dabi beg. Just takes him to bed and, he thinks, lets go of the stress and loss that have been pulling at him for the past few weeks now too.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Dabi has no idea what time it is when he comes back and stretches out on the bed like a cat. His nerves give the slightest twinge, but it's so mild compared to what he's been dealing with lately, it might as well not have happened. Startles slightly when he finds that Duster is still in bed too, though he's dressed again and has made his half of the bed-- might have tucked Dabi in given the current state of the blankets-- watching him with the slightest frown and furrow in his brow. Oh. Yeah, they are sharing a room now, would have probably been weird and kind of rude to expect him to fuck off like usual.

Still, he doesn't get that look. "What?"

"...Do you always get like that after I leave?"

Dabi frowns too now. "Get like what?"

"...Unresponsive. I noticed," he says before Dabi can snap at him. "That you seemed to slip away. I just thought it was your subspace. But this was different, Dabi. You were fully dissociated for hours. I couldn't get your attention, you didn't react to anything--" And there's a building worry in Shig's voice. He stops and takes a slow breath. "If I had wanted to hurt you, I could have. If heroes or police showed up here, I don't know if you would have even noticed."

Dabi wants to snap, wants to argue. But he knows that too. And... at this point, he and Shig may actually be kind of dating. Probably should actually give him an inch of vulnerability if Duster is going to keep giving him miles of relief every time he goes to bed with him. Can't quite meet his eyes when he does though, "...Yeah. Can't help it. Feels so good not to hurt for a little while. Turns everything in my head off."

There's a long pause. Duster lets out a slow, even breath. "Okay, but Dabi, this is dangerous. Especially with how things are right now." His gut turns into a pit. Is he going to stop sleeping with him? Until they've got somewhere safe to go? The pain will fucking ruin him. And the thought-- the thought of having to give up Shigaraki so he can go back to just finding anonymous one night stands, makes him think that physical pain won't be the only kind that does such a number. "Okay, have you ever tried to pull yourself out?" He shakes his head. "Never let a partner do it." More sure, connecting the dots about why Dabi must always demand his partners leave him alone as soon as they've finished. "Can we try, next time? I would like to have a way to help bring you out of it," his voice a lot softer, gentle as his hand that cups his cheek and runs a thumb carefully along his staples. "I want you to be safe."

And a couple of months ago he would have set Duster on fire for that. But now-- "...Okay." He gives in without any protest. If it delays Shigaraki telling him that they can't fuck anymore until they have a good hideout, then he'll do whatever he has to.

Takes a couple of days for the pain to build again, for them to have the time to actually do anything without being interrupted by the others, and at first everything seems the same. Tomura works him up, makes him feel so good.

One. Kisses against his lips and trailing down his neck.

Two. Fingers stroking inside his body and opening him up as his tongue teases his nipples.

Three. Fucked full of his cock so deep and perfect that there are tears slipping over his cheeks and he's got three of Duster's fingers in his mouth to keep the others from overhearing him.

Four. Gone--

"Focus, firefly." Confusion through the bliss. Cool hand against his cheek. "Come on, baby. Keep your eyes on me. Stay right here, beautiful. Stay with me." More pleasure in his body. His vision is swimming as he tries to find Tomura. Still over him, still rolling his hips to meet his, hands stroking over his skin that doesn't hurt anymore. Dabi lets out a weak mewl. "That's it, baby. Right here, focus. Do you still hurt?"

It's so hard. He's never had to focus after cumming like he's being asked to now. But after a second he manages to shake his head. Can't get his tongue to work.

"That's good. Can you hold on? Keep those eyes on me a little longer?"

He can try.

Tomura fucks him for a while longer, pressing kisses to his lips and cheeks, bringing him back into focus any time he starts to drift away. Does that until he's letting out a rougher breath against Dabi's lips as his hips still as he cums. And when he pulls out, he gathers Dabi close and keeps petting at his skin. "There, you're doing such a good job for me. Now, can you give me a little spark, firefly?" He catches Dabi's wrist and brings his hand up. Oh. Dabi focuses, and his quirk dances around his fingers. Doesn't hurt when Tomura's nuzzling in and giving him more kisses and telling him, "Perfect, sweetheart, you did such a good job. We're going to lay down for a little while, alright. I want you to count to sixty, you can do it in your head if you don't want to talk, but every time you get there, I want you to tap your fingers, right here." Dabi puts out the fire on his fingers so that Tomura can rest his hand over his heart as he pulls him in closer.

Dabi settles against him. One, two, three, four... five.

He counts and taps, starts to trace the numbers against Tomura's skin eventually, and Tomura presses kisses to his head, strokes his hands along his hair and back. Makes Dabi's nerves keep singing with the aftershocks of his pleasure instead of their usual caterwauling of pain. And he decides that this is better. Would rather be right here, in Tomura's embrace than that endless void where nothing hurts, but nothing feels good either.

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