#tw.trauma

[meowdarame]

𝟗𝟒𝟗 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

pairing: fwb!hajime iwaizumi x f!reader (afab!reader, she/her pronouns)

𝐇𝐚𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐈𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢 (𝟐𝟏). 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚, 𝐈𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞. You pique the interest of the handsome stranger at your college gym, but little does he know about your troubled past. Ever patient and ever kind, Hajime helps you pick up the broken pieces of your shattered heart, but more questions arise about the nature of your “relationship” as it blossoms— what is he to you? Is he a friend who you can call for a good time, or something more?

warnings: explicit/dark content, 18+ MINORS DNI. heavy themes of SA/noncon (only mentions, none during the duration of the story), PTSD, and hyper-sexuality as a trauma response. chapters will contain smut, fluff, and angst, and all warnings will be appropriately tagged per chapter. reader discretion is extremely advised!

notes: after nearly 8 months of sitting in my drafts, i finally think i’m ready to publish this long-fic. this story is extremely personal to me (in fact, it closely mirrors my own experiences), and so while it may not be the most immersive nor relatable, it’ll give you the most insight into who i am as a person and what i care about. hajime in this story is an homage to my loved ones who were there for me post-assault— a mixture of their amazing traits and caring actions that helped me through dark times. all in all, this fic is a love letter to those around me, to the area i grew up in, and to myself for overcoming something that i thought i never would.

special thanks to: @christeningsakusa for beta-reading and @bxnten for helping me with the masterpost!

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

the crooks that try to steal your heart

us in a king-size, keep it a secret

put your hands on my body (and see the real me)

lock it up and put me in your pocket, love

why aren’t you smiling? (W.A.Y.S.)

epilogue | a final word from the author

taglist: @/christeningsakusa @/bxnten @sunat2508 @petalsrdead @crystal-lilac @devilgirlcrybabiey @ohtobiors @frenchtoastmafia @miya-dynasty @sabyss @rinsie @chaotic-fangirl-blog @semisgroupie @rueren @portfolio-of-dreams @arozaur @hyeque @withlovetengen @momoewn + want to join my taglist for this series? leave a comment or join my general taglist here!

#🎲.writes #🎲.fics #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu series #haikyuu smut #haikyuu dark content #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi smut #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi dark content #tw.dark content #tw.trauma #tw.noncon #tw.ptsd #tw. violence #tw.coping mechanism #tw.mental health

[maintohthakgayibhaishaab]

my mother often went to Nani's permanent house in the city, hometown, (por)

my dad often comes to pick us up after the holidays, or at the end of the day

he's always been kinky.

our maternal family was well reputed in that area, been living since decades, but there lived a prostitute in that gali!

and my dad went upon her or whatever

like he always have a new bahrwali everytime

and this time it was this lady(randi) nearby our house itself

khair he always had an affair with neighbour aunties chahe voh kitne hi ache Ghar ki ho.. voh sabko pata lete aur humko ittni baar ghar change karna parta

#tw // mental health #tw // negative #tw.trauma #rant #.txt

[ndcultureis]

Neurodivergent/trauma culture is actually really disliking when people you know in real life gain interest in the things you enjoy (bands, games, fandoms, etc.) because like. I just want to enjoy the things that make me happy in peace.

#also comes from my parents trying to punish me using anything they could find #including my interests #neurodivergent culture is #neurodivergent culture #neurodivergent #actually neurodivergent #mod milo #tw.trauma

[weirdsht]

Opaque - Cale x Reader

a/n: a short drabble of me trying out 3rd person's pov and what i learned in my work immersion

Tags: female reader, hints of trauma response, dissociation, Cale needs a hug, implied dying reader, war setting

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

If there's something missing in the warnings let me know so I can add it

Any form of interaction toward the post is appreciated <333

Navigation

Masterlist

Once again Cale Henistuse is the center of the war. He’s the conductor, percussion, wind, the whole orchestra. He's the center of everything and it’s all going his way.

“Is it me or is the fog getting thicker?” 

As usual, poison and fog were one of their aces. Hence why the two cat tribe children are working for their food. But the fog was getting heavier compared to what they agreed to do a few days ago.

[HUMAN! HUMAN! SOMETHING’S WRONG!]

Although Raon was speaking in Cale’s head he could still hear how tired the dragon is from flying super fast to where he is. He was supposed to ask what’s the rush but the next words he hears made him stop in his tracks, no he felt as if his whole world stopped.

[__- it, it’s __! She’s hurt! Badly! On said one of the lion tribe clawed her badly! Human please you have to go to her, you’re nearer than the saint!]

The baby dragon’s sobs fell deaf on the man's ears. All he could think about was how he might’ve become too cocky and low-key, expecting that there won’t be any dire casualties once again.

The commander with red blood hair felt lost. He knows what to do, his experience as team leader Kim Rook Soo made him knowledgeable about these things. He’s desensitized, he's supposed to be desensitized.

But no, instead his mind was frozen. Cale’s body might be moving and fighting but his mind was blank. The only thing occupying it was a record of that dreaded day when he became team leader. A record that he wants to forget but can’t and won’t. The record that pulls itself out of the records.

Luckily, Alberu Crossman was near him. Someone who has seen his Kim Rok Soo side was there to wake him up.

“Go”

One word whispered between the sworn brothers was enough. 

That one word was enough to send Cale bolting to where ___ is. He was determined to keep her alive, to let nothing happen to her. He already made so many mistakes as Kim Rok Soo that resulted in him losing a lot. But he promised to himself that this time- this time will be different.

#lotfc #trash of the count's family #lout of the count’s family #tcf #cale henituse #lcf #lotcf #totcf #alberu crossman #tcf x reader #lcf x reader #cale x reader #cale henituse x reader #tw.trauma

[classic-caldwell-moment]

You didn't deserve to lose your childhood for the benefit of humanity, for the benefit of science.

The things @apolloaiden pinterest board makes me do, the things I do- THE THINGS I MAKE- PURE. PAIN. I hope you're happy, Aiden Not Caldwell, ENJOY THE ANGST-

#postinginsilence #artinsilence #dying light #dying light 2 #dl2 #dying light fandom #aiden caldwell #dl2 aiden #dying light 2 aiden #tw.trauma #tw.trauma mention #aiden angst aiden angst aid #angst #🌼him.txt

[writing-culture-is]

What is a Constant in your OC'S?

Mental health issues and trauma <3

#not writing culture #tw.trauma

[satanic-foxhole-court]

Okay as much as the idea of an on screen depiction of All For The Game would be… it wouldn’t be good or healthy to do that. Someone in the past month mentioned the idea that this would be similar to 13 reasons why, highly triggering with a lack of genuinely good representation and nuance unless it was rewritten to accommodate, and I agree.

In some ways what’s deeply triggering about the series is what makes the series, I have conflicted thoughts on it and do like the triggering content (but only personally), as a story device without nuance and accuracy it wouldn’t transfer well to on screen. It covers what is just trauma, not horror, on ‘screen’, and yes a lot of the series is to have you uncomfortable but hooked, but my stance is there’s almost no instances where graphic trauma scenes are needed in a story, there are other ways of depicting that.

I’m saying that, on screen exy, foxes, the insane world it’s set in? That would be cool

#aftg #AFTG adaptation #tw.trauma #tw trauma

[chokingonpoppies]

ultimate battle in my brain between the urge to be a total bitch for attention because ill die if nobody is acknowledging and including me vs trauma induced fear of upsetting people because my brain thinks theyll like come through the screen and beat me

#sigh #i love and hate being annoying and bitchy and frustrating #being a brat is both horrifying and joyous #tw.ab #tw.ab implied #tw.ab trauma #tw.trauma #poems.txt

[pomstr4wberr]

✦. ⊹ ˚ .꒰୧ ‧₊˚ 🍫 ꒰ WHY DO I MISS YOU?!♡ ⌎ ˊᗜˋ

୧ ‧₊˚ ✨️ ꒰ angst ꒱♡ ⌎ ˊᗜˋ dark content

✦. ⊹ ‧₊˚ 💓 ꒰ GN reader - you/your . ꒱ᗜˋ

✦. ⊹ ˚ .꒰୧ ‧₊˚ 🩹 Male Oc X gn reader

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍼 ꒰TW: DARK CONTENT, Pedophilia, grooming, trauma response, family issues, abusive family, mention of attempted r8pe but it doesn't happen here.

NOTE: DARK CONTENT !! The trauma response is based off my mine, be warned this is dark.

TRAUMA RESPONSE ::

Trauma is an emotional response to a terrible event like an accident, r8pe, or natural disaster. Immediately after the event, shock and denial are typical. Longer term reactions include unpredictable emotions, flashbacks, strained relationships, and even physical symptoms like headaches or nausea. Trauma response can be different for people for me I miss them[a trauma response that some people might have]

Please be warned if these topics trigger you! If this triggers you or bugs, you ignore!

THE FAMILIAR room stings your eyes. Blurry around the edges of your eyes like an old picture.

The writing of paper fulls your ears. It's the only thing you can hear. Your thoart feels dry, and it hurts. You don't have enough saliva to swallow.

He hums a tune, you remember, but at the same time, it's like you dont know the tune. You can't say a word, he coughs and you can a hear a chair moving it makes a thud noise.

He turns at you smiling, his smile is so familiar. The smile burns into your memory,

"Sorry for ignoring you, mx yn. You weren't scheduled for today, it must be important." He says, he pushes his glasses back up his nose, you can't say a word.

But you managed to say it, "Mr. Ito, I have came here to ask you something..." your words get quieter at the end of your words. He has a facial expression of confusion but he nods his head.

"Okay, mx yn tell your question." He puts down his pen and pushes his chair a bit closer. You get nervous, your face heats up a bit you swallow.

You close your fist hard, you can feel paper against your skin. You think if you still squeezing hard it can cutting your skin.

"Wo-would you look to s-see a movie with me?.." You managed to say out, you slowly let go of your fist,

"A movie?" He cocks his head to his side in confusion, you nod your head. A movie ticket tow of course. You saved up money in your cute pink piggy bank it had big cute doe eyes.

"Ah yes," you show him the movie tickets it was a romance comedy one. He takes once looking at it, smiling. His smiling face makes you blush.

"Okay, then let's watch. I could have a break." You smiled, he got up and helped you. His hands holding your hands you wished that lasted forever.

Sometimes you wished he had feelings for you like you did had for him maybe he did? But he would be getting in trouble for dating or having romantic feelings for some one young as you. Even though it can't be that bad right?

your old enough right? 16 isn't bad, your old enough.

You heard your parent's In arguing it isn’t new, but you heard a loud slap and crying. Normally you would go out and help your mom but you couldn't be late or he's going to disappointed in you.

And you were going to waste money if you didn't go and what happen if some other person would go up to him and watch the movie with him?!

You sneaked out, the cold breeze hits you, it gave you goosebumps.

You saw him outside, you couldn't help but smile. You yelled his name, he looked up and smiled waving at you, you waved excitedly.

You guys both got in, you couldn't focus on the movie it was like a blur to you. You wanted to puke to out of happiness because of Mr. Ito being so close to you.

You breathe in and out, it was like nobody else was in there just you and him. You slowly lean into his shoulder.

You blushed and after that everything was a blur, it was like you were floating above the clouds.

After that day, he distanced himself from you, Why?

He explained it was because you were doing good. You weren't on his list anymore why could this happen?

You soon found out that a teacher named Ms. Miyaki, a teacher who teached the freshmen. Why could she have done this?!

You remember walking up to her asking her why, she explained that it was wrong and that Mr. Ito would go to jail.

Harsh knocking is heard.

"Ito you can't do this to a child!" A female voice is heard on the other side of the door.

"Ms. Miyaki, you don't have to knock so harshly."

The female looked mad,

"Ito! You are having a romantic relationship with a sixteen year old." She yelled at his face clearly mad.

"Ms miyaki, they are old enough to make this decision. Their not a kid anymore" he explains.

"Ito that is no excuse for what you did! They are still sixteen!" She gets more mad.

You clench your fist this is all her fault. You felt more depressed than ever, you felt Angier towards her.

You did something to her but she survived, luckily she didn't know if was you but she thought it was your "lovely lover".

He was soon put in jail for pedophilia, attempted murder and attempted r8pe.

Attempted r8pe? Apparently she thought that he took advantage of you, that didn't happen the attempt murder was you.

You felt weird, you were suppose to get rid of her then run away with him. But he's in jail and it was all your fault.

Your noise hurts, the smell of smoke gives you a headache. The abandoned school which is now a place of rebellious teens. Smoking and graffiti on the walls.

There's mold and leaves on the school, you made it inside though a broken window. You made it to Mr ito's old room, the room you would be in before the addicted you caused happen and before he left you.

You sat down, breathing in and out. It reminded you of the old times. You clench your fist, whispering to yourself.

You held yourself like what he did before you left after the movie. He whispered in your ear, kissing you.

You wish that you could live in that moment forever.

Why am I like this?

Why do I miss you?

Why do I want you back?

Why why? You did gross things but at the same time you want him back.

Why do I miss you please tell me. I want to be fixed, I don't want to be like this anymore.

Why why do I miss you?

#StrawpomsWriting #original work #oc x reader #gender neutral reader #tw.grooming #tw.trauma response #tw.pedophilia #male oc x reader #tw. teacher/councilor x student/paitent relationship #tw. trauma #triggering topics #dark content #Strawpomsdark

[hufflepuffsandghosts]

TAGS

> SFW TAGS &lt;

#tw.intoxication – drug or alcohol use

#tw.darkcontent – dark content in general (e.g. psychopathic behaviour)

#tw.coercion – use of coercion or manipulation by a character.

#tw.toxicity – toxic behaviour

#tw.blood – blood or general gore

#tw.death – topics discussing death or death of a character

#tw.mentalhealth – topics that deal with mental health (e.g. depression, anxiety, or other disorders)

#tw.trauma – trauma, abuse

#tw.violence

#tw.bullying

> NSFW TAGS &lt;

#tw.degradation – degradation kink

#tw.cheating

#tw.impactplay – slapping, biting, scratching, etc.

#tw.breathplay – choking, suffocation, etc.

#tw.edging

#tw.overstim

#tw.knife – knife play

#tw.breeding

#tw.voyeurism

#tw.corruption – corruption kink or virginity kink

#tw.size – size kink

#tw.bondage – restraint play, shibari, etc.

#ghost.nav

[saintobio]

what are the odds that gojo x sera would be on better terms with each other than gojo x y/n based on the path you're taking us on

gojo x sera wouldn’t have worked bc gojo knew his love for her was too shallow. plus, sera’s been disregarding his childhood traumas and even subjecting him to physical violence (parking lot episode) so, as much as gojo x yn seems to be toxic together, gojo x sera would only be much worse.

#gojohime would’ve been your best choice but that’s another discussion :P #🖤: letters to saint #series: sincerely yours #tw.trauma #tw.violence

[meowdarame]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

series masterlist | next chapter

pairing: fwb!hajime iwaizumi x f!reader (afab!reader, she/her pronouns)

𝐇𝐚𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐈𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢 (𝟐𝟏). 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚, 𝐈𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞. You pique the interest of the handsome stranger at your college gym, but little does he know about your troubled past. Ever patient and ever kind, Hajime helps you pick up the broken pieces of your shattered heart, but more questions arise about the nature of your “relationship” as it blossoms— what is he to you? Is he a friend who you can call for a good time, or something more?

word count: 6.4k

warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI. angst/very little to no comfort (for this chapter only). heavy, distressing, and dark content. reader discretion extremely advised. themes of SA/noncon (mentions, none during the duration of the story), PTSD, hyper-sexuality and self-blaming as a trauma response. reader tugs on their own hair as a coping mechanism. reader attends a counseling/therapy session. mentions of STD/STI testing (in the past), and mentions of food, alcohol, and exercise. some suggestive content. (please let me know if there’s anything i missed that could potentially be triggering!)

notes: 1st chapter for my iwa series. this chapter is really personal to me and mirrors my own experiences, so please be gentle with it (and me!) special thanks to @christeningsakusa for beta-reading <3

“So, see you again next week?”

While sliding your underwear over your thighs, you turn around to face the man you had just hooked up with. His dirty blonde hair is matted to his forehead and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on his skin; his chest rises and falls slightly as he tries to steady his breath. The purple LED lights in his room illuminate his face, and he stares at you with cocked eyebrows and a smug grin plastered on his face.

You shrug and nonchalantly reply, “Depends on my schedule.” As you hastily throw on your shirt and jeans, he hops out of bed and tugs his boxers back on. You make your way over to the door and kneel down to put on your shoes. While you tie them, his figure looms over you, waiting for you to finish.

“So, uh-- bye!” you say as you rise off the carpeted floor, forcing a smile and a gentle wave.

“Bye!” he starts, and he extends both of his arms to initiate a hug.

Not this fucking shit again, you sigh to yourself.

Reluctantly, you let him wrap his arms around you as yours limp awkwardly at his sides. While still holding you, he whispers in your ear.

“I had a lot of fun tonight.”

Oh, shut up.

You pull away and exit his apartment before you could catch a glimpse of his face again. You take hurried steps down his complex’s stairwell, and once you pass through the front doors of his building, your face is blasted with the hot California September air. You look up at the night sky, and where there should be stars, your eyes are met with a vast expanse of empty darkness.

Light pollution is no joke, huh? You chuckle to yourself.

And thus your ritual of regretting every decision you’ve made so far begins during your “walk of shame” back to your apartment.

I knew it was gonna be a waste of time, you sigh. ‘I had a lot of fun tonight’ headass. Of course you did! I did all the work and you just sat back and did absolutely nothing.

A group of skateboarders zoom towards you, and you move to the side to let them pass. As they whir by, their joyous laughter fills your ears.

It’s always fucking like this though— it’s almost formulaiac. I come over, we make small talk for like two minutes until he puts his hand on my inner thigh, and then we fuck. He cums in five to seven minutes TOPS, and then I quickly get changed before he kicks me out.

You open the doors of your apartment building and hear loud chattering in the lobby. There’s a group of drunk girls who most likely just got back from a frat party. Behind them are their male counterparts, and you can barely make out the Greek letters on their shirts before they all hop into the elevator. You turn to your left to head up the stairs.

Or maybe I leave before my shame can settle in.

Your steps echo through the empty stairwell, the clicking of your shoes ringing up and down the barren walls.

I know this isn’t good for me, and I know this isn’t the best way to cope, but I can’t stop.

You arrive at your floor and navigate through your building’s twisty hallways, coming to a stop in front of your door. You quickly pull your keys out of your pocket and shove them into the keyhole, rattling them a few times.

This damn key always gets stuck at the most inconvenient of times. Just let me get inside.

Suddenly, you hear a familiar voice in the distance, and your stomach drops. You fiddle with your keys even faster, heart rate increasing as the voice draws closer and closer. Finally, your doorknob turns and you swing your door open and immediately shut it, right before the person turns around the corner of your hallway.

Your hand flies to cover your mouth to silence your panting as you check through your peephole. Shutting one eye and aligning the other with the little window, you stealthily watch a couple pass by— a man with shaggy, shoulder-length dirty blonde hair has his arm wrapped around a girl who’s slurring her words and stumbling, clearly more than a few shots in. Your breath hitches when they stop right outside of your door.

Tears start to brim your eyes as he pulls out his phone. You watch as he turns to the girl— his supposed ‘conquest’ for the night— and whispers something to her. You press your ear against the thick wood of your door to hear them more clearly.

“My roommate said we can have the room all to ourselves! We’re good to go,” he says to her in a honeyed tone. She laughs as he presses a soft kiss to her temple and they continue walking past your door.

When their voices fade out, you turn around and hold your back flush against the door. Sliding down it, your skin drags along the cool wood. Once your bottom hits the ground, you pull your thighs to your chest and bury your face in between your knees. Hot tears trickle down your legs as you sob, and your dark apartment is filled with sounds of your hics and uneven breathing. A panic starts to swell in your stomach, and you grab at the nearest thing to try to steady yourself. Tangling your fingers into your hair, you tug slightly to try to relieve some of the tension that you feel in your gut, but nothing’s working. That’s when you pull out your phone and decide to phone a friend.

The call rings a few times before your ears are graced with a comforting voice. It’s your friend’s— her voice is raspy and soft as if she had just woken up, but it immediately becomes more alert when she hears you sniffling on the other end of the line.

“What’s wrong, dear? Did something happen?” she asks you, her voice dripping with concern. You hear shuffling in the background as she pulls away her covers to sit upright.

“I saw him right now. He lives in my building,” you manage to croak out. You’re trying your best to stabilize your voice, but your vocal chords are working against you; it feels like the pit in your stomach has slowly made its way up to your throat and is now choking you, depriving you of precious air.

You hear your friend gasp and immediately collect herself. “Is this your first time seeing him since… y’know?”

A weak “mhmm” is all you manage to get out, and now the pit is sitting on your tongue like a crushing weight, making it hard for you to speak. Your anxiety manifests as nausea, and you slowly start crawling your way over to the trash can in the corner of your kitchen. You collect your hair with one hand while the other presses your phone against your ear.

“Do you want me to come over and spend the night?” your friend asks softly. Even though she’s always so busy— classes, work, personal life, etcetera— she never fails to make time for you whenever you need help. She’s been there for you since your first year at UCI, and she was one of the few people to help you through the aftermath of the incident.

“No, I’m okay,” you murmur. You don’t know how you’ll ever repay her for her kindness, or if you even deserve her kindness, but you’re more than grateful that she’s there.

“Are you sure?” she replies, her voice ladled with even more concern than before. You know she doesn’t believe you, so you do your best to muster up all the strength you could gather to give a more confident response.

“Yes, I’m positive,” you say back, and even you are impressed by the reassuring tone that rolls off of your tongue. You hear your friend sigh on the other end, before bidding you farewell.

“Okay, I believe you. And don’t forget your counseling session tomorrow morning at the student health center. Make sure you don’t miss it and set several alarms so you wake up on time, okay?”

You thank her for the reminder and for calming you down before you hang up. Wiping your tears with the back of your hand, you pick yourself up from your floor and trudge over to your bathroom. When you turn your light on, you’re greeted with a horrific sight— your disheveled face post-anxiety attack.

Your nose is runny and mascara is smeared under your eyes and across your cheek. Drool pools out of the corners of your lips, and your whole face feels hot from the rush of blood to your head. You turn on your sink and let the water run for a few seconds, waiting for it to get warm.

Your fingers test the rushing water, and once it hits the ideal temperature, you lower your face to the sink and splash water all over your face. With closed eyes, you feel all around your counter for your bottle of face cleanser and press onto the pump, letting a few spurts of the soap spray onto your open palm. Your other hand turns off your sink and you wash your face, making sure to scrub underneath your eyes to remove the mascara stains before rinsing off the soapy bubbles and drying your face

Staring at yourself in the mirror, you drink in the new image before you. Now, your reflection is back to normal— well almost. The only evidence of your previous crying fit are your puffy and bloodshot eyes, but you figure that a good night’s rest will be enough to get rid of that.

You’re okay, you try to reassure yourself. You’ll be okay.

You let out a long sigh as you shut off your bathroom light and enter your bedroom; the twinkling lights draping down one of the walls of the room casts a soft light on everywhere it can reach. You grab a pair of shorts and an oversized shirt from your drawers and change out of your dirty clothes, tossing them into the hamper underneath your bed.

Once you crawl onto your mattress and pull your covers over you, you stare at the ceiling. Despite how many times you try, you can’t get the image of the man outside of your door out of your head— it’s branded on the frontal lobe of your brain. No matter how many times you try to forget, no matter how many bottles of cheap beer you guzzle to forget the acrid taste of his lips, no matter how many men you lie under to forget his shit-eating grin— you just can’t seem to do it.

A tear spills out of your eye and rolls down your temple, wetting your pillow underneath your head. More tears flow out and soon a pool forms on the dampened cloth. You raise your head and flip your pillow to the dry side, rolling over to press your cheek into the plush material. Shutting your eyes tightly to prevent more tears from pouring out, you drift off to sleep.

…

Whoever said that there’s no better rest than after crying yourself to sleep is a fucking liar.

The next morning, you wake up more exhausted than the night before. Light peeks through your blinds and illuminates your room, waking you up a few minutes before your alarm is scheduled to go off.

You roll out of bed and stand in front of your full length mirror. Your hair is tangled, your lips are chapped, and your throat is painfully dry— probably because you forgot to drink water after sobbing out half of your body’s water content. You reach over to your desk to grab your reusable bottle, taking a few big gulps of the cold liquid to help relieve the pain. Bringing your face closer to the reflective glass, you can’t help but notice how your eyes are still bloodshot and puffy. You groan and walk over to the mini-fridge on the other side of your bedroom, crouching down as you open the small door.

You reach inside and pull out a silver spoon from your freezer, the cold metal stinging your fingertips. You return to your mirror and watch as you bring the spoon up to your face, gently placing the rounded part of the utensil to your eye socket. You hold it there for a few seconds before removing it, checking to see if there was any improvement. There was, and now the swelling around your eyes is greatly reduced, but the red tint on your sclera is still noticeably visible.

I look like I’m high, you joke to yourself. I’ll have to put on some eye drops later.

You repeat the process with your other eye, and once you finish you toss the spoon back into your freezer. Running a hot shower in your bathroom, the warm water soothes your tired muscles. You thoroughly scrub your body with soap— your neck, your arms, your torso, your legs— but you spend extra time washing the expanse of flesh between your thighs. Your hand collects the warm water in your palm and harshly rubs the spot back and forth, meticulously cleansing the area to the best of your abilities. You know that it won’t undo or change anything, but you find yourself doing it subconsciously, almost as if it’s a reflex now.

Hopping out of the shower, you quickly pat yourself dry before throwing on some clothes. You throw your hair up into a towel to let it dry while you sip your morning coffee.

And thus your morning ritual begins. You sit at your windowsill and stare out of your window, watching people pass by underneath you. There’s a wide array of sights before you— energized people in athletic wear and headphones going on a morning jog; hungover people still wearing their beer-stained clothes from the night before, most likely starting their walk of shame home; and half-awake people still in their pajamas lazily trudging along the sidewalk, heading over to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts to grab their morning fix of caffeine.

You swallow your last sip of coffee, throw on some shoes, and head out your door. While walking through your building’s hallways, you check your watch for the time.

It’s barely 8 AM, you think to yourself, exhaling a sigh of relief. It’s too early, there’s no way he’s awake yet. I probably won’t run into him right now.

Once you exit your building without running into the man from the night before, your hurried pace starts to slow down. You make the ten minute trek across campus from your apartment to the student health center, kindly waving and greeting the people that you recognize from your classes.

Arriving at your destination, the cool air from the medical center blasts your face. Despite your school’s vain attempt to liven up the lobby with teal-colored walls, the clinic itself still feels sterile and void of life. You know that most people don’t come here on their own volition— whether they’re receiving treatment for a worsening cold, getting tested for STDs or STIs, or seeking mental health counseling— everyone waiting in the cushioned seats of the lobby doesn’t actually want to be here.

You check in with the receptionist and sit down on one of the benches and wait for your appointment. You pull out your phone and idly scroll through social media. The first story is of your friends from high school clinking shot glasses together and throwing their heads back, swallowing the hard liquor in one gulp. The second story is posted by your classmate from last semester, and it’s a graphic advertising their club’s fundraiser later this week. The final story shows someone who lived in your freshman year dorm building at a party, flashing lights shining across their carefree face.

Hearing your name being called from above you, you shove your phone back into your pocket before standing up. You follow the nurse through the hallways and into the room, fluorescent light bouncing off the white walls. You plop onto the leather couch that sits directly across from a chair made out of the same material.

The nurse turns to you before leaving and starts speaking. “A counselor will be with you shortly,” she says and then exits the room, leaving you alone.

You wait for a few minutes in tense silence. To pass time, your eyes scan around the room, reading every single infographic and painting that hangs from the walls. They land on an image of a “pain scale,” a series of happy and sad faces resting on top of a 0 to 10 scale.

Your face scrunches up as you ponder the picture before you. You’re struggling to decipher where you fit onto the scale, when the door swings open and interrupts your train of thought. You straighten up in your seat when a pretty woman in her mid-30s steps into the clinic room.

“Hi,” she says sweetly, taking a seat in the chair in front of you. She continues introducing herself, “I’ll be your counselor for today.”

You greet her and tell her your name, and she replies with a warm smile. Her fingers sift through the files on her clipboard before she speaks again. “I see this is your first time visiting the mental health department. What brings you here today?” She looks up from the page and stares at you intently, waiting for a response.

“Well,” you start. “My friends recommended that I come here for a counseling session.”

“Hmm, I see,” she looks back down at the sheet of paper, and your palms grow clammy in anticipation. Without lifting her eyes, she asks you a question in a softer tone. “It says here in your files that six months ago you went to the student health center to get tested for STDs and STIs and to ask for a birth control referral.” She lifts her face again, and her concerned expression pangs your heart. “Was that a routine check-up or something else?”

You feel the pit in your stomach reappear, and your heartbeat booms violently in your chest. Blood rushes to your head and the room grows hot; the lights feel so fucking bright as they shine into your eyes, nearly blinding you. You take a few deep breaths to calm yourself down, and after an elongated sigh, you confess, trying to mask your fear with a seemingly indifferent tone.

“No, it wasn’t,” you reply coolly, but you can’t seem to hide the slight quivering in your voice. “I was taken advantage of six months ago, but I’m fine now. I promise.”

The counselor eyes you up and down, scanning your face for any signs of hesitancy or uncertainty. They run down your body and finally settle on your lap, where your fingers twiddle and fidget with each other.

Shit, you think to yourself. She caught my bluff.

“You know,” she whispers to you gently, almost as if she were approaching a cornered animal. “Anything you tell me here stays between you and me. I know you don’t know me and it’s hard to open up sometimes, but you have my undivided attention.” She flashes you a compassionate smile, and it causes your eyes to swell up with tears.

You take a deep inhale before starting. “I saw him last night,” your voice is shaky as you scour your brain for the right words to say. “The guy who hurt me. He was outside my door, and he was with another girl. She was clearly drunk, and I didn’t do anything to stop him.”

You’re sobbing now, and your nose is becoming stuffy. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, but you continue on. “If he did anything to her,” you croak, throat growing tight as you ramble on, “it’s my fault. It’s my fault because I didn’t intervene. It’s my fault because I didn’t report him so he could never hurt another girl again. I wanted to stop him, I really did. I wanted to open my door and yell at him to get a fucking life and stop being such a dick, but I couldn’t. I was so scared— I froze in fear behind my door.”

You look up at her, and through tear-stained eyelashes you could see that her cheery expression morphed into one of pain.

“I’m just as much to blame, and I’m no better than him. I’m weak.”

You drop your face into your palms, your hands muffling your sobs. You feel a gentle hand rub your shoulder, and you look back up at the counselor. She has the warm expression plastered onto her face again, but her eyes are solemn as she gives you advice.

“It’s not your fault. It’s entirely his.” She reaches over and grabs a box of tissues from the counter and places them onto your lap. “You’re not to blame for the harm that he does unto others.”

You nod your head as you pull out a tissue and wipe your wet face. You blow your nose to try to clear your nasal passages, but it doesn’t work. She continues with the session, maintaining her sympathetic tone.

“If you’re comfortable with sharing, why didn’t you report him? Not saying that you need to— it’s completely your decision whether you do or don’t. Your experiences are valid regardless.”

You let out a hollow chuckle before you answer. “I can’t report him,” you say dryly, your voice starting to grow louder as your frustration builds. “He’s a student athlete on a popular team here. Who would the university believe— him, a star athlete on a team that brings the university so much money, or me, a common whore who this school couldn’t give less of a shit about?”

“If I do report him, what if his team comes after me? A few of them live in my building; it’d be easy for them to pound on my door and threaten me or do even worse things. If not that, his family has money. His parents could sue me for defamation, and I don’t have that kinda money. There’s also the issue of my parents finding out, and I’d rather die than have them discover what happened to their daughter. I don’t know how they’d react— would they be heartbroken? Would they blame me? Would they ask me what I was drinking or wearing? Either way, I don’t want to find out.”

You shake your head before carrying on. “Even if I did report him and the university believed me, what punishment would he get? A slap on the wrist? Get kicked off of his team? Nothing will ever be enough.”

Tears brim your eyes once again. “Nothing will return the months of my life that I wasted, desperately trying to move on from the situation. Nothing will make me unafraid of men. I can’t pass by a group of student athletes without having panic burn through my body. They all look like him— they all have his cruel smile and it haunts me wherever I go.”

Your emotions start to spiral out of control as your inner turmoil and anger bubble in your stomach. Hot tears spill from your eyes and stream silently to the floor. Realizing that your blood is growing hot, you stand up and frantically pace around the room, trying to calm yourself down. You place your hands on top of your head and take a few deep breaths to steady your heart rate.

After a minute of pacing, you sit back down in your seat. A pained sigh slips past your lips, and you forge on. “I just don’t think there’s anything that this school or this government could do that would correct his sins against me. He didn’t just take advantage of me— he destroyed my soul. He robbed me of my bodily autonomy, my self-worth, my sense of control. How do you fix that?”

The two of you stare at each other in silence before she opens her mouth. “You can’t,” is all she replies.

You nod your head somberly. “Exactly,” you conclude gravely. “You can’t.”

The counselor takes a few seconds to collect her thoughts before continuing on. “You know, it’s really unfair how our justice system treats survivors. More often than not, people feel re-victimized and re-traumatized rather than helped by these systems. So, everything you said is completely valid, and you know what’s best for you more than anyone else.”

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand and she adds on, “There are ways to receive closure that don’t involve the justice system at all. How do you cope with the pain that you feel? What are some things that you do?”

You take a deep breath before responding. “Honestly, I just pretend like it isn’t there. I just want things to return to normal, and I believe that if I don’t think about it, it’ll eventually go away or I’ll forget.”

Looking up at the ceiling, you let out an exasperated groan. “But, if you want specifics, I’ve been taking up a bunch of various hobbies to try to regain some semblance of normalcy. I’ve been going to the gym everyday for the past few months; I joined a few interest clubs; and I even took up some journaling. You know, anything I can do to give me some sense of control…” Your voice trails off as your gaze meets the counselor’s again.

The corners of her lips curl upward to form an enthusiastic smile. “That’s great! Those are all really healthy coping mechanisms for trying to move on from the situation, and there are other things you could do, too! Like…” Her voice fizzles out into the background as you zone out from the conversation.

Of course I only told her a half-truth, you think to yourself. I know if I told her everything I did, I would get scolded.

Little did your counselor know that for the past month since you’ve returned to campus, every weekend you would go out to a party, find some random guy, and let him take you home to have less than subpar sex. If there were no parties going on that night, you’d check your dating apps, picking one man from the vast sea of horny and disrespectful messages in your inbox. You’d head over to his place and do all the work while he sits back in utter bliss.

You know it’s not the best coping mechanism, but somehow, you can’t stop. It’s the only way that you feel in control again. “They can’t use me or take advantage of me if I let them,” was your reasoning, a bastardized reclamation of power.

They can’t rob me of my sexual autonomy if I consent first.

But deep in your heart you know it’s not true. After every disappointing session, after every failed orgasm, after every prideful expression is plastered on your “partner’s” face, you feel worse than before. You know that they treat you like a masturbatory aid— that they view you as nothing more than a cocksleeve— yet you still return to these shitty men. You still return to these men who wouldn’t give a fuck if your picture appeared on an obituary one day, because in your mind it was your twisted way of coping with the grief.

The counselor’s voice rings through your ears and brings you back to reality. “So,” she says, clapping her hands together. “That’s all the time we have today. I hope this session helped you, and if you ever want to talk again, just schedule an appointment through the student portal.”

The two of you rise to your feet and shake hands before exiting the room. You make your way over to the bathroom and lock the door behind you. Staring at your reflection in the mirror in front of you, the puffiness in your eyes has returned, and somehow your eyes are even more bloodshot than they were this morning.

You sigh to yourself. It’s a good thing I didn’t wear makeup, but I wish I brought my frozen spoon.

You turn on the faucet and cup the cold water in your palms. Oh well, this’ll have to do.

You splash the cold water in your face and dry it with a paper towel. Checking your eyes again, the swelling has gone down slightly, but you know that your metal spoon would’ve done a better job at masking the inflamation.

You exit the restroom and make your way out of the clinic, your eyes adjusting from the harsh, sterile lights in the building to the bright and sunny California daylight. You check your watch again and see that it’s almost 9:30 AM, still too early for him to be awake.

Phew, you think. I can head back now, get ready for the gym, and leave before he wakes up. By the time I’m done with my workout, he’ll be at practice so I can return home without running into him.

Admittedly, it’s embarrassing that you know his entire schedule, but it’s a measure that you have to take in order to protect yourself.

You make the journey home in ten minutes. You fill up your water bottle and change into workout appropriate attire, before heading out once again.

The campus gym is a lot closer to your apartment, about half of the distance to the student health center. In five minutes, you walk through the sliding doors of the recreation center, the filtered cold air blasting your face and giving you goosebumps. Your eyes scan the room to make sure that none of his friends are here, and relief flushes your body when you realize that you’re safe.

You plug in your earphones and hit play on a random workout playlist you curated. Energetic music blasts in your ears as you start a light jog on the treadmill.

Let’s just forget what happened earlier and try to have a good workout, alright?

Your workout runs smoothly— after your warm-up run of one mile and lifting sets, your legs start to ache and burn. Finally, it’s time for the barbell squat, your least favorite leg exercise.

You make your way over to the squat rack section of the gym, and your eyes land on a familiar face. His features are strong, typically formed into a scowl as he lifts a ridiculously heavy amount of weight. His green eyes always look so determined, and his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. His arms look toned even when he’s not flexing, but when he does, you can’t help but wonder if he could crush a melon with his bare hands. But his most noticeable feature has to be his spiky dark brown hair that comically rests on the top of his head— it reminds you of a porcupine.

He’s very handsome, and it’s not just you that notices his looks. Everytime you see him there, there’s always a crowd of people gawking at him, asking him to help fix their form or help spot them. Usually, most guys would take this as an opportunity to hit on the person who asked for assistance, sometimes even getting unnecessarily handsy with them. But never this guy. He just helps them with whatever they’re doing, offers useful tips and tricks, then returns to his workout.

He’s so good looking, and because of this, you have no doubt that he has a significant other or that his phone is overflowing with random numbers that people gave to him. He doesn’t seem like the type to be a sleaze, but with a face and body like that he definitely doesn’t have trouble finding love— or a casual hookup, at least.

The first few times you went to the gym, you noticed him staring at you. Initially, you thought that there was something on your face or wrong with your form, but that suspicion subsided after it happened several more times. Now, whenever you go to the gym, you inadvertently have a stare-off with the attractive stranger, waiting to see who will crack first.

Today is no different. As you walk to the empty squat rack next to him, his eyes follow your figure while he takes a drink of water. You wrap your fingers around the cold metal bar when a wild thought flies through your mind.

Giggling to yourself over the idea, you decide to try your luck, and you turn to the hot stranger to your left and ask him a question.

“Hey,” you sweetly call out, drawing his attention away from his water bottle. “I’m gonna try adding weight today, do you mind spotting me?” You flash him a bright smile, hoping that he’ll take the bait.

He quickly nods and sets down his bottle, walking over to you. You place the appropriate plates on both sides of the barbell and wait for him to stand behind you. Once you sense his presence, he asks you a question, and you can feel his hot breath against the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine and forcing the little hairs on your skin to rise.

“Are you ready?”

To which you reply with an enthusiastic nod. “Yep!”

You duck your head under the bar and rest it on your shoulders. You lift the metal pole off of the rack and take a few steps forward, the stranger’s hands hovering around you just in case you need help. You bend your knees and drop your ass into a seated position, making sure that your back is straight. You rise up and straighten your posture, and repeat this process eight more times.

On your tenth and final squat for this set, your thighs ache from the weight. Sweat beads at your temples as you drop down, and while you slowly rise back up, you hear a deep voice from behind you.

“C’mon!” The stranger encourages you. “This is your last one for this set, then you can take a break! You’re almost there.”

Using your last bit of strength, you stand back up, and he helps you place the barbell back onto the rack. Your fingers brush against each other, and your breath hitches at the sudden contact.

“Phew!” You chant as you wipe the sweat off of your forehead with your shirt sleeve. “Thanks for that encouragement at the end, I really needed that!”

The man smiles at you, and for the first time you see his hardened expression actually soften. “No problem! Your form is really good; I’m thoroughly impressed.”

You smile back at him and point over to his rack. “It seems like you do a damn good job yourself,” you reply, referring to the multiple large plates on his barbell.

He rubs the back of his palm as his face tints pink. “Oh, it’s no biggie at all. I’ve been regularly working out since high school, and I’m a sports science major, so physical fitness is a huge part of my life.”

You nod your head in interest, before continuing on. “Anyways, I’m sorry for pulling you away from your workout. If you want, you can go back to your sets; I think I’ll be okay with mine!”

He raises a hand and shakes his head. “No, I’ll be fine. I’d rather help you and make sure that you’re safe.”

Your face grows hot at his words. You eagerly nod your head and turn back around to face the barbell. But before you can start your second set, he murmurs something in a low voice.

“But what’s a guy gotta do to get dinner and a movie with a pretty girl like you?”

You feel butterflies flutter in your stomach. Was that friendly demeanor earlier all just a façade? You ask yourself. Collecting your thoughts, you turn your head slightly to face him, your faces merely inches apart.

“Well,” you start, scrunching your nose as you stare up at the ceiling, pretending to look for an answer. “You could spot me for my next two sets. I’m free tonight after 7, if that works for you?” You innocently bat your eyelashes at him, waiting for his response.

For a split second, you swear that there’s a crack in his confidence, and his features gaze at you in a stupor, almost as if he were in shock that you actually agreed to go on a date with him. He regains his cool though and nods his head before helping you remove the bar from the rack.

At the end of your set, the two of you exchange numbers. You introduce yourself and tell him your name, and he wipes his sweaty palms on his shorts before extending it out to you.

You grab it and shake hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Hajime Iwaizumi, but you can just call me Hajime.” He flashes you that killer smile one more time before you part ways.

Once you make it back to your apartment, you run a hot shower. While massaging your hair with shampoo, you think about your handsome date for tonight.

You grin when you think about his dazzling smile, but your mood soon turns sour when a realization hits you.

He’s still a guy at the end of the day, you think to yourself disappointedly. And an attractive one at that. He’s probably like every other man— they all just want one thing. Sex. And once you give it, they’ll toss you to the side.

That whole ‘dinner and a movie’ thing was probably just a ploy to get me to agree to go on a ‘date’ with him, if I can even call it that. But I know better. I know that he has no interest in getting to know me, and tonight will probably end the same way that it always does— with me walking home unsatisfied and feeling ashamed of myself.

There’s no point in getting my hopes up.

A tear rolls down your face, but you quickly wipe it away.

There’s no reason for me to be sad; that’s just how it is. We both use each other for one thing, and it’s consensual, so there’s no harm nor foul, right?

You try your best to reassure yourself, but know that it’s to no avail when another tear streams down your face.

tagging: @bxnten @ry0m3n @jiminjamms @sunat2508 @petalsrdead @crystal-lilac @devilgirlcrybabiey @ohtobiors @frenchtoastmafia @miya-dynasty @sabyss @rinsie @chaotic-fangirl-blog @semisgroupie @rueren @portfolio-of-dreams @arozaur @hyeque @momoewn @whore-for-anime @shoyouu @thathoneybee3 @smexyair @dessceased @itachislut @tokyometronetwork + want to join my taglist for this series? leave a comment below or join my general taglist here!

#🎲.writes #🎲.fics #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fic #haikyuu smut #haikyuu series #haikyuu dark content #iwaizumi fic #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi smut #iwaizumi series #iwaizumi dark content #tw.noncon #tw.ptsd #tw.mental health #tw.food #tw.alcohol #tw.exercise #tw.trauma #tw.sexual health #tokyometronetwork

[zero00kiryu00]

Trigger Tags

> SFW TAGS <

#tw.intoxication -- drug or alcohol use

#tw.darkcontent -- dark content in general (e.g. psychopathic behaviour)

#tw.coercion -- use of coercion or manipulation by a character.

#tw.toxicity -- toxic behaviour

#tw.blood -- blood or general gore

#tw.death -- topics discussing death or death of a character

#tw.mentalhealth -- topics that deal with mental health (e.g. depression, anxiety, or other disorders)

#tw.trauma -- trauma, abuse

#tw.violence

#tw.bullying

> NSFW TAGS <

#tw.degradation -- degradation kink

#tw.cheating

#tw.impactplay -- slapping, biting, scratching, etc.

#tw.breathplay -- choking, suffocation, etc.

#tw.edging

#tw.overstim

#tw.knife -- knife play

#tw.breeding

#tw.voyeurism

#tw.corruption -- corruption kink or virginity kink

#tw.size -- size kink

#tw.bondage -- restraint play, shibari, etc.

#Zero.nav #tw.intoxication #tw.darkcontent #tw.coercion #tw.toxicity #tw.mentalhealth #tw.blood #tw.death #tw.trauma #tw.violence #tw.bullying #tw.degradation #tw.cheating #tw.impactplay #tw.breathplay #tw.edging #tw.knife #tw.breeding #tw.voyeurism #tw.corruption #tw.size #tw.bondage #tw.overstim

[ndcultureis]

(cw vent-y + swearing + things) nd culture is being the undiagnosed autihd gifted kid with severe anxiety, getting diagnosed late middle school, school not believing you for 8 fucking months until they finally lock you in a room for 4 hours while you have a panic attack in front of the social worker and then you straight up leave and make them pay for your alternative schooling and youre still pissed that you can't get back at them for giving you both ptsd and cptsd <3

.

#neurodivergent culture #actually neurodivergent #tw.vent #tw vent #Tw.swearing #tw swearing #tw.ableism #tw ableism #tw.trauma #tw trauma mention #(I think that covers everything??? If not just tell me what tws I need to add) #Mod Emri

[honeymaki]

A lil serious question here friends🥺

If you have any recommendations for therapists or psychotherapists who specialise in trauma and ptsd, do you think you could maybe send them over? I’m - struggling a lot with an unresolved trauma and would like to get better, talk to someone, learn how to help myself but I don’t know where to start🥺 I’d appreciate maybe UK based, private or not🥺

Thank you 🥺 and until my head is cleared, m not gonna be too active here in terms of writing but I’ll reblog stuffs, just - writing is too difficult for me at the moment💕

#🌱.chats #tw.trauma #it’s not a vent just like if you have therapist recs or anything like that #nhs aren’t good for me nd I’m on a long waiting list for steps to well-being #i kinda need it sooner #thank you🥺

[classic-caldwell-moment]

Domestic Haiden [And post apocalyptic polycule] and PTSD comfort cuddles, I wrote this last night and edited it a bit just now! Hope everyone enjoys it!

Title: "Like Medical Tools."

Category: Hurt/Comfort.

Warnings: Trauma, auditory flashbacks, possible internalized ableism [Aiden repeatedly calls his experiences stupid and ridiculous], paranoia.

Summary: Aiden was finally drifting off to sleep on the couch, the sound of Hakon turning the pages of his book like a lullaby, and then he heard it: CLANG.

A sound like medical tools on metal, Aiden immediately jolted up from his relaxed position on the sofa, his previous half asleep state becoming alert within a second, Hakon almost yelled in suprise at the sudden change, staring at the wide awake pilgrim with concern, a concern that Aiden was also starting to feel, but for different reasons, he breathed out loudly, not having realised he'd been holding his breath, and peered around cautiously, "Aiden?", he whipped his head back and Hakon gave him a wide eyed look, leaning away from the man and defensively holding his book up, "Oh- Oh, Hakon?" the way Aiden spoke the mans name sounded more like a question than an acknowledgement.

The older man laughed nervously and adjusted himself back into a regular position, lowering his book and folding the corner of the page before closing it, "Are you okay, Kiddo? You shot up like a cat with a firework up its ass!" Hakon chuckled and looked over the pilgrim curiously, yet his eyes remained etched with concern, "Did you...Hear- Okay, this is going to sound fucking...Ridiculous but, medical tools?" Aiden returned Hakon's gaze with big blue eyes and pupils like pin picks, "Medical tools!? Medi- Medical tools? No? No.", those blue eyes drifted away from Hakon's and Aiden began to search around the room with a frightened stare.

"Mon Amour? Hey- Hey. What's going on?", Hakon scooted closer on the couch and followed Aiden's gaze, there was nothing, nothing out of the ordinary, the lilac tinted room showing off their belongings, their coats hanging on the rack, though Lawan's was gone, due to her being late coming home, Hakon should have checked on her by now, shit- "I...I swear I heard- I swear...", Aiden's voice brought the frenchman back from his thoughts and he turned back to the shorter man, "Aiden?" Hakon spoke softly, catching Aiden's attention once more, the pilgrim looking at his purple lit face with obvious fear, "Hey- Hey, you're okay. It's okay." Hakon reassured, offering his arms in a hug, book long discarded.

Aiden took the offer with slight hesitance, leaning into Hakon's arms with a shaky exhale, "You don't need to search the room, Mon Ange." the older man whispered, rubbing Aiden's back and feeling him finally begin to relax in his grasp, almost like whatever he heard never happened, just like he was falling asleep on the sofa again, "Nobody's here who shouldn't be here.", the pilgrim nodded and groaned in annoyance, possibly at his own brain playing cruel tricks on him, his trauma always coming back to get him, like a parasite, a leech, "I just...Heard it, those tools, on metal. Like a table, y'know?" Aiden muttered, fidgeting slightly, "Yeah- Yeah, I know. I know." Hakon responded softly, "Like it was in the room?", Aiden hummed in agreement at his boyfriends statement, looking to meet Hakon's gaze with a sigh.

"Like- Like it was right here, and I know it sounds so stupid! It sounds ridiculous! But- It was like I was there...Again." the pilgrim trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut and muttering to himself, incoherent rambles that weren't meant for anybody but himself, "No- No! Hey, Kid, it's not ridiculous. I've seen it myself, you know? In people. In my friends. Comrades." Hakon patted Aiden's back gently as he spoke, "They called it, uh, what's the word...Uh- Shell shock. Post Traumatic Stress...Something or other.", the younger man nodded and his breaths seemed to have slowed, quiet and gentle breaths, he was getting tired again, finally relaxing, finally feeling safe again, feeling heard; "It's not just you who feels like that, Mon Amour. You aren't alone- Ever!" Hakon continued his reassurance, though it was now beginning to fall of deaf ears.

The pilgrim began to feel like a heavy weight in Hakon's arms and his breathing was now a deathly slow drag, no longer like his alert gasps and sharp inhales, "You're okay." Hakon hummed and carefully released Aiden from his grasp, making sure that the man didn't go tumbling to the floor and setting him comfortably in his spot on the couch, his face empty and soft, the frenchman let out a hefty sigh and brushed his hair back shakily, he didn't like seeing Aiden like that, it always made his stomach churn, he slowly picked his book back up and opened it up once more, returning to the page he had been on before Aiden gave him the fright of his life.

And then his radio went off.

#postinginsilence #writinginsilence #dying light #dying light 2 #dl2 #dying light fandom #aiden caldwell #dl2 aiden #dying light 2 aiden #dl2 hakon #dying light 2 hakon #hakon x aiden #aiden x hakon #dl2 lawan #(mentioned) #slight lawan x aiden #lawan x aiden x hakon #(implied) #tw.paranoia #tw.trauma #tw.flashback #🌼him.txt