#tw: disassociation

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter Two: Cruel New World

Heiress of Gotham

Masterlist | Previous Chapter

Bruce Wayne x Daughter!Reader

Summary: It's your first-day living life in Wayne Manor. A new house, a new school, and of course there's the new siblings thing too.

Warnings: Negativity, Damian's Jealous, Talks of Death, Numbness, Depression, Disassociation,t Misandry, Crying, Suicidal Thoughts (if u squint), Existentialism, Cursing, Yelling, Outbursts, Anti-Police Rhetoric, Injury, Blood, Catcalling

Mentions of: Suicide, Body Fluids (mucus),

Words: 6.7k

A/N: POV kind of switches in some points, but I think it's fine. You know when it's the reader and when it's more of a third-person pov.

"Please take a seat, Miss Wayne," Alfred suggests as he pulls out a chair directly center of the long black cherry wood table. Your father sits at the opposite end of the room at the head of the table, while a smaller black-haired child sits with his back to the kitchen doors. There's one other person who sits directly across the table from where Alfred stands behind the chair meant for you.

"Are you serious? We really have to do this today of all days?" The child whines.

"I thought I told you no technology at the table this morning, Tim," Your father tells the person you're meant to sit across from. Ipad propped up on the table beside his plate, the teenage boy's grayish-blue eyes remain on the screen for a few moments as he shovels forkfuls of eggs into his mouth. In a tacit conversation, they make eye contact for a moment before he flips the cover back over the device and shoves it into the backpack by his feet. "Thank you.”

"You know, Bruce, I really need to get this essay done by this afternoon.” Tim—as you now know—explains.

"Oh? And what's it on?" Always wanting to get more involved in the kids' lives, Bruce attempts some sort of civil conversation other than indulging the begrudging eye-roll Damian throws him from across the table.

"It's on-" Tim begins to explain.

"You're really making us eat breakfast all together at-" Damian interjects.

"-the table like the nice, loving family we are? Pssh, you're lucky everyone's actually here this morning!" Dick cuts Damian off in an attempt to dissuade the boy's frustrations and some of his, perhaps just, points. Walking over to his chair he pulls it out enough to plop down.

"Everyone's coming?! Just for her?!" Damian, as you now know, complains.

"I'm afraid Stephanie has a doctor’s appointment, and Jason is... well," Bruce doesn't finish his explanation as he glances around the table.

"Jason," Dick defends, even if he's still somewhat suspicious of the man's current motives. "You'll meet them later, I'm sure," he tosses toward you as he sits at his chair between Tim and Damian still tying his tie.

"Why are you even here? Don't you have work? It's a Tuesday!" Damian chastizes Dick.

"Well if you must know, I have a few suspects I need to bring in for interviews today. They're extraditing a few people since the uptick last week."

"But I thought that-" A look from Dick makes Damian's thoughts linger in the air for a moment as he cuts himself off. Right. Next subject.

"I'm a detective over in Bludhaven," he explains to you, "Luckily I don't live here anymore, so... hopefully that lessens the overwhelming sense of a constant presence of people," he jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood.

With a nod, you finally reach for your fork. It’d been bad enough that it seems more and more people are continuing to engage you when really, it’s been hell enough to process all the transitions currently taking place in your life. While it’s nice in some sense that you’d have breakfast with your Mom on school days like this, having someone cook for you, let alone push in your chair is… well… strange.

“Hello? He’s talking to you,” the sassy child spits at you, garnering your attention. Eyes flitting from him to the person sitting across from you beside Tim, you offer what you can in an attempted smile. It comes across more as a grimace than anything. The Detective politely calls your name, finally tightening his tie as he finishes dressing.

“It’s okay, I get it. This is all a lot. I asked if you ate breakfast with your—“ he spares a quick glance at your Father before it settles back on you, “—Mom, often before everything?”

Though he smiles and has a jovial and pleasant attitude, you can’t bring yourself to really return the favor. While he’s extending an olive branch of friendship, one you’d usually take up, you’re unable to. “Yeah. Nothing like this though,” you mutter, voice surprising even you with the quiet quality to it.

While the rest of breakfast is filled with questions and trivial conversation, you feel off, with a weary sense of the world. It’s almost like everything is a dream. Once you’ve finished your food, your eyes raise to take in the vase of flowers and candles on either side of it in their ornate silver holders sitting in the middle of the table. “Can I be excused?” Suddenly turned toward your Father, you await his hesitant permission before getting up and heading back to the room they’ve deemed yours just last night.

“She didn’t even look up at me when she answered any of my questions. That’s not good,” Dick points out. There's a hint of concern in his voice as he eyes Bruce.

“She’s probably still grieving her Mom. It only happened yesterday,” Tim proposes with a shrug as he looks up at Dick, who sits to his left.

“Shit,” Dick whispers.

“Do we even know how it happened?” Damian asks from the end of the table, hands clasped in front of himself like a miniature businessman.

“Damian,” Tim whispers with hostility, eyeing him for the inappropriate nature of his comment. Though he’s also curious, as it seems Dick is too, as they all look toward Bruce.

“What? I mean, her Mom dies and suddenly she’s a Wayne? No way,” Damian speaks with confidence.

With a clearing of his throat, Bruce stands. “It’s true. I… hadn’t-“ he begins, though hesitates as this wasn’t really a conversation he’d wanted to have with his teenage son of all people. “It wasn’t planned. It was a one-time thing back when I was a little more reckless with keeping up my image.”

“So during your Party Bruce years? Oh my god,” Dick quietly laughs with incredulity. He’d known about it, sure, that ‘phase’ of his Father… yet he hadn’t anticipated him to be that reckless. The look of guilt upon Bruce’s face is all it takes for them to know it’s true.

“I did the math, I looked into her mother’s history, and… it all adds up. I wouldn’t have taken custody of her yesterday if I wasn’t certain.”

“So she was an accident? Ha!” Damian laughs as if he wasn’t technically an accident on his Father’s behalf as well.

“Hey! I will not hear any jokes or have any information imparted on her with dislike. It wasn’t her fault, and I won’t see anything but acceptance and welcoming from you three, will I?” His stern voice sends chills down their spines to some degree. While Bruce doesn’t often take up a fatherly role in terms other than the awful jokes and rare wistful advice, this is a side none of them have ever gotten quite used to.

“Fine. But I’m not changing my entire life around for her. Jon is still coming over after school,” Damian announces with a click of his tongue and a cross of his arms over his chest.

“Good. Now I know this absolutely will not leave the room but I looked into her cause of death last night and it was a car crash.” With that, Bruce leaves the table.

“Sometimes things are just life, I guess,” Dick thinks aloud, still processing the information.

How cool is it that this room has a window seat? Absolutely awesome! Unfortunately, that’s not something you can fully appreciate as everything has already started to feel numb. They’d explained at the hospital that it’d been a car crash. You know the number of stitches they’d placed, the degree of burns she’d taken as they attempted several grafts to save her life… yet it wasn’t enough. There was nothing they could do. A frown overtakes your expression as a pinch of immense sadness pricks your heart.

“I’ll do it-“ you hear his voice from outside the door, “-I’m sure.” With three knocks and no response, it creaks open. Unbothered to check who it is, you watch as the rain droplets roll down the leaves on the tree outside your window and slowly drip toward the ground below. He clears his throat and shifts on his feet before speaking. “I really hate to do this to you. I know everyone processes things in their own time, but I’ve got to make arrangements on top of work today and so the best thing I can think to do is get you into a routine.” A look in his direction is all it takes; uniform neatly folded in his extended arms, your Father presents it to you with a sympathetic look on his face.

“What about Melville High?” The question leaves your lips, and all he can think is that you’re too innocent for this world. He doesn't even know you, but already the world has taken too much from you.

“It’s… too far, I’m afraid. Gotham Metro Academy is where Damian goes, and it has a lot of better opportunities from what I’ve seen. I’m sure you’ll like it once you get settled in.”

It isn’t the end of the conversation. While you’re barely responding, he imparts as much wisdom and comfort as he’s able, but it goes in one ear and out the other. All too soon you find yourself running your hands over the lapels of your navy uniform’s blazer. A prep school with uniforms was something you’d never imagined in your future—in fact—it’d been far from it! Growing up with enough money to keep you comfortable was fine, but prep school was never in the cards. You and your Mom knew that. Without too much thought to your hair and any accessories or makeup, Alfred is rushing you downstairs and into the awaiting Rolls Royce.

“Had you ever been to Gotham prior, Miss?” Alfred asks from the driver’s seat as you pull away from the infamous Wayne Manor. It looks much more opulent and welcoming in the daylight, yet it still has an intimidating air of aristocracy to you.

“Um… just once, a long time ago.” It hurts your chest to think about; there’d been a weekend you’d gone with your Mom a few years back when she’d wanted to show you all the sights. From the shows to the Financial District, to the historical sights and monuments, it’d been a weekend to remember, truly. If memory serves you right, you even still have a sweater and baseball cap tucked away somewhere from that trip.

Expecting some sort of snarky remark from the child you’ve deduced is Damian, you finally take him in. Sure, everyone’s heard of him. He’s a celebrity for what it’s worth: ‘Bruce Wayne’s Secret Son’ the headlines read. It was national news at the time, his Mom still remaining a mystery. His skin is darker than yours, and while his eyes are a striking green, you can’t deny that he has a resemblance to your Father. Neither can you deny your resemblance, either, really.

“What?” Damian finally bites. With a quiet, automatic ‘sorry’ and a shift of your eyes out the window and away from the kid on his phone, you can’t help but think about it.

Was Bruce Wayne really as much of a playboy as the media made him out to be? Yours and Damian’s mom would surely proffer the confirmation. Yet, having met the legendary man behind the technological empire, you aren’t sure he really seems the type. As much as your mother tried to keep you from boys and men, you’d met more than your fair share of assholes. Womanizers, scumbags, misogynists; no matter the differences in look or personality, there were always a few similarities they’d have in common, usually in their speech, behavior, or beliefs.

Nevertheless, it’s odd that you’ve been able to place the term ‘Father’ in his grasp so easily. Your mother had feigned a forgetful memory oftentimes when you’d ask during your childhood. Only offering the slightest of details and assuring you that he’d left the both of you as a baby. It was only as you grew that she eventually let you know that whatever relationship the two of them had, it wasn’t as serious as one would expect of a mother and father. She’d never named him, exactly, having always told you it wasn’t important. He wasn’t worth searching for, seeking out, begging for some answer you surely didn’t want to hear. Why? Why did you leave us? Why don’t you care about us? It was all a waste of time. That much, you knew. Never, even in your dreams would you imagine it’d be the Bruce Wayne.

Before you know it, the trees and streetlights are turning into buildings and stoplights. While you're nervous about going to a new school, it also provides a bit of excitement at the thought of reinventing yourself and making new friends. Surely with the funding from Wayne Enterprises, it'll have more clubs, activities, and maybe more sports, too. You'd always wanted to try out for sports or even be on the varsity squads if possible. As the car slows along the street, Alfred meets your anxious eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Damian, I expect you'll be there if Miss--" he says your name, "--needs anything. I'm going to park the car and escort you inside, as there happens to be a bit of preliminary paperwork your Father has requested I accompany you to fill out."

Surprisingly, Damian doesn't refute Alfred's sentiment, though as he parks the car, your half-brother hastily exits, headphones still in his ears as he scrolls through his phone. A quiet 'see ya later' is heard before the door slams shut. Soon enough you've filled out the registration forms and are given a schedule and tour. Alfred offers you a courteous nod and a lingering hand on your shoulder before he departs for the day. "I'll be here to pick you up when the school lets out. You can do this, Miss," he assures with a warm smile.

It was somewhat embarrassing that you'd had to interrupt class to join in on eleventh-grade, American Literature, yet upon introduction, it doesn't go past your observation that many of the kids start whispering to one another. While a few people attempt to talk to you, for the most part, you feel overwhelmed with all the information and the way the lesson quickly continues. Trying to catch up and take everything in, it all feels like too much, and the unintentional tendency to disassociate naturally begins to happen. You zone out for most of the classes, the day passing in whirlwinds and sympathetic smiles from the teachers.

When school lets out, you find Alfred exactly where he'd parked this morning in front of the school. Leant against the car with his hands clasped in front of him, you begin making your way down the steps to meet him. Two boys quickly pass you, both laughing as they playfully smack one another's arms and talk in hushed voices. As you approach the car you realize it's Damian and some boy. He has friends? Who would be friends with him? He seemed so rude earlier, you can't help but think. Maybe he's just upset because you came along.

"Who's this?" The boy in the blue jacket asks as he watches you join Alfred.

"Mister Kent," Alfred greets the boy, "I take it you'll be joining us tonight?" When the boy flashes a white smile full of bright teeth up at him with an eager nod, you take it this is a family friend.

"She's... apparently Dad's daughter," Damian reveals, eyes slicing across the space till the intimidating green orbs land on you. "Don't mind her. I planned a few things we could maybe do when we get to the Manor! I just got Mario Kart Ten and it's supposed to have a bunch of new maps and characters!"

Upon Alfred opening the car door, all three of you slide into the vehicle, the boy separating you and Damian in the backseat. "So... your sister, you mean," He laughs. Despite what he'd said about ignoring you, the boy turns his smile your way with an extension of his hand. "I'm Jon! Damian's best friend. I actually go to West Reeves but I got out early so I could catch a ride to your house. You are..?"

Revealing your name, he repeats it with a fondness as you shake his hand. "I don't know that I'd say best," Damian groans with a roll of his eyes.

"Oh hush it! Yes, you would," Jon argues, nudging your half-brother with his body as the two laugh.

"How was your first day, Miss? Did it go alright?" Alfred asks in the rearview mirror before pulling off the school's sidewalk and onto the street.

While this question was unexpected, you can't answer it. Was today good? You're unsure that any sort of sentiment could capture what today was like, truly. With your mother's death, the move, the new school, new people, and the luxury of it all... you feel unable to describe it all in one simple response. Sufficing for a nod, you purse your lips before opting for a quiet "Thanks." If nothing else, you can't deny that this old man has been kind to you since the moment you arrived. It seems he cares, but... isn't that also his job? You're not sure how butlers work, exactly, but surely that detail encompasses part of his job description, you think.

With the car parked in the driveway, you all exit the vehicle and head inside. Alfred asks if anyone wants a snack, however, you shake your head and point upstairs, signaling your destination.

You aren't sure what comes over you, a wave of hurt--sadness-angst, pain... there are endless synonyms for whatever it is that washes over you. It winds up there, lingering in your chest like a weight you hadn't realized was weighing your shoulders down. Maybe it was the attention, the comments, the questions, the energy it took to put on a 'fine' facade, yet it all finally comes crumbling down. With the click of the lock on the door, you make the final steps toward your unfamiliar bed. Letting the backpack fall from your shoulders haphazardly on the carpeted floors, you flop onto the bed face first, chest hitting the plush comforter before the rest of your body follows, the rebound sending your body bouncing slightly. Face screwing up into one of pain, you do your best to hold it back, and you're not quite sure why. No one's around, no one cares, so why won't you let yourself cry? Would that make it all real? Would that mean you're accepting her death? That she's really gone? That you're letting go? Moving on with your life? Thoughts of guilt consume you as you feel as though you should've known, you should've called her, said something, asked her to pick you up that day. Anything would've changed the chain in the course of events, right?

It's then, with the realization of the butterfly effect that a sob wracks your chest and tears stream down your cheeks. Like rapid fire, the sting of hot, salty tears cascade down your skin leaving streaks of mascara in its wake, you're sure. Screaming into your pillow, you can't help but struggle to breathe as you're not sure what to do. How do you move on from this? Where do you begin? What's left in your life, really? What does anything matter if she's gone? Your mom? The only person who's been there through your whole life from the beginning till... well, now. She was your best friend, your confidant, your partner in crime, your... everything. At the end of every day you always knew you'd have her to go back to. Never has the fear of being alone crossed your mind until right this second. Now you understand why so many people commit suicide each year. If their pain feels anything like this, then you understand. All you can think, wish, and mentally pray for is this to stop. For the tears to stop falling and your breath to stop coming in quick bursts of panicked, hyperventilating heaves. Snot runs down your lips and it's hard to see with the blurriness of the tears in your eyes.

After a while, the crying eventually dies down and you lie--wishfully--lifeless on your bed. A small hand towel you'd grabbed from the bathroom is folded under your face where the tears would fall and you've folded it over the few times you'd blown your mucousy snot into it. Silence consumes the room, and you've found yourself simply staring up at the ceiling for what feels like hours. Constantly caught in your thoughts, between crying and being eerily silent, you're unsure if all this was destined to happen. Or maybe it was supposed to come out sooner. Maybe it's only because you've been pushing everything down into a deep dark place that only feels safe for you to express once you're absolutely sure you're alone.

In the midst of a quiet moment, your eyes and throat sore, head throbbing, there's a knock at the door. "Dinner will be served in just a few minutes." It's Alfred. You hope he hadn't heard your crying, though if he had... what can you really do? Nothing... just like everything else in life. You can't do anything.

With a quick splash of cold water on your face, hands combing your hair down, and making sure you look as presentable as possible, you're ready. Aside from the slight red tinge that lingers around your eyes and the dark circles beneath them that are impossible to get rid of, you head downstairs. While you're sat in the same spot as this morning, you're joined by many more people this time. Bruce and Damian both sit at the ends of the table again, Tim sits across from you, though this time he's flanked by the Detective, and another man you don't recognize. He has a white stripe in his hair and a longer face than the others, but it suits him with his angular features. On your right sits a very tall and broad man clad in a business suit and glasses. Past him, sits Jon--who you'd met this afternoon--and across from him there's one more person who makes the table uneven in terms of people. It's a blonde girl, with an enticing sparkle in her eyes and a charming smile from what you can see from the other side of the table.

"This is my good friend, and Jon's dad, Clark Kent," Bruce introduces, gesturing to the man beside you. Said man holds out his big hand and offers a friendly smile.

"Pleasure to meet you," he recites your name and you reciprocate the handshake. It's good to know that not everyone in Damian's association is a complete asshole, you suppose.

"Nice to meet you too," you respond quietly. With the meal served, everyone dives into eating, leaving you a little unsettled. While your mother had come from a very religious upbringing, she hadn't forced it on you. Yet, you'd still find yourself and your mom praying before dinner to whatever God or higher deity might exist. In a way, it was more to give thanks each day for being alive and having food on the table. Sometimes it was a conversation starter when someone would mention what their day entailed, the good things they'd seen, or maybe the bad things they'd ask for protection from. Nevertheless, it's clear that this family operates differently; digging your fork into the fancy black-peppered pork roast, you use your knife to slice a piece off for yourself. Not in the mood to talk at the moment, you simply listen to what everyone's discussing.

With the lack of response they'd gotten from you, Bruce opts for talking to Clark about business and how things have been. Dick and Tim fill in the mysterious man on the little they knew of you. The blonde girl talks with the younger boys at the end of the table at moments but also butts into the other conversation among the young adults diagonally across the table from you. Stabbing multiple string green beans onto your fork, you don't make eye contact with anyone as you simply try to get through this dinner. Maybe then you can go upstairs and try to relax away from everyone.

"-something we shouldn't really talk about too much, but I can guess the funeral will be by the end of next week with all the arrangements I made today," Bruce speaks to Clark.

"Wait, what?" Your voice is quiet, only drawing the attention of those sitting closest to you. Butting into their conversation, you raise your eyes to meet your Father's surprised blue eyes.

"The funeral will be at the end of next week, I'm presuming. It'll take a little while with all the arrangements," he repeats. Though he seems hesitant, he doesn't keep himself from speaking it again. After all, he's someone who stands behind his actions.

"What? Why?" Your fork clanks against the chinaware, lips parted in shock as you dropped it. "You made the arrangements without me?"

"Yes. It was important that you go to school and it was all right there in the will." Forkful of mashed potatoes lingering in the air as his blue eyes bore into yours, you find your breath beginning to rise and fall at a faster rate.

Of course, none of them know your buttons and what it looks like once they've been pressed, but if your mother was here right now, she'd know. With a screech of the chair being pushed back hastily and a quiet slam of your palms on the table to stand, you're livid. "Why would you do that? How could you do that?!" Hands shaking, you begin to gesticulate, any former semblance of masked placation now fallen. All eyes are transfixed on your figure. "She's my mother! Mine! You don't even know her- I do! I know what she would've wanted, and this isn't it. What, just because your name was on my birth certificate that means you get to take over my life? You, who doesn't even know anything about me, and yet you act like we're best friends! Your children call you 'Bruce' and you have no problem with it! You don't get to just come into my life and fuck everything up! You sleep with her once, what? Sixteen years ago and now you come in and take everything?" A wry laugh leaves your lips, "Well, more for you, I guess! Did you ever stop to think that there's a reason I had no idea who you were? Let alone, why she never told me? She never once asked for your money or your help, and now I'm just here. All my stuff? Gone. All my friends and family? Gone, a-"

"-We can go get your-" The Detective begins.

"-Oh, shut up! You really think anyone wants to hear what you have to say? You're adopted, you're not even related to me! You don't know me. None of you do! The only good thing about this is I don't have to put up with being interrogated by the BPD every goddamn time I walk down the halls of school. But I'd at least take that over never seeing my friends again!"

"-What do you mean?" He follows up, commenting over you. Everyone else looks around the table silently, taken aback by what they're witnessing.

"You want to 'Bring Justice to Bludhaven', I guess, when everyone already knows what happened to Perdy Chapman! Everyone except the BPD, I guess!"

"How dare you?! You can't speak to my brother like that, you-"

"Finally! The only person I'm actually related to here. My half-brother, the mysterious 'Wayne Boy' who doesn't have a mom! You have no fucking empathy for me, you've been giving me shit all day! And yet you're the only person I would've expected to actually give a damn! So sit your ass down, pendejo twerp!"

Without asking for permission you storm out of the dining room and through the living room toward the staircase.

"I'm guessing you're done with your dinner?"

The voice stops you in your tracks, hand on the banister, you let out a loud sigh, shoulders falling before you try to maintain a jovial demeanor when turning to him. "I don't need you to do anything for me, Alfred. I think it's fucking ridiculous to have a servant when it's the twenty-first century, for crying out loud!"

"It's my job. I assure you he pays me, if that makes it any better," Alfred speaks in a calm tone, unfazed by your words or behavior.

"Great! Well, I still don't need you doing things for me that I can do myself. Thank you, though," while the words come out through tense, grit-together teeth, you turn and head upstairs. It doesn't take long to get to your backpack, slinging it over your shoulders. Luckily, this was the one thing you knew you could do with the advantages of not only your room but a backyard. Opening the window, you climb out onto the tree branch a few feet away.

Soon enough, you're on solid ground, out of the boundaries and gate of Wayne Manor. With a heaving chest and shaky hands, you speedwalk down the road toward where you know the bridge will be heading into Bludhaven from the transfer point on the Eastern Seaboard. This time for whatever reason, you can't bring yourself to cry. Maybe all the tears had already flooded from your body this evening, but nothing emanates from your tear ducts. Eyeing the blood that's already starting to dry on your palms from the splinters and the last little drop you'd had to take from the tree, you scraped your palm.

It'd been silent upon your departure from the dining room. Bruce insisted that everyone return to eating, that everything was fine, and that this wasn't unexpected. While things returned normal for the most part, Jason excused himself with a look toward his father. It wasn't until an alarm rang from Bruce's phone that he groaned and pulled it out only to find the surveillance outside capturing your figure leaving the premises. Announcing what the 'emergency' was, at everyone's persistence, Jon ran out of the room before Bruce could elect Clark to go check where you were headed.

It's a lone road, cypress trees lining it and gravel-filled sides. With it only being garnered by private property of the elite, and no real intersections for miles, no cars pass in either direction. As the sound of a faraway motorcycle approaches, you don't let it deter you. It'll be at least an hour or more before any of them realize you've left the property. They all think you're just upstairs crying to yourself, most likely. Rage still swirls in your gut, however, it's drained somewhat, being replaced by the determination to get home. A billionaire, his family, servants, and even a few splinters won't stop you. It doesn't strike you as odd that the sound of the nearing motorcycle slows; after all, not many people hitchhike on this road, you're guessing, and with the speed limit being higher in this area.

Jon had been faster, intrigued for some reason--his justification upon later questioning--to find out where you were going. Clark trails behind him, neither of them bothering to change clothes as they fly above the closest road, trailing you from a distance silently. It's only when they spot the motorcyclist approaching you that they hold their position.

"Where do you think you're going?" The voice is unfamiliar. While being catcalled isn't a stranger to you, it's still annoying that it'll happen in the middle of fucking nowhere. Ignoring the motorcycle that now stalls to your left, you continue walking with determination, eyes ahead and fists wrapped around each strap of your backpack upon your stiff shoulders. "Really? You're gonna ignore me and play it that way? Get on the motorcycle," the man calls your nickname, which elicits a reaction from you.

Eyes widening and lips parting, and eyebrows shooting upward, you finally look at the man. You don't remember his name, but he'd been sitting at the table across from you between Tim and that Detective. Expression immediately turning into one of anger, your jaw setting, you feel reinspired to make your way to Bludhaven. "I'm not going back! I can't," you argue, "plus I don't even know you. Why would I go with you?!"

A chuckle leaves his lips and you hear the shifting of plastic before the motorcycle revs in a way that elicits an automatic jump from your body. The motorcycle speeds a few feet down the road before it does a loop and skirts into a stopped position just a few feet in front of you. Legs on either side of the vehicle, the man flicks the visor of his helmet back up and reaches into the back compartment, producing another. Before you have time to react, he throws the helmet your way. Hands instinctively reach out to catch it instead of letting yourself get hit with the speed of it. You wince; it pushes the splinters further into your palm. You come to a standstill a few feet away from him as you lift the helmet slowly only to see the blood starting to pool around them again.

"I'm Jason," he reveals, "I don't know where you plan to go, running away like this, but you don't think the old man will notice you're gone sooner than later? What's your plan then?"

Irritation and a desperate anger linger in your chest as your eyes finally raise to meet his. "Well, Jason, it's none of your business! Regardless, it doesn't matter. You can't stop me." Approaching him, you're about to shove the helmet in his hands when he raises one of his own, palm facing you.

"Truce? Look, I know you don't know me, but I was like you. I grew up in Crime Alley and had to steal tires for a living. I tried to steal the-" he stops himself, another chuckle escaping his lips, "the old man's, and that's how we met. I get it... it's not easy, and, no one expects you to just go along with everything, alright? If you're thinking about going home, well, that'll take what-? Hours? You really want to walk for hours to... where are you from, again? Bludhaven? What part?"

"Canaveron District, yeah," you respond gruffly, some of the tension leaving your shoulders.

"You won't get there for another three hours walking, at best. If you just want to get your things, well, I can take you there. But we'd have to get everyone else-"

"No! no, I don't want-"

"-If you let me finish," he warns, "I was going to say get the others to help tomorrow or this weekend, we can get the rest. Alright? Just essentials, and I bring you right back here. Got it?" His eyes search yours for a moment before he adds, "That's the best I can do for you, kid. Otherwise, I've gotta drag you back to the Manor kicking and screaming, which I really don't want to do."

"He sent you?" You weren't too surprised, only that if anyone was coming, you figured it would've been Bruce, himself. It's only when Jason notices you looking around and contemplating your decision that he cocks his head toward the Manor, signaling the Kents to leave. He's got this.

"No. I came, because... unlike those other dicks, I actually know what it's like to come from, well, somewhere that's not the greatest," he admits, a look of sympathy and understanding in his eyes.

"And this isn't some scam? You just tell me this, get me on the bike, and then take me back to the White House?" This elicits a laugh from the man, and he runs a gloved hand through his black and white hair.

"Look, I don't know how much they've mentioned about me, but... let's just say I'm not exactly in Bruce's good favor if you know what I mean." Reading the look on your face, he expands. "I'm not exactly the goody-two-shoes of the family. If you want your stuff, I'll take you, but only because I know he wouldn't do that."

"Why?" Standing in silence, the two of you search one another's eyes for any sense of understanding. It's tacit, the question that you both know you were really asking, yet he doesn't make you voice it: why would you do this for me?

"Because I know what it's like to have everything taken from you." A sigh leaves his lips, and you can tell simply from his stance and demeanor that this man has been through much more than he's letting on. "If you wanna do this, we should get going. I can't be out too late tonight. You coming? Or should I call the old man and let him know what your plan is?" With a raised brow and eyes flicking toward the helmet in your hands and back to your eyes, he awaits an answer.

"I'm coming." Sliding the helmet over your head, you approach the vehicle. "Just... don't tell him, please! At least don't tell him for another... fifteen minutes?" The request elicits a questioning look before a smirk replaces it.

"Deal. Hang on," he requests. Shifting the bike to stand upright, he leans closer and reaches under your chin to clip a strap in place you hadn't noticed. He tightens it, checks with you, and then gets onto the bike. "You ever ridden a motorcycle?"

With a thick swallow, your eyes shift from his to the bike. Sliding over the seat, you're unsure where to place your feet, but Jason instructs you, making sure you're comfortable before you slide your arms around his waist and brace for takeoff. Visor flicked down and everything in place, he revs the motorcycle before speeding down the road.

Beneath the helmet, the ends of your hair tickle your arm as it whips through the air. Cool breeze wooshes past your body, arms able to feel the chill through the blazer, your legs gaining goosebumps through the exhilarating experience. Cypress trees turn into willows, which become more and more sparse as gates and brick walls slowly fade with the elitist properties into cemeteries and then into more forest before turning more industrial. As different plants and factories appear, so do the cars. Jason weaves in and out of traffic as he maneuvers his way down the highway and onto the bridge that winds around Gotham and finally goes into Bludhaven. The lights and sights passing this fast is intimidating at the thought of crashing, however, it's thrilling in a way you've also never experienced. Skyscrapers line the island, lights, signs, and monuments only add a sort of fascination and exuberant liveliness to it. As the Wayne Enterprises sign passes, you finally feel comfortable enough to remove one hand from Jason's side for a moment, long enough to flash a quick middle finger at the sign before fearfully grabbing onto his jacket again.

With a laugh and shake of his head, he removes a hand from the handlebar to flip a bird alongside her, eliciting what he thinks is a laugh. Nevertheless, he can feel the fear in her grip so he returns his hand to the handlebars and makes sure to keep his focus on the road. It's not likely they'd crash, not unless someone was out for him and knows his bike, and his civilian identity. Not that he goes too far out of his way to hide it, but it's not impossible. He's confident in his abilities, but considering they don't know each other the best, he doesn't do anything to further scare her.

As he draws nearer to the Canaveron District, he slows down enough for her to give him directions. Parking the bike outside the apartment complex she's identified, Jason helps her off the bike and stashes the helmets in the back. "Lead the way, little lady," he encourages.

~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

hog taglist: @luvly-writer , @clairese1980

#hog #my writing #bruce wayne x daughter!reader #batfam x sibling!reader #dcu reader insert #tw: catcalling #tw: misandry #tw: blood #tw: injuries #tw: yelling #tw: negativity #tw: disassociation #tw: depression #tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: numbness #tw: outburst #tw: crying #tw: cursing #tw: anti-police themes #tw: existentialism #tw: death #heiress of gotham series #heiress of gotham

[promptful]

what is best way to hug someone

Different Types of Hugs

I'm not even sure this ask is truly meant for me, but it sparked inspiration, so I answered it lol. and MAN I got poetic with it, lmao. Enjoy! (Tag me in it if you write anything, these are some of my favorites so far!) DO NOT ADD.

WARNINGS: Implied suggestive content. Violence? That's it. Implied dissociation.

1) The goodbye hug; a quick press of lips to cheeks and brief embraces before separating in your different ways. 

2) The long goodbye hug; arms wrapped around one another and refusing to let go. Their lips whispering reassurances in your ears until one of you finally separates. 

3) The reuniting hug; standing across from one another, frozen. Then, finally, they tumble into you and you can do nothing but hold on tight. 

4) The awkward hug; usually sideways, arms strung about shoulders with half-smiles that don’t reach eyes. A grimace on their face, and a grimace on yours.

5) The forced hug; similar to children forced to apologize, this hug is done underneath prying eyes. All warm on the outside, but actually glaring at one another on the inside, limbs stiff and bared teeth. 

6) The comforting hug; they wrap around you as you sink to the floor. Their breathing matches yours while they walk you through as many comfort methods possible, voice soft against your ear. 

7) The reluctantly comforting hug; although they don’t care for you—and you don’t care for them—they can’t stand to see you like this. It’s unnatural. Stiff as can be, they wrap around you and attempt comforting. 

8) The reassurance hug; one where you wrap entirely around them similarly to armor, but only fighting intangible enemies. Their words, strong in tone, combat your demons and insecurities, proclaiming their love with each syllable. 

9) The grounding hug; with permission, they wrap around you, keeping you tethered to this world while your mind spirals. No words are necessary. Their presence is enough. 

10) The safety hug; feet dug into dirt, arms wrapping around their waist so they don’t tumble headfirst into something stupid. At first, they try to fight, but eventually sink into your unrelenting grasp. 

11) The disarming hug; arms wrap, but they’re not warm. Their voice whispers, but it isn't safe. They want you to wholly trust them, no matter their intentions. 

12) The broken-hearted hug; a last ditch attempt to salvage relationships. You try to keep them close—convince them for a second chance. They don’t give you one. 

13) The crowded hug; usually on a packed train or concert, they wrap around you to keep you close, out of crowds, and safe. Breaths shared between one another, every word a zap of whispered electricity. 

14) The protection hug; their back shown to the threat, keeping you tucked against them. Their chin digs into your head, breathing rough while the shockwave/noise/yells tear through the room. 

15) The shielding hug; your back to the threat, they stare over your shoulder/around you at the threat, eyes narrowed into daggers. They won’t allow harm to come towards you. 

16) The guiding hug; a hand against the small of your back, waddling the two of you away from a horrible sight. 

17) The morning hug; sleepy eyes and warm limbs. They hold you close, eyes shut while they rake in the morning sun and thank the stars for this very moment. 

18) The nighttime hug; knowing that your lover doesn’t care if you’re sleep deprived and run ragged. Your arms wrap around them, and they reciprocate with hushed whispers and soft, chaste kisses, tucking you into bed and soon following.

19) The snuggle-hug; done in bed or on the couch, all limbs entwined with fingers carding through hair. Their head rests on your, or vice versa, and rest ensues knowing that one another is nearby.  

20) The heartbeat-hug; head pressed against their chest, you listen to each thump of their steady heartbeat and relish in that they’re here, with you. 

21) The warmth-hug; a hug only meant to share heat when it's cold. Skin to skin from head to toe. 

22) The frozen-hug; another hug meant to share the cold when it’s sweltering. Their hands skimming underneath your shirt to absorb the ice-cube-like skin. 

23) The distraction-hug; their arms wrap around your waist, head plunked against your shoulder blade/on top of your shoulder blade, slightly swaying. All in hopes of distracting you from what you’re currently doing. 

24) The kiss-me hug; a hug that feels like lightning in a dark sky. Eyes blown and lips parted, breathing hitched and stuttered while you wrap around one another. Desperate to feel the warm body of your SO. 

25) the stepping-stone hug; drifting fingers and lingering looks. Shed clothing and stumbling embraces down the hallway. This hug usually proceeds by the morning hug (17) some hours later. 

#hug prompts #otp prompts #writing prompts #writeblr #creative writing #prompt list #writing #writing help #fluff prompts #tw: suggestive #cw: suggestive #tw: violence #cw: violence #p. #a. #as. #cw: dissociation #tw: disassociation

[pastaxandria]

I'm Sending A Raven: Chapter 5/5 🌧️

The Library of Pastaxandria has recorded for its shelves: Chapter 4 of I'm Sending A Raven.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Matt knew what you were. He’d seen you for the rabid monster, the hound, the worthless subject that you were. That was why you were alone, why he hated you, why they all hated you, why they’d all sentenced you to die here—Ciro and Matt and Frank and Karen and Thompson, all of them capable of freeing you only to leave you to rot, a loathed, forgotten thing lost in the dark and gathering dust. They’d all seen. This was what you were. What you’d always been. What you always would be. Fine. If they thought you a monster… you’d be one.

Wordcount: 12.5k

Warnings for this chapter: suicidal ideation, dehumanization, disassociation, emaciation due to captivity, hallucinations, blood, canon-typical gore and violence, murder of bad people, guns, knives, references to torture, references to brainwashing, references to human experimentation

Read me on AO3 where I'm about to crush your heart but I'll give it a small bandaid when I'm done

Sad Matt gif cause we're gonna go through some shit

#the red thread: what if #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x f!reader #daredevil #matt murdock #reader #reader insert #fic #fanfic #x reader #tw: darkfic #tw: suicidal ideations #tw: dehumanization #tw: canon typical blood and gore #tw: disassociation #tw: emaciation due to captivity #THIS IS IT YA'LL THE FINAL CHAPTER

[theprissythumbelina]

Songs and Ships Tag

Rules: write about two to five songs from them that represent your a ship between your ocs (it can be platonic or romantic or a secret third thing). then add a quote from said wip (if possible!) underneath it.

I was tagged by @pheita, thank you! Now, my first instinct was Nicolette and Alyss, but I don't have their romantic relationship well felt-out, so instead I am going to do Nicolette and Daisy. In the interest of a little backstory, Daisy was Nicolette's first friend and first love. She was there for Nicolette all through their school years, she was there when her mother died, but they broke up when Nicolette became obsessed with getting her mother back.

So, songs!

Chocolate - The 1975

Now run, run away from the boys in blue Oh, my car smells like chocolate Hey now, I think about what to do I think about what to say I think about how to think Pause it, play it, pause it, play it, pause it Oh, we go where nobody know With guns hidden under our petticoat No, we're never gonna quit it No, we're never gonna quit it, no Yeah, we're dressed in black from head to toe We got guns hidden under our petticoat No, we're never gonna quit it No, we're never gonna quit it, no

Just a Dream - Nelly

I'm going through it every time that I'm alone And now I'm missing, wishing she'd pick up the phone But she made the decision that she wanted to move on 'Cause I was wrong I was thinking 'bout her, thinking 'bout me Thinking 'bout us, what we gon' be Open my eyes yeah, it was only just a dream So I travelled back down that road Will she come back? No one knows I realize, yeah, it was only just a dream If you ever loved somebody put your hands up If you ever loved somebody put your hands up And now they're gone and you're wishing you could give them everything

Gravity - Against the Current

You left me out there with no one but myself In an open field for lightning to strike me down I was the moon, you were the sun I can't seem to shine now that you're gone You ran out of orbit cause you left with no word Are you somewhere better now? Can you save me now? I get lost up in the clouds Can you save me now? You were my gravity Can you save me now? When the ground drops out I get lost in the clouds Save me now? You were my gravity Now my world is shattering

Now for a snippet

Daisy set Nicolette up at her small table with coffee in her hands. Nicolette couldn't tear her eyes from what remained of her mother. Her hands had always been firm, tough, cracked but loving. Those hands now clenched at empty air, ashen. She had always had such nice eyes, eyes that Nicolette hadn't inherited. Eyes that flicked back and forth in an empty gaze. Nicolette considered that she should have felt horrified. That was the correct reaction. Facing the corpse of the one person that had ever loved her should have been horrifying.  Nicolette didn't feel a thing. She just watched, unable to look away. Just watched and felt nothing. Daisy reached over and nudged the mug in her hands. When Nicolette didn’t move, she brushed a tangle of hair off her shoulder. Nicolette felt nothing, and it was a relief.  "Why'd you do it," She asked, not for the first time. Nicolette didn't magically have a better answer this time, so she said nothing.  It was done. Did it even really matter? She had done it.

Tagging @autumnalwalker @talesofsorrowandofruin @athenswrites @italiangothicwriteblr @words-after-midnight

#wip mortal sparks #nicolette wip #writing wlw #writing relationships #tag games #songs and ships tag #my ocs #writeblr #tw: corpse #Tw: disassociation

[apalestar]

These are all NSFW headcanons so they are going to live under the cut.

He prefers not to have penetrative sex. It goes back to him wanting to feel safe. He can escape if he needs to. Penetrative sex makes that more difficult to do.

If he trusts someone and they can make him feel safe, he will engage in it. He just has to be worked up to it.

His favorite type of sex is grinding against his partner until both he and them are satisfied.

He likes his ears being bitten at the tips.

He loves when a partner plays hard to get. Pretending to ignore his attentions.

Post Cazador's death he absolutely wants consent explicitly spoken between both parties.

A partner has to take it slow with him and not immediately go to trapping him in. He is far more likely to disassociate that way.

He absolutely cuddles afterwards. He will attempt to frame it as exhaustion.

He's versatile, but has a dom leaning. Again it's a safety & control thing.

#headcanons #suggestive #tw: disassociation

[schrijverr]

I Miss Robbie

Robin is off visiting her grandmother. Steve calls her often to deal with nightmares, but he feels bad about disturbing her visit. He tries not to call, but the bad memories and lack of his best friend break him, until he’s crying on Eddie’s doorstep, who drives him to Robin’s grandmother, so he can finally sleep again.

On AO3.

Ships: Platonic Stobin

Warnings: nightmares and mild disassociation

~~~~~~~~~~

Robin is visiting her grandmother for a family reunion. It is just for a week and Steve is fine. Truly he is.

He just misses her, that’s all.

She gave him the number, so he can call her whenever he has a nightmare. The Buckleys left two nights ago and he already called once.

It’s hard not to when he’s just had a vivid nightmare of Robin dying in his arms and he can’t crawl through her window and hold her hand as they sleep. So, yeah, he called.

The phone had been picked up by a disgruntled uncle, who was sleeping on the couch. Steve isn’t sure what the man must think of him, since having a normal conversation while trying not to throw up from anxiety isn’t the easiest thing. However, in the end he got Robbie on the line and that’s all that mattered.

Robin talked to him until he fell asleep sitting on the living room floor next to the phone. He now has a crick in the neck from the position and he wonders if Robin fared better.

A part of him wants to call her again to ask. Another part knows he shouldn’t.

If it was normal, he’d be over at her house right now and her mom would roll her eyes fondly at his presence and ask if he would like an omelet too. Both Robin’s mom and dad have gotten used to him appearing in the morning. It had taken a very uncomfortable and emotional talk to explain that no, Steve wasn’t trying to take their daughter’s virtue.

But it isn’t like normal at all, because Robin is visiting her grandmother and Steve hasn’t seen her in two days already. That should be illegal in his opinion. It should be criminal. He hasn't seen Robin for this long since before they got stuck in a Russian elevator.

Steve knows he is moping. Keith is giving him a weird look from his office, probably not used to seeing Steve hang listlessly over the counter. But Steve has a good reason to be mopey. So, he keeps it up, even going to far as to put in a movie Robin loves and Steve has never paid enough attention too to fully follow along. Fuck, he misses her rambling.

He picks up the phone, playing with the cord as he wonders how unprofessional it is to call Robin from work.

Then he puts the phone back on the horn, not because he cares about professionalism, but because Robin is supposed to spend time with her family right now. Steve shouldn’t distract her just because he’s a bit lonely. That's just silly.

It feels a lot less silly when he is sitting alone on his couch, eating yesterday’s cold left overs as he watches a channel he doesn’t remember putting on. He knows he could call Eddie, whom he’s gotten closer with after Vecna, or even Nancy. But he doesn’t want to. They’re not Robin.

He gives a longing look to the phone, before shaking his head and taking another bite. Robin gave him the number for his nightmares, not to call during dinner.

That night he lies in bed, twisting and turning for a long time. When he finally does manage to fall asleep, he is haunted by nightmares that wake him up about two hours later.

Gasping for air and with a scream dying in his throat, he shoots upright, before stumbling out of bed and down the stairs. He dials Robin’s house on autopilot, only realizing his mistake when he gets the answering machine.

So, he hangs up and fumbles for the piece of paper with the other number written on it, dialing it with shaking fingers. He clutches the phone tightly as he listens to the dial tone.

“Robin Buckley speaking,” Robin’s voice greets him after a few seconds.

Steve lets out a breath of relief, not even realizing he’d been holding it until he heard her voice. He softly replies: “Hey, Robbie.”

“Dingus!” she exclaims happily. “I already thought it was you. Couldn’t stay away, could you? I switched with Uncle Larry for the couch so I could pick up. He’s a lucky man.”

A stab of guilt goes through Steve at that. Robin also isn’t the best sleeper after Starcourt and he hates to think that she’s sleeping on the uncomfortable couch just because he can’t make it through the night without her.

“Dingus? Steve!” Robin says, she sound scared as if she said it before and he hadn’t replied. In her minds eye, he is probably floating.

“I’m here,” he quickly answers. “I’m okay.”

“You better be okay, no dying on me,” Robins tells him.

“I won’t,” he promises. The he says: “You should sleep on a bed, get some actual rest. You get grouchy when you’re tired.”

His attempt to hide his concern with a joke gets waved away by Robin, who responds: “You love my grouchiness.” And that is true, grouchy Robin is a hoot, Steve loves her. “Besides, I’m fine. I am more curious about how you are. You okay, dingus?”

“Yeah,” Steve says on reflects, before realizing how stupid that sounds in the circumstances. “Just, you know, had a nightmare. The usual. And-” he hesitates, before admitting, “And I miss you.”

Robin is quiet for a second. Steve worries he has pushed her too far, that this is too weird, even for their joined at the hip behavior. Then Robin says in a tiny voice: “I miss you too.”

They’re both quiet again, just breathing into the phone, soaking in the other’s presence even if it’s like this.

Then Robin asks: “Do you wanna talk about your nightmare?”

“Not really,” Steve says, he’d much rather get a hug, but he can’t. So he settles for the next best thing. “Can you just talk to me for a bit? How’s your family reunion going?”

“Of course,” Robin tells him cheerfully, before launching into a story about her two cousins, a crayon and a near hospital trip. Her rambles soothing Steve’s soul. Nothing bad can reach him as long as Robin is talking.

She talks about nonsensical stuff for about two hours, before Steve feels safe enough to go back to bed. They drag out their goodbye, both repeating about a thousand times that they love the other, before they can tear themselves away.

Steve sleeps fitfully after, but he does sleep and he hopes Robin sleeps better than him.

The next day passes by like the last four have. Him moping about and missing Robin as his job tries to kill him with boredom.

At some point the little shitheads come in, which lights up his day for a little. They argue and bicker as they try to pick three good movies that El just has to see. They got permission for a movie night at the Hopper-Byers house and plan to make the most of it.

Dustin invites Steve as well, telling him to stop being so sad and have fun for a night. Steve considers it for a moment, then declines. Movie night without Robin talking about cinematography and theorizing into his ear won’t be the same, so it’ll only make his blue mood worse. He’d rather spend the evening alone.

However, once he is actually doing that, he realizes he probably should have taken the kids up on their offer. This is also not doing anything to improve his mood and he feels so lonely. He hasn’t felt like this since his parents left him alone for more than a month for the first time.

He tries to tell himself that it’s going to be fine. He just has to survive three more nights, then Robin will be home and they can have a sleep over together.

Just three more nights.

That same night he wakes up again. The nightmare wasn’t that bad and if he paces around for an hour or so, he can probably go bed again. He should just do that and let Robin sleep. He’s called enough.

He knows he can’t do this every night, that Robin deserves time with her family without feeling tired because Steve is scared to move away from the lights he turned on, because then he might miss it if the Upside Down comes back again. He should just let her rest and pace for a bit.

Instead, he is looming over the phone, not yet picking it up, but contemplating it. He stares at the machine like he’s El and it will make it do something without him touching it.

Suddenly the phone starts to ring and Steve all but jumps into the air with fright.

When it registers what’s happening, he dives for the phone, quickly picking it up with a: “Steve Harrington.”

“Dingus,” Robin chokes out, sounding near tears.

“Hey, Robbie, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here, I’m right here. You’re safe, we’re all safe. Nothing can hurt you,” he says, trying to calm her down. “Just take a breath,” he leads, Robin following his example.

He breathes a few more times, muttering some more assurances, before Robin has calmed down again. She says: “We were back in that bunker, tied together. But this time- this time you didn’t wake up,” she starts crying again, a soft weeping that is audible in her voice. “I- I- I was alone down- down there. Tied to a- a corpse.”

It always hurts to hear Robin cry and Steve wishes he could reach out and hug her, rest her head on his chest so she can hear his heartbeat and assure her that he’s okay, he’s still alive. But all he can do is tell her and hope that’s enough.

After a few more minutes of Robin crying she says: “I’m glad I don’t have to explain this to uncle Larry, if he still slept on the couch and woke up to this.”

They both chuckle softly, because laughing is easier than facing that this is their reality and very little people will ever understand them.

Then Robin softly asks: “Can you tell me about your day? Stupid dingus stuff that only you do.”

“Oi, I do more than stupid dingus stuff,” Steve protests without meaning it, planning to tell her about the arguing kids.

Before he can Robin says: “Oh sure, like you’re not about to tell me something the kids did today. You are predictable, Harrington.”

Steve quiets, because she is not wrong, but that’s only because she knows him too well. Robin connects the dots as to why he’s quiet and breaks out into laughter at his expense. Steve doesn’t really mind, because Robin’s laughter is so much better than her tears and Robin’s laughter is never malicious when aimed at him.

Still, he can’t let her think she can always get away with this even though she definitely can, so he sniffs haughtily: “So, I take it you don’t wanna hear about Max dunking on Mike?”

“No, I definitely do, please, dingus, don’t leave me hanging like this,” Robin changes her tune immediately.

Both of them know Steve was never going to leave her hanging anyways. Yet he pretends it’s really generous of him as he starts the story, going into far too much detail for the stupid small moment it was. It has become a skill to keep talking, to keep the nightmares and the bad memories at bay.

Steve talks until his mouth is dry and he can’t think of a singular other thing to say. Robin has stopped responding about an hour ago and Steve assumes she’s asleep. He says: “Love you, Robbie,” just in case then hangs up.

He drinks some water and gets about an hour more of sleep, before his alarm goes off. Just two more nights. He can live that long.

Keith probably thinks he’s dying, but he doesn't care enough to say something as Steve drags himself into work. Steve doesn’t care either, so they just ignore each other as Steve clocks in. God, he can’t wait until Robin is back at work. Back in Hawkins in general.

The day passes by slowly, Steve forgets the customers the moment they leave his sight. He just goes through the motions and hopes it’s enough to not get fired. The bell rings and he goes: “Welcome to Family Video, I’m Steve how can I help you?” without seeing anything through the blur.

“Wow, I’ve truly never been more warmly welcomed, Stevie,” Eddie's voice comes, snapping him out of his daze.

He blinks two times, before the boy leaning over the counter comes into view. Steve attempts what he hopes looks like a smile as he says: “Oh. Hey, Eds.”

“Dude, are you okay?” Eddie asks, brows pinching together. “You look like you’re about to kneel over on me here, man.”

Steve waves his valid concerns away. “I’m fine, really. Just tried, you know?”

An understanding looks dawns on Eddie’s face and he places a comforting hand on Steve’s shoulder, before looking him in the eye and saying: “I get it. Don’t be hesitant to reach out if you need it. I’m here for you, man. Least I can do.”

And it is true that Steve spend many nights on the phone with the metal head, talking him through his nightmares. He knew how rough it was and didn’t want the other boy to be alone. Luckily, Eddie had gathered the courage to tell Wayne, who has been helping him now. But after all that, reaching out to Eddie won’t be much of a stretch.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks,” Steve smiles tiredly. “But how can I help you? I'm sure you didn’t come in to just look at me.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, big boy,” Eddie winks, before setting off to the horror section, leaving a confused Steve behind.

Soon Eddie returns and Steve goes through the motions of checking Eddie out and handing him the receipt. Eddie repeats that Steve can call him or come by if he needs to before he leaves. Steve says he might, but doesn’t think about it until he’s standing over the phone again that night.

It’s just tomorrow night, then the day after that and Robin will be back. He shouldn’t call. He should let her be. He doesn’t want to disturb her.

Normally his nightmares aren’t this bad, but they’ve seemingly been amplified in Robin’s absence. Fuck, he just misses her so fucking much. She makes his life better. He needs her.

He feels tears welling up and he knows he should just pick up the phone and call, but guilt is holding him back. Robin hasn’t called yet. She is probably sleeping peacefully. She needs the rest.

At that point Eddie pops up in his thoughts and he thinks, why not. He wipes away his tears and grabs his car keys. He’s still in his plaid pajama pants and a simple T-shirt, feet bare, but he's beyond caring. He needs a hug right now, preferably from Robin, but Eddie will have to do.

He takes a detour by accident, driving past Robin’s house, before he’s pulling up to the trailer park. He is glad Wayne has the night shift, so he can’t accidentally wake the man, then knocks.

It takes a moment, before there is stumbling heard inside and Eddie calling out: “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He opens the door, immediately softening when he sees who is standing there. It should be a comfort to have someone, to be understood, but in that moment all Steve can think is how he isn’t Robin and he misses her.

Without his permission tears start to well up in his eyes and before Eddie can even think to react, he lets out a loud, mortifying sob and wails: “I miss Robbie.”

He sinks to his knees, eyes too blurry to witness Eddie’s panicking as he cries his eyes out. He knows it’s so fucking stupid. He saw Robin like six days ago. He talked to her yesterday. He is letting Eddie see him cry over something stupid. However all rationality has left him and all he can focus on his how a part of him is missing.

Warm arms wrap around him and he buries himself in the presence. Eddie smells of weed and sweat instead of the strawberry shampoo Robin uses and the hug is weird without her knobbly elbows. Still, he sinks into it and sniffs: “I just want to hug Robbie, want to know she’s okay.”

“Shushh, shushh, it’s okay,” Eddie soothes as he pets his hair. “I know you miss her.”

“I miss her so fucking much, Eddie, so so so much,” Steve whispers. “It’s all so empty without her. The world isn’t as fun.” The way he talks makes it sound like she’s dead, which is the wrong thing to think, because it sends him into a new round of tears.

“Do you have a number you can call, so that you speak with her?” Eddie asks. “I’m sure she’s okay, Stevie. She’s totally fine. Robin’s a little badass.”

“I know that,” Steve cries. “Of course, I know that. I’ve been calling her every night now. I feel so bad. She needs sleep. It’s just hard to sleep without her. But I don’t wanna disturb her again. Not with my- my bullshit.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie sighs, leading him inside as he comforts Steve more.

If he were more conscious of his actions, Steve would feel bad about making Eddie deal with his frame of mind, but he can’t think clearly right now. And after everything Steve has done for Eddie, he luckily doesn’t get tired of Steve. Well, not easily at least.

He keeps up comforts for about three hours. Steve keeps crying, even when his tears run dry, he just keeps sobbing without them. It's like he has finally broken. Every time Eddie has managed to get him near sleep, he wakes and the cycle starts up again. He has been too long without Robin, without his comfort human, his best friend, his soul mate. His brain isn’t built for that sort of thing.

It’s nearing 4:00 AM when Eddie gives up. But he doesn’t give up in the traditional sense. Instead he leads Steve outside and buckles him into Steve’s car, which still has the keys in the ignition from when he came stumbling out.

Eddie seats himself in the drivers seat, taking a moment to run his hands over the expensive leather of the steering wheel, before turning to the cassettes and popping in one which has Robin’s Mix written on it.

The music makes Steve cry again, but Eddie ignores it in favor of starting up the car and backing out of the trailer park and getting onto the road. He and Robin had talked about the trip a little and Eddie remembered the place, because he’d been in foster care there for a little.

It takes about three hours to drive to the little town. Steve has stopped crying and is staring out of the window with a blank look. His surroundings aren’t really registering and Eddie can’t wait until they’re there, so Steve can start to behave normally again. This is really freaking him out.

He pulls up to a diner, a small one that would have people that know everyone in a town like this. When he enters he gets some looks, he is a stranger, an outsider. He asks: “Can anyone tell me how to get to Mrs. Buckley’s house?”

The lady behind the counter gives him a one over, likely judging his stained sweat pants and sweater combo in which he sleeps. A gruff man in the back scoffs, probably thinking Eddie looks like trouble.

“Why’d ya wanna know?” the lady asks.

“I got a friend in the car, he’s been through a lot and he really needs to see his friend,” Eddie explains, pointing out the window to where Steve is. “They’re having a family reunion. Please, we drove three hours.”

The lady softens a little when he knows about the family reunion and looks outside to check his story. She spots Steve and softens even more, brow furrowing in concern. It is very deserved, Steve looks terrible, sitting there motionless like a corpse, just staring into the distance with red rimmed eyes.

“What happened to him?” the lady asks softly.

Eddie sighs, unsure how to explain it all. “Too much,” he decides to answer.

“Just tell the kid where he can find the Buckley’s, Doreen,” the gruff man speaks up. “I’m sure you’ll get the gossip later.”

The lady, Doreen, blushes a bit, then explains the route to Eddie, who nods along, trying to remember. He also feels like he’s about to fall asleep. He has been awake since 1:00 AM by this point, he just needs to make it over the finish line.

He gets back to the car and Steve finally looks up at the noise, mumbling: “What are you doing?”

“Getting you some rest, big boy,” Eddie explains. “And me. We’re almost there.”

Apparently Steve doesn’t care that much about what’s happening, because he lets it go and looks out of the window again. His lips are cracking and Eddie curses himself for not getting him something to drink in the diner. He must be thirsty after all that crying. Eddie resolves to make him drink something when they arrive.

In the end it is less than ten minutes from the diner and soon Eddie is pulling up to a nice neighborhood house, whose driveway is filled. Steve’s car is luckily smaller than his van and while Eddie isn’t the best driver, he doesn’t scratch her when he parks in the last empty spot.

He gets out of the car and walks around to the other side. He opens the door and gets Steve out, who follows mindlessly. If Eddie goes of what Steve blubbered between his crying, the man must have had a rough week. He probably feels more exhausted than he looks.

They walk up to the house and ring the bell. Eddie doesn’t care that it is way too early to visit, he just wants to dump Steve on Robin and take a nap. Fuck, he’s tired.

The door is opened by a man in his forties, who looks very confused at the appearance of two tired, pajama clad, young men on the doorstep of his mother’s house. He frowns and asks: “How can I help you?”

“Hi, sorry, we’re Robin’s friends, we really need to talk to her. Is she here?” Eddie smiles tiredly, trying to muster as much politeness as he can. He didn’t drive all this way just to be send away before he can reach Robin.

Besides him, Steve perks up from his zombie like state and repeats: “Robin?” in a hopeful voice that sounds very pitiful.

“If she doesn't know you, I’m slamming the door,” the man warns them, before calling into the house: “Robin, you have visitors.”

There’s a stumbling sound, which makes Steve perk up along with Robin’s voice: “Who visits at this hour, uncle Larry?”

“I don’t know, they’re your friends,” uncle Larry grouches.

Robin now appears, looking like she just came stumbling out of bed. She is still rubbing her eye tiredly, but stops when she sees who’s there. Immediately she is running as she excitedly screams: “Dingus!” pulling him into a hug and completely ignoring the other two people there.

The scent of strawberry shampoo hits Steve and he feels familiar bone-y elbows in his side. Instinctively he holds on tight and breathes: “Robbie.”

Tension melts off his bones now that she's there and he practically falls against her. The last of his tears leaking out of his eyes as he buries his face in her neck, shaking with relief and exhaustion.

“Hey, hey, what happened, Steve?” Robin asks him gently, voice filling with concern.

“I- I missed you,” Steve confesses, with a croak, voice failing him.

Behind him Eddie explains: “He showed up to my house crying about missing you but not wanting to bother you. I tried to get him to calm down, but he wouldn’t stop crying. So we came over.”

“Oh, you dingus! I told you to call,” she scolds him.

“’M sorry,” Steve replies in a small voice, not able to handle it if Robin is mad at him right now.

Robin picks up on it and changes her tone immediately: “It’s alright, I know you’re a bit of a self sacrificing idiot sometime. Here come in. You look like shit. You need to sleep.”

“Yes, sleep,” Steve mumbles, exhaustion hitting him full force now that he is safe with Robin.

Behind him Eddie adds: “He should drink something, all the crying, you know.”

“Smart. Uncle Larry can you get them a glass of water?” Robin says.

Her uncle is a little stunned at the emotional reunion, but goes to do as told. He’s a light sleeper and now remembers the young man he had on the phone a few nights ago, who also asked for Robin in a shaking voice. He gathers it must be the same kid and a stab of sympathy goes through him. The kid has obviously gone through a lot.

With that taken care of, Robin turns back to Eddie. “And what about you? You okay?”

“Yeah, just tired. Gonna crash for a bit,” Eddie replies, yawning.

They move to the living room, putting Steve down on one couch with Robin as Eddie sits on the other one. Uncle Larry comes back with water and says he’ll explain a bit to the rest of the family and keep them away so they can sleep, which they’re all grateful for.

After a few moments of quiet drinking, Robin softly says: “Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For looking out for my dingus,” she says.

Eddie smiles at her, dimples on display. “No problem, Buckley. He needed you and he’s done enough for all of us.”

“You got that right,” Robin says with righteousness in her voice, hugging Steve closer, who goes willingly with a content hum.

Steve honestly can’t really bring himself to care about anything right now. He has Robin, he can rest. He is only trying to finish his glass, because she asked, but he can already feel himself slipping away.

A hand takes the half empty glass from him and Robin says: “Okay, you're done I think. Go sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The words are enough for Steve to let go again. When he wakes up, he’ll likely have to face concerned and confused family members as well as feel really silly about the whole thing. But he doesn’t care with Robin there, he just fades away into sleep, peaceful for the first time in six days.

~~

A/N:

The aftermath is very funny to imagine, because what do you do when two random people suddenly show up. But I am too lazy to write this lmao, so you all gotta use your imagination <3

#rr writing #tw: nightmares #tw: disassociation #robin buckley #steve harrington #platonic stobin #steve and robin #platonic with a capital p #eddie munson #OCs #stranger things #stranger things fic #st post season 3

[saltwaterbells]

first & last line tag

tagged by @encrucijada & @macywrites & @karangarin & @subtlefires

first lines:

opening line of hunger like smoke: (technically the opening lines of book three but who knows what the fuck is going on with the order of this series, certainly not me) 

I don’t have a homeland, but I used to.

opening line of bathtub gods: 

What did you do when you realised monstrosity suited you better than femininity?

opening line of paradise sick: 

Summer comes in two varieties: the washed out pastels of youth, and the honeyed, sultry, slickly swallowing kind that change everything. The summer of 1973 was of the second variety.

last lines:

what i wrote last for hunger like smoke: 

That’s what I’m good at: when I get to let go and pull an apocalypse from the fuzzing clouds overhead, when the last thing that people will see, something forever burned and scarring in their retina’s, is my sintering form. When I get to burn from the inside out, when the ironroot wears off and for a moment I am almost all magic, that is when a camera will flash and draw me back into the shaking, cracking, aching body that is too fragile to hold me.

what i wrote last for bathtub gods: (kind of long but bear with me, out of context the lines don’t work lol)

Butterfly wings have feathers: that’s why you shouldn’t touch their wings. As a child, or as close to a child as you ever were, you’d kept a few injured ones in an old box under the couch, fed them sugar water. Their wings would flutter delicately, their tongues would unroll. After you’d been able to keep the first few until they’d healed and flown away your optimism should have curdled. Nothing good lasts. Your fourth butterfly had been crushed into the floor, even though you’d sworn you’d shut the box.

Sometimes it is hard for even you to believe yourself. Somehow it had gotten out. Somehow, someone had managed to step on it, smashed pigment into the concrete. You hadn’t kept any butterflies after that. You pretend you never had.

what i wrote last for paradise sick: (context, the main character is talking to her boyfriend about leaving to go to university. Ramona Whit is the main character’s favourite author)

“You’ll be the next Ramona Whit,” Joey said. 

“Here’s hoping,”

thank you guys for the tag <3, tagging: @phantomnations @godknives @khufiya-khaufnak-antariksh @onomatopiya and anyone who wants to do this !!! no pressure obviously to do any of this !

#jude.writing #wip: hunger like smoke #wip: bathtub gods #wip: paradise sick #my writing #tagging. #tag games. #my writing. #tw: insects #tw: disassociation #tw: insect death

[bornbreathless]

@wirwolff from x

jack can see that there has been so much ANGER && PAIN , behind her eyes holds her truth , a feeling of weight that he cannot && perhaps will not , ever understand . he wants to , he wants to be the one that char trusts && that she needs && that she opens up to , but he supposes , perhaps it must work both ways . he let his expression fall slightly as his eyes set on her , having just come from the kitchen were a DELIGHTFUL plethora of smells was escaping . jack paused slightly before then reaching over towards her elbow && guiding her in . ❝ come , ❞ he said softly , leading her into the house , closing the door behind them , jack softly wrapped his arms around her , pulling her close to his torso in hopes that his heat would soothe slightly .

hands running through her hair , jack pressed a kiss against her temple . ❝ whatever has HAPPENED , you are safe here , ❞ he said softly.

She'd debated over it the whole way here. Jack doesn't need to know about this. Doesn't need to know about the days where she can't feel anything, where she may as well be a ghost drifting through the world, intangible and immaterial. She'd tried to avoid it, too, tried to pull herself out of it, but it had been no use. She'd run until her feet bled, plunged into the icy cold of the ocean, dived into the throng of bodies and noise in all the seediest and most energetic clubs and still...nothing. Mind wandering so far from her body that she'd lost hours staring into space as the world moved around her.

But he deserves to know - and that's why she finally, finally, ends up at his door, and if she looks a little worse for wear it's because she doesn't have the energy to do anything about it. It's easy to guide her through the door, no resistance as she's pulled close and Char closes her eyes, burrows her face tightly into Jack's shoulder so she can breathe him in. The first breath she's taken all day, she thinks, though it does nothing to ground her. "'m sorry."

#wirwolff #tw: disassociation

[vodika-vibes]

What if Strife is Dusk's roommate? Cause like they probably don’t have enough rooms for all Corries. What would be the funniest thing Strife would witness and what would be the worst?

Also, hello there. Hope you are doing well✨🧡

I'm doing well today! Or I was until I forgot lunch, so now I'm sick. Meh, it's my own fault. And I forgot to buy ice cream at the grocery store! It's a sad day.

Dusk and Stife being roommates would be amazing. Dusk needs a babysitter most of the time anyway, and he would appreciate having someone to chat with.

The funniest thing would probably be sitting up with Dusk until 3 am because he's so tired that he's no longer able to sleep, and he's using charcoal to sketch tattoo ideas on the walls. The funny part is when Fox catches him 3 hours later and starts screaming at him while petting his head.

The worst would probably be on one of Dusk's bad shifts. When he's worked 16 hours with a Senator who doesn't believe he's a person, let alone human. When he returns to his shared room and he's trembling and looking through Strife as though he's not there, when Strife has to convince him to release his hold on his bucket because it's the only damned thing standing between Dusk and the people who wouldn't care if he was shot right in front of them. The worst would be the nights when Dusk is untethered (not disassociating, never disassociating) and he has to go and find whichever person is Dusk's person for that day.

Sorry this took so long. I had to go and pretend to be a responsible adult.

#vod'ika things #star wars #tcw #clone oc #lieutenant dusk #thanks for the ask~ #tw: disassociation #mentions of disassociating

[catmillers]

so far away – self-para – cat&eugene

tw: gore, disassociation/ptsd, death, drugs

"Dad?"

She had been in Eugene's arms seconds earlier and then there was a loud shot but she hadn't been hit. Cat couldn't hear anything; all she knew is there was blood – rushing in her ears, on her hands, coating her face. Her eyes flicked down to Eugene on the ground in a clump, more of that red seemed to ooze out from around him.

"Daddy?"

And then there were Peacekeepers on each of her arms, pulling her toward the stage and away from Eugene. Cat couldn't hear anything as she was dragged away from Eugene, but she knew she was screaming, thrashing, tearing her throat raw as she fought to get back to the only family she had left on this Earth. Twenty was too young to be alone, she hadn't learned everything from him yet.

"Eugene get up," She pleaded, only recognizing the fact she was crying from the salt taste that hit her mouth. She only called him Eugene when she couldn't get his attention, "Eugene fuckin' get up."

But he didn't move – Eugene was still. The hole the Peacekeepers had put in his head assured that Eugene Williams would never move again.

Cat couldn't breathe, she had turned Twenty only a handful of weeks ago – how was she supposed to do this alone? She couldn't survive the Games if no one at home and –

"What are you doin', kiddo?"

Cat whipped her head up, feeling caught she immediately defended herself, "Nothin', swear." Her hands shrank away from the duffle bag that sat next to her on the bed.

"Oh, yeah," Eugene drawled out coming to sit next to the teenager. He gestured to the bag that she had been packing mere moments earlier, and set it on his lap, "Big ol' queen a' nothin'?"

"I –"

"Why are you runnin'?" He cut her off.

Cat swallowed, wracking her brain to answer her guardian. "I don't wanna go to the Reaping again – what if they pick me?"

"They ain't gonna pick you," Eugene assured, handing it back to the teenager, "This your second one?"

Cat nodded taking the bag back and tucking it under her arms. "How do you know?" She asked looking anywhere but

"Just know," Eugene said with certainty, ruffling at the kid's hair, "Even if y'ain't gettin' Reaped you still gotta go, they'll be worlds angrier if you're not there, kiddo."

"You're gonna be there?" Cat asked softly, "Right?"

He laughed and nodded at how sheepish Cat was and promised, putting a hand over his heart, "'Course, Cat." He gave a sideways smile and patted her on the back, "We'll go together." Eugene creaked onto his feet and held a hand toward Cat. "You comin'?"

Cat hesitated, unsure if she could trust him on this, and she –

– placed the tab under her tongue with her eyes closed. She didn't know a soul at this party, and she didn't know what she was taking but that didn't matter. What mattered was she had just won the 127th Hunger Games so everyone knew her. And what did she have to show for it? Free drugs, the two small lightning-like burns that ran from her temples and branched out onto her cheeks? She guessed they just marked that she had lived; the electrodes from the virtual reality simulation had zapped at her skin – a part of her wondered how fried her brain was or if it was just how the Game itself had altered her brain chemistry. At this point maybe it was the drugs, too.

The tab finished dissolving and she sighed as her bones began to feel like liquid and she sank into a nearby couch. She watched as the world around her began to haze over, and the dark room of the party began to almost shimmer. A stupid laugh fell from the back of her throat as she felt it all kick in and she scanned the rather packed party. She'd won, she'd won, which made her a prize, made her something people wanted to win. She'd spent the better part of her evening playing dumb and demure to advances made upon her.

Maybe she was a prize, prizes didn't have to think for themselves or feel too much of anything other than good. A wandering hand on her shoulder caught her attention. She caught sight of the person who she decided had just won her for the evening, another Victor from a Game she couldn't remember. The identity didn't matter, what mattered was feeling anything other than alone. Can't think about Eugene if – 

"You got six more years if we're countin' this one."

Cat groaned, the heels of her palms digging into her eyes as they walked toward the Reaping for the sixteenth time together, "Doesn't make it less bullshit."

"Bullshit or not, we're just gettin' it over with," Eugene reminded, taking a turn into the main square of the town, "Odds a' you gettin' picked is low. Jus' keep your head down, kiddo."

"Keep my head down anymore I'm gonna disappear," Cat said, trying to joke her way around the very real fear coiling in her gut.

Eugene huffed out a laugh as they joined the crowd, "You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"Maybe," Cat shrugged. She was breathing a little easier – Eugene was right, this was just a biannual nuisance and Cat would never be picked. Odds were too low, "I'll see you after, okay, old man?"

"You know it."

They separated and the whole pageant that was the Reaping began. Some overdone speech about the importance of the Games and then the escort's hand went into the bowl. She pulled out a thin paper slip and read the name off:

"Catarina Miller."

Cat's brain didn't know how to reconcile hearing her name. She was only ever Catarina when she was in trouble and she knew she was certainly in trouble. Her legs moved clumsily as she wove through the crowd, trying to locate Eugene, trying to run to safety. Then a pair of arms were around her and she began to struggle as her ears tuned in –

"It's me, it's me," Eugene said, trying to soothe the panicked girl.

Cat looked up at him helplessly and shook her head, "I can't, I can't do it, I can't."

Then there was a struggle. Peacekeepers descended on the pair and began to pull them apart. Cat's fingers dug into the fabric of Eugene's coat, desperate to stay. Eugene was stronger, though, and clung to Cat desperately as he pleaded, "Pick someone else, not her, not my girl."

Then there was a gunshot and Cat's ears rang. "Dad?" She croaked out looking down at her blood-stained hands and –

Cat sat up stock straight in her bed, a sound halfway between a scream and sob echoed around the room. Her breath caught in her chest, only being able to move in and out in stuttered gasps. The air felt heavy as she looked around, her eyes were wild as she attempted to locate where she was.

A shaky hand pressed to Cat's chest, right over her heart as she attempted to soothe the palpitations. She couldn't right her breathing, but she knew where she was – she was in the Tower. In her bedroom. Safe. Cat was safe – no one could get her in there. But that still meant Eugene was gone.

She closed her eyes for a second, her brain greeting her with visions of blood and brains, and – Cat's eyes snapped back open and she propelled herself out of bed. Even with her eyes open she still felt like she was back in Six, watching her father die. The air smelled too much like ozone and her hand shook as she fumbled with her bedside table. Eventually, her hands took hold of a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. She shoved them into her pajama pants and beelined for the elevator. It wasn't a surefire way to snap herself out of it but it was the only solution her trauma-addled brain could offer. It was worth a shot, even if it reminded her she was alone.

#man idk i was possessed by the devil to write this #self-para #tw: drugs #tw: gore #tw: disassociation #tw: death #tw: ptsd #lmk if y'all need other tags #eugene –

[snailberries]

you ever feel like a black hole?

#my art #art #vent #tw: disassociation #me

[oh-katsuki]

Where The Panther Killed The Stag - Chapter 8 (Hanma x Reader)

masterlist | ao3 | series masterlist

prev | next

Pairing: Hanma x Reader

Series Content Warnings: THIS SERIES IS A PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR AND INCLUDES THEMES OF: murder, violence, abuse, alcohol consumption, mentions of drugs, hard kinks, rumination, guilt, depersonalization, dub/noncon, organized crime, mind break, and other similar themes.

Summary: You’re a good student at the top of your university class and the vice president of your student-led club. A shiny toy on the top shelf of your social circle. Hanma likes toys he can break. Slowly but surely, you begin to spiral into a twisted situation that is entirely out of your control, putting your life and the lives of the people around you at stake.

Or, Hanma takes an interest in the University of Tokyo’s resident good girl.

Chapter Title: A Collar With A Lock And Key - redirects to ao3

Chapter Content Warnings: fem!reader, insecurity, possessiveness, fear of retaliation, mentions of jealousy, mentions of sex, slight disassociation

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: This series is only available to read on ao3!! please follow the links in this post and heed the fic warnings! thank you and enjoy <333 it’s only going to get darker from here on out so please be cautious of your triggers!

#hanma x reader #hanma x reader smut #hanma shuji x reader #hanma shuji x reader smut #hanma smut #hanma shuji smut #[ 📕 – writing ] #tw: dark content #tw: possessiveness #tw: disassociation #i havent decided yet if i wanna use the blood banners on fics #or if i wanna keep using the chain ones #hmmm decisions decisions

[kiitzuna]

pov: you're clawing at the hole you dug yourself and everything finally caves in on you

#tw: disassociation #tw: unreality #soundcloud #music #marcy wu #house #electronic #edm #idm #deep house #glitchcore #internetcore #traumacore #club kiitzuna♥electric:sphere #SoundCloud

[raevascloset]

It was dark it was easier the light hurt their eyes. The floor was littered with crumpled tissues and discarded clothes the stains faded from them so quickly now.They stopped wiping them up. It was a cruel joke how the evidence of their misery faded from the eye but hung in the air for days. A putrid, taunting, sharp scent that reminded them of citrus.

They hated lemons.

They had to used to fill up the time with writing now they stared at the wall. Distantly they wondered if it had been days or weeks. They hadn’t bothered to get out of their chair for a while.

A sketch catches their attention tall, lanky, dark. They faintly remembered obsessing over getting it perfect. A number of scraps littered the floor along with its brethren. They decide they hate that sketch.

They hate this room.

They hate it a lot.

This room with its broken memories and promises and rot. It's not a convicted realization there was no glare. It's quiet it's numb. the only indication an ear flick.

It's not as if it any different beyond the door.

They wondered when home became a tomb.

A catacomb of suffering.

They didn’t want their home to be a tomb. Not again.

They didn’t escape one didn’t destroy one just to go back to another.

They didn’t want to go back to the rot.

To the fear.

To the dark when they had bled so much to make it to the light.

To the smell of Lemons.

They hated Lemons.

Lemons meant dark rooms and needles and collars and muffled cries.

Lemons were not home and yet here they were.

Lemons meant rot.

They hated them.

The sketch leered at them.

The sketch was in ashes.

The floor.

The Rot became ashes.

The Lemons became smoke.

It was mechanical.

The flame was pleased.

They were tired.

They curled into a nest of of ashes and broken promises.

Tomorrow they would plot.

Because beyond their sanctum of ashes and smoke the Rot continued to fester. They knew that the flames would not fix that Rot. Not for long.

But for now they rested.

Tomorrow they begin.

#server carg #mineshaft feed #cw:unsanitary #cw: eden mention #tw: illness #tw: blood #tw: disassociation #joaif

[picavecalyx]

      lays on the floor.       believes him. disassociates.

#ic ;; blue bird bloom #tw: disassociation #;; dash commentary ;; #pulchramundii #SJDIOFJSDFSJDOFIOSDFJOSDFISDJOFISDFJOSIDJFSDc heLP #silva v: i do not see. i'm going into space

[apalestar]

[GROUND]: during a moment of intense emotional stress, the sender gently takes the receiver's face in their hands to ground them until they're calmer again.

@chosenbythecrystal from Reasons to Cup a Face // no longer accepting

The dank, dark of the kennels where blood and despair clung to them like an old friend. Time was but a construct here where they lamented and wained under the watchful gaze of their jailor. He was recently returned after a brief leave to the boudoir to entertain a lascivious duchess. Under Cazador’s orders no less. He begged to no avail that without a proper meal he’d not be the lay she desired.

When his failure to perform to her satisfaction assuredly came, Astarion was tossed unceremoniously back with his brother. Godey returned with two putrid rats. One for each. But the elder’s coated in garlic powder and spice so when he drank— Rashes and burns lined his lips. Broke out in this throat. The blood so sorely needed turned to vicious poison.

Starved and injured he retreated far, far away. To a mental plane where the hurt wasn’t real. Where Astarion didn’t have to exist.

When their next meal came, panic gripped him anew. Were these too poisoned against him? His iris emitted a soft, red glow from the bloodlust. He dared not move. He dared not budge to inflict more pain upon himself. He’d rather starve. He must have begun to retreat once more for chilled hangs rested on his cheeks. Eyes just as hungry as his reflected back.

Try as Noctis might to reach him. To make him see reason, Astarion’s mind still fled leaving behind his husk of a shell.

#ask: penning the rogue #chosenbythecrystal #verse: a willful brother #// there is nothing but pain to see here #tw: abuse #queue #tw: disassociation