#I hate being vulnerable even when I need it

[grimaldiapologist]

Writing on a blog dedicated, at least in spirit, to our dissociative identity disorder, this is something that fascinates me. For context - living with the poster child disorder of "that's not even real" and "you're just faking it to get out of jail" and "you're just histrionic with bpd I know this because I took a psych class once in uni", that some fucking airheads still make their paycheck "criticising" in the psychology field (and teaching), the fear of being declared a faker, an attention seeker, a liar, a self-centered and stage-obsessed criminal-until-proven-otherwise came as a free package with the diagnosis. Just the suspicion of the diagnosis was enough for all of those labels. From whom? Everyone.

The first time I dared to open my mouth to my psychiatric nurse, she was putting me against the wall for lying and omitting, because in her view, I was doing too well with no explanation. In reality, at that point, I'd spent some months after becoming aware of the system getting to know them and reading up on how to get the basics of communication together, and working through the first chapters of Coping With Trauma-Related Dissociation, which helped us understand what we needed to do with one another in order to stabilise and feel safer in our everyday life. Things were actually going wonderfully, I wasn't lying, but I was omitting, yes. I was omitting, because even though at that point I knew nothing about DID beyond what I was learning from resources and my friend/now partner, who'd been in the community for a long time and gave us crucial peer support in terms of figuring our situation out, I knew extremely well the stigma associated with "split personality", and our first and primary instinct has always been to hide and cover the existence of the system.

But she was forcing it, so I told her. I was asking for help, yes, but with the context of doing so well - we were winning, and we wanted to keep winning.

She promptly told us we weren't allowed to leave, and started to set us up for involuntary inpatient stay. Exactly what we'd been afraid of the most: that "the psychiatric system" would imprison us and kill us, kill the parts of us who were vulnerable, with cocktails of medication in padded rooms and straitjackets and whatnot that we'd seen in the movies. (And, to a degree, during our actual inpatient stay years before.)

The resident psychiatrist did a quick evaluation of us and released us after, clearly annoyed at the nurse for overreacting and putting us in the extremely triggered and traumatised state that we were in, but it did permanent damage.

Very soon after, we discovered the online "discourse" on the validity of DID, and the "fake claiming" communities. This is all we inherited, first thing, with our diagnosis - which we did get after the above clusterfuck, within a year, with the aid of a specialising therapist and years of notes from our history, or so I assume. I can't remember, it's been years, and I have DID. The point is, even the DID community itself demands that you will never show a bright side to your disorder.

You either suffer all of the time, always, you hate yourself, you hate your other selves, you want to die, and you're forever a mess and you're in eternal war against yourself, or you're faking.

We are not this way and have never been. Prior to discovering the system, we were poorly. To spare the details, at 29 when we were diagnosed, we hadn't worked a day in our lives, dropped out of school at 12, and spent about a decade locked indoors with suicidal spirals being the expected main event of every three days or so. But our main strength has been our us, the family that we have, and the care that we've shown each other all along. Even if we can't love ourselves, we can love each other, and after learning communication - learning to listen, learning to talk - we've been doing phenomenally. Our condition has changed from treatment-resistant and debilitating to actually, we no longer need SSRI medication at all, after being on it for our whole lives. And luckily, this is enough proof for us, but not the world.

No, we're now in that funny place where our partially treated trauma/dissociative disorder looks like too much fun to the world. We're fine and we love each other. We indulge in dressup, we have our own silly little blogs and journals each with their own specific equipment like fancy ink pens and wares of stickers and decor, we have galleries of fake Instagram pictures of ourselves, we use PluralKit on Discord and talk to ourselves like we own the chat - among friends, anyway, or just between ourselves in our private one. All of this means we're fake, fake, fake, fake. God forbid a man has fun. God forbid a woman takes an afternoon to herself to give herself a makeover and go on a date. God forbid a guy just wants to feel comfortable and laugh and express himself, or have a chat with his closest friends.

We're not in enough pain all of the time to be "true" DID anymore. If we were "true" DID then we'd still be in the untreated, pre-diagnosed state. This is a stagnant disorder of identities that may never experience growth or true humanity. All I am allowed to be is a filthy, incapable hikikomori afraid of the world, because anything else is fucking weird to people.

I'm sorry, but. None of your fucking business. I've spent 33 years of my life split squarely on a tightrope over the chasms of "I don't want to die" and "I want to kill myself now". I'm 33 fucking years old and I've earned my goddamn license to feel good, actually. I'm allowed to be fucking weird because I'm developmentally disabled. I will never not be the way that I am, and I also have no intentions to ever be anything but the way that I am, I'm just aiming to be better at it.

This now means that I'm not actually allowed to talk about my disorder... basically anywhere but here and in therapy. No matter where I go, people treat me like a criminal. People who don't have DID tell me I'm faking for clout and larping (LARPing is great by the way and you should absolutely try it out instead of using it as a weird slur online) and they're the champions of true sufferers who are there to nobly remind me that REAL people with DID are actually so in pain all of the time and dying unrecognised while freaks like me... post on Tumblr for attention or whatever I don't fucking know I'm still disabled and in chronic pain and I can't do shit with myself regardless of our overall improvement - and people with DID tell me what I have isn't real DID and I'm "anti-recovery" or whatever because I don't subscribe to their specific dogma of recovery (which, for the record, every single microcosm of the recovery community has their own version of, and they all hate each other for it). The latest edition of how this fucked us over was our choice to write frankly about the positive sides of how the often negatively portrayed coping mechanisms of DID can be turned to work for recovery, and how things like substitute beliefs (believing things that are factually untrue such as 'I am an actual dragon trapped in a human suit' when you're not) can be used not to distance one from reality to escape but help one adapt into it (because I am a dragon in a human suit, a dentist cannot scare me), and had the whole conversation just without warning or any sort of notice deleted from the community. Mods never replied to my request on clarity on what the fuck they were doing and why, and I haven't been back in the community since, either.

And it's hilarious. The whole fucking thing is hilarious. You're faking it if you've recovered too much, because a true sufferer of a severe mental health condition would never recover, but if you don't recover enough, you're anti-recovery, and therefore also faking. There's a slim venue of acceptable suffering in an eternal still-shot in the middle, but you're not actually allowed to exist beyond it or past it in any capacity.

The only true DID case is a non-person who is incapable of growth and change, for a disorder that is all about identity, which by definition is all about growth and change.

I'm so tired of it. Sorry, freaks, I'm gonna freak the way that I freak from now on. I'm too well-adjusted these days to be your perfectly martyred poster patient.

ive found that partially treated mental illness can sometimes look to uninvolved onlookers like faked mental illness.

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　MIGRAINE

spencer reid x reader

SUMMARY: Spencer has suffered from headaches since his teenage years, but nothing like the one he's experiencing now. When a bad migraine decides to hit him during his work time, Y/N is right there to help him, just like she promised she always would.

WARNING: Somewhere between ep 11 and 12 from season 6 | Migraine, pain, throwing up, Spencer being "babied" and taken care of (just like it should've happened when he had his migraines).

REQUESTED?: No.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

���　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

The first time Spencer Reid experienced a migraine, he was sixteen years old. At the time, he had chalked it up to stress. It wasn’t unusual for him to push his mind and body to the limit; classes by day, independent studies by night, and taking care of his mom full-time.

But, like most things in his life, Spencer adapted. He found ways to manage the episodes, learning which triggers to avoid. Over time, the migraines became something he lived with. He rarely talked about them; they felt too personal, too vulnerable. And vulnerability wasn’t something he had been taught to show, not in childhood and certainly not in his line of work now.

Since joining the FBI, the migraines have remained manageable. Sure, the stress of chasing unsubs and staring at evidence under glaring lights could sometimes bring on a headache, but they were rare enough that he didn’t worry. Until today.

The pain started as a faint pressure, a dull throb behind his eyes as soon as he woke this morning with a call from Hotch, Y/N's warm body against his own doing nothing to ease it, but he had dismissed it, thinking it was just lack of sleep since they've just got back from a case in New Mexico.

Y/N's eyes were sure to catch it all, how his shoulders were more hunched, his steps just a touch slower, and the faint crease between his brows that seemed to just stay there. She knew his body language like the back of her hand; something was off.

But Y/N didn’t hover or prod. She knew Spencer’s rhythm, his boundaries, and she knew that he didn’t need her hovering or asking every ten minutes if he was okay - he hated that. She trusted Spencer to come to her if it became too much.

Instead, she slid a small glass of water and Spencer's usual medication across the counter to him, pairing it with a piece of toast slathered in butter and his first cup of coffee.

She didn’t say a word about it, only kissed his cheek softly as she leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper as she murmured "I love you", her lips lingering for a moment.

And Spencer was sure that her kiss would magically make him feel better in no time - silly him. By the time they arrived at the BAU, the ache had deepened, expanding until it felt as though his entire skull was caught in a strong fist.

Now, in the middle of the afternoon, sitting at his desk, Spencer struggled to focus. His temples throbbed in time with his heartbeat, sending jolts of pain that spread down his neck and shoulders.

A sharp sensation had settled behind his left eye, making it impossible to fully open without a stabbing pain shooting through his head. He pressed his fingers to the sides of his head, attempting to massage away the discomfort, but it was futile.

A tingling sensation kept creeping along his arms, the nerves in his fingertips hypersensitive to the touch of his pen. Even the faint friction of his clothing against his skin felt unbearable, leaving him breathless. His limbs kept moving around in his chair, trying to find a position that didn’t make his muscles feel like they were ready to snap.

Across the bullpen, Morgan leaned casually against the edge of his own desk, glancing momentarily at Spencer while talking with Ashley, a teasing smirk growing on his face as he noticed the younger's pace while flipping pages - it wasn't slow, but surely slower than 'Spencer's normal'.

"Looks like someone’s slower than usual today." Morgan called, his tone lighthearted as he hoped to pull Spencer into their usual playful demeanor.

But Spencer didn’t respond - which wasn't news when the genius was concentrated, squinting his eyes at the too bright lights above him, sending harsh glares on his desk that seemed to burn straight into his brain.

He tried to look up in a tentative of looking at Derek, but as soon as his eyes moved, his vision sparked with white flashes that momentarily blinded him, not noticing how Morgan's smirk faltered as he exchanged a concerned glance with Y/N across the room, who had been shooting Spencer glances for quite some time now.

Frustration started to bubble inside Spencer as the pages of the case file in front of him seemed to blurry even more when he moved his eyes back to it, the letters swimming across the paper as if they were mocking his attempts to work.

The sounds around him only seemed to make things worse. Across the bullpen, Prentiss's deep voice rose in conversation with JJ, sharp and too loud for his own taste. The gentle tapping of Ashley's keyboard sounded like a woodpecker drilling into his ears. The steady rustling of paper, the faint squeak of wheels on rolling chairs, even the scratch of Y/N’s pen on paper, it all seemed to close around him, leaving him struggling to breathe. He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together in an effort to keep himself from snapping.

But the worst part was the impossibility of concentrating - Spencer’s mind was usually his greatest ally, a place where he could retreat and find order even in chaos.

He stared at the case file in front of him, the report on Andrew Jacobs, a killer who had brutally murdered several women, including his own wife. Spencer knew the details of the case intimately, had memorized every little thing, every piece of evidence. But now, as he tried to write his report, the words wouldn’t come.

His pen hovered over the page, trembling slightly in his hand as the muscles in his fingers twitched. He pressed the tip of the pen to the paper, determined to start, but his mind was blank. No, worse than blank, it was fractured.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to write a sentence.

Andrew Jacobs exhibited narcissistic tendencies, as evidenced by-

The thought dissolved as another burst of pain shattered his focus. The rest of the sentence was lost, replaced by another white flash. His hand tightened around the pen, and he nearly snapped it in half as he exhaled a shaky breath.

He tried again.

Jacobs selected victims that resembled-

The throb in his temples flared, and he dropped the pen, his hand too weak to hold it.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, desperate to shut out the light, the noise, the overwhelming sensations. He hunched over his desk, his breathing shallow and labored, trying to ride it out without drawing attention to himself - well, more.

Maybe caffeine would help. It had worked before, maybe inconsistently. But it was better than nothing.

Pushing back his chair, Spencer stood, determined to exterminate his pain. But the pace in which he did it sent a wave of vertigo crashing over him, the room tilting precariously to one side.

His vision narrowed as he stumbled, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the edge of the desk, but his fingers missed the mark. His foot caught on the leg of his chair, and he tripped forward, nearly knocking over a stack of case files in the process.

Lucky him.

"Spence!" Y/N’s voice cut through the cloud of his disorientation, filled with concern.

Before he could even process what was happening, her hands were on him, one steadying him by his biceps, the other catching the stack of papers before they could scatter across the bullpen.

Spencer forced a quick, shaky smile, hoping it would be enough to stop her worry.

"Sorry." He said, his voice as steady as possible. The effort to sound okay only made the pounding in his head worse, and he winced slightly as he tucked a very short lock of hair behind his ear - still used to having it longer. "I'm okay. I just tripped."

Y/N’s brow furrowed as she studied him. Her hand lingered on his arm, her grip gentle but firm, as if she was afraid he might fall again.

"Spence, are you sure? You don’t look-"

"I’m fine!" Spencer cut her off, his voice a touch too loud, earning a questioning glance from Prentiss across the room. He cleared his throat, softening his tone. "I just need a refill." He added, holding up his empty coffee mug as if it were some sort of shield. "Do you need one? I can get you it if you want!"

He didn’t give her a chance to respond before stepping out of her grasp and making a beeline for the coffee station. He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away, but he didn’t turn back.

Reaching the coffee maker, Spencer set his mug down with trembling hands, the slight clink of ceramic against metal sounding impossibly loud to his hypersensitive ears. He focused on the simple motions of pouring the coffee, hoping the familiarity of the task would anchor him.

The smell of the freshly brewed coffee hit him, and his stomach churned in response. He swallowed hard against the wave of nausea but pressed on, filling the mug to the brim.

The first sip burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. He gulped it down, the heat spreading through his chest like liquid desperation. Maybe the caffeine would kick in quickly, stopping the edges of the pain enough for him to concentrate.

But as he drained the mug, the room began to spin again. A nauseating dizziness wrapped itself around him, pulling his vision into darkness for a moment too long. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white as he fought to stay up.

His stomach churned violently now, and his head felt like it was splitting apart. His legs wobbled beneath him, threatening to give way, and he knew he couldn’t keep standing. He needed to sit down. Now.

Spencer scanned the room for the nearest chair. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as he half-stumbled toward the breakroom table, collapsing into a chair before his legs could betray him entirely. He set the empty coffee mug down on the table with shaking hands - almost missing it - and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

The sound of Spencer’s body collapsing against the chair reverberated through the bullpen like a thunderclap. Heads turned instinctively toward the breakroom, curiosity quickly giving way to concern when the sound was followed by a groan. A deep, guttural groan of pain that struck Y/N.

She knew that sound.

Her head snapped up, her pen clattering onto her desk, and in an instant, she was on her feet, moving toward it with determination.

"Y/N?" JJ's voice called after her, tinged with confusion, but she ignored her.

As she entered the room, the sight before her made her heart squeeze. Spencer was slumped in one of the chairs, his body hunched forward, his arms clutching his stomach. His hair was a mess, sticking to his damp forehead, and his shirt was rumpled, the fabric pulled and creased as if he’d been tugging at it in desperation to rid himself of the sensation of it against his clammy skin. Sweat dripped from his temples, his face pale and drawn, his eyes half-closed as though the effort of keeping them open was too much.

"Spence?" She whispered, her voice steady despite the panic rising in her chest.

She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands hovering uncertainly near his, afraid to make things worse but desperate to comfort him.

"Hey, what’s wrong? What are you feeling?" She asked, her tone filled with concern. Her eyes scanned his face, searching for any clue, but the only response she received was a low, pitiful whimper.

The sound broke her heart.

Before she could press him further, Spencer’s body stiffened, his face contorting as a sudden wave of nausea overtook him. His stomach grumbled violently, and he gagged, a sharp, involuntary sound that echoed through the room.

"Oh my-!" Y/N gasped, realizing what was happening just as he tried to stand, his weak limbs shaking under his own weight.

He only managed to rise an inch before his knees buckled, sending him crashing back into the chair. His hand flew to his mouth as another gag wracked his body, his face twisting with misery. The effort to move had only made things worse.

Y/N acted on instinct, her heart pounding as she spotted the small trash bin tucked beneath the desk behind him. She grabbed it quickly, her movements fast, and positioned it under him just in time.

Spencer bent forward, his body heaving as he retched violently into the bin. His stomach emptied itself in painful spasms, each cough leaving him weaker. One of Y/N's hands cradled his shoulder to keep him from falling to the ground, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back.

"It’s okay, sweetheart." She murmured softly. "I’m right here. Just let it all out. You’re going to be okay."

Her fingers traveled from his back to the back of his head, intertwining through his damp hair, tucking the short strands behind his ears as she continued to whisper reassurances. The sound of her voice was low and soft, grounding him.

Outside the breakroom, Morgan and Prentiss had gathered by the coffee station near the door, their expressions shifting from confusion to alarm as the muffled sounds of gagging reached their ears. Morgan had been the first to step forward, concern taking over his face, but Emily stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Give them a second." She said quietly.

Inside, Spencer’s nausea began to ease, though his body still trembled, probably because of exhaustion. Y/N kept knelt by his side, her hands never once leaving him, wiping the sweat off of his forehead.

When he finally stopped, Spencer sagged against the chair, his face pale as a ghost, and his breathing shallow and uneven. Y/N quickly took off her jacket, gently wiping his mouth and chin before brushing the hair from his face again, creating a mental note to throw her clothing inside her washing machine as soon as they got home.

"Y/N, you don’t have to do this-" Spencer started, his voice weak but laced with sincerity as he tried to lift his head and meet her gaze, trying to push her jacket away with his hand.

Y/N didn’t let him finish, shaking her head.

"You make it seem like taking care of you is hard work." She cut him off with a soft smile, her free hand slipping over his lifted one, her thumb rubbing gentle circles into his knuckles, lowering them.

Spencer's eyes darted away, his cheeks coloring faintly in embarrassment. He hated that she was seeing him like that - so sick and so not him.

"But taking care of you." She continued, her other hand coming to rest on his thigh, warm and grounding. "Is the easiest thing in the world."

Spencer hummed softly in response, the sound noncommittal but tinged with gratitude.

"Now." She said, her eyes searching his as she lowered her head to his high, searching for his eyes. "What’s going on?"

Spencer shook his head weakly, his lips pressing into a thin line. He was too drained and too overwhelmed to explain the relentless storm of pain that had consumed him in such a small period of time.

Y/N exhaled softly, her worry deepening as she took in his refusal to answer. She glanced over her shoulder, debating whether to call for Hotch or JJ.

"Okay." She said gently, leaning closer so he could hear her. "You don’t have to talk right now. Just breathe. I’m here."

The smell of vomit began to permeate the room, clinging to the air in a way that would have turned most stomachs. But Y/N didn’t flinch. She’d seen and smelled worse in her years with the BAU. Compared to that, a little puke was nothing.

"My head..." Spencer’s voice cracked as he whimpered several minutes later of silence, his words barely audible as his hands flew to his face, fingers pressing harshly against his eyes.

Y/N’s heart clenched, and she instinctively reached for his wrists, her hands gently tugging his away from his head. His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and glassy, pain etched into every line of his expression.

"Oh, honey." She cooed softly, brushing the strands of hair from his forehead. "It’s your migraine again, isn’t it?"

A faint, almost imperceptible nod was all he managed.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" She asked, her voice gentle. "You should’ve said something before we even left your apartment this morning."

He shook his head weakly, as if the mere thought of explaining himself was too much effort.

Y/N sighed, her fingers brushing over his temple in a soothing motion.

"Alright." She said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We’re going home, okay?" She paused for a beat, watching him closely. "Can you stand?"

Spencer didn’t respond right away. He stayed hunched over, breathing unevenly, his shoulders trembling slightly as if he was waiting for his body to answer for himself. Finally, after a long moment, he whispered.

"I don't think I can. I’m dizzy... really dizzy."

Y/N’s expression softened even further.

"That’s okay." She assured gently, her hand rubbing slow, comforting circles across his back. "There’s no rush, Spence. We’ll wait until you feel ready, alright?"

He didn’t answer, but the slight relaxation of his posture told her he’d heard. She stayed by his side, her fingers trailing up to his shoulders, massaging the tension she could feel knotted beneath his crumpled shirt.

"I’m going to grab some water for you, okay?" After a moment, she whispered. "Just something to rinse your mouth and maybe settle your stomach." She began to shift, preparing to stand, but the soft wince that escaped Spencer stopped her in her tracks.

He reached out, his hand trembling as it found her arm, his grip gentle but insistent. His big puppy eyes met hers with a silent plea.

"Can you stay?" He asked lowly, his fingers loosening slightly but not letting go. "I don't need water."

He actually needed it, but it could wait. He preferred her by his side.

"Yeah, okay. I’m not going anywhere." She assured him, nodding. "I’m right here."

She settled back into her position beside him, her arm draped protectively over his shoulder. They stayed like that for several minutes, Y/N murmuring soft reassurances while Spencer focused on taking slow, measured breaths.

Eventually, he shifted slightly, his posture straightening just enough to signal he was ready.

"I think... I can stand now." He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N nodded, throwing her jacket over her shoulder before her hands moved to support him as she stood, then gently helped him to his feet. He swayed slightly, heavily leaning against her, his weight a little awkward against her frame, but she didn’t mind.

"Easy." She murmured, her voice calm. "One step at a time. I’ve got you."

With painstaking care, she guided him out of the breakroom, her focus entirely on him. Their teammates noticed them, their concerned gazes following, but Y/N didn’t pause to explain.

She led Spencer to the bathroom, not caring to turn on the lights, knowing that it would just make his situation worse. She eased him down onto the small bench near the sinks, watching as he sank into the seat with a groan, his head drooping forward again as though even holding it upright was too much.

"Hang tight." Y/N said softly, brushing her hand over his shoulder before turning toward the sink.

She turned on the faucet, letting the water run cold, and dampened a handful of paper towels. Returning to Spencer, she knelt in front of him and gently pressed the cool towels to his face and neck. He sighed faintly at the momentary relief, his body relaxing slightly under her care.

"There we go." She whispered, dabbing away the sweat on his brow and cheeks. "Just a little longer, alright?"

She smoothed down the rumpled fabric of his shirt, adjusting it to make him more comfortable, and ran her fingers through his hair, untangling the damp strands.

"You’re doing so well, honey." She murmured, her voice gentle. "We’ll get you feeling better soon, I promise.

Spencer blinked at her, his pain-clouded eyes filled with love. He didn’t have the will to speak, but the way he leaned into her touch said everything he couldn’t.

Y/N smiled softly, her thumb brushing lightly over his eyebrows before standing again.

"Come on." She said, offering her hands. "Let’s get you out of here."

Spencer took a deep breath, summoning what little strength he had left, and let her guide him to his feet. Y/N steadied Spencer as they exited the bathroom, her hand firmly wrapped around his right arm - it would be barely 20 steps to the elevators. She could handle that. She tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but commanding.

"Spence, close your eyes for me, okay? The lights out there are only going to make it worse. I’ll guide you, I promise."

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then nodded weakly and let his eyes flutter shut. Y/N adjusted her hold on him, now wrapping his waist, taking most of his weight as they slowly started their journey through the small path to the exit doors.

The hum of conversation in the office dimmed as curious eyes turned toward them. Y/N’s jaw tightened, her sharp gaze sweeping the room, sending a hard glare to anyone who dared look too long or seemed close to say something, as if to warn don’t even think about it.

Her eyes found Morgan when they crossed the glass doors, who was watching them, his expression full of concern. He tilted his head slightly, silently asking if she needed help. She gave him a curt nod, Spencer's body against hers starting to make her legs feel tired.

Morgan moved swiftly, stepping ahead to press the elevator button, ensuring the doors would be ready for them. Then, without hesitation, he came to Spencer’s other side.

"Let me take him." Morgan said gently, sliding his arm around Spencer’s shoulders to ease the weight off Y/N.

Spencer stiffened for a moment at the unfamiliar touch, but as Morgan steadied him, a flicker of recognition crossed his face. He relaxed slightly, leaning into Morgan’s strength, though his grip on Y/N’s hand remained loose, as if afraid to let her go entirely.

Morgan gave him a reassuring smile.

"Hey, pretty boy." He said lightly, his tone warm and familiar. "How are you feeling down there?"

Spencer’s lips twitched faintly, a weak attempt at humor breaking through the haze of pain.

"Not so pretty right now." He murmured, his voice hoarse and strained.

Morgan chuckled softly, his hand giving Spencer’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Nah, you’re still prettier than most of us, even like this."

Y/N allowed herself a small smile at Morgan’s effort to keep the mood light. She adjusted her pace to match theirs as they finally reached the elevator. Morgan shifted slightly, ensuring Spencer stayed upright while Y/N pressed the button for the parking level - he really looked like he was about to pass out, and none of them wanted that.

The elevator ride was quiet save for Spencer’s shallow breaths and the occasional comforting words from Morgan. Y/N kept her hand on Spencer’s one, her fingers tracing calming circles above his skin.

Morgan’s grip was steady as he guided Spencer to the car after they reached the garage, Y/N walking ahead to open the passenger door.

"Alright, pretty boy, here we go." Morgan said softly, helping Spencer lower himself into the seat. Spencer groaned faintly as he settled in, head resting against the headrest.

Morgan straightened, closing the door carefully before turning to Y/N, who stood nearby with her keys clutched tightly in her hand.

"You good, Y/L/N? You sure you got this? I can follow you, help get him settled if you want."

Y/N shook her head.

"I’ve got it. Thank you, though. He’ll be okay. He just needs some rest and quiet." She offered Morgan a small but grateful smile. "Can you let Hotch know that we had to go earlier? I'm gonna text him later to explain it all better, but I know he will be worried."

Morgan studied her for a moment before nodding.

"Yeah, you got it. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"I will." Y/N replied.

Morgan gave her upper arm a gentle squeeze before stepping back, waiting until she climbed into the driver’s seat before heading back inside.

Once the door was closed, Y/N glanced over at Spencer. His breathing had already evened out, his face slack with sleep. A twinge of sadness pulled at her chest, wishing she could take all his pain away. She reached out gently, brushing a lock of his hair from his forehead.

"You’ll feel better soon, baby." She whispered softly.

With the car in motion, Y/N quickly decided that taking him to her apartment would be the best option. Spencer’s place, though obviously comfortable, required climbing a flight of stairs, and there was no way she was going to risk him - or herself - having to deal with that. Her building had an elevator, and she knew he’d be just as safe there.

The drive was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the engine. Spencer didn’t stir, his head tilted slightly against the cool window as the motion of the car lulled him deeper into sleep. Y/N drove carefully, taking turns gently and avoiding any sharp stops, all the while stealing occasional glances at him to ensure he was okay.

When she finally pulled into her building’s parking garage, she cut the engine and let out a breath. Turning to Spencer, she hesitated for a moment before reaching over and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Honey." She said softly, giving him a gentle shake. "Hey, we’re here. I need you to wake up for me, okay?"

Spencer let out a quiet groan, his eyelids fluttering as he slowly began to rouse. He squinted, grimacing as if the mere act of opening his eyes was too much.

"I know, I know." Y/N cooed softly, her voice full of understanding. "I'm sorry, baby. Just a little further, and you can sleep again. Come on, I’ve got you."

With sluggish movements, Spencer let Y/N unbuckle his seatbelt and help him out of the car, cringing slightly at how useless he felt and looked right now. His legs were unsteady, and she quickly wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him toward the building’s entrance.

By the time they reached her apartment door, the sound of clicking nails on the floor echoed as Snow, her fluffy little Shih Tzu, padded over excitedly to greet them.

"Hey, Snow." Y/N whispered softly, nudging the dog back with her leg as Spencer swayed slightly beside her. "Not now, sweetie. Go lie down."

Snow, almost sensing the mood, tilted his head, nudging lovingly at Spencer's leg before trotting off to his bed in the corner of the living room.

"Alright, Spence. Let’s get you to bed, too." She guided him carefully into her bedroom.

Her free hand swiftly clicks her bedside lamp on, the soft glow of it casting warm light across the room.

Helping him sit on the edge of the bed, Y/N crouched down, quickly unlacing his Converse and slipping them off one at a time. Next, she loosened his tie and removed it, setting it gently on her dresser.

"Let’s get this off too, okay?" She murmured as she unbuttoned his crumpled white shirt.

Spencer didn’t resist, his limbs too uncoordinated to help her, only moving them to press his palms hard against his eyeballs again, but his action was quickly - and gently - stopped by Y/N.

Once the shirt was off, leaving him in just his pants and mismatched socks, she eased him back against the pillows, ignoring her mind telling her that he would be mad for 'going to bed in outside clothes, do you know how many germs there is in this?'

Spencer sighed softly as he sank into the mattress, the lines of tension in his face easing just a little. Y/N adjusted the blankets, pulling them up to his waist to keep him warm before brushing her fingers softly through his hair, tucking the messy strands away from his face.

"There we go." She whispered to herself, her voice as soft as the dim light of the room.

Satisfied that he was settled, she straightened up and turned toward the door, ready to let him get the rest he desperately needed. But just as she took her first step, she felt a gentle tug on her wrist. The touch was weak, barely there, but enough to stop her.

Turning back, she saw Spencer’s hand wrapped loosely around her wrist, his long fingers barely curled. His eyes were still shut, but his brows were drawn together, his lips parting as he whispered, voice hoarse and fragile.

"Can you... stay here? Just for a little more."

Y/N immediately sat in the mattress, by his hips side, her heart skipping a beat with his tone of voice.

"Of course, honey." She murmured, brushing the top of his fingers softly with her thumb. "I’m not going anywhere. I promise."

Spencer let out a shaky breath. His grip on her wrist didn’t tighten. If anything, it was soft and almost reverent, like he was afraid to hold on too hard.

"Sorry." He murmured, his voice cracking, so quiet she almost missed it. "I’m... sorry for all of this. For making you deal with this."

The apology was so honest but so unnecessary that it sent a pang straight through Y/N’s chest. She leaned closer, resting her free hand gently on his cheek, her thumb tracing along his jaw.

"Spencer." She whispered, her tone firm but warm. "Don’t be stupid." She smiled faintly, noticing how his right eyebrow moved slightly up, the way it always did when he was feeling confused. "You’ve done this for me so many times. How many nights have you sat with me when I wasn’t feeling my best? How many times have you made me tea, or read to me until I fell asleep, or stayed up just to make sure I was okay? You never complained. Not once."

Spencer’s lips pressed into the faintest semblance of a smile, barely there but still enough to make Y/N’s heart squeeze. His hand slipped from her wrist to her own hand, his fingers curling around hers, warm despite the cool sweat still lingering on his skin.

"Thank you." He whispered, his voice raw, like it was taking everything in him to get the words out. And maybe it was. Being transparent with his feelings was the hardest thing for Spencer - something he was trying to change since putting his eyes on Y/N for the very first time.

Y/N leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a moment as if to let him feel every bit of affection she carried for him.

"You don’t have to thank me." She murmured, her lips brushing against his skin. "This is what love is, Spence. I’m here because I want to be here. Because I care about you."

Spencer’s grip on her hand stayed soft as his features relaxed again, the tension melting away. But just as she began to pull back, her tone shifted, still gentle but also firm.

"In the morning, we’re going to the doctor, okay?" She said softly, her tone sounding rhetorical, as if not waiting to hear his opinion.

Spencer’s brows knitted together, his lips parting in protest, but he didn’t immediately respond.

"Spence." She continued. "I know you’ve dealt with migraines since you were younger, but this? This wasn’t normal. It came out of nowhere, and it hit you so hard. You have to have it checked out."

Finally, he spoke, his voice cracking.

"But... what if... what if it’s not just migraines?" His voice wavered, and he squeezed her hand tighter. "What if it’s... what if it’s something worse? What if it’s like my mom?" His voice broke on the last word, and he swallowed hard, his breathing shaky. "I can’t... I can’t risk that. I can’t risk knowing that now. I can’t risk losing you because of it."

Before Y/N, Spencer had been trying to do every test and clinical exam that would show him how close to schizophrenia or Alzheimer's he could be - his college years had been full of them - but now he did his best to stay away from it. He just couldn't risk it.

Y/N’s face fell at his words, and the fear evident in his expression. She cupped his face gently, forcing him to look at her, even if his eyes fluttered open for only a moment.

"Spence." She said, her voice thick with emotion but steady. "You’re not going to lose me. Ever. Do you hear me? Whatever happens, I’ll be right here. I’ll be with you every step of the way. You’re not alone in this."

He closed his eyes again, his features crumpling as he absorbed her words. He wanted to believe - he needed to - but the example he had from his father had been everything but perfect.

"Don't keep worrying your head with this. We’ll talk more in the morning, okay? Right now, I need you to rest. Just rest."

"I love you." He murmured, his voice softening. "So much."

Y/N let out a shaky breath.

"I love you more." She whispered back, smiling softly, brushing her fingers through his hair one last time before pulling back. "Get some sleep." She said gently.

This time, he didn’t protest as she stood and stepped toward the door. Quietly, she slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She let out a breath, her shoulders sagging slightly as the tension of the day began to melt away. Snow trotted up to her, tail wagging gently as if offering quiet support.

"Alright, boy." Y/N murmured, scratching Snow behind the ears. "Let’s get this place in order and make something to eat for later, huh?"

[thef1diary]

i was the anon who was talking about how dirtbag danny would use the whole inexperienced reader roleplay as an excuse to be gentler and sweeter and oh my god, what you wrote in response... it's got me thinking

i could definitely see daniel going through something, and he finds it very hard to be vulnerable with the reader so he obviously doesn't tell her what's going on. but suddenly he's always needing something slow and deep and intimate in bed and he's being sweeter, and he's holding her closer than usual afterwards. and she kinda wants him to go back to being mean and degrading because everything is easier when there's some emotional distance between the two of them. and because when it's all slow and intimate between them, it feels a lot like making love and that's obviously not what they're doing... right? 👀

— I’m so glad you liked it! One roleplay after another, yet they were all the same: soft, sensual, sweet. the things you weren’t familiar with from him, the ones you didn’t want to be familiar with. While it was confusing, you weren’t sure if you hated it. 18+ content below

Daniel had been different lately. His usual edge—the sharp dominance, the biting words—had softened into something quieter. He didn’t explain why, of course. He never did. Instead, he threw himself into this… roleplay. That’s what you told yourself it was. That’s what he said it was.

It had started a week ago, his hand on your cheek as he looked at you with something just shy of tenderness. “You’ve never done this before, huh?” he’d asked, his voice low and teasing, like it was all part of some game.

But this was Daniel. Dirtbag Daniel. He didn’t do tender. He didn’t do sweet. And yet here he was, night after night, coaxing you into his bed with soft words and slower touches, guiding your body like he was teaching you how to feel good for the very first time.

And tonight? Tonight was no different.

His hands were on you now, rough but measured, sliding down your sides with a reverence that made your skin burn. You lay beneath him, his body pressing yours into the mattress, and for the hundredth time, you felt the cracks in his persona. His hips rocked into you, slow and deep, every thrust deliberate, every drag of him inside you speaking more than his words ever did.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. His hand slid under your back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Letting me show you how it’s supposed to feel.”

The words made your stomach twist, and not in the way they used to. You almost hated how soft his voice sounded, how his gaze pinned you in place like you were something fragile, something precious. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t supposed to feel like…making love.

You tried to push back against it, to claw your way back to the usual dynamic. Your hands slipped over his shoulders, pressing against him in a bid to flip him over, to change the pace, to remind him who he was. “Let me ride you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but determined.

But he didn’t budge.

“Uh-uh,” he said, his tone still soft but firm enough to pin you in place. His hands gripped your hips, holding you down against the mattress as his thrusts continued their maddening pace. “Not tonight, sweetheart. You stay right here.”

There it was—the dirtbag edge, the flash of dominance that usually had your body tingling and your mind spinning. But even that felt different tonight. The smirk on his face didn’t reach his eyes, and when he leaned down to kiss you, it wasn’t the usual teasing brush of lips before he pulled back to make you beg.

This kiss lingered, soft and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your heart stutter. You whimpered against him, trying to take control of the moment, but his hands tightened on your hips, grounding you.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice breaking just slightly. “Just let me, okay?”

Your chest tightened at the words, your nails digging into his shoulders as he rocked into you again. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like more.

“Daniel,” you gasped, unsure of what you were even trying to say.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his hand cradling your cheek. “What is it?” he asked, his tone gentle, almost concerned. “You need me to slow down? To stop?”

You shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “No… I just…”

“Just what?” he pressed, his thumb brushing over your cheek. His movements didn’t stop, his thrusts slow and steady, building a pressure inside you that you couldn’t fight. “Tell me, sweetheart. What do you need?”

The question made your head spin. What did you need? To break the tension? To push him away? To rebuild the distance he was so carefully dismantling?

But you couldn’t speak. Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when his body was pressed so tightly to yours that you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. His thumb brushed over your cheek, coaxing your gaze back to his. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just let me feel you.”

When you nodded, his hips shifted, his thrusts growing deeper and faster, you couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat. He buried his face in your neck, groaning as your walls clenched around him, and you felt the crack in his persona like a lightning bolt.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, the words shaky and uneven.

The way he said it made your chest ache, and you hated how much you wanted to believe him. This was supposed to be fun, dirty, and detached. It wasn’t supposed to feel like he was pouring everything into you, like he was holding on to you for dear life. His lips found yours again, the kiss slow and deep, and when he pulled back, his gaze didn’t waver.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Your breath hitched, and you shook your head, trying to deny it, trying to hold on to what little control you had left.

But he didn’t let you.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his tone soft but unyielding. “I know you feel it. You’re not as good at hiding as you think.”

His words shattered the last of your resolve. The pleasure building inside you reached its peak, your body trembling as you came undone around him. Your nails dug into his back, holding him closer as you cried out his name.

Daniel groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress as he buried his face in your neck.

But even then, even as his breathing slowed and his body relaxed against yours, he didn’t pull away. He stayed there, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him afloat, whispering words you weren’t ready to hear.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You’ll always be mine.”

And for the first time, you couldn’t tell if it was still part of the roleplay—or if he meant every word.

want more dirtbag!danny? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[evelynvipah]

I’ve been wanting to talk about how even Jinx is very ignorant, or just comes off as uncaring, to the extent of Vi’s trauma in regard to before her prison time and after. I’ve also always found it quite weird and unfunny how quick people were to make jokes and say that Jinx “clocked” Vi in the tunnels when they were searching for Vander and fought about what they were doing after all the time had passed.

Jinx has actively watched her sister lose herself for months without interference—with knowledge that she was thrown into Stillwater, facing things that Vi obviously isn’t going to be that vulnerable abt—knowing that they both share the intense childhood trauma of losing an entire family in one night, and still finding it within herself to make fun of Vi being passively suicidal is honestly horrible to me. Especially considering the position Jinx has nonstop been putting Vi in since they reunited. Yes, Jinx has been going through some traumatic things, but not once has she even stopped to think (that we’ve seen) of what her sister has been through for the past seven years. The guilt she must be harboring for things she should not have had anything to do with, or responsibility over.

There have been plenty scenes where Vi recounts bits and pieces of her experiences in Still and most times she not only downplays it for the sake of trying to help other people understand where her position on a situation is from, but goes unacknowledged. With Jayce, when she asks him if he knows what being trapped for days, months, or years in a stone box is like he changes the subject to talk about their plans to go against what the council thinks and be more active against Silco. And with Jinx, her own sister, it doesn’t go any further than Vi wanting to reassure her that she’s always been there thinking about her and hoping to someday find her way back. No one, even Ekko, truly tries to reach out to her in a way that validates her own trauma and how the many changes she’s been through so far is affecting her. It’s all about what she can do for them or what position she holds in their lives. And I don’t say that in a way of meaning that everyone should drop everything they’re doing to focus on her, but a little goes a long way. Vi speaking out about her own prison trauma in multiple conversations could be her subconsciously asking for someone to show her some support or care that she hasn’t been on the receiving end of in years. She’s Jinx’s family—her only family left really—and all Jinx does is constantly disrespect her and what she’s willing to do or put aside for her.

This is me ranting at 2am so it might not make much sense (needed to get this out here), but I really hate that Jinx says to her “I busted half of Zaun out of Stillwater while you were passed out in the bottom of a mug,” as if that makes her such a good and heroic person. Yes, Jinx doesn’t really feel like that, but for her to throw it in Vi’s face like the girl hasn’t been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders since she was a child is sickening.

Some may hate me for saying this but I really feel like so far the only person that has put more thought into Vi and what she’s ever gone through is Caitlyn. Caitlyn is the one who got Vi out of Stillwater and saw first hand her conditions. Caitlyn is the one that got to witness Vi’s world be turned upside down when she came back to Zaun and saw it’s all gone to shit. Caitlyn is the one that Vi told about Powder and her family and what it all meant to her. The amount of guilt and responsibility weighing on her shoulders over something she had no control over whatsoever. Being parentified by her own father figure and community, leaving her with no space to be a child. Caitlyn has stuck by her side when her sister was harming them directly too, seeing Vi as her own individual and not an extension of Jinx. Even when they separated, Caitlyn still managed to do some good thinking about Vi by forbidding the use of the cells on the lower levels of the prison because of how inhumane they were. To say that Vi had only known Caitlyn for such a short time, Vi had become Caitlyn’s everything real quick and I feel like it says something when compared to Vi’s strained relationship with Jinx. Or even Ekko, the only other person who would truly understand what Vi had been through and is still going through. Being the protector, being the savior, being someone that people feel can solve every last one of their problems. Jinx had a chance to really connect with Vi outside of saving Vander, and she chose to hurt Vi because she knew she could. She knew she wasn’t the only one with open wounds not even close to healing, and she couldn’t help but rub salt in the ones of her own sister to make herself feel better.

-rereading and this is all over the place but whatever loll

[callme-holly]

something about ponyboy x f reader meeting again in the hospital after he came from the church and he thinking that she doesn’t like him anymore after he bleached his hair

𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 [ponyboy curtis x reader]

𝐚/𝐧: i feel like i never write enough ponyboy stuff y'all sorry

The sterile smell of the hospital was a somewhat working distraction from the panic coursing through your body, your heart pounding wildly in your chest as you trailed after Darry and Soda, both of whom were miles ahead of you, their faces contorted with worry as they raced down the hall.

It felt like you'd been walking forever, and you were so caught up in your own head that you didn't even notice when they'd stopped short, both fussing over the boy who had caused you so much stress the past week. You hang back, letting the brothers have their moment, observing silently as they hug each other tightly.

Pony looks different, incredibly so. He's covered head to toe in what looks like ash, his clothes hanging off of his frame, which looks thinner than usual, and his hair... despite the strands being blackened with the remnants of the fire, anyone can see his hair is no longer that reddish-brown you'd grown so used to. No... it's blonde. Blonde and free of grease and a hell of a lot shorter than it was when he'd left.

You're still staring when he pulls away from his brothers, turning to face you with tears in his eyes. He looks so vulnerable, standing there before you, and you swallow heavily as you rush over to him, wrapping him up in your arms and burying your face in his chest. His arms snake around your waist instantly, clinging to you as if afraid you would disappear in front of him. 

"You're okay..." you whisper against his chest, and you're not sure whether it's a statement or a reassurance as you hold onto him. 

Pony doesn’t reply, just hugs you tighter. "We thought... we thought you might've died or something. I heard what happened. It's all over the papers, Pony."

He shakes his head at that, pulling back. His eyes are wide and glazed, and you want nothing more than to pull him back into your embrace and never let go. "Johnny... Johnny might die." He gasps, and despite the shock of the words, you can only manage a brief nod in response. You can tell he's shaken up, and the last thing he needs right now is you breaking down too. 

Instead, you reach up, running your fingers through his new hair. It's cut in a way that's far from professional, as if done with a blunt knife, and the bleached strands are patchy in places. He looks a lot like Dallas like this: blonde, messy, broken, and it sends a chill through you. 

"Real tuff" You chuckle, brushing a curl out of his face, and he averts his gaze, eyes flitting around the room, lingering on Darry and Soda fighting off reporters and then landing back on you.

"Do you hate it?" His voice is barely above a whisper, cracking slightly at the end, and you feel your heart sink slightly.

"What?" you ask softly, reaching forward to cup his face, forcing his attention on you again. "Hate it? Pony, no-"

"Do you hate me?" There's fear in his eyes, and it makes your heart hurt to look at him. His hands grasp yours, squeezing them gently as his voice grows stronger and steadier, "For what happened with that soc? For running away and not saying anything and for scaring y'all?" 

Your breath catches in your throat. He thinks you hate him...? Your hand slips out of his, and your eyes meet his. His gaze is pleading with you. "No," you say simply, trying to keep your voice steady as you take a step closer. "I could never hate you. Never, Pony. Don't ever think that."

He looks unsure for a moment before nodding slowly, letting the tension ease out of his shoulders. "Really? You promise?" 

"Yeah, really." And it's the truth. You love him. Even if he did leave without a word, leaving you behind and worrying everyone else with his absence, you still love him. How could you not?

His cheeks flush as he ducks his head in an attempt to hide it, a small smile pulling at his lips. You know there's a lot he wants to say, but you also know he'll tell you in his own time, and right now, he just needs to be around the people who love him. And you're happy to be one of them. 

[signanothername]

Do you think a nightmare would force Killer into 1 to punish (tourture) him?

Like, killer goes too far, nightmare knows killer doesn't really feel anything in 2, 3, or 4 (him just getting more distant/violent), so instead, he forces him into the only mode where Killer feels anything and then punishes him accordingly?

I mean it’s a possibility, but Nightmare would need to know what triggers Killer into stage 1, and if I know one thing, is that Killer won’t let Nightmare in on what could triggers him to that stage

Nightmare’s negativity has no true power to switch him to stage 1, but rather it switches him to stage 2

I’d say Killer would be extremely careful of being in stage 1 at all in Nightmare’s presence, or whenever he’s even within his vicinity at all, he knows Nightmare would be unforgiving, even torture him at that stage if he was in the mood for it, not to mention, the environment he lives in doesn’t allow for vulnerability or weakness, something that Killer himself hates in himself, so I think Killer might find ways to prevent Nightmare from knowing he’s at stage 1 if he can help it

It doesn’t mean that Killer never was at stage 1 or was never on the verge of switching to it a few times within Nightmare’s presence, but he tries not to be in that vulnerable position if he could

If Nightmare somehow found a way to forcefully switch Killer to stage 1 (which I believe would be a very unpleasant experience to Killer), then I don’t see him above actually forcing him to that stage just to torture him

The thing is though, I think despite any stage, Killer can be tortured in any way, whether physically, mentally, or emotionally

While Killer is dissociated and distant at stage 2, and that dissociation only intensifies the higher the stage, Killer is still Killer despite the stage he’s in, cause while Killer can have a love for physical pain in stage 2 for example, it’s crucial to understand that his love for that pain stems from the want to be tied to reality, pain grounds him

I think Nightmare would only truly want to have Killer at stage 1 if he wants killer to respond to that torture in a more typical manner, such as begging for mercy, or a genuine look of fear on Killer’s face, otherwise I think Nightmare would have no problem to torture Killer at any stage really, cause Nightmare knows that despite Killer’s atypical way to respond to torture, he’s still being tortured regardless

Not that I believe Killer can’t have more typical responses to torture at stage 2 or higher, but Nightmare would have to know exactly what to do to get those more typical responses (such as taking Killer’s soul away for weeks on end) but generally, his responses are not typical

Not to mention, Killer is prone to switching stages rapidly at a very short period of time, when Nightmare tortures Killer’s cat, Killer is seen at stage 1 at first, only to switch to stage 2 after everything is over (all while his soul is still wavering) it’s an obvious sign that Killer dissociated himself from what was happening at the moment that he ended up at stage 2, but is in a shaky position where he’s conflicted on what to do or feel

Which is why, to me at least, torturing Killer works at any stage really, cause even if Nightmare were to torture Killer at stage 1, Killer would simply dissociate cause of it and end up at higher stages regardless

[showerthoughtsofagoldengoose]

why Okarun is a real g

-he was bullied and had no friends and somehow came out of it without any exceptionally strong feelings of hatred or resentment towards his peers.

Trust me as someone who has been in that position (minus the bullying) it is SO easy to hate everyone. From what I’ve heard we learn very little abt this character’s life but I’d assume he might have at least had a good upbringing to turn out like this. I did not so that might be part of why I literally despised everyone and became a bit of a femcel for a while…

-polite, puts others first.

Legit who doesn’t like someone like that? I see no need to even elaborate on this point.

-he respects women’s boundaries.

It’s so common for boys in shounen to be creeps and so seeing a male shounen protagonist who actually is decent towards women is really refreshing! Especially one from a show whose premise revolves around him losing his dick and balls! (The only other shounen I really like is chainsaw man which takes an incredibly nuanced approach to a perverted male protagonist, and I wouldn’t really call Denji perverted as much as he is horny, desperate, and a typical teenaged boy. He reminds me a little of my boyfriend when he was younger lol)

unrelated but even tho the “scenes” of creepiness in the show are kind of unnecessary (I think they’re there so turbo granny can come in clutch and save Momo from whatever is happening to her, since turbo granny’s whole schtick/initial redeeming quality is protecting girls from those kinds of threats. That and the series is batshit insane and needs ridiculous ways to get from point a to point b. I still see why people don’t like these scenes tho) it is kinda interesting to me that the most pervy fuck it I’m gonna use the real word RAPEY literal attempted sexual assault moments in the show seem to be used to make us dislike a character and view them as fucked up. (Allegedly they stop being used which thank God but I digress I’ve been talking abt them too long lmao)

the good guys in the series are like, actually pretty innocent. Aira looks at her dad’s porn to figure out how romance works, Momo and Okarun have this incredibly sweet and innocent romance, and don’t make it weird or creepy when they see eachother in a vulnerable position, Jiji is just a very close childhood friend of momo’s and while he might like her he seems to be pretty respectful and again, innocent. Have yet to meet the rest of the cast but I do hope to see this pattern of innocence continue.

I might also be reading into it too much idk

[finalgirlwillbyers]

Heyyy

I trust your judgment when it comes to proper characterization of Will and want to ask the following if you don’t mind 🎄

What are the chances that Will is going to start the season with a “love interest” already? I mean kind of like Steve was introduced to the audience - making out in school’s bathroom? I guess I am mainly curious if Will as a character could get with some random boy (let’s say from the basketball team) during the time skip? Let’s say someone attractive and relatively nice hits on him, would he get involved with the guy? Also, would he start some secret relationship with someone he does not feel emotionally connected to?

Thanks.

There is a 0% chance of Will starting the season with a new love interest (who I call Random Guy #9). There is a 0% chance of Will entertaining another guy, outside of it being a 10 second gag. There is a 0% chance of Will considering requited romance as a real possibility for himself.

Will entering a romantic relationship is payoff for his growth. Said growth isn't "complete" yet. Not only is Will introverted and shy, Will is also closed-off. You need to be open to be in a relationship.

When S4 ended, Will--

1. was in love with Mike and unable to articulate his feelings in a way Mike understood. Plot line unresolved.

2. shared that he felt like a mistake. Self-loathing has never been addressed in show. Plot line unresolved.

3. was called out for talking to Jonathan less. Will is still hiding and isolating. Plot line unresolved.

4. was unable to communicate his sexuality, fearing rejection. Plot line unresolved.

5. was burdened by his connection to the Upside Down and Vecna, left vulnerable to evil. Plot line unresolved.

He's a Byers, the show's masochists. They love pining when there's "no hope" and self-flagellation. No wonder Hopper is marrying in /j.

I like the idea of Will trying to "move on," taking chances, and exploring his sexuality beyond Mike. But, I also understand that this isn't possible with how the show is written. This is why fanfic exists.

Will is the character having extreme difficulty moving on from previous events. His supernatural trauma has compounded with his real world struggles. He hates himself, and he blames himself (for real or imagined and supernatural or natural reasons).

He isn't in a good place. Quite frankly, he needs to be in a bad place in order to follow in the footsteps of his predecessors. That's not just Billy and Vecna but also El and Max.

The Duffers need to write Will overcoming a myriad of emotional, psychological, and physical obstacles for a relationship with another person to be possible, even if it's Random Guy #9. It gets more complicated with Mike, but I digress.

Will is a lonely figure. He struggles to be seen truly by those around him. This isn't just because he's hiding but also because those around him are preoccupied with their own problems. With that in mind, it doesn't make sense that Random Guy #9 sees Will or that Will allows himself to be seen (prior to his coming-of-age).

[chillian-murphy]

Headcanons for sub tommy?? I know it's super off canon but it's exactly because of this we're lacking sub tommy content 😭😭😭 I can't do this anymore I need to ruin that man

THE LACK OF MALESUB CONTENT IN THIS FANDOM IS ABSOLUTELY CRIMINAL. I'm right there with you.

*Getting him to even consider submitting is incredibly difficult at first, and even once he agrees to try it, there's a lot of walls to break down

*He's determined to top from the bottom at first, because of course he is

*When he does finally decide to submit, he's determined to be the best sub there is, with the hardest cock and the best posture, turning everything into a competition with other submissives that only exist in his head

*This frustrates you almost as much as him trying to top from the bottom, the whole point was to get him to let go of his competitive side and actually chill the fuck out and be vulnerable for once

*With a lot of gentle effort, you're finally able to get him to relax a bit and give himself over to you

*He responds especially well to soft, murmured words of praise

*Physical punishment does nothing, though, he's so used to being in physical pain that he barely notices anything short of having his balls crushed

*You start stuff that challenges his ego first, like making him crawl on all fours instead of walking, and making him strip naked while you stay clothed

*He absolutely hates it, but it makes his dick rock hard

*Unsurprisingly, he loves ponyplay

*Once he's broken down, he's the neediest little thing, who just wants to prove his worth to his mistress and maybe get his dick touched

[vaquerolvr]

so… if we have your sexuality hcs what about their types?

(and maybe how would they approach their future s/o? maybe with a letter or just straight up “i like you”)

hope you’re doing good and staying hydrated

-🍂

i tried to focus on personality rather than physical appearance so idk if it’s exactly what you wanted. sorry if it sucks, i am trapped in a car again. Free Me.

price

his type

dilf/milf enjoyer

he wants someone who’s caring but also independent

who can handle themselves when he runs off on missions for weeks at a time

how he’d ask you out

is weirdly blunt about it

sounds like he’s negotiating a business deal

(the overly formal language is to hide that he’s nervous)

gaz

his type

people who don’t take things too seriously

carefree but not childish yknow?

how he’d ask you out

smooth af

has you laughing and blushing so much that you don’t even realize you’ve agreed to anything

until you’re alone later and you’re like “wait did he mean a friend date or a Date-“

ghost

his type

not picky about appearances, focuses more on personality

someone who has their shit together because he definitely doesn’t

how he’d ask you out

doesn’t

bottles his feelings up until he dies

being serious, it would take literal years because even if you were giving him the clearest signs that you like him, he’d still gaslight himself into thinking you’re not attracted to him

it would probably take one of the guys pushing him into it and he’d be fully expecting you to reject him

soap

his type

women who look like they can kill him

most important thing for him is hygiene/self-care

not necessarily a bodybuilder,, just like someone who takes care of themselves

idk how to explain this

how he’d ask you out

just blurts it out randomly

you don’t take him seriously at first

so he gets friend-zoned like ten times before you realize he’s serious and go out with him

alejandro

his type

i hate to say it but he’s definitely one of those guys who likes to be coddled

so someone who’s caring and affectionate (and clingy, like him)

how he’d ask you out

surprisingly sweet about it

he falls hard and fast and he doesn’t want you to underestimate how much he cares about this/you

he’s a fan of big gestures

so he brings mariachi and one of those big ass bouquets to your house

rudy

his type

just,,, someone who’s not dumb

he deals with alejandro’s antics enough

he just wants someone with common sense

how he’d ask you out

i think he’s a bit old fashioned

so he spends weeks ‘courting’ you before actually making a move

similar to alejandro but he does it somewhere private so there’s no pressure (or nosy neighbors recording)

graves

his type

emotionally vulnerable people who rely on him

WHAT WHO SAID THAT

tbh i don’t think he has a ‘type’

he just likes what he likes

but if he had to pick, he prefers partners with experience

how he’d ask you out

again: doesn’t

you just wake up one day and realize you’ve been dating him for the past two years

makarov

his type

confidence

doesn’t care what you look like, having a confident demeanor is enough to catch his eye

how he’d ask you out

kidnapping someone counts as asking them out, right?

keegan

his type

alternative fashion (specifically goths)

personality wise, someone who’s not afraid to call him on his shit/speak up in general

how he’d ask you out

nothing fancy, just casually asks one day

is really nonchalant about it but nearly throws up from excitement when you say yes

nikolai

his type

he needs someone who matches his freak

and by that i mean, someone who won’t even blink if he comes home with 5 stray cats one day

so just someone who’s generally chill and laidback

how he’d ask you out

hear me out-

you spend months agonizing over whether you’re just friends or if he likes you

and when you finally ask him, he’s just “wdym do i like you? haven’t we been dating for the past four months??”

[synthetickitsune]

Kitsune!Joshua (SVT) | Heartbreak angst | 0.9k | gn!reader warnings: mentions of violence, kidnapping A/N: there's also this +1 drabble bcs i ended up lowkey hating it and tried to save it by writing this

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. That’s what the others told him. All of them. Every single one of them is telling him the same thing, advising him, lecturing him. 

None of them knows what it feels like. They’re all oblivious, ignorant. Joshua feels like they’re trying to loom over him, mock him, pity him. All they do is try to make him feel small but he won’t let them.

They have no idea.

He wants to bare his teeth. He can feel his lips curling up and exposing the long fangs just seconds before he buries them in their throats and feels the warm blood filling his mouth.

He’s not weak. He’s not pitiful.

Nobody but him knows what it’s like.

It makes him bristle, the way they’ve been looking at him since he told them. Like a rabid beast, all he wants to do is bite and tear.

In all honesty it’s not their fault. He played his game, only he didn’t win. Not even a stupid prize. But the whole situation reminds him why foxes don’t live in packs like wolves do.

They’ve all been warned against falling for a human being, they’ve all heard the tales of how such love stories end, and yet his own friends don’t have his back.

Well they certainly won’t get any sympathy from Joshua should anything happen to them ever again.

Yet he feels the tension completely roll off his shoulders once he lands softly on the floor, his paws barely making any noise on the plush carpet in your bedroom. It’s just as well, you’re tossing and turning on the bed, restless. All he wants to do once he stands at the foot of your bed as a man, for the most part, is to crawl next to you and wrap you in his arms. 

His gaze might wake you sooner or later, he knows. He’s still undecided whether he should let you see him or not. His ears twitch at the top of his head, your neighbours are still awake so he’d have to be quick to stop your cries for help. Not an issue. He’s always been a good hunter.

Maybe you’ll change your mind if you see how crazy in love he is for you?

Foxes only fall in love once. Once. In their neverending lives, only one person gets to own their heart. It’s beyond cruel, Joshua understands that now, despite always believing it was romantic. Beautiful, even. How foolish he was.

He licks his lips. Your neck is bared to his hungry eyes and his teeth itch to embed themselves into your throat. To mark you, to taste you. Perhaps to hurt you a little, after all.

His tail swishes silently behind him. He can’t stay still anymore. Or he really might pounce and do something he’d regret later. Perching carefully on your bed, he studies you for a few minutes. You’re really not getting any sleep, are you, you poor thing? From this close, his heart aches for you. He can sense your distress, but it’d be pointless to step inside your dreams if you’d just startle awake. Sweat glistens on your skin and he smooths out the wrinkle between your brows with a gentle touch. He has to stop his tail from moving when you don’t wake up. When you lean closer. See? You know, deep down, that he’s good for you. That you need him. 

You’re so soft. So weak and vulnerable. And yet it’s you who holds his heart in your hands. He knows how the story ends. You’d tear the tender muscle apart like a savage splitting a pomegranate.

He swallows and in the darkness of your room, Joshua allows himself a quiet whimper. Why won’t you love him? There exist creatures more monstrous than he is. He loves you. He’d protect you. He’d care for you. He’d grant you immortal life to spend with him. He’d worship you. His ears flatten against his head and his tail hangs limply. Do you know you’re the only person he’s ever looked so fondly at? Would you even care?

He moves his hand to the top of your head next, slowly stroking your hair. You start to settle, and he can only smile wistfully. Why won’t you listen to your heart? Surely you love him too, don’t you? 

He doesn’t know everything there is to know about humans, but he knows you. And he knows you wouldn’t share a bed with him, wouldn’t make love with him unless you loved him. The way you look at him, or at least how you did before tonight, couldn’t be mistaken for anything. It was love.

Joshua feels the anger rise up inside of him again. If you love him, then what’s the issue? He won’t abandon you, he won’t love anyone else - he physically can’t. What are you so afraid of… Yet his touch remains gentle. Deep down you know he’s what’s best for you, only your weak human heart fights the truth. It’s alright. He can wait. You lean into his touch when he caresses your cheek and he smiles. For you, he can wait centuries.

The noise coming from your neighbour’s apartment stops. He knows it’s not likely that they’re already asleep, but at least it should mean they’re in bed and won’t notice what’s going outside their windows. The noise he can take care of.

He’s quick when he scoops you up in his arms and covers your mouth. It only takes a few seconds for you to realize what’s going on but by that time he’s already made it past your window and out. He lets you fight back while he coos at you. Afterall, he might miss it once you accept your fate.

[kikuwaters]

The fear of being seen

A little scene I wrote in which DK has started to really become close with Emmrich, and the raw vulnerability is scaring him. Lucanis is there to talk to him about it. Mentions of sex and sexual intimacy

For the past three days, DK has been wandering around the lighthouse with a stare more empty than a successful crow's wine cabinet. 

Lucanis tried to ignore it at first. He knows the man can become ill at times, and he's seen the way he lays down midday with a cold compress for his forehead and a mean-looking mug pointed at no one but his own pain. He told himself maybe DK was tired, as he knows on long treks how the man struggles to stand. How he needs a longer moment to rest than others at times, gripping his staff less like a weapon and more as an aid in his exhausted, thin fingers. But DK made no indications he was hurting or even upset. He was just... quiet—moving like a somber ghost in their home. 

By the third day, Lucanis was running out of lies to tell himself. For he knew how DK behaved; as much as he hated to admit it, he knew DK. And when he spotted his polite but distant smile that even left Emmrich looking hurt that morning, he knew this couldn't keep going on. 

“DK...” Lucanis says, his voice careful as he approaches. DK was currently sitting behind the lighthouse, legs dangling over the edge, his gaze lost in the endless expanse of the fade beyond.

DK takes a second to register, his attention locked out far beyond where anyone else can see. He slowly reels them back to this world before turning them briefly on Lucanis. “Oh... hello, Lucanis,” he murmurs, his shoulders rounded forward in a way most unlike the laid back and open posture Lucanis is used to.

Lucanis frowns lightly. He's never been the best at talking feelings, especially with others. He can feel a clawing deep inside, though, a need to check on DK. Spite is worried... he is worried.

“Are you okay?” he asks carefully 

“Mm. Yes, I'm fine.” DK says without looking at Lucanis again. His tone is calm and even, but it lacks any of his typical play. It was too calm, like a tranquil mage from a circle tower.

Lucanis hesitates, wondering if he should just accept that answer.

‘No!’ Spite hisses inside, deep enough where DK can’t hear his pressing. ‘Something’s wrong!’

Lucanis closes his eyes and takes a calming breath. He knows that; obviously, he knows that. But he also knows he can't make DK talk about it if he doesn't want to. 

After he opens his eyes, he tries again with a different approach. “I, uh.. I was going to make some coffee.” He tells DK. “Would you like a cup? Or perhaps a tea? I have some of those Nevarran leaves that Emmrich gave me.” He offers 

The faintest frown appears in DK’s expression at the mention of the professor. It was gone just as fast, hidden by the slight shake of the man's head. 

“No, thank you.” DK murmurs. “I think I'll just turn in for the night here soon if you don't mind.”

About a month ago, Lucanis would have accepted that this was where the conversation ended. But unfortunately, he can't get DK out of his mind, and he especially won’t after seeing an expression like that. 

‘He made that face after mentioning Emmrich.’ Lucanis thinks, trying to piece together a story he has no information on. It was no small secret the two were getting involved rather seriously. Did something happen between them?

Lucanis hesitates by DK even as the man gets up to leave. “Wait—” Lucanis reaches out quickly, his hand grabbing DK’s shoulder. DK freezes, startled, his gaze locking onto the crow in surprise.

That bright spirit green catches Lucanis off guard, and his fingers instantly peel back. “Sorry...” he says softly, feeling more flustered by his beautiful eyes than intimidated by them anymore. He looks away, so as not to be caught in their view. “Don't go. I'm worried about you.” He admits gently.

DK still seemed startled, though by now if it was by being grabbed or what Lucanis said, it's hard to say. He takes a second to let his words process, his eyes falling off Lucanis and out back towards the fade.

“Oh.. I didn't realize I was causing concern for anyone lately. My apologies, Lucanis. I just,” DK hesitates on his words, “I have a lot on my mind.” he admits

Lucanis looks back at DK, hopeful about getting him to talk finally. “What's going on?” He asks, lowering his voice. “Did something happen with Emmrich?” he tentatively presses

That little frown comes back, and DK sighs heavily. “Yes.” He states, sinking back down onto the bricks that hung over the fade.

Lucanis lowers himself beside him as carefully as he'd rest on a rooftop in Treviso. “What happened?” he pushes cautiously 

DK takes a deep breath and gives his mind a moment to form the words. “A few nights ago, Emmrich planned this. Date.” He starts, his words choppy as he tries to muster them forth. “It was,” he waves hand vaguely in the air before settling on a term, “Wonderful, actually. Amazing even. He took me to this lovely little place down in the necropolis. Moon lilies grew as thick as carpet, and the wisps lit the walls like stars of the dead.” He spoke with a gentle smile that Lucanis couldn't help but match.

“That... sounds beautiful, actually.” Lucanis notes

“It was,” DK agrees, “but afterwards we... Well we went back to his place. And things got,” DK licks his lips as he fights for the nicest way to explain this, “intimate.” He explains slowly 

Lucanis' smile drops lightly, and worry grows in his stomach. “Intimate?...” he repeats, fearing for the worst. 

DK can tell what he's thinking and raises a hand to calm him. “Relax. It was the normal kind. I just—” He hesitates, struggling to find the words to explain himself. “I suppose it's been hard, really, to process it since then. I've never… Well,” DK clears his throat, lowering his eyes to his lap, “I've never done what we did..” he admits very softly, a slight flush to his ears as he thinks about it again.

Lucanis’ expression grows more confused, his brows knitted together tightly. “DK. I don’t understand. I know for a fact that you have—well...” He trails off, looking away with some embarrassment. He doesn't want to think about the intimate details, but Spite is proof enough that wasn't the DK's first time getting physical with another person.

DK rolls his eyes. “Not just sex, Lucanis.” He states blunt enough to make the other man blush. “I've had plenty of sex before. That's, y’know, whatever. That's easy and casual and can be done with anyone or anything. What Emmrich did..” DK hesitates, that soft, far away look coming back as he recalls the evening. “... I've never had anyone do that with me before.”

Lucanis can realize now that what he's seeing in DK is a new emotion. He can recognize when the man is happy and in a good mood. When he's tired or has a headache. When his body hurts and when he's focused. But he's never seen this before, and now he understands it.

DK is scared. 

This is the kind of fear of a rabbit with wide eyes, frozen in the middle of the floor with nowhere left to run.

“Ah...” He says in understanding, taking a moment to find better words. “I think that's why it's called making love. You're right, it's more than ‘just sex.’” He murmurs

Making love. Being loved. DKs expression twists lightly, a deeper turmoil within within him when he considers that. He takes a deep breath to push the emotion down again, a twitch of rabbit's ears as it considers its options and still finds none. “I don't think I like that,” he admits, a tight whisper scraping out past the feeling he keeps trying to swallow.

Lucanis feels his heart ache. To yearn for love but to feel this way when you get it… He hates how painfully familiar that feels. Gently, he reaches out to lay his hand over DK’s. “Its okay, Deamortuus.” He murmurs.

Small tears spring in the corners of DK’s eyes. More want to come, but he's just not ready yet. He turns to press into Lucanis with eyes shut tight, finding his place to hide against the other man. 

Lucanis sighs and places his hand on DK’s back, rubbing softly to comfort him. He lets them sit for a moment before smiling weakly. “Why don't I go make that tea now, okay?” he offers again.

DK nods weakly against Lucanis’ chest. “I'll take a cup,” he mumbles.

Lucanis sighs, his hand shifting to the back of DKs head to hold him gently. “Of course,” he murmurs, his grip gentle with DK. The rabbit has been seen, trembling but no longer alone, with nowhere left to run except into the safety of another.

[itspileofgoodthings]

.

[eebie]

When school starts back up again im gonna search for people who will want to hang and watch movies

[diaryofanormalkid]

Welp idk if it did, ima just vent anyways.

[dreamersneverlose]

For the first time in a long time, I haven’t the faintest idea what life is going to look like 1, 2, 6 months from now. How terrifyingly beautiful this will be.