#and trauma is fucking hard as hell to get rid of

[craftykittyscientist]

i’m so fucking tired. looking at the people i used to know and they way they’re just assholes. all of them, i’m so tired of seeing him in the hallways during school. i’m tired of remembering what his house looks like or things we did. i’m so tired of people.

[pepprs]

genuinely so angry and scared im shaking. how many other times this week this month this year have i been exposed without knowing it. do people even tell each other anymore. it’s just so grim. it’s so fucking grim

[shadow4-1]

I'm just imagining Ghost telling you that he'll kill anyone you decide to sleep with that isn't him. And, of course, when Soap finds out he's got a bit of a death wish.

Like, you and Simon are just friends with benefits. He drops by your place whenever he gets a leave and that's it. No strings attached. Just something quick to fill the time. At least, that's the way it'd always been.

"If you fuck anyone else m' a kill 'im."

It's hard to take him seriously when he's got you face down on floor with your ass up in the air. You groan and try to push your hips back against him. He grabs you by the scruff of your neck and cranes your head back. You whine at the discomfort but he doesn't stop. He mutters the threat into your ear again before finally letting you go.

You cum harder than you'd like to admit. But when you finally come back down to Earth, you start to wonder. You try to ask him about it but he says nothing. Whatever this is - it's supposed to be no strings attached. You're allowed to see other people. You're allowed to fuck other people.

But you've never known Simon to be anything other than a man of his word. His threat is more than likely serious. You don't know much about his background other than he's military and that he's sustained heavy trauma over the years. So, you find that you don't really want to try him.

It's easy for awhile. Simon always leaves you satiated. But, as weeks turn into months you start to feel your skin crawl. You would've already called up your other friends with benefits by now. Instead, you'd blocked them all that first week he'd left.

You try to ignore your hunger, but it festers into a deep seated need none of your toys can rid you of. You get a call from Simon one night after a fruitless tryst with your vibrator. He sounds to be in better spirits after you whine about how much you miss him. You don't even realize how you sound until the words are already out of your mouth.

"Johnny's gonna drop by t' check in on you, love." Ghost hums contentedly. "Show 'im a good time."

He hangs up.

What does he mean by that? You'd met Johnny numerous times before. You'd flirted and enjoyed yourself in his presence but...he's Simon's best friend. Show him a good time? Does he want you to screw him? But...he said he'd kill anyone you sleep with?

You try to keep your resolve when Johnny drops by later that evening. He's his usual charming self - touchy and too comfortable. You voice to him your unease, but he brushes it off with more shameless flirting over your homemade dinner. After dinner, he practically throws you up onto the kitchen table. You kick and push at his chest with outstretched arms. Whatever this is can't happen.

"No! Johnny, he'll kill you." You squawk, pushing at his jaw, trying to keep his lips off of you.

"He wouldn't dare!" He laughs as he forces off your panties with impatient hands.

He flips you over on your stomach, forces your shirt and bra off. He humps desperately against you, slipping his cock out of his jeans. He smells of sweat and musk - as if he'd run straight to your flat after receiving Simon's call.

"Johnny, please." You try to reason with him. "I don't want you getting hurt."

"Hurt? Simon'd never hurt me, love." He hums, tweaking one of your nipples with one hand while he eases open your folds with the other.

"He loves me just as much as he loves you! Besides-"

Johnny laps a long stripe from your collarbone, up across your neck and chin, before stopping to press a firm kiss directly to your lips. You shy away at first, but it isn't but a moment longer before you melt into him. It's been so long...and Johnny is willing to take the risk.

"If he did try to kill me it'd sure be one hell of a fight." He smirks, pressing himself deep inside of you. You whine, tears pricking in your eyes as he practically splits you open with how thick he really is.

"I think I could take 'im nowadays. Aye know all his secrets!"

[aemsgirl]

In Spite Of Us.

Modern Aemond x Reader. PT2

Summary: The lines tangle tighter, pulling you and Aemond into something neither of you can fully control—something that could cost you everything. But in the end, none of it matters. Not if the pain fades into something you can stomach. Not if you can tell yourself it’s worth it. Even if he leaves you in ruins, painted in black and blue.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Oral sex, violence, mention of illegal activities, incest, dub-consent, aggression, degradation, mention of blood, childhood trauma, mention of attempted suicide.

The mornings were fucking hell. Shafts of light pierced through every crack, heating up the room that was already suffocating with the windows closed tightly. You'd learned better than to leave them open, or anything else, for that matter. One slip and it was over—whether it was the cops or the worst of the fucking dragnet. Who wanted your head more at this point? Hard to say. Aemond wasn't making it any easier, carving his own path through this mess. The blood was heavy on your side, stained deep under your nails, but his? Worse. At this point, it was hard to tell. The chipped black polish on his nails was the only dead giveaway.

Aemond used to grunt in his sleep, tossing and turning, his restless movements making the bed feel like a battlefield. Meanwhile, you were as still as a statue beside him, and he couldn't help but wonder how the hell you managed it. But today? Today was different. He woke up without the usual weight of a hangover, his eyes snapping open, the light cutting through the room like a blade. His hand instinctively found his face, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to shake off the drowsiness, but it was futile. Some mornings, he just wanted a shock straight to the skull—anything to wake him up fully and get rid of that corpse-like heaviness dragging at his bones.

Rolling over, his gaze landed on you, as always. Lying on your side, eyes closed, still wrapped up in the sleep-induced haze. He knew you wouldn't wake up now, not with the crap you shoved down your throat every night just to knock yourself out. It was the usual routine. Him waking up first, having to shower alone, eating alone—shit, he didn’t even get to share the fucking morning with you. It pissed him off, made him want to pinch you from head to toe just to see if you'd stir, maybe open those damn eyes and remind him that you were still here. Still fucking human. Still present.

But he didn't move, not yet. Instead, he just watched you, lying there so still, almost serene. Usually, you were a pain in the ass—your tongue sharp, always quick with a retort, too fast for your own good. But like this? Like this, you were calm, a whole different side of you that made his gaze linger longer than it should. It was almost unsettling how peaceful you looked, and he couldn't shake the thought of how fucking strange it was to see you this way.

It was like those beaches he’d seen in pictures, the ones with the waters so blue they looked almost unreal, like a fucking dream. On a hot day, you'd dive in without thinking, wanting to swim every inch of that vast, sparkling expand until your body ached and your lungs burned. But there was always a little sign, tucked away just out of sight, warning you: beware sharks. And even if it looked inviting, even if every instinct screamed at you to dive in, you knew better. One wrong move, and those sharks would rip you to shreds before you could even get tired.

Yet, the thought of being devoured, of sinking into that cold embrace, was oddly tempting. The idea of being consumed by you, torn apart and remade—yeah, that sounded fucking good to him. Almost too good.

Aemond's breath escaped him in a heavy sigh, as if exhaling his thoughts right along with the air, the weight of them pressing on him like an invisible burden. He tore his gaze away from you, reluctantly letting the stillness of your form fade from his view. With a sluggish movement, he sat up, his body protesting the action with every subtle shift. His muscles felt like they were made of stone, every tiny movement pulling at something inside him, making him ache. He glanced around the room to make sure everything was where it should be—nothing out of place. The blue light still bathed the walls in its soft glow, although it lacked the same intensity it had at night.

He stretched, hoping to shake off the lingering heaviness of sleep, but it only worked halfway, leaving a faint ache in its place. His eyes found you again, just from the corner.

Fuck this. Fuck you, he thought.

His gaze, whether he intended it or not, traced the contours of your body. The curve of your hips barely concealed by your panties, your torso only covered by a sheer white tank top, your breasts almost visible, your nipples subtly outlined, calling to him, even if unknowingly. Your body always beckons to him, regardless of the situation, the mood, or the moment. Every woman has an itch, and he knows yours is him. There's no other explanation, and he wouldn't accept any alternative.

His body moved as if he was being called by a siren. The not-so-gentle hands turned your body so you were lying on your back and giving him a better view. You groaned softly, but didn't really wake up. Your body, swallowed by heaviness and sleep, too heavy to actually do anything. Vulnerable, open. Everything Aemond likes, everything he wants. Like a fucking leech, or maggots crawling on dead flesh feeding on what's left of a life, he feeds on these moments. Control, pure and raw. Over everything, over you.

His fingers clawed at your legs, dragging himself across the bed like a really silently predator stalking its prey until he was nestled between your spread thighs, squatting on his heels. His fingers, cold and unyielding, scraped down your thighs, seizing your ankles with a tight grip. He dragged them, forcing your feet to frame his body on the bed, keeping your legs wrenched apart, exposing you. You were so fucking malleable under his hands, like he could take you apart and put you back together however the fuck he wanted, twist your body into any perverse shape his dark mind conjured. And he loved it, loved how you were his to corrupt.

"I'm hungry," he murmurs, the words dripping with that familiar, chilling tone. You've heard it before, countless times, in various contexts, knowing damn well what it means when he says it like that. It's not about food.

He fucking knows you remember, too. The times when there was no food, or when dad, that piece of shit, would beat you until you were sick. The leather belt, the shine of the silver buckle in the dim light, always after a meal, when your stomachs were full. And on your knees, he’d beat you until vomit painted the floor, until there was nothing left but the acrid taste of bile. He remembers that bastard's smile, how he'd grab him by the hair, forcing his face into the mess he'd made. He remembers the shaking, the pain, the hunger that followed. He remembers you.

Like a fucking feast, like you are now.

His fingers slithered over your skin, their tips sneaking under your tank top, feeling the fabric’s edge. He watched as goosebumps erupted across your thighs, your body betraying its response to his touch. Like it always fucking does. When his hunger was palpable, it didn't matter if your eyes were wide open or shut tight, if your mind was with him or lost in some dark dreamscape behind those lids. He'd always been this way, and you? You'd always allowed it. Ever since before that son of a bitch's death, when he first felt you wrapped around him, when you heard him jerking off to thoughts of you at night, whimpering into your ear, his hips grinding against you. You'd always let him because you want him; you fucking need him.

And you'll get it. You bet your ass you will.

His fingers ascend, dragging the fabric of your shirt with them, baring your breasts to his ravenous gaze. At the mere sight of your skin, his mouth waters. Your head turns aside on the pillow, a low moan escaping you. You feel the heat spreading through your torso, warm and alive. His fingers then travel down to your panties, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and slowly dragging them down your thighs, letting them fall to the floor. His eyes lock onto your pussy, so fucking perfect for him. Always so fucking perfect, so good. How in hell could something this delectable even exist?

"I'm hungry," Aemond murmured again, his teeth grazing his lower lip as he visually consumed your intimate space, as if he hadn't already memorized every inch with his own senses.

He lowers himself, almost flattening against the bed, his long fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. He takes a moment to savor the view from this angle, your little cunt in his face, his gaze traveling up past your breasts to your face, turned away, lips parted, teeth just visible. So fucking beautiful, it makes him want to rip your face to shreds with his bare hands, to create chasms with his teeth, to chew on the pieces. He could do it, he wants to do it. But somewhere deep down, he knows that even if your flesh were torn apart, you'd still be this oppressive tightness in his chest. And he fucking hates it.

"And you're going to feed me, aren't you?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot as it fans over your heat, noticing the slight twitch of your leg beside his head, but nothing more.

His tongue extends from your entrance to your clit, dragging up to your lower stomach, the sensation of his warm tongue unmistakable even through the haze of your disjointed thoughts, the weight of your limbs anchoring you to the bed. His lips return with increased urgency, one hand gripping your thigh, pulling it to his mouth, his teeth sinking into the skin of your inner thigh, while the other hand rises to grab one of your breasts, his fingertips pressing into the flesh. Your breath quickens, your chest rising and falling with mounting intensity.

His tongue traced a path down your inner thigh before making its way back to your core, not wasting time before delving in. It rolled between your folds, coating them with his saliva. As his tongue danced over your entrance again, the taste of your arousal hit him, eliciting a moan from deep within. Your body responded to every touch, tightening, a dim light seeping through your closed eyelids, though the two purple pills you'd ingested the night before made full consciousness elusive, your reactions slowed, your desires muted.

"You're getting all wet for me, little dove," he murmured, his voice low, muffled by your pussy, with no intention of pulling away to speak further. "Dirty girl, I should rip your throat open for this." A growl rumbled from him, his eyes closing as he sank deeper, his entire being focused on the sensations his mouth was exploring, leaving all his senses tethered to the act of licking you everywhere.

Your lips part further, a moan slipping through, your brows knitting together, etching a line of tension on your face. Your hips begin to shift weakly on the bed, up and down, your whimpers soft and muffled by fatigue. Aemond responds with his own sounds against your intimacy, taking full advantage of your semi-conscious state to vocalize his pleasure unrestrainedly. His fingers play with the nipple he's captured, giving it a sharp tug to jolt you further into awareness. Your legs, on either side of his head, fall open wider.

It's too good, too fucking good.

So good that you're unaware when your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, tangling in his black hair, pulling him closer in an instinctive, desperate plea for more.

Aemond freezes.

Your heart pounded like a drum, the shock of wakefulness like a slap across your face. Sweat beaded at your temples, and when you looked down, Aemond's eyes were already locked on you, his mouth still against you. The room seemed to stand still, time itself arrested. The chill that ran through you was like a bolt of ice, your senses suddenly sharp but tainted.

You attempted to rise, but he pounced, his hands reaching for your neck while your legs thrashed to push him off. You knew you were doomed if he pinned you down. Aemond grappled with your flailing arms, your nails raking his skin each time he tried to seize your wrists. But your resistance was faltering, and you knew this could be the end.

His fist slammed into your jaw, snapping your head to the side, blood erupting from your nose onto the pillows. His thighs clamped over yours, holding you down, but you still fought. His hands pressed your shoulders into the mattress, aiming for your neck, when you clawed at his throat, your nails digging in deep. A pained grunt escaped him as he clutched the bleeding marks you left on his neck. You seized the moment to free one leg, using your foot to shove his chest back.

"You fucking bitch!" Aemond's yell reverberated, but there was no time for discussion.

You hit the floor with a thud, a groan of pain escaping you. You saw Aemond beginning to rise from the bed, coming for you, and despite the difficulty, you managed to scramble up, staggering as you bolted. You collided with furniture, each impact a jolt of pain, while behind you, Aemond closed in with purposeful strides, his fists balled, jaw clenched tight. He was boiling over, rage spilling out like steam from an overfilled pot, threatening to scald you.

You made it to the living room, positioning yourself behind the small glass dining table. Aemond appeared in the doorway, his heartbeat almost audibly pounding, the intensity of it pressing against the air in your throat. Your naked body felt too exposed, his gaze raking over you, but not with lust. No, this was the look of someone intent on tearing you apart, letting you bleed out.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" you scream, knowing your words would fall on deaf ears. This wasn't the Aemond you knew; it couldn't be, not in this state.

He moved to the other side of the table, effectively blocking your escape route to the kitchen where you might have grabbed a knife. His eyes, wide and void, met yours, almost lifeless. Your palms were slick with sweat, your feet rooted to the spot despite your mind screaming to move. The mantra echoed in your head, 'he's coming for you.'

"Run," Aemond said, his voice laced with a sinister glee, his smile all teeth, gleaming menacingly.

And you didn't hesitate.

Your feet propelled you forward, his hot on your heels, the air barely making it into your lungs. You clutched the bathroom door frame, ready to dart inside, when his arms encircled your waist, lifting you off the floor. Your legs flailed, your hands clawing at his arms to break free, his grip squeezing your ribs like a vise. He began to retreat, pulling you with him, but you reacted swiftly. Your elbow slammed into his ribs, and when he didn't release you, your head snapped back into his, his sharp cry of pain mingling with the force that sent you sprawling to the ground.

"Fuck!" he shouted, his fingers pressing against his newly bloodied nose, courtesy of your counterattack.

You scrambled across the floor, more like a creature than a human, managing to slip through the bathroom door. You locked it with trembling hands. The door shook under the assault of Aemond's fists, each impact making you jump back, landing on your rear. The wood seemed on the verge of splintering with every hit. Your eyes darted around; there was a small window, but it was too narrow for escape. You'd tried before; it was impossible.

"Open the fucking door!" he yells, his punch so forceful it seems to bruise his knuckles, but the pain is the last thing on his mind now, only you matter. "It's going to be much worse for you, much worse!" His voice drips with venom, and with truth; it would indeed be worse.

But you don't care. Using the sink for support, you stand, and in the mirror, you see the blood trails from your nose to your lips. Your hips will soon bruise from the collisions with furniture and the floor. Desperation grips you as you pull at your own hair, each knock on the door a reminder of your vulnerability. Until his foot slams into the door, and you turn just in time to see it buckle.

You need to do something.

With no time for thought, your fist smashes into the mirror, glass exploding in all directions. The sound halts Aemond's assault briefly, as does your sharp cry of pain, your blood now dripping from your cut knuckles onto the white tiles. You frantically search for the largest, sharpest piece of glass among the debris, feeling the sting of tiny crystals under your nails.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Aemond's voice escalates with new urgency.

With another powerful kick, the door gives way, splinters mixing with your blood on the floor. Aemond's gaze locks on the bloody glass in your hand, his own rage intensifying. Eye to eye, you brace for what's to come.

He's coming for you, so you come for him too.

Aemond steps forward, and so do you; the glass slices the side of his arm, drawing blood. He staggers back, clutching the wound, and you advance, but he quickly seizes your wrist, twisting it viciously. It feels like he might break it, your fingers crushed further into the glass, embedding it into your palm. A scream tears from your lips, tears at the corners of your eyes. You're forced to release the shard, which shatters on the floor. With a knee to your stomach, Aemond sends you crashing down, all air exiting your lungs.

Slowly, he kneels beside you, watching your mouth open in a silent scream, your hand clutching your stomach as if to hold yourself together. Fucking pathetic, he thinks, the urge to spit in your face, to make you swallow every piece of broken glass on the floor overwhelming him.

"I should make you chew this whole fucking glass right off the floor." His threat is punctuated by him grabbing your hair, yanking your face closer to his.

Your pained expression feeds into him. He's aware he's using you as a punching bag, treating you like you're worthless, and he doesn't feel an ounce of remorse. Perhaps he will when the rage subsides, but when does it ever truly subside? Was it ever meant to? He doesn't know. But he's hard, painfully so under his underwear, throbbing with every tear that escapes your eyes, consumed by a frenzy that's pure and intense.

He slams your head back onto the ground with all his might. You squeeze your eyes shut, but there's no escaping the pain. Both his hands encircle your neck, and to prevent any more tricks, he kneels on your thighs, his weight crushing your flesh, drawing a scream that's stifled by the lack of air. There's a high-pitched sound in your ears, reminiscent of chairs scraping or the squeaky springs of that old swing in the dilapidated playground where you once played, where you felt like you could touch the clouds when he pushed you. You almost wish you could now.

"Die! Why wont you die?!" Aemond screams into your face, but you know he's not seeing you; he's not screaming at you.

Your hands claw at him, your nails raking down his bare chest, only adding to your torment. Aemond's eyes close, his body shaking above you. His nails dig deeper into your neck, darkness enveloping your vision. Your back arches in one last attempt to free yourself, and a loud, pained moan escapes Aemond as he climaxes in his underwear, the sensation so intense it could have shattered him instead of you. The pressure becomes unbearable, your lips parting in a futile attempt to breathe. Your eyes close, and you're thrown into a cold, black abyss. Alone.

Nights always carried a kind of mercy. The cold slipped through the cracked window, brushing against the room like a quiet apology for the chaos that had come before. The neon blue light pulsed faintly, painting the walls with something soft, almost alive. You’d always thought the blue was too sad, but Aemond liked it, so it stayed. Yet tonight, when you opened your eyes, it wasn’t blue filtering through your lids. No, it was clear light—sharp and unkind. Strange.

Then the ache hit. It was everywhere, spreading from your fingers to your chest like it had been carved into your very bones. Every muscle in your body screamed, raw and heavy, like you’d become one giant bruise. And maybe you had.

Your eyes moved across the room, desperate to find him. Your chest tightened when you didn’t see him straight away, and panic started to set in. But just as you shifted, ignoring the pain in your ribs, the bedroom door swung open, and there he was.

Aemond stepped inside, his movements deliberate, his frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the light. He was dripping wet, his hair clinging to his shoulders in dark strands, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips. In his hand, he carried a white plastic bag, casual as ever.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice steady and low. The sound of it cut through the stillness, grounding you in a way that nothing else could.

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the oversized shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders and a pair of sweatpants that didn’t belong to you. His, clearly. You caught sight of your wrist next, carefully wrapped in white splints. The work was precise, too meticulous to have been done by anyone but him.

“Hey,” you croaked back, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt foreign in your throat, raw and strained. The bitterness in your mouth confirmed what you already suspected—he’d forced some medicine into you while you were out. It was just like him.

He moved closer to the bed, his gaze fixed on you as he settled on the edge. The space between you was thin, almost nonexistent, but it still felt like a gulf. You studied him, and he studied you right back. The marks on his skin stood out against the pale light—your nails had left their trails, violent and deliberate, carving down his neck, chest, and arms. There was a deeper wound too, one from the glass, glinting faintly in the morning light.

And he saw it too—the purple bruises on your neck, stark against your skin. His fingerprints. They sat there like inked tattoos. He likes them a lot.

“Do you want a picture?” Your voice cut through the silence, hoarse but steady, your words laced with that sharp edge he knew so well. It didn’t hurt anymore, and that was enough.

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost laughing under his breath. His eye traced your face like he was memorising it, his thoughts catching on the idea. If he had a camera, a good one, and if things were different—better—this house would be covered in you. Your face, your body, your marks. Everywhere. You’d be the only thing worth seeing.

The silence wrapped around you both, not oppressive, but present, like a third figure in the room. His hand, trembling with hesitation, inched towards yours. You caught the flicker of doubt in his movements, and without giving him a chance to second-guess, you reached for him. Your fingers threaded through his, clasping tightly, as if sealing a quiet promise neither of you dared to speak aloud.

The thought settled again at the base of your skull: If it doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s okay. Even if every inch of you was bruised and battered, flesh stained in shades of blue and black, it didn’t matter. It was just a body, after all—just skin and bone. Nothing more, nothing less.

When his gaze finally met yours, it wasn’t with the depth you might have hoped for. His eye held a flatness, void of the kind of emotion he wished he could express—or the kind you sometimes wished you could see. But you’d long since stopped expecting it. He didn’t know how to show it, couldn’t, and that was all right. You had learned to live in the spaces between what he gave and what he withheld. In the end, you told yourself, it would be bearable. Even if the walls of this house crumbled into ash one day, you’d both still be here.

Your eyes searched his, and his mirrored the same dance. Without warning, he pulled hard on your hand, yanking you forward until your chests collided. His arms snaked around your shoulders, locking you into him, as if he were holding on for dear life. Instinctively, your hands found his waist, drawing him closer, your fingers gripping tightly as if the two of you could weld together. Your face nestled perfectly into the curve of his neck—a hollow that seemed carved for you alone. A place to rest, and perhaps even to bite when the need arose.

Holding him like this felt steady. Familiar. Safe. Just as the bruises and scratches had their place, so did the moments like this—the quiet inhalation of his scent, the way your arms clutched at him like he might disappear. It was measured, restrained, the intimacy meted out in doses small enough not to overwhelm. Anything more would be unbearable, tipping into something too raw, too unmanageable.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze again.

You said nothing, only watched as his hands left you to reach for the white plastic bag he’d brought in earlier. His fingers dipped inside, searching like a child eager to reveal a secret treasure. When he finally pulled it free, the golden wrapper caught the light, and your eyes locked onto the familiar shape of the chocolate bar.

Of course. It was always this. Sweetness. That was what he saw in you, wasn’t it? Something indulgent. You didn’t mind, not really. Even though you knew it was fleeting—your teeth would rot eventually, fall out maybe. The ants might come, leaving trails of fire across your skin. But none of that mattered, not when the sweetness melted on your tongue. He always brought it to you. Always.

You take the bar from his hand, tearing it open with your teeth like you’ve got no time for subtlety, the wrapper crinkling loud enough to fill the silence. Chocolate smears across your fingers as you peel it back, and you pause for a second, staring him down before sinking your teeth into it. A big bite—half the damn thing gone already. Aemond watches you for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk, but then his gaze drops to his hands resting in his lap.

“You need a shower,” he says finally, voice low but firm, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “The Worm wants to see us at the club tonight.”

Your eyes flick up at that, unimpressed, because of course that bastard does.

“Why?” you ask, exhaling the word more than speaking it, your tone halfway between exhaustion and annoyance. You take another bite of the chocolate, letting it melt lazily on your tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“A little daddy’s boy soirée or something,” Aemond mutters with a shrug. He’s got that look again, the one he always wears when he talks about this shit—a mix of disdain and quiet rebellion. He hates this scene, the pounding music that sounds like it’s on a loop, the suffocating crowds. But then he adds, “There’ll be some good fish,” and his eye meets yours. Just a flicker of understanding passes between you.

The Worm might be a total bastard, but he had a nose for opportunities, especially when it came to sales. The nightclub was his playground, his stage, and let’s not forget his little meth empire ticking along in the background. The man handed you a lifeline—or a leash, depending on how you looked at it—but saying no to him wasn’t exactly an option. He loved to remind you of that whenever he could.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” you mutter, a dry laugh escaping as you finish off the last of the bar, the taste bitter-sweet as it disappears.

Aemond reaches over and plucks the wrapper from your hand, his touch light but deliberate, watching you as you stand. Every muscle in your body protests, stiff and aching, but you ignore it, your bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shiver that shoots straight up your spine. You don’t pause, though. You make for the wardrobe, pulling open the smallest drawer to grab a bra and panties from the mess of clothes stuffed inside. Aemond doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His fingers stay intertwined, his expression distant, like he’s lost somewhere else.

It’s only when your hand reaches for the door that his voice cuts through again, quiet but razor-sharp.

“I’ll be watching you,” he says, his tone warning but calm, his eye finally lifting to meet your retreating form. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

You let a sly grin slip out before moving on. It's not like you meant to fuck up, not tonight. Could be exhaustion or whatever. Your mess wasn't like Aemond's, not some epic cleanup. Well, at least not usually. You know his real fear is that you'll slit your wrists open and finish what you sometimes started after...incidents. That wasn't your intention tonight.

Your feet drag you to the bathroom, now always wide open thanks to that morning's drama. Inside, it's all spick and span, the sharp scent of bleach hitting you hard. He'd cleaned up, but some things just don't wash away. The door with its frame fucked, the mirror with a new hole in it, and that's it. Everything else, gone, like it usually is. Sometimes you wish you two were like this floor - a little soap and water could sort it out. Fix it up.

You try not to overthink, just strip down and jump into the shower. It's like your second home, scrubbing until your skin's raw. Careful not to drench those bandages he wrapped around your wrist. Eyes shut, you let the water wash you off, even if it's just skin deep.

Drying off and slipping into your undies and bra, you pause for a sec. Just taking a breath before heading back to the bedroom. From the doorway, you spot Aemond in front of the mirror, the little pots of black and white paint open, brush at the ready. His hair's less wet, those heavy black boots already on his feet, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, no shirt beneath. He turns, eyes sweeping over you, unabashed. Head cocked to the side for a moment.

"Help me with this." It's not a request, it's a command, part of the routine.

You don't think twice before stepping up, and neither does he. Aemond slides down in the chair, legs spreading wider, an open invite. You take it, hands on his shoulders for balance, swinging a leg over to sit on him. His hands lock onto your waist, holding you steady.

"Want something special tonight?" you ask, leaning down for one of the black eyeliner pencils.

Aemond's gaze travels your body again, you sitting there like he's your personal, ragged throne. His eyes crawl back up to yours, meeting them dead on. Yeah, he wants something special, but it's not about the paint or the lines on his face.

"Just the usual," Aemond says, his eyes flicking back and forth between yours, pupils blown wide.

You nod, leaning in to start sketching the lines on his face with the precision of someone who's done this dance before. When Aemond does it himself, it's all over the place, but you manage to make it look halfway decent. Not that it's supposed to be pretty; it's more about the vibe. With the eyeliner, you draw from his eyebrows down to his nose, stopping at the tip, then circle around his eye, connecting back to the other brow. It's rough, forming something like a triangle - shapes blurred and edgy. Moving to the other side, his eyes track you, locked on as your face scrunches in focus.

"You know I wanted to kill you, don't you?" Aemond mutters, pulling your gaze to him for a split second before you both return to the task at hand.

He did want to, no question about it. There was that moment when he saw your eyes close, your body go limp on the floor, and he thought, "This is it." But then he stopped. He didn't regret it; he was fucking glad he did.

"You didn’t." That's all you manage, a whisper, the only reply you've got.

You've thought he might end you, on some other nights, on those dark moments when the beast in him roared to get out because of some shit you pulled - intentional or not. But intentions? They're meaningless here. Not yours, not his, even if his was to squeeze the life out of you.

Aemond just stared, maybe with a hint of appreciation or some twisted form of affection. He couldn't tell if he'd fucked up your head, if he'd made you blind to his true nature, the chaos he brought into your life. He saw himself as a plague, infecting everything he touched, and he reveled in it, in you.

"I should take you to the beach sometime." Aemond's voice was low, almost a whisper, and you couldn't help but smile a bit. He'd mentioned it before, but it always felt like a fantasy.

He loathes the beach, despises the sun. The sand that grinds into knees, leaving them raw. Mum and dad never took you, and before that, the orphanage was all shades of gray. There was no sun there, and his pale skin seemed to thrive in the absence of it. You didn't miss what you'd never known.

"Yeah? What do you want to do there?" You play along with the dream, knowing it's probably never going to happen.

Your fingers grab a brush, dipping it into the white paint. You start painting his face, careful not to touch the dark lines around his eyes. His breath is heavier now, chest heaving in what seems like a thoughtful sigh.

"I don't know, just watch you swim." His reply is soft, his words hitting you like a gentle wave. "Some Sunday just watch you get pounded by the waves and some purple and blue in the sky. Being the only motherfuckers filling the place with smoke.”

A low chuckle escapes you as you shake your head, your fingers continuing their task with the white paint, transforming his face into something that feels more like a phantom than the man you know. You'd like that, at some point, to see him in such a scene. Perhaps perched on that motorcycle in some secluded spot, hiding from the sun, a cold beer in hand. His blue eyes would mirror the sea, his silver hair the sky, though you know he'd never let them be seen again. It's all just a daydream.

"Would you be there?" he asks, causing your hand to pause, the brush set aside.

The question strikes you as almost absurd. There are so many answers to it. He's pulling himself into the abyss, into a personal hell with all its promised torment, and you'd follow if only to hold his hand. Your answer is always yes, never no. He knows this, and still, he asks.

"I would be wherever you were," you confess in a whisper, meeting his gaze with unfiltered honesty, more than you'd wish to reveal, more than you could ever conceal.

His eyes shift from yours to your lips, perhaps searching for the taste of those words, or seeking some unclaimed piece of your skin to press them against. He doesn't speak, but the silence says he'd be with you too. You're like a persistent bit stuck in his teeth; no amount of licking or prodding or thinking he's had enough or moved you aside would ever truly dislodge you. Ever.

You pause, focusing back on the brush, cleaning off the white paint and dipping into black. The brush follows the eyeliner's path, shaping the design more distinctly. It's not your best work, but it's far from your worst, even if it's not art gallery material. But it'll do.

"It looks good," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, knowing better than to stroke his ego too much.

Aemond's eyes are locked on your lips, reading your words off them rather than through sound. His breath is warm, careful not to move and ruin your work. He's learned from experience you wouldn't like that.

"Yeah, it does." His gaze shifts up, impatience simmering under his skin. Being still isn't his forte.

With the final stroke, you complete the look. The white paint has dried, melding into his skin like a second layer. As you move to get up, his hands reluctantly slide off your waist, resting back in his lap. You take a moment to admire him - the corpse paint fitting him like a second skin, like he was born to wear it. The desire to have him take you, right there over the paints, until your drool becomes part of the artwork, is intense.

"Take a look," you say, motioning towards the mirror, keeping your darker thoughts at bay. If you let them out, there'd be no stopping.

Aemond looks into the mirror, not seeing himself but the mask he's donned. It's good, it's something. Just paint, toxic and transformative, embodying much of him yet not all. It's good, truly good.

You head to the closet, pulling out one of the usual dresses - same color, similar cuts, limited choices. Slipping it on, the fabric clings to your body, barely covering your thighs, the straps mingling with those of your bra. As you adjust it, Aemond turns, catching the motion of you smoothing it over your hips, his teeth catching his lower lip. You're a vision of sin, a gift to behold, stoking the fire in his veins and elsewhere.

You sit at the bed's foot, tugging on your black knee-high boots, similar to his but with higher heels. Aemond approaches just as you zip up, standing close enough that you nearly collide when you rise. His silent steps are always so damn stealthy. Your eyes lock, and without a word, he kneels before you, your gaze tracking him down, lips parting slightly.

Your heart races. He lifts your dress, bunching it at your waist, revealing you in just your panties. You anticipate warmth, but what you feel is cold. Opening your eyes, you see the pocket knife he's just stuck in your panties.

"You know how to use it," he murmurs, his breath teasingly close to where you're most sensitive, a slight dampness forming. "So use it if you need to."

He stands, eyes never leaving yours, fingers sliding the dress back down, covering you once more. It's like a cold splash of reality or a sharp stab of withdrawal; he steps away, and you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, regain some semblance of control. He moves to the table, grabs his keys, cigarettes, and lighter.

"I'm going to get the bike out of the garage. Don't delay." His tone is devoid of warmth as he heads for the door, leaving you in the center of the room.

You adjust your dress, feeling the pulse of anger and desire because that bastard always knows exactly what he's doing. The knife's tip, so provocatively close to your core, feels like a taunt. You hate him, more than when he breaks you apart. With that hatred, you move to where he was sitting and look at your reflection, noting the bruise on your jaw that you'll need to conceal with makeup. Not for the opinions of those at the club, you couldn't care less about them.

But, that's what you do. You cover his marks. And tonight, you'll do it again.

[tiredmamaissy]

Ralak te Sepwan ieyk’itan: Chapter Three

An Illustrated Collaboration with @zestys-stuff

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's creator @zestys-stuff.

Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (24) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (19)

Warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, angst, ptsd/ flashbacks, profanity, age gap, sexual tension, size difference/kink, praise kink, jealousy, scenting, fingering, recollection of non-con trauma (for the plot), alcohol consumption/drunk character, let me know if i forgot anything?

Word Count: 6.3k

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: Sorry this one took a while, been a hell of a week. It's got a lot of angst, so prep yourselves guysss. Ends with smut, ofc. I hope you guys enjoy 🤍

Synopsis: Your family seeks uturu with the Metkayina in the village of Awa’atlu. You have a difficult time adjusting, and are assigned your own special teacher, Ralak.

<- Previous Next ->

���Y/n. For the love of Christ, you better tell me that the storm held ya up last night.” Jakes voice rings in your ear, waking you up.

Oh shit.

You look to your left to see the first rays of sunlight shining on Ralak’s sleeping, naked body, chest heaving slowly from his unfaltering breaths. Perched on his side, his face sits in his palm, as if he’s fallen asleep partially sitting up. Two fingers still nestled inside you, his facial muscles are slightly tensed, like he’s ready wake up any minute and tend to your every need, just like he’s been doing all night long. 

“Get your ass home. Now.” Jakes irate voice brings you back to reality.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

What were you going to tell Jake? That the storm did keep you up? He’d never believe that. Not for a second. Either way, if you didn’t go now, this man would skin the love of your life. Unmated, in his bed, all before your second iknimaya? He’d try, at least.

“Sst-ah.” you let out a shaky breath, grimacing as you pull his fingers out of you. They’re covered in your cum, so much so that a thick string of slick connects you to his fingers when you pull your pelvis away. You scramble to your feet, wiping yourself up with the already damp cloth next to his bed.

I’ll be back, my love. You think, looking over at him one last time before rushing out of his marui.

On your way to the cave, you try to assess your state. It’s hard to tell, given the fact that your heart is pounding at a speed only an ikran could attain. Anxiety streams through your veins, but otherwise, you feel fairly normal. Maybe a little bit like you did after your first iknimaya, when you passed your dream hunt and had one too many glow worms. But nothing unmanageable.

Guess it’s over.

Finally arriving at the cave, frantic eyes search the body of water for your loincloth. It’s floating at the far end of the lake, so you dive in. As you’re swimming, you catch a whiff of your own scent, mixed with Ralak’s. You bring your arm to your nose and take a deep breath. “Fuck.” you curse under your breath, submerging your entire body in the water, trying to bathe his scent off you.

You knew you scented each other, but you didn’t know that it would linger this long. You scrub your body, paying extra attention to your chest and neck. Time is going faster than you can move. But it’s like the more you scrub, the more you rub it into your skin – into your essence.

“Forget this.” you huff, grabbing your loincloth and swimming back to sand. You wring it out, slip inside and tie the knot hastily. One last look back on his marui pod, and you’re gone like the wind – quick and silent.

The trek back home is nerve-wracking, you feel so uneasy that you could feel something in your throat. A lump. You swallow repeatedly, trying to get rid of it, but it grows a little bigger for every step you take. By the time you’re at your marui door, you feel like you can’t breathe.

Neteyam smells you first, wreaking of a male na’vi, nose scrunching at the odour. He huffs a harsh breath through his nostrils, attempting to rid the lingering scent from of his lungs. He examines your condition – clammy skin with little colour left in it. Eyes trailing up to your face, he could see the fear written all over it, along with something else. Something like –

“Jesus, what the hell were you thinking?!” Jake hisses through clenched teeth.

“D-dad. I-I can explain.” you stutter, throat so tight you can barely speak.

Jake pulls his head back, eyelids blinking furiously. It’s as if the scent quite literally hit him, square in the jaw. With his suspicions confirmed, his lips stretch into a thin line, his go to expression of disapproval. The type that makes your ears lay flat against your skull, and bottom lip jut out.

“I can smell him on you.” Jake brushes past you. “Stay with your brother.”

“Dad, please.” your voice is strained, fighting against the lump in your throat. “Where are you going?”

He stops dead in his tracks, back still turned to you, a hand flying up to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. “To Tonowari, kid. Tsireya will teach you from now on.” He heaves a heavy sigh and walks away.

The anxiety quickly morphs into anger, bubbling in your veins and sizzling your skin. Your short fuse blows. How could he take this away from you? You weren’t a ‘kid’ anymore. You had passed your iknimaya back home, and you’re on the brink of passing it here, too. Despite that, he always treats you like this, like the late bloomer you are. He didn’t even care to know what really happened.

“Not a fucking kid!” you shout after him, only for him to shake his head and continue walking.

“Sis.” Neteyam mutters, gently guiding you into the marui pod by your arm.

You shrug him off, storming past him to dive into your bed, burying your face into your pillow – damp from last night’s tears. It only becomes wetter as your fresh tears stream down your face. You couldn’t help it, you cried whenever you felt overwhelmed with anything. Sadness. Happiness. Anger. Frustration.

The sound of your privacy curtain being drawn back snaps your head up from your pillow. It’s Neteyam, standing over you with a face of concern, a bowl of steamed fish in one hand and a cup of water in the other. He sighs quietly, crouching down to come eye to eye with you. “You were in heat, weren’t you?” He states, already knowing the answer. “You should eat and drink something.” He places the bowl and cup on the floor next to you.

You sit up, supporting your torso with your arms behind your back. Neteyam. The older, caring bother, always looking out for everyone but himself. Of course, he would be the one to care enough to find out what you’ve been through the past day. “Yup. Late bloomer finally got her heat.” you speak of yourself harshly, taking the cup of water and chugging it.

“You smell gross.” he chuckles breathily, nudging the bowl of fish closer to you.

“Thanks, big brother. Appreciate it.” you giggle between cries, nudging it back to him. “Not hungry.”

His arms rest on his knees, braids swaying in his face as he looks behind him before dropping his head. “Agh.” he lifts his head, staring at you for a few seconds, as if he were contemplating something. “You should not have done that. Not before your iknimaya.”

“I didn’t! Nothing... like that happened, Tey. Ralak isn’t like that.” your head hangs low as you utter the words. “He’s... a gentle giant.”

Neteyam scoffs, straightening his spine. “Gentle giant? He looks like he eats na’vi for breakfast.”

“Hey –” you sniffle, glaring up at him, “I like him, Tey. A lot. He’s good for me.”

Neteyam’s features soften. As if hearing your words plucked a string of sympathy in his heart. As much as he wants to help you, he can’t. Not with a direct order from his father. He shakes his head, eyes closed, and brows furrowed.

That’s his way of saying, ‘Sorry. Can’t’.

You sigh, bringing your knees to your chest to hide your face. You can smell Ralak’s scent now that your nose is near your thighs. It fills your lungs with every breath you take. His pheromones. His aphrodisiac. His arousal. He left it all on you, rubbed into your skin so deep it seems to have altered your own scent.

Is this what scenting does?  

Soon you’re breathing heavily, trying to savour what left you have of him – of last night. It makes you heavy in the head, like all the strength has left your body. You feel your face warm up, the heat spreading to the tips of your ears. You’re tired. Defeated.

“Neteyam! Neteyam!” Lo’ak’s faint voice sounds frantic.

You hear Neteyam shuffling to his feet to go and check what his brother is on about. “Stay here, got it?”

“Mhm.” you hum, too tired to even lift your head.

The sound of Lo’ak yanking back your privacy curtain makes you jump out of your skin, nearly knocking over the bowl of steamed fish. You stare up at him wide eyed, to see him motioning over to the door of your marui. Your brows kiss in confusion, unsure of what’s going on.

“Heard you were in... hea-a situation. Just gonna borrow big bro for a second, cool?” he raises his brows, nudging his head towards the door in an emphasized manner.

A smile pulls at your lips once you realize what he’s doing for you. You wipe your puffy eyes with the back of your hand and shuffle to your feet. “I owe you, Lo’.”

Ralak’s POV

Ralak rouses to an empty bed. He sits up quickly, scanning his marui for any sign of you. Nothing. The only thing that remains is your potent scent flooding the room. The only proof that you were ever here. “Oh, y/n.” he groans, head slumping into his hands.

You were gone. Gone like you were never here to begin with. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he tried not to assume the worst. But what if – what if it was the worst? To be used and discarded like an object. All over again. Surely, there’s no way that you would do this to him, not after opening-up to you like that. Not after last night. Not after the words you uttered to one another before going to sleep –

‘I love you’.

But why does it feel the same? The same as that day. The day he was in a marui pod like this one, young, bare skinned and short haired, kneeling before his own karyu. His chest tightens, the walls of his throat closing in on one another. He can feel it creeping up his spine. The flashbacks. The tremors. The nausea. Rushing to his feet, he makes his way over to the shelf well-stocked with bottles of ‘fermented fruit’ – pxir [beer; alcohol].

A poison to many, but an antidote to him.

Dust had settled on the bottles since the last day he reached for them. The day you became his tanhì. That’s why he had never brought you up here, he never wanted you to see the truth. The way he copes with his emotions – bottling them up and then chugging it down when they became just too much.

The bottle opens with a pop, strong, bitter scent wafting up his nose, replacing the scent of you in his lungs. He takes a quick swig, baring his teeth from the sting of it trickling down his throat. “Ahh.” He sighs a breath of relief, feeling the alcohol already taking effect, loosening his chest, and clearing his throat.  

Yet he can still feel the shiver of his spine, and the churn of his stomach.

“Shit.” he curses, taking another swig. Cursing himself for trusting another after he made the vow to never trust again. Another swig. For facing the part of him that he’s denied since he came into adulthood. Another swig. For letting someone in. Another swig. For allowing himself to love you.

Alas, a clear mind and body – rid of the memories of his past.

He readies himself for his bath, something he often did to relax. Just like he did last time you left him.

----

Time is of the essence. With no idea of when Jake will be back, you move quickly. You weave through the webbing of the mangrove roots, ducking and dodging those that jut out. You take a short cut, bouncing over the netting of a cluster of marui pods on the way to Ralak’s.

Eyes guardedly stuck to your feet, you bump into Ka’ani, the man who replaced Ralak’s role as fisherman – faceplanting into his bare chest. Arms instinctively wrapping around you, he holds you close until you regain your balance. Admittedly, he’s a little too close for comfort, his face nestled in the crown of your head. You hear quick, nasally breaths, muffled by your hair.

Is he... sniffing me right now?

You shove him off you, probably a little too rough to be considered friendly, and take a few steps back. “Sorry, Ka’ani.” you mutter, gingerly walking around him.

“No problem, at all.” he smirks, raising his hands and making space for you to leave.   

With a quick shake of your head, you continue making your way to Ralak. The closer you get, the more a giddy smile spreads across your face. Though you were the bearer of bad news, you can’t ignore the flutters in your stomach. The same flutters you had when you first laid eyes on him – the day Eywa herself told you he’s the one.

Your mate.

Your legs move faster, as fast as they can go, until the sand slackens your steps. Silky, fine sand – always the first thing to let you know that you’ve arrived. You can’t help the excitement bubbling from your tummy and up your throat. “Ralak!” you blurt out, eager to find your love.

A tall figure in the distance catches your eye, it looks as if he were going into the cave. You wave your hands above your head, shouting his name as you lope towards him. “Ralak!”

The figure stops, turning around to acknowledge your calls. He stands still for a minute, before walking towards you with a stagger in his step. Tail perking up instantaneously, your hand flies to your bare hip, searching for your medicine pouch. You’re running on the tips of your toes again, concern and worry replacing the flutters low in your belly.

“Wha-t is it?” you shout, voice wavering as you close the distance between your bodies.

You crash into him with a smack, making the typically sturdy giant wobble. Now your ears art alert, perturbed by his odd behaviour. Gently pushing you away, his large hands grip your upper arms, fingertips touching once another. Blue, hazed orbs peer down at you, extra glossy and lidded.

“Are you sick? Wounded?” you question, resisting his gentle pushes to search his body. 

Nostrils flickering above his pursed lips, he leans into your neck. He pulls back with a huff, blowing hot air through his nose, onto your face. Your eyelashes flutter, face of concern quickly morphing into one of confusion.

Everyone is sniffing me today.

Head snapping to the left, his eyes search the webs of the mangrove roots off in the distance. A guttural growl rumbles deep in Ralak’s chest, thinned lips curling over his canines, flashing them before your eyes. You watch in awe as his brows lower, knotting together to turn his eyes beady. Ears flat against his skull, the scent of another na’vi scrunches his nose.

That’s a new look.

“Ralak.” your voice is breathy and small – laced with fright.

His growl grows louder, coming from the pit of his stomach, deep and powerful. Lengthy fingers tightening around your arms, he spins you around and tucks you behind him in one swift move. His name slips off your tongue once more, quick, and unsure. He has one hand perched on the dip of your waist, holding you close behind this towering frame.

“Come out.” he growls gruffly, straightening his spine to present at his full height.

The two words double-knot your stomach, sending you wiggling into the sink of his back, face peeking through the crack of his arm and side. Your eyes flicker from side to side, looking for whatever – whoever he’s talking to. Meanwhile, your fingers grip the band on his loincloth, the only thing available on his body to hold.

Silence.

“Or I make you.” He rasps the warning through his four, pointed fangs.

Perhaps if Ralak wasn’t here the knots in your belly would have tightened by now, to the point where you would feel queasy. But the hiss fizzling from the back of his throat puts your nerves at ease – your body sensing its safety in his presence.

Out comes a brawny, wide na’vi, from behind the large, thick roots of the mangroves. His hands are splayed out, representing something of caution. No – surrender. He approaches Ralak slowly. Warily.

“Sorry, brother. I did not know she was yours.” Ka’ani says impishly.

Jaw snapping open, his hiss comes out full force. It’s loud and thick, almost grating. Much like a roar. Though you knew it wasn’t for you, it shook you up, tugging at the string in your grip as your body jolts forward into his.

“She belongs to no one.” His top lip twitches as he spits the vile words, stinging your heart in the process. Am I not his? What about last night? You think, tightening your grip on the band of his loincloth.

“It looks as if she belongs to you, Tak.” Ka’ani leans to the left, chin jutting out as he tries to catch a glimpse of you. “Look at her, holding on to your –”

“Lewng! [shame]. Tracking her scent.” Ralak hisses, turning his body to hide you from his predatory eyes. “Leave.”

“Ah. Come on now, brot-” He spreads his arms wide, walking around Ralak towards you.

Ralak takes a step forward on his last word, nearly coming chest to chest with the shorter na’vi. A moment of silence passes between the two, as Ralak stares him down with vengeance in his eyes. A hand flies up to his hip, gripping the knife sheathed in its casing. “Now.”

Ka’ani straightens his back, eyes flickering between Ralak and yours that peek from behind him. His hands retract, hovering either side of his head as he retreats. Ralak maintains his position, with a hand keeping you tucked away whilst the other rests on his hip. Once Ka’ani’s figure is no longer visible, Ralak sighs, and turns his heel to make his way back to his much-needed bath.

“Thanks...” you huff, walking close behind him.

“You women and your heats.” he mutters as he walks faster, ripping his loincloth out of your grip.

“Ex-cuse me?” your words bounce as you try to keep up with him. “You have no –”

“Do you understand what would have happened had I not been here? Do not be so reckless.” He tsks, as his feet come to a halt, balling his hands into fists.

“Reckless? All I did was walk here!” you shout, almost bumping into him again.

“Because you left to begin with.” he whispers through clenched teeth.

“What?” the question is breathy, hands perching on your knees to rest.

He turns around quickly, prompting you to stand at full height. Breathing heavily, he presses his warm body against yours, chin tucked into his chest to peer down at you. Instinctively, you perch on the tips of your toes, eyes lidded in anticipation of a kiss. Instead, he brings your wrists up to his nose, heated lips pressing against your supple skin.

“He scented you.” he mumbles quickly, lips pulling into a thin line before letting go and backing away.  

“Why? How? I only bumped into him.” you walk towards him, watching him turn his heel again. “Hey –” you reach out for his arm to pull him back around.

First you leave him this morning, then come back scented by another na’vi. He shrugs you off, hands now fiddling with the knot above the base of his tail as he nears the entrance of the cave. The knot of his loincloth comes undone, heavy, sheathed hunting knife silently making impact with the sand.

“Because he wants everything that’s mine.”

So, I am his. You think, one corner of your mouth curling upwards into a smirk.

“Oh, Ralak.” You stand at the cave’s opening, waiting in silence for a response.

He continues to keep his back turned to you, dips of his clenched glutes on full display. Despite last night, seeing him naked still makes you shy, cheeks turning red and hot from the blood that rushes to them. You watch him hastily put his hair in a sloppy bun as he submerges himself in the water.

“I need to speak with you about this morning” you mumble, eyes locked onto the ripple of his back muscles.

“No need. I understand.” he answers lowly, shimmying over to the bottle of fermented fruit propped on a rock in the cave.

“Understand what? It’s about –”

“You made a mistake. It was your heat. It is fine.” he mutters quickly, taking a swig at the last word.

A mistake? My heat?

The realization hits you, hard. You’d been so out of it, so delirious from your heat you hadn’t given a second thought about his confession. His trauma that he confided in you, in this very cave. It’s like stones in your heart – no, boulders. Weighing it down so heavily that it feels like there’s a pulse in your stomach.

How could you be so cruel? So thoughtless? So insensitive? To not even wake him and utter the words to his face. To allow him to wake up to an empty bed after letting down his walls and being so vulnerable to you. To be so caught up in your own head you couldn’t even bat an eye at the man who helped you through your first heat.

“Oh. Oh, Lak. No. No, it’s nothing like that.” you sputter out a trembling voice, sliding into the water to rush over to him. You rest your hand on his upper back, taking in the warmth of his skin. He feels feverish – hot to the touch.

What is he drinking?

You rub his back gently, bioluminescent freckles dancing from your caresses. Yet, he’s rigid. Cold. Distant. He’s not the Ralak you know, swaying side to side as he brings the lip of the bottle to his mouth.

“Stop, my love.” you coo, sliding your hand up his raised arm as you walk around him.  Pulling the bottle away from his lips, you cautiously place the pxir on a nearby ledge. “Ralak.” you whisper, staring up at him with worried eyes.

The sound of his name falling from your lips tilts his head back ever so slightly, like it pained him to even look at you. Curly, loose stands of hair frame his face, accentuating his angular features. He attempts to fix his mask of indifference to his face, but you can see through it. You see the anguish glossed over his lidded, inebriated eyes.

Ocean blue eyes.  

tw: flashback

His mind is elsewhere, dissociating back to the day of the incident. The night of his iknimaya celebration, where his own karyu cornered him in his family marui, engulfing him with her pheromones. Manipulating him with her heat to take care of her. To touch her.

He can hear the waves crashing into the shore, the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof of the marui, the roll of the thunder – her whispers in his ear, ‘I’ve been waiting too long for this. You are officially a man now. Make your karyu feel better, right here...’.

The smell of her pheromones is suffocating, more potent than any fermented fruit he’s ever had. It frightened him, feeling like he had no self-control. No way to stop his movements, no matter how much he screamed at his body to move, run – anything.

It is what made him vow to never lose control of himself. His composure.

He can feel the heaviness of his body. The lethargy. The way his lungs refused to fill, no matter how hard he tried to breathe. When he woke, he was alone, sitting in the corner in a pool of his own sweat, curled in on himself. His karyu left, to never return. Leaving nothing but the lingering smell of her heated scent behind. 

tw: end of flashback

“My karyu” you hum softly, placing his hand on your chest.

When you first called him that, he almost grimaced. But as time passed, you made the word bearable. You gave it a new meaning, a new feeling. Eventually filling him with eagerness to hear it fall from your flushed lips. In tones of excitement, frustration... pleasure.

You hold his thumb, and give it a squeeze, trying to bring him back from wherever he is. Your heart weighed even heavier, seeing him drift away and detach when he’s right in front of you. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. Feel me. Feel my heartbeat. Focus on it and come back to me.”

The words echo in his skull, reverberating between the thick bone. He can hear you, feel you. With each thump of your heart, the heaviness of his body lifts, the scent of her fades, the pitter-patter of the storm subdues until nothing, but that thump can be heard. His eyes finally flicker down to yours, ears and brows twitching at the pulse of your heart.

Only a bottle could do that for him. Bring him back. Yet, you did it with the mere sound of your heart.

“I’m sorry, Lak. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I was so thoughtless. I’m sorry... that happened to you.” the words are shaky, flowing over your quivering bottom lip. “I would never. Ever. Ever. Ever –” you blubber, shaking your head, “Ever, do that to you. I-I had to leave because of my father. He’s punishing me. Forbidding me from seeing you. Having Tsireya teach me instead. I should have woken you.”

Another arm snakes around his waist, bringing him in closer to you. You slump your head into his chest, letting the tears flow and stain his skin. “I don’t regret a thing. I meant everything I said. I-I see you, Ralak” you sputter, breath hitching from the crying.

“Tanhì” he croaks, kissing the crown of your head as he wraps his arms around you to hold you closer.   

“I love you” The three words are said in unison as you cling onto one another.

Alcohol still coursing through his veins, Ralak’s heavy body slumps into you, slowly shifting you both against the cave wall. He presses your back against the rocky surface, unwrapping his arms from your waist to support his body weight with a hand on the wall. He leans in, brushing his cheek against yours.

“I will miss you.” he whispers huskily next to the shell of your ear.

“I’ll miss you, too.” you whisper back, head pulling back to meet his gaze.

Your eyes lock for a moment, an undeniable tension now budding in the air and making your breaths quicken. He inches even closer, lips brushing against yours as you exchange the same hot breath until you’re light in the head.

He kisses you roughly – sloppily.

Tongue slipping into your mouth, you get a taste of what he’s been drinking all day. It’s a little sweet, with undertones of various fruits native to the reef people. But once the sweetness wears off, the bitter aftertaste makes your brows gather. He pulls away, revealing heavy-lidded eyes with thin blue rings for irises, flickering side to side as they stare into yours.

Chests heaving in synchrony, you both struggle to catch your breath. Hands cupping each other’s face, your lips crash into one another again, body language hungry and desperate for each other’s touch. Ralak shoves his knee between your legs, providing you with the friction your body has been begging for. Your body moves on its own, humping at his thigh as best you can in the water.

“I-I want... you.” The desperate words part your bruised, flushed lips, hand sliding up his back to caress his kuru [queue].

He shakes his head, brows gathering tightly. “Not now. Not here. We do it the right way.”

“Then...” you pant, voice laced with desperation as your hands make their way to his hips, dainty fingers wrapping around his hardened girth, “...give me something else.”

Breath turning raggedy, he struggles to maintain his composure. The influence of the alcohol surging through his body proves it to be an even more difficult task. He takes a deep breath, withdrawing his knee from your legs to spin you around in one quick motion. Ralak tries his best to be gentle with you, shoving you into the wall to press his aching cock against you.

A soft moan parts your lips; thin, fuzzy tail wrapping around his thigh in attempts to bring you closer. Eywa, did that push him closer to the edge. Your tail had been one of his favourite things about you from the day you first locked eyes, so slender and delicate. Nothing like his. It not only fascinated him. It aroused him.

It makes him push into you even harder, tip of his cock throbbing against your lower back. He craves to be even closer to you – to be inside you. To rut into you until your voice becomes so hoarse from screaming his name. Over and over. Again, and again. Fingers hurriedly fiddling with the knot of your loincloth, he pants a few greedy, rough kisses along your upper back.

“Oh! Ralak, I-I think –” you moan lowly, his touches throwing you into a daze.

“What?” he huffs, fingers coming to a halt in fear that he’s being too rough with you.

“I think I’m still in heat.” you lie, or maybe it wasn’t a lie. You feel so woozy in the head that you’re not even sure what’s going on anymore. All that sits at the forefront of your mind is him claiming you as his.

“Is that so?” he lets out a breath of relief, a chuckle if you will.

“Yes. Can you help me?” you pant, trembling voice feigned with innocence.

“Ah. Let me check, little one.” He buries his face into the nape of your neck, pulling back with a loud sigh through his nose. A growl rumbles in his chest and up his throat. “I can still smell him.” The scent of another so deep into your skin makes him want to mark you. To sink his lengthy canines into your neck for the smell to seep out, only to be replaced by his.

“Then fix it.” you breathe, head dipping forward to open yourself up to him.

“Oh?” he smiles open mouthed, brushing his pointed fangs against your silken skin, making your back arch on instinct. Submitting to him and his touch. Open mouth lingering over your neck, his jaw closes to graze his teeth against you. He sucks lightly on your skin, puckered lips pulling off with a pop.

Of course, he’d make you wait for that too. He was only ‘helping’ you, right now.  

He kicks your feet apart, spreading your legs for him to settle in closer behind you. A string of your slick connects your thighs together, breaking apart when he rubs his cock against your bare cunt. He begins rubbing his face into the back of your neck, scenting you as his.

“Mine. Yes?” he growls, thrusting himself against your slippery slit.   

“Yes.” You spread your legs further apart, standing on the tips of your toes to provide him with better access. “Please.” You let out a pathetic mewl.

He grunts in frustration. He wants nothing more than to thrust himself inside you, stretching your pussy out with his huge cock. And with those little, sweet pleas, it’s almost too hard to resist. But he does. He pulls away, gaze snapping down to the rope of wetness connecting your most intimate parts together.

Cocking a brow, his hand comes between your sticky pelvises, fingers coiling around the string of slick before they glide over your pussy and spread your folds. Your wetness drips down his digits, pooling in the palm of his hand. “So wet. Maybe you are in heat.” he mumbles, pressing his lips against your back, peppering kisses down the curve of your shoulder.  

Ralak fondles with your puffy clit, rubbing tight circles into it with his slickened fingertips. Your hips squirm around from the white-hot pleasure tightening your core. It’s just not enough. Perhaps it’s just residual heat, but you feel so, so empty. A yearning deep in your womb, to be filled and stretched. Your hips buck forward, slipping his fingertips to prod at your entrance, before pushing back on him to try and sink them inside you.

Needy body language riling up the giant behind you, his harsh kisses move their way up to your ear. “Say it, tanhì.” he groans lowly, positioning his finger at your tight hole.

“I n-need you inside of me!” you cry desperately, shoving yourself back into him.

“You listen so well, paysyul.” he exhales a hot breath into the shell of your ear, sinking his thick finger inside you, twisting his wrist so that he can curl it right into your sweet spot.

“Oh, shit.” you moan breathily, cheek pressed firmly against the rocky wall.

“That is why you learn so quickly.” He fingers you roughly, expertly working out a squelch with each curl of his digit.

The feeling is like heat, shooting down your spine and pooling in your pelvis. It makes your hips spasm, chasing the fiery sensation in hopes to put it out. His finger brings relieve, satiating the itch as your sweet spot swells from pure bliss. He knows exactly where to touch, and how to touch.

Yet, it still isn’t enough.

“More! ‘ts not enough!” you cry, writhing underneath him.

He finds your little cries amusing, letting a chuckle evade his lips. How could something so small act so mighty? He slides another digit in, feeling your tight pussy walls stretch to accommodate him. He hears the little whimper bubbling up your throat, letting him know you need a moment to adjust.

“Taking my fingers so well, hm?” he praises you with a shaky voice, planting a gentle kiss behind your ear.

“Mmmn! Please!” Another plea falls from your lips, a plea for him to move – to make you cum. He sets a relentless pace, stimulating the sensitive spot in your gummy, hot walls, working lengthy moans and mewls from you.

With the way he’s fingerfucking you, it feels as if your nerves are on fire. The coil tightly wound in your core ready to snap any second now. Your brows pinch together in fervour, mouth falling open to allow heavy, hot breaths to escape.

“Close! So close! Gonna! Gonna –” Your words catch in your throat, leaving you breathless and tense around his fingers.

“Make yourself cum.” he orders gruffly, stopping all movement once he feels you tighten around his digits.

You gasp, hips moving on their own to chase the orgasm he just took away from you. “No, no. You know I can’t. Please.” you sputter, pushing against the wall to ride his fingers.

“You can. And you will.” he growls, bending his fingers as encouragement.

You quickly accept your fate, holding on tightly to whatever pleasurable feeling remains and running with it. You push back on him, squirming around as you try to make yourself cum. Closing your eyes, you tune into your body, feeling what feels good and where. But the position that you’re in makes it even harder to do it yourself.

“Just fuck me!” you cry desperately, frustration so pent up you couldn’t help the outburst.

“Language.” he hisses, shoving his fingers so deep inside you that your slick coats his knuckles.

“Fuck! Please.” you beg, reaching behind you to grab his wrist.

“No.” he smirks, looking down at how your cunt sucks in his digits, listening to your pleading and begging.

He just wants to hear a little more. To hear how badly you want him. He loves the way you squirm around, sputtering nonsense from being so fucked out by just his fingers. He loves the little noises your pussy makes for him and can’t wait to hear how they’ll sound once his cock is stuffed inside you.

“Ralak. Please. Please make me cum!” you cry, using his wrist as leverage to fuck back into him.

He slides his hand down your stomach, fingers playing with your swollen, neglected clit. He’s pumping his digits in and out of your dripping cunt, feeling your slick dribble down his hand. It doesn’t take long for you to near your climax, pussy walls clamping down around his fingers.

“Let go. Cum for me.” he groans, swollen tip of his cock oozing beads of precum onto your lower back.

“Oh, fuckfuckfuck!” you let out a hoarse cry, entire body shuddering underneath him “Cumming! Cumming!”

“That’s my girl.” he hums proudly, scissoring his fingers open to stretch you out.  

You let out a high-pitched whimper, hint of pain making your eyes water. Then a wave of ecstasy ripples through you, leaving your legs trembling beneath you. He snakes his arm around your waist, holding you up while you ride out of your high, sprinkling your shoulder with kisses.

Once you come down from your high, you lean back into him, resting your head against his chest. Huffing and puffing, you try to catch your breath as you turn around to cup his swollen balls. “My turn to make you feel good.”

To your surprise, he rests a hand on your arm, pulling it away from him. He looks down at you through blown pupils, arousal plastered all over his face. Beads of sweat trickle down his temples, wet strands of curled hair stuck to his cheeks, he sighs the words. “Not today, tanhi. I must get you back, now.”

[pocket-jack]

Hey, guys! I decided to torture myself before sleep beacause... Why not? So, here's KidKiller's rough sheets with some headcanons I have for the guys (probably with a lot off mistakes cus my browser refuses to fix them for me)

Kid time, baby

I draw him differently now. I know his face looks more... diamond shaped in anime, but I can't get rid of his square coded energy, so... Heart-shaped it is!

When he recieved his eye scar he didn't lose the ability to see, but now it get's dry really fast and if he won't do something about it it'll gonna ache.

He had multiple piercings on his ear, but his powers just kept pulling them and one day almost ripped his ear of, so he (with a manly tears) decided to take them off.

I headcanon him wearing a corset, because he's a little chubby and he can't get rid of this extra fat (not with his appetites). Also everytime when he takes it off, not only he's forced to look at his hanging stomach, but he's also has to fight off Killer. Killer's only dream was for Kid to be well fed and happy.

Nor his, nor Killer's sexuality is defined by them, but actually based out of other's observations. Kid is pansexual because he's kinda gender blind. For him it's confusing that you're weak just because you have tits and extra hole between your legs. He's also demiromantic. Both of those preference he acquired during Kutsukku (where you couldn't trust anyone, even your lover. And where the gender norms were the least of your concerns)

He also have undiagnosed ADHD which mostly give him extra impulsivity and also now the metal can speak (thank ye, neurodivergency!). Sometimes it's stresses him the hell off, especially during Kutsukku. He could not sleep because of all of this buzzing he kept hearing from EVERYWHERE. Now he can control it, but sometimes it returnd and he has to suffer.

Metal also responds to his hidden emotions. It may float when he thinks, reflects or remembering something. It may rumble when he's angry, concerned, scared. Or it may form something if he's happy, in love or something like that.

He's hard rock kinda guy, we all know this, but I headcanon him as a music lover in general (so whatever makes his brain go bzzt, mostly rock). I find Thrown a couple of month ago and it's sounds like something Kid would like (probably even kin, esp Backfire). MSI is a basic thing for him to have (every punk need at least one song in their playlist). I guess not every person will understand it, but Пшлнхй is such a Kid coded song (Every Russian proverb, but one part is just sending you to fuck yourself is something that Kid would do irl. The chorus is just... mmm)

Killer, my beloved!!!!

I love headcanoning him as androgenous. He has a feminine features: oval shaped face, eyes with big eyelashes, even his lips is a little softer than the average male lips. That is the main reason why he hid his face, because everyone would bully him fot it when he was young. Killer was confused with a girl a lot during his time on Kutsukku.

During timeskip he strained a lot of muscles just to get stronger. He was neglecting himself most of the time, because he had a mission: to become stronger so he'll never fail to protect Kid ever again. They also been really distant during their training. Only when Killer hurted his arm they bounded again. Kid was surprisingly a good mentor for his healing. Probably because their trauma was almost the same

When he's wearing a mask he usually get's his hair out of the way so it wouldn't mess with his vision

Pre timeskip he wanted to work on his style, feeling obliged to do so, cus his crew was dressing up in colorful styles. He choose to fit into more West Bluish kinda style (cowboy boots and pants). But then anxiety hitted him and suddenly he felt too vissible and everyone was looking at him and... Let's just say it wasn't a pleasant expirience for him. He just wanted to show that he was a part of the crew too, but now he feels himself too overreacting and dramatic and stuff. It took a lot of time for everyone to convince him that it wasn't about the look, but more about the comfort. With their support Killer started wearing something he likes more, and it felt fantastic. He actually started to like himself in the mirror a bit more after timeskip and then Wano happened

Killer is asexual beacuse of the amount of trauma he suffered during his childhood. I hc him having a low libido too. He's still feels romantic attraction (only for Kid), and if he asks, Killer will have sex with him without hesitation. But it's only for Kid, OR for his sake

It is so logical for him to have OCD. Just him casualy living and then the dread that if he won't do something usefull his crew will see how fucking usless and worthless he actually is and live him behind the same his parents did just suddenly hits him. Oh hey! Anxiety! Abandonment issues! This man will explode, please, give him a hug.

It got worse after Wano. He's doing bad things with his face and no one knows. Even Kid. (I love making them suffer for the sake of Hurt\Comfort)

I am 100% sure Killer is a Queen guy. It just gives me Killer vibes... The same with Elton John. And also... To fit in his pre timeskip cowboy vibes into the oven,,, He's actually like country rock alongside with glam rock. Barns Courtney is his favorate

So... How do you like my silly little headcanons? Maybe I post something about Heat and Wire too. Welp, I'm fainting out of exaustion, bye!

[serial-killers-hope]

Hello ^^ would you mind writing a story with Ronin and an actual devil reader? It's fine if you don't want to!!!!

You’re wish is my command. ~ DP

TW / CW :

- Religious Implications

- Religious Trauma

- Blood

- Gore

- Cannibalism

- Murder

You have been warned.

Enjoy.

The Devil’s In The Name.

“Fuck!”

You cursed aloud, kicking at the puddle of water on this hell called Earth. You were placed here on account that you were one of the demons tasked with checking on Earth with an assigned angel. But of course, there was no angel in sight and you were stuck on Earth while it rained. The alley being the only safe haven around that you could possibly stay in.

Your tail flicked at the pelting rain, hiding under a cloak that you had come with. The only shelter for your shivering body which didn’t seem accustomed to the cold just yet. It made you shudder at the thought of never being able to find warmth.

What was odd however was the sound of thuds and steps in the direction of the entrance. Your eyes squinting to see someone with faux horns and a weapon of some sort draped across his shoulders.

Your eyes stayed fixated as he lowered the weapon onto an ‘enemy’who only seemed to sob and cry at the thought of being hurt. Soon, sounds of heavy bashing, guts spilled across brick with a thick crimson that pooled under them. White and grey brain matter splayed across in a beautiful display.

Grotesque and amusing to your slit eyes.

The man in question who had taken the persons life now stood straight, nudging the body with a spiked boot and a devious gleam in his eyes. It made your spine straighten as your tail seemed to wag even more.

The smell of blood taunted as you seemed to drool. Eyes fixated now on the body that laid against the wall in a visceral pool of their own blood.

“Hah…”

The craving was hard to resist, your tail hitting some tin trash can that you stood by.

“Huh?”

The man’s head snapped over at your direction, his eyes squinting as well to make out your shadow. Only seeing the tail wagging and some light that shone on your feet.

“Fuck, now I have to get rid of you?”

You immediately retreated back into the darker parts of the alley making the man groan in frustration as he kicked a nearby box and started stalking your way. Eyes seemingly scouring for you in any shadow.

Then he froze.

Sharp, piercing, orange eyes stared at him. Glowing in the dark with slits for pupils. Your breath seemingly heavy and needy for something he couldn’t quiet place. It was as if he immediately knew he wasn’t dealing with someone human.

“Hah? The hell…”

He approached with walls put up so high and thick, they could easily crush you if you even entered his presence. It made you shiver at the thought of his own flesh in your maw, metallic and heavy in taste.

“No…”

You murmured, making the man roll his eyes as he finally was close enough to make out some of your features.

Your eyes were orange, your body seemingly frail, clothes tattered, the cloak over you had been soaked from rain, and a red rosary hanging from your neck. It made him cringe.

You finally showed your full face, a single horn on the left of your forehead with the other seemingly broken off. It almost made him pity you… yet you were a demon he knew he had to learn more about.

“Jesus, I won’t hurt you. Don’t worry your pretty lil’ head.”

He chuckled, voice raspy and deep as he examined your switch emotions.

“I’m Ronin… you?”

You shook your head, eyes downcast as Ronin sighed and placed the bar against a wall. His hands moving to shrug off his jacket and drape it over your shoulders.

“… Why’re you being so…”

“Nice? Hah, I’ve had my fair share of shitty situations. God knows what he did to me of course.” Ronin’s laugh was now bitter and resentful, not of you but of God. “I’ll call you tangerine. It suits you.” He tapped under his eye, implying his own trauma and your color… it made you oddly comfortable.

“Oh.”

Ronin sighed, noticing your drool from a mile away as you stared at the body in the distance. “Well… eat?”

Your head shot up, tilting your head slightly with a confused gaze. Your hands trembling as you lowered your cloak and made your way out. His eyes following as he immediately ran when you could to eat.

Taking the body in your own hands and eating with loud crunches and moist noises. Bones breaking and meat tearing. After all, demons aren’t fed as well as angels or humans.

“Damn, you look hungrier…” Ronin laughed, deep and eerie. Making you shudder.

“Well… guess I found a new disposal method.”

[stuffforme2]

Okay listen I lvoe the pjo books and series with all ym heart but.. everyone talks about them like they're perfect WHICH THEYRE NOT any problems are kinda brushed under the rug and I find thst kinda werid? Like you'll see other books and TV shows get dragged and canceled for the stuff in Riordan books and yet pjo doesn't?? So.. uhhHHHH yeah that's jsut something I noticed.

The weird relationshipd ynamics. Rick is like allergic to someone bring okay with being single or jsut aromantic like you can say Reyna but her having a crush kn Jason?? Yes she rejected Apollo but her relationship with Jason deterioted brcuz she had a 'crush' on the guy and that doesn't really amke sense to me (I can go into so much detail kn this)

AND LEO AND CALYPSO OMFG that is a toxic relationship. The age gap. The way calypso treats Leo. The fact Leo SHOULD NOT be with someone like this man hasn't dealt with his attachment and Abandonment issues like st all?!

The literal only black character in the pjo books being beckendorf.. then he dies. Then the Korean/Asian (I'm not sure sorry) character dies, Ethan. And like I understand Percy is hinted st being Hispanic (have seen many ppl talk about this dont mnow if it's common knowldhe) but it's never confirmed or added??? I know Rick fixes it later but it's still weird to me lmaoo

Rick unable to keep consistent personality. Woobigying Nico OH MY GOD NICO HE BECOMES GAY AND THSTS WHDT EVERYONE FUCKING FOCUSES ON AND HE SHOULD'VE NEVER GOTTEN WITH WILL ATLWAST NOT THAT QUICK it's not healthy. Their relationship was rushed and didn't make sense I felt like people only like ot becuz it's a gay relationship??

And oh mygods— Samirah. I am not Muslim and I am not an expert on the Nuslim religion but there is so much shitbthatbeas wrong in thst book that I even knew was incorrect and jsut weird to happen?! The AMOUNT OF TIMES HER HIJAB CAME OFF and I'm also like "yaayyyy representation" but it could've been as easy as one Google search. one.

Jason. Jason as a whole. He had the most potential out of ANYONE and personally I think he had more potential then Percy like his story is so INTERESTING and then.. Rick knocked him iut with a brick multiple times, didn't work kn his sotry or trauma at all, then KILLED HIM. Same with Ethan. I am so Vitter about these two.. HELL EVEN LEO AND FRANK.

Also the way he made Annabeth first quest (first quest SHE IS LEADING AND IS HER PROHECY) all about Percy. I was reading it and I was like "bitxh— this is Annabeth Quest?!" LIKE he it pissed me off that Annabeth was swept to rhe side as Percy's lvoe interest giving her knly enough personality and stary to make her jnteredting enough to eb loved but never delving jntk it into Mark kf Athena and even at Mark of Athena it all rounded back tk her and Percy's relationship LIKE JESUS CHRIST DO THESE MFERS PASS THE BELLDAN TEST?!

The low key incest at the beginning ricj writing that all the demigods had the same impish features at rhe start and then.. jsut.. CHSNGING IT?!

Not letting a virgin goddess who has no history of having children have.. children.. NOW you may be wondering 'but then how would we get Annabeth?'— JUST GiVE ATHENA HER FAVOURITE CHOSEN PPL LIKE SHE DID WITH ODYSSEUS let her stay childless. Jsut let her choose some children she'd like as hers wonce they're Bron and she then blesses them as her heroes, that's how she treats them any way and it also gets rid of the incest?!

Also the fact it's implied that Annabeth is only smart becuz she's a child of Athena.. Rick made a virgin goddess technically have children so he can have a smart women character and that's just.. EuGGHHhHHh JUST LET HER BE SMART IT NOT THAT HARD "Oh, no, I'm not smart because Athena chose me.. Athena chose me because I was already smart" Smacks you with common fucking sense.

Also Annabeth ALWAYS needing to eb saves and its always done by a man. OMFG AND GROVES GF DHE HAS NO PERSONALITY OUTSIDE OF BEING SOEM GUSY GF EVEN THOUGH HES GONE FOR MKNTHS AND BAREKY CONTAXTS HER?!

The whole apheodite cabin. The whole aphrodite cabin. The whole aphrodite cabin.

The fact it's clear Rick doesn't think girly girls cant be strong or into fighting or able to wield a fuckign weapon. The way he makes nearly every girly girl into a total mean bitch or ruins their characters.

[dovkss]

hawks confronting reader for trying to hide their stockholm syndrome

word count: 957

warning: 18+; stockholm syndrome, emotional abuse, mentions of kidnapping, manhandling, bratty! reader, threatening, yandere themes

a/n: a lil sum to make up for lost timeee! ;(

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. As he had planned, your feelings for him had began to shift.

No longer were you fighting him, spitting at him, yelling at him. No longer were you being disobedient, pushing his face away when he tried to kiss you.

No longer were you being an ungrateful whore.

You couldn't help but feel attached to him. It was hard not to. You haven't had any contact with an actual human besides him for the past few months. And, boy, were they long.

You got used to seeing his face. His gorgeous face. You were now comfortable enough to caress the fluffy red feathers he would leave in your space on purpose.

After being locked up in the basement during the day, you began to actually look forward to when he came back to you from patrolling or whatever hero work he had to do for the day.

When that door opened and he stepped through it, you found yourself smiling or letting out a sigh of relief.

You were aware of what was happening to you. You had read about it online some years ago. Stockholm Syndrome was what it was called... you think. People who are victims of abuse will start to empathize with their abusers to cope with the trauma they faced.

Well, he never hit you. Nor did he force you to do anything you didn't want to.

That's not abuse, is it? Surely not, you were perfectly fine and able to take care of yourself.

He kidnapped you, yeah. But... he was nice to you. He fed you, washed you, kept you warm, and bought you your favorite things!

That's not abuse.

Takami also took note of your change of heart. You never knew when your gaze on him lingered a little longer than normal. Your smile now wasn't sarcastic or half-assed.

At first he thought you were up to something. Maybe you were creating a ploy to blindside him in an attempt to escape.

Like he’d let that happen. Of course not.

But knew he had you wrapped around his finger when you let his lips come in context with your neck without putting up a fight. You were doing so well for him.

Only problem was you not admitting it. That annoyed the hell out of him.

You couldn’t let him know that you were coming around, then he would be getting his way. But if he was keeping you safe, what would be the harm in that?

No harm at all. Just a hurt ego. If he knew he was getting his way, you’d never be able to live it down. That cocky bastard.

"You cozy?" He asked you, his tone light. You nodded as you sat on the opposite end of the warm couch. It was movie night tonight, it was his turn to pick the movie.

You both sat in silence for the first half hour of the movie. You could see in the corner of your eye him looking at you. You bit your lip nervously, only trying to focus on the movie.

"Ya wanna sit next to me?" His next question was simple enough. You looked over at him. You knew you'd never forgive yourself for this. You scooted over a bit, your shoulder almost touching his.

He reached over and pulled your head into his neck and grabbed your legs to dangle over his. You huffed but said nothing.

"You startin' to like me yet?" He rested his head on top of yours. You rolled your eyes, not saying anything in response.

"Not even a little?" He chuckled. "This 'playing hard to get' act is getting old, Babe."

"It's not an act. You're just 'hard to get rid of'."

In a flash, you felt his demeanor change. Suddenly, he's on you before you even know it. He slams you back into the cushion, bringing his face to your cheeks, squishing them together. “I hope you know that you're never, ever getting rid of me. Nobody is fucking coming for you either, so I suggest you come to terms with that now."

You wriggle under his firm grip, trying to pry him off of you. You found it to be useless as he brought your face closer to his, forcing you to make eye contact with his yellow ones.

You couldn't lie to yourself. Being this close to him made you feel some things. You panicked.

"M' sorry, please, let me go..." you begged, closing your eyes. You hoped he listened, as your face was growing hot and beginning to cramp. You braced yourself for the nail marks that you would feel embedded in your skin.

He grinned. "Give me a kiss."

You leaned forward slightly, pecking his lips. He scoffed and shook you a bit, making you whine. "A real one, c'mon now."

You obeyed and attached your lips to his. He wasted no time slipping his tongue into your mouth. He wasn't just kissing you, he was letting you know that he was in charge.

For as long as you're here.

He pulled away with a chuckle before pushing your head down away from him further into the couch, then letting go. He returned to his spot while you lay there, trying to catch your breath.

You hadn't even noticed your thighs being clenched together. Your eyes watered slightly at the idea.

You were losing it. You were losing yourself, slowing turning into his. Your life now in his hands. Your freedom being stripped away from you.

“When I get outta here, m’ gonna kill you.” Your words were timid and empty.

The only thing left he had to change about you was that bratty mouth.

[igotanidea]

Trauma : Batboys x PTSD!fem!s/o

platonic version was here, but since @ultravioletqueen asked me to make a bit more advanced in terms of relationship here's how I see the romantic verse. And I took a bit different approach to this one.

Please, be aware that my knowledge about PTSD is limited, but I know about panic attack and anxiety so the story may be a bit more of the second kind.

Also, I'm biased towards Jay and I'm not sorry for that.

DICK

"I'm back!" his yelling came from the door and judging by the tone someone may think that he was gone for a week not just for an hour-long shopping. But when she did not response straight away some strange feeling grew in his stomach. "Y/N? Baby?"

'I...... I'm here......." the faintest of the voices came from the kitchen and he rushed there, still in his jacket and shoes, not caring about the risk of sploching the floor.

"It's happening again?" he asked, falling onto his knees on the floor next to her and she just nodded "Oh, my baby, you poor thing. Can I hug you?"

"Yes, please" she clung onto him with all the force she could gather in this weakened state, sobbing and shaking while he was rubbing her back, holding her tightly against his chest and kissing the top of her head repeatedly.

"I'm sorry" she cried "I'm sorry, it just won't go away after all this time. I'm sorry there's something wrong with me, that I'm broken. I'm sorry...."

"Stop it." she whispered, tightening the grip, but making sure it was stil comfortable for her and not suffocating. "You're not broken. You're just scarred and it makes you who you are. It makes you the person I love. The sensitive, helpful person who despite everything see the good in the world and fights to make it a better place for people. The person I chose to be with."

"Dickie....." she cried even more, hiding face in his shirt.

"Sh..." he cooed "Let it out. Let it all out. I'm here for you, love."

"But....."

"You don't have to talk. Unless you want to. Do you want to?"

"No."

"Then I'll just stay with you. For whatever long you need me. Hopefully, forever?"

"I don't ever want you to go." with every shook of her body, his heart skipped a bit. She shouldn't have been through all this pain and trauma, but there was no way he could change the past. The only thing he was capable of was making sure that the future held as many positive feelings and memories as possible.

"That's good. Cause I am one hell of a hard one to get rid of." he smiled. "Let;s get you off this floor and to bed, all right?"

"Mhm....." she muttered and Dick just picked her up, bridal style carrying her to the bedroom, covering with blanket and snuggling next to her in attempt to provide her with love, comfort and safety.

JASON

"Why are you up?"

"AH! What the fuck Jay?!" the cloth she had in one hand fell to the floor as she used the fork she had in the other as a potential weapon.

"It's 2 am. Why are you up?" Jason asked again

"And why are you here?" she crossed arms over chest, pouting, eyeing him up and down, still in his Red Hood gear "shouldn't you be patrolling?"

"I was in the neighbourhood. Saw a light here and came to check on you, you're welcome."

"Well as you can see I am perfectly fine, so you can go back to whatever you were doing....." she turned around towards the sink and resumed her cleaning fit. At 2 am. Jason's eyes travelled around the counter, crammed with dinnerrware she was frantically washing. Something was definitely wrong.

"Y/N" he spoke softly

"What?" she snapped, harsher than intended and the sound of her own voice made her sigh and rub the forehead "I told you I'm fine."

"Come with me" he tossed her the spare helmet lying on the shelf, nearby and she involuntarily caught it. At the same time he threw away his Red Hood helmet and jacket and changed it into civilian counterparts.

'Where.....?

"Just come with me" he grabbed her hand and practically dragged her out, into his motorcycle, forcing her to sit behind him. "Just hold on tight, all right, sweetie?"

They were speeding throught Gotham's streets, Jason focused on the road and Y/N's embrace on his waist. She was having an episode, he could tell. And damn the patrol, she always came first to him. So he dropped everything to just get her into the top of the highest building in Gotham. To get some perspective.

"Jay, why are we here?" she asked, voice trembling, looking down at the city, filled with lights "Wow. I never thought Gotham could actually look this beautiful. But still, why are we here?" she slightly moved away from the edge of the building. It was high and she did not want to fall off.

"When I came back from the death" he started, taking a place next to her reaching for her hand and intertwining their fingers together "I had flashbacks of what happened with Joker. Heavy ones. And the only way I knew how to deal with them was running away. As far as possible. So this...." he waved his hand around "was my safe place. Somewhere I came to calm down, somewhere peaceful and quiet and out of everyone's reach. No one knew about it, so they were out of my hair."

"But now I know....."

"You're the exception to every rule I set for myself."

"Jason....." she muttered, moving closer to him, resting head on his shoulder and feeling his arm sneak around her waist.

"And then you came into my life and became my anchor." he continued "I didn't need this place anymore. Look, baby, I know what it feels like to relive the past, all right? And I don't want that for you. So that's why we are here. To get away." he kissed top of her head affectionately "I won't let anyone hurt you, hope you know that. Even if that means saving you from yourself."

"Jay....." she whispered again, tilting her head up and their gazes met.

"Yes, princess?"

"I love you....."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

TIM

"Bruce, please, please, don't make me attend the gala."

"cut it, Y/N. You are going. You are the only one that I can actually believe will not turn it into a circus show.

And just like that, poor girl ended up at the annual Wayne Gala, dressed up from head to toe, feeling like a kid in her mother's clothes. Pretending to be someone else, someone confident, elegant, laid-back and maybe a bit conceited. She was Wayne Enterprises top employees, she should have known better than to beg Bruce to cut her some slack.

Instead, she was doing rounds and rounds, talking to potential investors, trying to charm her way into their hearts. All with the brightest smile on her face. The smile that could never reach her eyes, which slowly started to give away how terrified she truly was. It was suffocating.

"If you'll gentlemen excuse me for a second." she grinned politely finishing one of her countless converstations "I need to go to the ladies room."

While the guest just nodded in understatement, Bruce was far from letting her get a break.

"Y/N." he appeared out of nowhere, grabbing her elbow "There's one more group I need you to charm, all right?"

"Bruce...." she whined "please...."

"Just this one. I promise, Y/N."

"All..... all right" she stuttered and putting on her proffesional face approached three older men standing by the window. At first, it was easy to cover up for her shaking hands and trembling legs but then one of her interlocutors used some ill-fated words which triggered memories from the past.

"What do you think about that Miss Y/L/N?"

"I......" she tried to form a sentence but it felt like someone punched the air out of her lungs and like the world was spinning. However, just one glance at the man in front of her told her he did not notice a thing. Damn it she was good at pretending. "I think....."

"I think it's a proposition worth considering, Mr Jacobs." a warming touch to her forearm, a soft voice in her ear and the sense of someone's calming presence next to her grounded her immidiately. She sighed deeply and Tim squeezed her hand reassuringly, almost like he was trying to say I'm here now. He noticed her symptoms even from the other side of the room.

"Mr. Drake. Such a pleasure to see you. I was just explaining to this young lady here......"

"Y/n is an exeptional mind. My father and I really trust her opinions so if she thinks it's something to invest it, we surely will. Now if you excuse us, I really need to take something up with my girl." his hand travelled up to her waist when he slowly led her out of the prying eyes of the guests to the more secluded part of the manor.

"Are you all right, Y/N" he asked sitting her onto the stool and handling her a glass of cold water which she gladly accepted, sipping on it.

"I'm better now." she smiled faintly "how did you know?"

"'Cause no matter how many people I was talking to tognight, my focus was on you. Like always" he looked down, cheeks a bit flushed with the confession. "I know about your triggers, I know you asked Bruce not to come here tonight and I just ......"

"Tim. Tim, look at me." he raised his head to face her, face turning even more red when she cupped his cheek gently and rested her forehead on his "have I ever told you how great detective you are?"

"I don't mind listening to it a couple more times." he leaned into her touch.

"I can keep telling you that all night if it means we don't have to go back there."

"I'm pretty sure the other members of the family can handle this for a while, don't you?" he smiled and leaned forward to close the distance between them.

DAMIAN

he's obviously aged up

Sounds of punching and kicking were echoing through the training room in the manor. Y/N was not the one to use it very often since she as far from strength workout focusing rahter of speed and flexibility, but being in a very complicated relationship with the youngest son of Gotham's richest came with some benefits. Like now, when she was struggling with her PTSD and anxiety hitting on her again. Being the fighter she was, she decided to hit back. Literally. By putting on leisurewear and stand against some virtual opponents. Little did she know that there was a quiet figure standing behind her back watching her every move. She should have sensed him, she was trained it that, but once her mind started working against her it was like she was transferred to another reality. Only her and her memories, pain, fear and all the bad emotions. Maybe that was why despite being in quite good shape she was panting, sweating and shaking more than usual.

"I hate you...." she cried kicking another AI opponent "I.... I hate you...." single tear flew down her cheek but she not let any other appear.

"I don't think they care about your hatred" Damian smirked moving towards the center of the room "you should really control your feelings here Y/n."

"You don't know...."

"Oh I know. I know you are way to much in your head right now."

"Do you?" she scoffed, standing in the power position dead set on not letting him intimidate her.

"I do." he nodded, turning a bit more serious "And I mean it, if you don't get your ass out of your head you are going to hurt yourself. Or worse, get hurt. Or, the worst, humiliate yourself."

"Watch your words, Wayne!" she clenched her fists, anger seething through her every pore.

"Look at yourself" he smirked "wrong posture, overwhelmed with feelings, missed punches. Don't you think you should have just stick to being ordinary girl? Batman seems like too high tresholds for you."

"Is that what you think?" her eyes widened. Damian was not exactly known for his social skills, but she thought he might treat her differently. After all they were toghether, so why? And to add up to it, they were alone. There was no need to show this side of him, it was Y/N who he was talking to. And those words of his hurt. Probably more than she wanted to admit. And it made her face the reality or rather crash with the reality. Was she really not good enough? Subconciosly she started to recall all the latest things she did to help Batman and Robin and could not remember any mistakes. "Dami?"

"Of course not." he spoke calmly approaching her.

"So why did you say it?"

"Tell me where are you?"

"What?" she frowned. He did not make any sense.

"Where are you?" he repeated, eyes fixed on her confusied face

"At the manor?" she hesitated, not sure where all of this was going.

"And where were you a couple minutes ago?"

"Oh....." now she realised. What he said and most importanly how he said it, had one single purpose - bring her back. Make her think rationally and logically. And it did.

"Look, Y/N. I've been trained by the assassins, I'm still learning about.... you know....relations. But I try, all right?"

"I know you are. And I ....."

"Let me finish" he cut her off. "If there's anyone I want to learn with it's you, ok? But for now, I can only do as much as helping you ground. By being harsh sometimes. And.....I'm sor...." he stuttered "Nah, I'm not gonna say it."

"I don't want you too" she laughed wholeheartedly "that would be so out of character."

"You want to spar with me, Y/L/N?" he asked handling her some weapons and gently brushing his fingers over hers.

"Coming from you it sounds like a proposal."

"Don't get ahead of yourself Y/L/N".

[robiinurheart33]

(TW for major panic attack, small s3lf harm and intrusive thoughts) - clicks for Palestine

Anyone who takes a good look at Ghost can probably guess he isn’t the most mentally healthy person.

Okay, he lied. No one would look at him long enough to actually take a good look before looking away in fear.

So why the hell are so many people annoying him today?

Look. He isn’t usually a very angry guy. Ghost is more like a combination of all his traumas and defence mechanisms and depression with anxiety all wrapped up in a scar-filled muscle tank. He does not get angry easily. He’s trained for that.

But fuck, when everyone is somehow getting on all his nerves at once, Price demanding paperwork, Gaz being way too fucking patient with him, and Soap whining all the god damned time. Jesus. Christ. Give him a bloody break already. He hasn’t drank water or eaten anything today, and his head is light and his brain feels like soft tissue scrunching up in preparation for a killer migraine. His boots are too tight, his mask suffocating him, his dozens of knives and guns and whatever the hell he keeps in him, he’s feeling every single minute detail and it’s driving him up the fucking wall. Who the hell decided all the lights be white?? God, his eyes burn. He probably hasn’t blinked properly in a while. His jaw and teeth hurt from clenching them, and ghost can practically feel his shoulders turning into giant boulders.

Ghost wants to crawl into a hole and die. Well, he already did do that, didn’t he? That wasn’t funny. He grimaces, sucking in a big breath as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Pull it together.

His thoughts are all over the place right now, and he can’t focus on one thing at a time. He needs to do a hundred things at the same time, and another part of him is reminding himself how dehydrated he is. He wants to choke the living hell out of his brain. Able to kill hundreds of people but unable to escape the confinements of his own mental stability. Ghost almost huffs at that. So you use comedy as a coping mechanism under stress? The words of his shrink suddenly ring through his mind, and ghost wants to bash his head into the wall and pull out all his hair.

Okay, okay, okay. Stay focused. First thing is to get back to his room, finish paperwork, drink and eat then sleep. As simple as that. Nothing else. Work, eat, sleep. Okay. He can do that. Terrifying lieutenant reduced to some guy who can’t even take care of his basic necessities. How can you even take charge of thousands of lives on the field? Ghost bites the inside of his cheek hard, tasting metal flow into his mouth immediately. SHUT THE FUCK UP. He feels like his skin is wrapped in cling wrap, pulling tighter and tighter, until his skin burns and he wants to scratch on every cell on his body until the feeling goes away. This is quite literally his own personal purgatory. Is he dead? He hopes he is.

Ghost slams open the door to his room, and winces at the loud sound that happens. He closes the door a little more carefully, his fingers trembling and even the subtle “click” of the door echos through his head and he wants to melt into the floor and die. Ghost presses the heel of his palm into his eyes and watches the sparks flutter behind his eyelids, until the pressure relieves some of the tension, until it almost hurts, and his breathing somehow soothes slightly. He wasn’t even aware of how hard he was breathing. His chest itches, and Ghost scratches at it, surprised by the dull pain that etched through his ribs. He rips off his gloves and throws them onto the floor, like a child throwing a tantrum. His father’s words plague him, and a cold sweat starts to break out.

It all boils to a point, and Simon throws his mask off, hands trembling and shaking and he doesn’t know what to do how to get rid of this how does he function, and he has work, work, work and there is no time at all and he’s paralysed by the thought of choice, and he’s standing in the middle of his room, face flushed and panting. His shaking hands raise slowly and he grabs onto his hair and yanks. He gasps and grinds his teeth together and it hurts. It hurts, and it’s making his brain feel sharper, and his eyes are slowly blurring. It hurts, and he doesn’t let go. Energy thrumming beneath his skin, and his nails sink into his forearms, and he scratches, scratches, scratches, it hurts, and he scratches, scratches, scratches, and there is nothing that can save him, and he scratches.

It hurts.

He hurts.

It’s good to see you again, Simon.

A sinking feeling explodes in his gut and his mouth opens, jaw limp and he doesn’t know what’s happening. He pants, and it hurts. He falls to his knees, face plummeting into the foot of his bed, and it hurts. Tight, tight, and with fumbling hands and skin and blood under his fingertips he unbuttons his jeans, throws over his shirt and lay panting on the ground. It’s too close, and he unties and throws his boots across the room. Tantrum. His mind taunts. It’s not enough, it’s never enough, hurt. It hurts.

His fingertips tremble.

He almost sprains his ankle tumbling into the shower, turning the knob completely to the right. He slams his head against the wall tile, not even waiting for the water to heat up before stepping into the water. His back and shoulder hurt, and he tries rolling his shoulders back but to avail. He tries to compose himself, and he fails. There is simply no more energy left in him.

Simon shivers and slides down to his ass, closing his eyes and welcoming the boiling water with reverence. It burns, and he hurts, and he’s alive, and he feels horrible. He knows he hates sitting while showering. He knows that there is no way he can possibly get up now. He knows that this is the absolute worst way to deal with his attacks right now. He knows he should get help. He knows he should breathe.

Simon does none of that.

He cannot tell if the liquid falling down his face is water, blood, sweat or tears. He doesn’t think about it any further. He angles his face just slightly out of the water to take in a gulp of humid air. That’s one down now. He shudders yet again, could imagine the goosebumps break across his arms. One objective right now is to get clean. He breaths some more. Counts to 10. His body doesn’t listen to himself. Dirt scrapes across his knees, and it’s not real, none of it. A metal hook, rotting jaw, and blue eyes.

Soap. Johnny.

Simon opens his eyes.

There’s no dirt, there’s no hook, or wood, or fire, no smell of decomposing bodies, no gun or blood, no pats to his shoulder, no whispers, no tommy, Beth, Joseph, elizabeth Riley or Johnny, he’s alone.

Like he always knew he was.

Simon twitches his toes, and watches as it slowly curls up. One more down. he blinks, and both his feet curl up. Twenty blinks later, and his hands twitch, static twitching up his arms. Distinctly, he remembers that they react that way due to not getting enough oxygen into his body. Ten blinks later, and his hands curl up. He slides his fingers against his palm, clocking in the water slowly getting colder again. He makes his hand into a fist. Another slow ten, and he lays his palms flat against the shower floor, inhaling painfully before pushing himself up with a grunt, slipping slightly and slamming his shoulder into the shower wall. He wheezes, clawing at the wall to keep himself upright. It hurts. His head spins. He blinks.

Breathe.

His hands fumble for the water tap, clammy hands shutting off the water and suddenly it’s way too quiet.

That’s- shit, that’s even worse and Simon turns on the water again, not to have it beat down on his back but a small drizzle, just to keep it from being silent, to not remind him how alone he felt.

A beat. Then two.

Simon turns off the water again and steps out of the shower quickly. He grabs a towel and wraps it around himself, staring at the man in the mirror.

Simon blinks. So does he.

Breathe.

That’s enough. He has work to do. He opens the door and steps back into his room, changing quickly and ignoring the blooming bruise on his shoulder and forehead. He takes one last breath and looks at the balaclava thrown onto the floor. He has work to do.

Ghost picks up the mask.

[daphwritesworld]

U went off the maps when will u be back writing?

hopefully i’ll be back to writing soon. my mental and physical health have taken a turn, so i’m mainly focused on that right now. i’m having these god awful migraines that leave me in bed for most of the day. my room is the only place i can get them to stop. i think it’s because it’s dark and at the very end of the house so it’s quiet. any type of light irritates it. especially screens. tv, phone, or computer. because of that i’ve mainly been sleeping— if my brain doesn’t feel like it’s being kicked repeatedly by a footballer at max force. i’ve never had my fucking head hurt like this before. im talking it starts tingling, throbbing, and it’s even hard for me to talk. i’ve also been forgetting shit so much. the main ones are: i keep leaving one of the fridge doors open or forgetting something important out of it on the counter, and forgetting words i should know. stupid shit like “clipboard” or “sponge” will just slip my mind for 5/10 minutes. i was scheduled for a neuro exam, but as of January 1st my insurance switched to united healthcare (yes THAT united healthcare.) so now i have to go back to my neurologist, get the order put back in, wait to see if this new insurance approves it, and then wait god knows how long for the actual evaluation date. (if it even gets approved😀) but i’ll be back to posting after my headaches or migraines or whatever these god awful head pains are lessen up or go away completely. no over the counter meds have helped so far, and the one my doctor prescribed made me sick. so if y’all know some old grandma hacks about getting rid of head pain PLEASE TELL ME. i’ve tried wearing my glasses 24/7 to not stress my eyes, caffeine, ice packs, chugging iced water to get a brain freeze, hot teas, essential oils, and hell i’ve even tried yoga. i will try ANYTHING at this point. anyways that’s enough trauma dumping for today. sorry for going MIA on y’all, but i’ve resorted to lying in my bed with the curtains drawn and basking in the dark lol. see ya soon my lovelies 🩷

[lazaruspiss]

sladedicktalia??????? i am LISTENING

there's like. 5 fics. im so starved. i think theyre so hot and funny together!! im obsessed. also this got long so im adding a readmore. whoops.

SlaDick: classic enemies to lovers. they may try to kill each other half the time but they respect each other more than anyone else. OBSESSED with each other, Slade knows he's weird about Dick and couldn't care less but Dick is so in denial about it. they could both give explicit consent but be so antagonistic about it that it becomes unclear if "yes i want to have sex with you" is actually code for "die right now" and i think that's beautiful.

SladeTalia: they fucked! in canon! there was some bullshit plotline where Talia tried to give Slade Damian and pretend he was his son instead! ex fuck buddies who show up just to make each other's lives harder bc they wanna fuck so bad it makes them have stupid brain. also they're both hot as hell. i'm weak for big strong milf/dilf idk idk.

DickTalia: LISTEN TO ME. TALIA WOULD TREAT HIM RIGHT. THEY BOTH KNOW HOW EMOTIONALLY DEVASTATING IT IS TO LOVE BRUCE. LISTEN TO M- ok aside from that. Talia is someone who tried so hard to be good, to choose to be kind. She loved Bruce because she saw how hard he tried to do good in the world. Her character has gotten considerably colder over time, in huge part due to a certain writer writing about her despite knowing nothing about her, but in universe i try and rationalize it as a growing cynicism stemming from both her father's gradually increasing cruelty and Bruce's failure to support her or commit to her or to even just respect her. She hasn't been shown to have very many people in her life who she can really trust and be close to. She used to have a good relationship with Ra's, she used to have Bruce, she's even lost Damian at this point. She feels like such a lonely character to me. And I think Dick would be able to see that, be able to understand it better than most. He's always had people who loved him, people he could turn to, but he's also ended up perpetually isolated for one reason or another. Dick and Talia both feel to me like characters who are so lonely the further they get in their lives. I could see a silent understanding there. The kind of people who would be able to find solace in simply sharing a space with each other. Neither of them like to talk about what they've been through, I think they'd like to have someone who just gets it. Trauma for trauma, you know?

SlaDickTalia: several angles available here.

1) Dick deserves some sexy older lovers who would wine and dine him and also rail him within an inch of his life and also kill for him. i am not immune to the aesthetics!! to the allure of a hot older duo double teaming their young spitfire partner!!!

2) corruption arc. u know u wanna.

3) Dick's fear of abandonment x the 2 most devoted people on the planet. if they were dating nothing bad would happen to Dick again, Slade and Talia just wouldn't allow that. smth smth, couldn't get rid of them if he tried <3

4) Bruce would hate it and that's always fun :3 not that that's hard tho, Babs is like the only one of Dick's partners that Bruce liked and that's bc he wants to keep it in the family.

5) healing.... sobs...... esp when it comes to feelings around parenthood. Those three have shit to work out and i think having some company would help.

6) They all need more people time but 2/3 of them don't get along with anybody so they're kinda stuck with Dick. that kid will forgive anybody if u bat ur eyelashes and behave well enough. He's also more likely to still see them as people despite everything they've been through, and when you're a military experiment and a semi immortal daughter of an immortal terrorist... It can be hard to find someone who looks at you like you still have a chance at humanity.

7) Slade and Talia playing a Cat Vs Dog type game with Dick in the middle. I think it's funny.

[bakugosbratx]

yandere bakugou tries to cheer up his darkling?

Katsuki Trying to Cheer up His Darling

Warning: 18+ content. Yandere themes, gaslighting, manipulation, kidnapping infer, abuse, noncon referenced, etc.

Tags: @peachyquing @awilddreamerreads @milkthistletea @lanarist @quietlegends @bakugous-trauma @gazelle-des-pres @cherrykamado @thisbicc @miriobaby @sickchildren @bakugousbrat @vinny-likes-to-play21 @ssplague @ahbeautifulexistence @ebiharachan @fransuki @angie-1306 @rainne-cloud @nymphoheretic

• Katsuki would attempt to cheer up his darling. Attempt.

• Katsuki isn’t a patient man. He may gain a tiny bit as he gets older and more comfortable with his darling, but in general, Katsuki is impatient. Let’s not forget he also has a hard time understanding his own emotions. How do you expect him to understand his darling’s?

• He’ll try with talking to his darling. “What the hell is you mopin’ ‘bout?” He’ll grumble with folded arms, crimson eyes peering down at them. When his darling either gives him the silent treatment, or a bland answer, or even a truthful one, he’ll be quick to gaslight them.

• “You’re such an ungrateful brat. After all I’ve done for you and you have the nerve to be poutin’?” Katsuki scoffs as if this is supposed to automatically fix their attitude towards him. And when he learns it doesn’t work like that, he’ll try a different approach.

• Katsuki will come home with a stuffed animal, a treat, or something he thinks the darling will like. They’ll have to show gratitude then, right?

• At least, that is his hope, but when that doesn’t work, he’ll try other methods like fucking it out of his darling because dick fixes everything in Katsuki’s mind.

• His darling can deny it all they want but when they sing a melody of moans, that just confirms to Katsuki it is working and they are just giving him a hard time.

• But somehow, that doesn’t change their mind. A pout still stays on their face until all his tricks run out and he asked the question he should have asked before, “what the hell is it that you want?!” And when they answer honestly, they can expect a lecture on how ungrateful they are and a week in the basement with no food or water. But when he comes to see you, he expects you to be so grateful for his presence which will be rewarded with a nice bath, food, makeup sex, and cuddles

• And if the darling gives an answer Katsuki doesn’t want to hear — which will more than likely be the case — they can expect a lecture of how ungrateful they are, a week alone in a dark room, and no food or water. Then, you’ll have to lean on Katsuki when he frees you which will be a nice bath, cooked meal, makeup sex, and cuddles.

So, yeah. Katsuki may not be the best at comforting if they don’t respond the way he wants them too.

©bakugosbratx

• When the darling shows no gratitude, he’ll get even more angry, but he’s not done trying. He’ll do anything to see his darling smile. So, naturally, he’ll ask them what his darling wants.

• Katsuki will try to spend more time with his darling because they are obviously upset he is at work all of the time, right? And with all of that time means more time for Katsuki to pressure darling into sex.

• And when they say “no.” He will just do it anyway because dick fixes everything, right? The darling can claim they hate it, but as much as the darling moans, Katsuki thinks otherwise. Besides, what better way to get rid of that nasty attitude of theirs other than fucking it out of them.

[dreamersbcll]

Could you write something where Tara is nervous and/ or irritable when Sam starts hanging out with some new girl. Just some good old fashioned codependency and possessiveness

“Joyous”

i’ll do you one better.

—————————————————————————

Tara wasn’t one to complain. She wasn't. When life threw the whole kitchen sink at her, she didn’t even make a peep. Nothing got under her skin because she wasn’t afforded the luxury to dwell on it all. She had to be on her toes, ready for the next attack; the next time, she would have to protect Sam.

But lately, Tara’s biggest problem was Sam’s new coworker. Haley. A tall, blond-haired girl with radiant eyes and an infectious smile. The girl stayed over one drunken night and just never left. It was like she was a permanent fixture in the sisters’ lives or at the very least, Sam’s.

She tried; she really did. But the final straw was finding the pair curled up in their bed together, sleeping soundly. Tara remembers taking the whole image in, her hands balled up and her eyes blurry with rage.

On the bedside table, there used to be a picture of the sisters’ smiling in front of the Blackmore University sign. It was replaced with a picture of Sam and Haley smiling together in their work clothes.

Every fucking picture, video, hell, even selfie together, the pair looked fucking joyous. As if Haley made the sunrise and the planet turn on its axis. As if Haley knew which smiles Sam was faking and how she preferred to be loved.

It fucking infuriated Tara.

This sixty-forty time split was too little for Tara. She needed one hundred percent of Sam’s time. She earned that time through years of fights, bloodshed, and mutually bonded trauma.

Haley wasn’t there for the last Woodsboro bloodbath, and she was nowhere near New York. She didn’t understand what it was like to be a Carpenter. And she wasn’t going to understand. Tara wasn’t going to give her a chance.

She needed to get Haley out of the picture. Tara wasn’t stupid. She knew her big sister was the sturdy frame, holding everyone around her up, and Haley was the temporary Polaroid picture that just wouldn’t get torn up.

Again, Tara tried. She really did. She tried to hang out with the girl and listen to her boring stories about being a financial advisor and how hard it was to commute from Princeton to Columbia. She had tried several dinners, shopping trips, and movie nights. None of it worked. The girl was still a parasite stuck to Sam’s back, draining her of the ability to love Tara.

And she was fucking tired of competing for Sam’s attention. Tara didn’t deserve this half-assed treatment. Sam chose her first and decided to love her first as well.

Sam was hers first. Not Haley’s. And she would never be Haley’s.

Tara figured that if there were no picture, there would be no frame. She needed to get rid of Haley quickly and quietly.

——

Stumbling back inside her apartment, she tried to breathe in and steady her breath. She couldn’t remember the last time she had run six entire city blocks, as she wasn’t in shape for it.

Leaning against the door, she tilted her head back, eyes closed in concentration. Her blood ached with exhilaration, her chest fluttering with joy. She didn’t realize how cathartic it was to release her emotions like that.

But Tara forgot to check if Sam was home, so when the kitchen light flickers on, she knows she’s caught.

Opening her eyes, she made eye contact with her sister, who leaned against the kitchen door frame, her arms crossed, face stoic. Gritting her teeth, her face glistened with sweat, her eyes still wild with euphoria.

She was caught. But she wasn’t sorry.

Sam walked up to her, eyes raking over the disheveled image that was her baby sister. Braided hair was frizzy and tangled as if someone had yanked at them in distress. Blood smeared across one cheek, splatters flecked on blue jeans. Coupled with the torn t-shirt and blossoming bruises under the left eye, Tara had looked better.

Tara wasn’t going to apologize. She did what she had to do. She didn’t start the fight, but she damn well would finish it. Sam taught her that much.

Shoot them in the head, don’t stop until they aren’t moving. Never fuck with the daughter of a serial killer. Or the sister of one.

She pushed off the door, getting in Sam’s face, daring her to tell her that what she did was wrong. Begging Sam to make a move, force Tara to feel sorry for taking out the girl that took her spot in the bed they shared.

Instead, Sam did neither of those things. She clicked her tongue in disapproval, reaching over and rubbing the blood stain off Tara’s cheek. Tara leaned into the touch, still watching Sam’s eyes. Her face was stony, but her eyes sparkled with love and approval.

Tara grinned wide, knowing she had Sam wrapped around her finger. She smugly crossed her arms over her chest, letting Sam wipe the blood off her face.

Breaking the silence, Sam spoke one sentence.

“Did you make a scene?”

Tara shook her head, the grin making her face ache in glee.

“No. You taught me not to. I did what you showed me. And I did it so well,” she purred, enjoying the way Sam’s breath caught in her throat.

Her sister then smiled back, a real Cheshire cat grin. She pulled Tara in for a hug, the two melding into one another. Tara breathed a sigh of relief into her sister’s chest, her heart bursting with love at how gently Sam touched her.

“Took you long enough, honey. I wasn’t going to wait any longer for you to end it,” Sam hummed, kissing her head.

Tara rolled her eyes but still clung to her sister, her smile a permanent fixture for the rest of the night.

She was the original photo. Nobody fucks with the original.

[harlequinoccult]

hey there, this isn't rlly an ask as it is a ramble so uuh feel free to ignore it!

i usually play IFs by picking an oc of mine and deciding to put them into Situations. i have like 3 ocs that basically were born by me constantly playing IFs a certain way. the reason im saying this is bc while stalking browsing your tumblr, i realized smth i found quite amusing, which is that OD has a very similar backstory/traumas to one of my ocs, except both of them ended up w pretty much opposite personalities-

im gonna call my oc by his alias to make things fair, so Vulpine it is (he has a whole thing w foxes its not important). Vulpine also usually grows up without parents or any family really, basically raises himself as a street rat, has one HELL of a teenagehood, gets arrested at LEAST once, basically becomes an alcoholic from ages 14-20, has religious trauma that makes him question his worldview and changes his beliefs completely, is an aggressively stubborn motherfucker... but as he grows up he kind of "mellows out", in a way.

in slsq terms, ig his personality would mainly be apathetic with caustic (is that the name for the aggressive personality type?) tendencies. but mostly he's just sighing and trying to get on with this without dying. he stops drinking and using drugs completely in his adult years, mostly due to his never ending paranoia (he cant defend himself well enough if he's inebriated, and he learned that from experience). becomes much more patient as a person, much more set on his boundaries, and ultimately more of a "functional member of society". he's a bit of a cleaning freak, knows abt 8+ languages just bc he likes studying, is a MASSIVE fucking nerd who would live in university if he could. he probably was working on getting a doctorate or smth when Carter came along and just fucking ruined his life

on the surface, Vulpine and OD have... p much nothing in common. one of them is a stoic bitch with a dry sarcastic humor and a voice so deadpan you can barely tell what emotion he's feeling unless he gets truly angry (which is a surprisingly hard thing to accomplish), and OD is... well. it's OD.

but i do feel like there's some sorta kinship there, past their obvious differences. Vulpine is no stranger to extreme trauma and the habits someone would develop to try and overcome it in some way. he's no stranger to being shackled for most of your life and fighting so hard to get rid of those chains you end up changing yourself almost completely. he wouldn't try to "fix" OD bc he knows that's not how this works, but... he'll try his damn best to at least give them some stability. make sure they eat well every day. make sure they sleep on a proper bed and not just on a mattress on the floor.

the kind of absolute devotion and loyalty Vulpine can develop for someone... i can't wait to pair him up w OD and see what happens, ngl, i think their dynamic would end up being so interesting and change quite a bit the more they know eachother (from being mutually annoyed at eachother's existence to... something else)

i had no one else to ramble abt this, and tbh i could talk abt Vulpine forever so ill cut it out here! thanks for reading this if you do, i am so hooked in this IF already its ridiculous. i hope you're having a good day/night!

Never apologize for rambles!! I LOVE hearing about peoples MCs/OCs!!!