#cw family trauma

[universejunction]

Parental investment repayment plan (source)

[tarabyte3]

I'm not going to lie, December has been a pretty rough month.

(vent post. mind the tags.)

I have been struggling with anxiety, writer's block, RSD, loneliness, and some extreme imposter syndrome. (To the point I had to talk myself down from just fully deleting some of my drafts/WIPs. Because, unfortunately, I'm not a big fan of my own writing at the moment. And I know we're not supposed to compare ourselves to other people. I know we're only supposed to write for ourselves. I know that! But sometimes I look at how many hours I've put into my writing, and then look at my numbers on here and AO3, and I feel discouraged. Like, maybe that's a sign that I'm not very good at it so what's the point. Of course more people don't want to read it. I don't blame them! I'm kidding myself. OR maybe it's me specifically that people just don't like! Makes sense. Then the writer's block kicks in, which makes me feel bad, which makes it impossible to write, etc. A vicious cycle.) Tl;dr my self esteem is in a stagnant pool of murky gutter water.

On top of that, I recently learned that someone I quietly blocked on here a month ago (due to a lack of boundaries and trauma dumping in my DMs with no warning or consent, which went on for weeks) has since messaged other Andy fan pages on other social media platforms (that I've never spoken to!!), talked about me to them, and portrayed me as a hateful bully. Which was very upsetting and baffling! Because 1. even the thought of being mean to someone makes my stomach hurt (it took me over a week to make the decision to even block them in the first place because I felt horrible about it), and 2. all I want to do is exist, thirst over Andy Serkis, and hang out in my own lane. 😩 So I know, logically, I didn't do anything wrong by inserting a boundary and gracefully exiting a situation which was causing me stress and anxiety. But the part of my brain that tries to convince me that I'm actually a horrible, cold, obnoxious, unlikable person has had a fucking feast with that.

Then I had to deal with my shitty family over Christmas. They're very good at finding new and interesting ways of excluding me and making me feel like an outsider. I never know why, though, and I'm not sure which is worse: that they're doing it intentionally, or that I matter so little they don't even realize or think twice about doing it.

All that being said: Please don't worry about me. I'm safe and I will be okay. In time. It's just that the holidays are stressful, it gets dark at 4:30, I'm always tired, I'm sad, I can't write for shit lately, and I had to get this off my chest so that maybe I would feel light enough to finally dig myself out of that pit. At the very least, I'll do it for spite because I am also quite mad about that second thing.

[carp-from-space]

Family Curses

[none-tadashi-left-hiro]

oh I forgot abt that

[cicicolorao]

I think listening to drama videos about shitty family bloggers on Youtube is self harm, but it’s fine. I think the only subject I can’t handle is daddyoffive, because the mockery child distress is too familiar, no pun intended.

[dumbidiotproblems]

Diary

Look I get that you grew up in the 80s. I know "it was a different time" and all. But frankly, this may sound a little blunt (because it is), I do not care. You can't say you love me and care about me more than anything else in the world and then say you won't put in the effort to respect me. Thats not love. You said you understand how to use them, then why not? You're too worried about confusing others? Is that stronger than your love for me? What happened to "I love you the mostest" what happened to "I love you more than there are stars in the sky". Clearly you don't because if you loved me and wanted to respect me you'd use my pronouns. Who cares about the other being confused, you said it yourself it's not a big deal and you don't care that much about my pronouns. If it's such a small thing then just do it. If others are confused just say "She uses she/him pronouns" if it's so not a big deal then it won't take that much explaining. You don't love me enough to do that? Your laziness is stronger than your love. I don't care when you were born, growing up is hard no matter the time. I didn't ask to be born, I didn't ask to have she/him pronouns, and honestly I wish I didn't. Wouldn't it be so simple to fit exactly into society's boxes? Just be straight and cis and normal and neurotypical and perfectly content. No one wanting to kill you for existing, no one wanting to change you, no one telling you to just go kill yourself already like the rest of them have. I didn't ask to be born but I was. I exist now and you saying my existence and my truth "stress you out" makes me wish I didn't. Do you know how hurtful and incredibly rude that is? What if I told other people you had a mental disorder behind your back? Does that sound like love to you? To just straight up disrespect you around others. That's how it feels. Can you feel the love? I didn't think so. So what you grew up in the 80s you existed while the world changed, you were here. You don't have all the same opinions from when you were 16, why does this one stay the same. I've heard you tell me to give people chances because they can change. Nows your change. Change. If you love me that is, otherwise, I don't care. I don't spend my love on those who dont return it. Try harder, or dont lie to me about your so-called "boundless love" because I can see the boundaries.

[pain-is-my-game]

One of the worst realizations that I have ever made is realizing that all I ever wanted was to be loved by my parents. I never would've turned out like this if they just loved me unconditionally.

[lavendermin]

collar of thorns | blade

blade x reader, fem reader, bodyguard au

wc | 5.1k

genre | hurt and (a tiny bit of) comfort, nsfw, minors do not interact

warnings | implied toxic family dynamics, unhealthy dependency, brief previous torture mention, panic attacks, trauma, blood and brief violence, nudity, blade uses a shower head to get you off (if there’s a term for this lmk I’m drawing a blank rn)

note | mwah thank you to the bestest @nashusglasses for beta reading this 💗 this was supposed to be at most 2k but well… here we are ^^; love blade’s quiet but gentle girldad vibe with the stellaron hunters so this is a loose interpretation of that in a bodyguard au. very self indulgent with a sprinkle of comfort and mostly exploring their dynamics of an evolving relationship

His calculated actions are a conversation—one you have learned to follow, though not without a learning curve. Even in silence there’s more he tells you with a glance alone than words ever could.

It’s experience that Blade has accumulated as your bodyguard for quite a few years. No stranger to your mannerisms and higher quality of life coming from a family with powerful connections and flaunted status.

He knows you well, in his opinion. Head held high but a frail little thing weak in the knees from utter fear and paranoia. Pitiful, he thinks. Like a field mouse braving the jaws of a beast.

Despite being the black sheep of a renowned family, you’re no less a target as a vessel of valuable knowledge— information that some would go to great lengths to gain. No cost is too great, risk and reward leading many astray. Ultimately, it pulls you closer to unraveling. Time and time again.

—

There is protest— displeasure from attendants that arrive on behalf of the main family estate. You aren’t meant to be seen like this— bedridden and flawed and vulnerable.

The instruction was to wait. Wait until you have healed and could properly make yourself presentable. To save your family face, above all else.

But it’s your house, your rules.

The attendant continues to talk your ear off about why this is egregious and why the meeting should be postponed until months later when you’ve healed. It’s what the family ordered.

They might as well have ordered you dead, too. In your current state you’re no different than a deer in an open meadow, a thousand triggers waiting to be pulled.

“No.” Your gaze is blank as you side-eye the attendant by your bedside. “I want him to see— see exactly what my father signed him up for. If he is to be my guard, then he has to be able to handle all aspects of my life. What good is he to me if the unsightly is just that and nothing more?”

The attendant opens their mouth to oppose, but is interrupted by a knock on your room’s door as another attendant exchanges a hushed message. Upon their departure a tall figure is allowed inside— dark, silent.

Heavy is the atmosphere as he stands before you with an air that you can’t quite read. Blade, his name that was briefly provided by your father’s informant days prior.

“The family extends its gratitude for your gracious courtesy to meet with me on such short notice. Things haven’t been going as smoothly as my father would like. And that man does not trust me whatsoever to keep my mouth shut if the worst should happen.” You mutter something bitterly that Blade chooses not to dwell on. Sleepless paranoia has taken quite the toll on you. The dark circles under your eyes are quite unbecoming, though he doesn’t comment on it.

It’s none of his business— not until you tell him it is. Your word now commands him from the second he stepped into the room.

Blade sits across from you in a leather chair, unreadable with a rather guarded posture. His employer’s daughter— his task— is both what he expects and doesn’t expect.

There is a fear that keeps you alive and a defeat that splits your soul. A cacophony of unrest, a cocktail for an isolated soul.

“As you can see, he’s sorely mistaken,” you snort, dry and humorless. The days worth of agony are neatly dressed in gauze and fresh bandages, well on their way to become a blur of many such incidents to come. A recent incident— torture for information, he can only assume. “Regardless, my life is in your hands now.”

Blade nods, a simple acknowledgement. How easily he accepts to be by your side until your final breath.

“More than your duty,” you continue, “you are my trusted companion. My only companion.”

___

There’s little intel Blade could gather on attempts at your life, but that matters less to him from the second he’s hired. Those attempts would not prove successful, at whatever cost. They would only diminish further the longer he was your guard.

Duty-bound and distanced, he does not bother asking further about your past, and neither do you. You know he wouldn’t answer, and you’ve tried.

As a victim of circumstance, you are hard to blame.

Casual conversation is one-sided—a condition you’ve grown accustomed to. The microscopic changes of expression he allows are often response enough for you to carry conversation. You’ve long since stopped thinking too hard about it. No use breaking your heart over minor inconveniences like a petulant, rich brat.

In fact, not once have you heard him speak in your presence. Doesn’t need to, you think.

It’s easier to think that perhaps he holds resentment or dislikes his duty of protecting you. The lack of verbal conversation is often key to that. But Blade is very good at what he does—skilled in the art of reading people with a glance. His gentle gestures despite a blank, forlorn expression speak to the heart. Your heart.

It’s easy— liking him.

“There’s a restaurant that was highly recommended to me. Word of mouth from one of the Iris Family members during last month’s meeting,” you start casually. Sleep is just freshly rubbed from your eyes that morning.

Blade doesn’t respond, as expected, his hands steadily occupied with brushing your hair. Always gentle. More patient than you who yanks at any knots that form. You prefer it when he does it, liking the feeling of little jolts of electricity down your spine at the intimate action. It calms your nerves, he’s noted.

So, he indulges you.

There’s hesitance in your fidgeting hands as you peek at him through the vanity mirror from under your lashes. It easily betrays the stern facade you try to enact. You try your luck anyway. “It looked promising and would be a nice change of pace. I would like to try it out.”

Silence. His hand stills and his gaze is rather cold as he meets your eye. The air in the room shifts, a thick tension that’s palpable. You don’t even flinch.

“Bad idea, I take it. Well, I have an errand in the area regardless— the Oak Family contacted us not long ago and I’m being issued as the initial contact for a new business discussion. It would be an ideal use of our time if we can still pick up some food to bring back afterward.”

His hands resume their brushing, burning-red gaze now a dulled crimson as he focuses on not pulling your hair. A better idea, you take it, as he seems to relent to your veiled suggestion with a quiet sigh. The only clear sign you’ve learned means you won him over.

Blade knows well that you look for little ways to get some wiggle room of normalcy. You’ve never gotten used to this caged-bird life, bound to fear what lies beyond the golden enclosure of silk and honey. Perhaps he pities your cries, like birdsong that longs for a life that doesn’t suffocate you— a life that doesn’t hinge on every day and every interaction being a gamble.

If there is even a fraction of an illusion of that for you, he will turn a blind eye and let you lie to yourself. A moment is enough to soothe your aching heart.

Later in the day you depart for the city. A distraught feeling sits in the pit of your belly. An omen brought by a spike in anxiety that you force out of mind as Blade opens the passenger door for you.

It’s a silent ride across several towns to the location indicated. There’s doubt that gnaws at the back of your mind. Something didn’t seem right with the person that contacted you with the location details for this conference between families. You’ve become much too aware that you’re viewed as an expendable pawn of the family.

But, you’re sure Robin will be there. And a familiar face is just what you need for this to be less of a drag.

Blade seems to sense your hesitance. Wordlessly, he turns on the radio. You worry too much, he seems to criticize with the action. It helps all the same.

But… your spirits seem lighter, more optimistic. A moment of normalcy as you tune out and look out the window at passing city lights and a sun slowly tucking away behind never ending buildings. You’re a person, then.

Even if only briefly.

____

They say a common phenomenon occurs that allows you to register one small, redundant detail when in a state of sudden shock. And you remember it then, clear as day.

7:59 PM.

The time on your cracked phone screen just inches away from you.

The smell of iron and the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. None of it registered quick enough before Blade yanked you harshly out of the way.

And yelling. Muffled and harsh.

Your body is cold with fear, frozen stiff in place. It’s a feeling you haven’t felt since you were a child.

You struggle to get back onto your feet, cowering back toward the alley wall. It gets harder to breathe as panic sets in when your eyes spot Blade clutching his side.

The situation deteriorates further, every passing second a blur of struggle and dark figures. It feels like every emotion is going to burst out of you in a scream. It’s an out-of-body experience, as if you’re watching your own body act on its own trying to put itself between Blade and the attackers.

“Don’t,” he commands—harsher still with urgency. “Stop.”

You freeze at the foreign sound of his voice. There’s no time to process it as crimson seeps through the fresh wound on his side.

You keep hearing his muffled voice tell you to run, run away. Through the pounding in your ears of adrenaline and fear you realize that’s your voice. Hoarse and frantically yelling, pleading for him to run away— you’re hurt, don’t fight anymore.

The rest is a blur as Blade drags you out of the alley, through crowds of nightlife and shoves you into the car. There’s no way of knowing if the pursuit was hot on your tails. It’s a risk Blade could not afford in his current state.

Your mind is numb with fear during the entire process. Every jolt from the roads he speeds through shoots pain through his body— a bloody manifestation of his inadequacy. He hisses and clutches his side, forced to drive with one hand. The sound tears you from your daze for a moment but forces you to experience the present.

There’s red on your hands, your clothes. The smell of iron is putrid as you desperately try to control your breathing. Bile is at your throat and you choke back a sob, like a pitiful kicked dog. You can’t afford to freak out right now and make things worse.

It’s disjointed how your body reacts compared to your mind. You’ve been through worse. You know that. This comfortable life laying low with your bodyguard has spoiled you. He has spoiled you. Your heart is merely a soft pearl now, layers of disjointed affections received and perceived through his tenderness. The base instinct overwrites everything else— all logic, all experience.

This is not normal, it reasons. This shouldn’t be normal.

You want desperately to silence the mind.

The car comes to a slow stop after miles of non-stop driving, and you’re painfully aware of the trembling in your hands. Though you try to hide them by folding them onto your lap, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Blade’s hand, calloused and marred with drying red, is steady as it closes over your fist. It commands your attention and the lump at your throat threatens to rip a sob from you.

It’s alright now, his piercing red eyes tell you. There’s a tenderness that comes through while his thumb rubs your knuckles to ease your anxiety. He lets his head fall back onto the headrest, a bitter chuckle filling the rigid silence.

Your voice trembles, breathy as it breaks with the urge to cry. “They could have killed you.”

Blade exhales through his nose, eyes still closed as he processes your distress.

“I’m expendable. You must live.” His tone is even, detached. It lacks the usual twinge of warmth and care. It’s as if he’s reading something scripted instead— attempting to avoid overstepping.

“You’re being dishonest with me. That’s not what you want to say. I–”

Your mouth presses into a thin line, his hand squeezing yours.

“I know my father sent them.” There isn’t even hurt in your voice, but a steady bitterness begins to burn at the hearth of your soul. It was high time they deemed you more of a liability than an actual member of the family. You shake your head, and with a deep breath you steady your nerves as best as you can. “That matters less right now. Let's get you cleaned up.”

Staying the night at a hotel much too far from home is less than ideal, but you’re aware Blade won’t risk walking right into another ambush that may be waiting at your doorstep. Best not to compromise the situation further.

Despite the tremble of your lip, your hands are steady and efficient as they work to help clean his wounds. You jolt as your phone vibrates with an incoming call, apologizing as you excuse yourself to the balcony. Blade quietly finishes dressing the cleaned wound on his side. He listens intently as you speak with an Oak Family member on the phone, quickly and quietly.

“No, no. We are safe now. Please keep alert. My contact sent you all available surveillance footage of the area shortly after we departed. We can discuss this further once I look into it. On behalf of,” you pause, a strain on your voice before you compose yourself, “on behalf of the family I apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you, Robin.”

Blade watches you intently from the side. There’s a facade of calm you’re trying desperately to keep up. Perhaps it’s the ‘fight or flight’ that’s still keeping you whole right now. For now, he keeps a close watch over you, every microexpression, every fidget.

There’s hesitance as his left palm rests on the bed. It doesn’t escape your detection as you close the sliding door.

“Give me your hand.” A beat and he relents, red gaze as intense as ever as he watches you kneel before him in silence. “You’re hurt here, too.”

He grunts as if inconvenienced, but lets you do as you please. Indulges you— always does.

With a patient crimson gaze, he observes you. Your heart has never felt so vulnerable than right now.

“It’s not perfect, and I’m no doctor, but…” You pause to look over your work.

Despite trembling hands and less-than-elegant bandaging, you gently bring his knuckles to your lips and press a kiss to each one. A childish gesture he didn’t see you as the type to do. That surely in your naive heart you believe a kiss will make it better— despite the blood and bruises.

And Blade— doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

How selfishly he lets your heart devour him.

He gives a silent thanks and moves to sit away from you, making home on the couch with a wince as he adjusts to lay down. The lights are off now, save for your bedside lamp.

Even in the warmth of the lamplight, the feeling of being cold and isolated persists. Alone at the edge of the bed. You want to be selfish and order him to sleep on a proper bed— near you for your peace of mind.

Sleep, he tells you wordlessly with a glance. It’s been a long day.

You worry your lip all the same, seated at the edge of your bedside. Unmoving, tense— your mind reels, replaying the same thing over and over.

7:59 PM.

When the weapon just grazed over his heart and instead hit his side. When the smell of iron, cursed with beautiful crimson, nauseated you.

In the dark, your eyes adjust and watch as Blade’s breathing slows with sleep. It’s not normal— his breathing. The wrappings will only do so much while the pain persists. But by morning, the scar will be there, as if it had always been there. You don’t dare ask the details of why.

He’s spoiled you, surely. A comfortable life in his hands has made you soft. And you know this to be true, otherwise this attempt at your life would be nothing but another occurrence you hardly bat an eye to.

The gentleness he grants you unravels you faster.

No matter how close Blade is, you’re always alone. Even so, you choose to stay within his shadow. It’s warm— always warm.

And you crave him. Crave him in ways you should not entertain.

You don’t sleep much that night. The attempts on your life are few in recent years, but even more rare is successful bloodshed. The more dire incidents leave your nerves fried, a heavy pounding in your chest as adrenaline leaves your body tense and sleepless. Even with Blade’s watchful gaze keeping you safe, knowing he’s been injured by your carelessness only leaves you waking with a strangled gasp from guilt-ridden nightmares every hour.

The room is foreign as you try to adjust your sight to the dark bathed in a sliver of moonlight from a crack in the hotel room’s curtains.

This bed is not yours, this room is not yours. It’s not home, and this isn’t normal. The target is hot on your back— always under someone’s watchful eye. Never able to take a full breath without gasping and clawing at the anxiety closing its hands around your throat.

Your throat feels tight the more you think. In the dark, faces seem to morph into the details on the ceiling— mocking and shifting. All you can do is think in circles, worry your lips raw.

When you look over, you can just barely make out Blade’s dark figure laid on the sofa across from you. The bandages wrapped on his torso are salt in the wound as the guilt claws at your throat once more. Tears sting your eyes as the stress of it all finally reaches a breaking point.

The clock reads midnight as you tiptoe to the bathroom.

The bathwater is just short of scalding when you step in. The feeling doesn’t even phase you, a welcome sensation as the steam surrounds you. Its temperature is a welcoming hug melting your stresses away little by little as you work your fingers into your tense shoulders. A sniffle here and there, shaky breaths accompanied by the sweet melodies of tears breaking the water’s surface.

For a while, you sit idly, watching water from the leaky faucet drip. With each drop, the echoing sound clears your mind and centers you.

Deep breath, hold it. Exhale. Repeat.

The door to the bathroom clicks open, heavy footsteps trailing in.

“I already knew you were awake, but I wish you would rest,” you mutter into your knees as you shrink into yourself.

He sits at the edge of the tub. Formality is left at the door, for your sake. You have nothing to hide from him, anyway. The flesh is nothing to hide, and you’re more ashamed to let his eyes gaze upon the want in your soul. Ugly and wretched.

“You care for me,” is all Blade says in the quiet echo of the bathroom. “Don’t.”

The silence that follows seeps into the water that is no longer warm. Your body sinks lower into the tub until your nose is just above the water. Heat sears the tips of your ears.

The pounding of your heart is deafening, louder still as his presence engulfs your senses.

You feel foolish and naive and your bones are tired of being within your flesh. Bound to carry a fool like you through every mistake.

The sound of water draining doesn’t faze you. He’s decided this is less healing than you wallowing in self-pity. It won’t do you any good. Believing him is easier when you’d rather not think.

You sit up and keep your gaze glued to the surface of the water. Not unable to meet his gaze— refusing to— as his words weigh heavy on your heart.

You would rather he squeeze your heart— drink it dry of the lifeblood that keeps it pumping. Maybe this isn’t love. Or isn’t what you need.

But you will yourself to not care. Have to.

Blade taps your shoulder, urging you to stand before you catch a cold the longer you stay in the lukewarm water. He sighs quietly when you shake your head petulantly.

You finally speak— a quiet, frail thing as your voice trembles ever so slightly. “You’re wrong. It’s more.”

The water sloshes and spills over the sides as you turn your body around. Your eyes meet full, crimson moons, and your heart remains strangely steady. Uncertainty claws at your nerves until they fray like ribbons.

The draining water weighs in the forefront of your mind like an hourglass waiting for your next move. And with each second his eyes crumble your resolve, seeing through you— peering into the soul of a frail little thing like you. He waits patiently for your next gamble.

You lean up, lips pressing against his. A forlorn warmth.

Not pushed away, not stopped. Blade indulges you. Always does.

A wordless answer.

“You don’t like it, but I love you,” you mutter against his lips when you pull away. “That won’t change easily.”

“I never said I don’t like it.”

You can’t meet his eyes when your fingers silently trace the bandage wrappings around his bare torso.

“It eats me alive to see you get hurt. I know it’s your job, but… I can still be a fool in love. Can’t I?”

When you chase his lips again, your body shivers. It’s difficult to tell if that comes as a result from the harsh, cold porcelain of the empty tub or his teeth sinking into your lip.

The water is running again when Blade pushes you away, your eyes unfocused and glassy. He makes your heart ache. You have yet to decide if it’s in a good way or a bad way.

“Is it pity?” you ask quietly. “The reason you kissed back?” There’s distress and hurt in your voice as Blade falls into routine, moving you about like a doll to finish what you inevitably will not.

No response. For once, you can’t read him.

Blade works silently as he runs hot water over your body with that delicate gentleness that has your heart yearning and longing for him to be forced into what you need. You swallow the greed— the selfishness— and tear out the vitals of that ugly beast before you go mad if he leaves.

Your back is to him as he uses the shower head to get the last remaining suds out of your hair. It pulls your focus for a moment, the feeling pleasant and distracting. Methods he already knows to soothe your tumultuous mind.

The water runs and he turns you around. The bandages around his torso are damp by now, your lingering gaze focusing on them as he finishes rinsing you in silence. The myriad of scars adorning his arms and torso bring a heavy feeling to your chest. You will the vile feeling away and focus on his fingers gently lathering up your hair. Keeping you sat makes the task more difficult— you know this. But the attention makes your heart lighter all the same.

Selfish. The thought brands itself on your back like a hot iron.

The water runs and runs along your thigh with a light pressure as he abandons the shower head and tilts your face up to finally look at him. His gaze is intense— worried in the way he searches your crestfallen expression. You’re sure you look pathetic like this, disappointment on your face.

But he kisses you.

Blade leans down and kisses you. Of his own volition, now, and it's soft and warm. So warm it singes the edges of the isolation that consumes you. And for a moment, salvation is what you feel.

“You’re stubborn,” he says, his breath warm as it fans your face. “I enjoy it. That’s my answer.”

You can’t help the pout on your lips. It pulls a hum of amusement from him.

“Enjoying the demise of my heart. You’re cruel.”

Your words have no bite. A ghost of a smile graces his lips and it brings a rush of emotion to your already starving heart.

Because you don’t know it, but he craves you. Fondly but desperately.

Where your family has thrown you to the side, he will hold you close. A greed of his own he has to battle— keep focused so it won’t consume him. So he won’t devour you whole.

A shiver runs through your body as he coaxes you back into the tub, and you think for a moment he’s back to keeping you at an arm’s length again. The cold of the porcelain is harsh on your back. You retain some shame, at least, and you go to cover your chest. It’s the feeling of being a lamb before the slaughter, pristine and loved.

“Sit still,” Blade commands, voice smooth and an octave lower as his arm pushes one of your legs apart to prop on the edge of the tub.

It's a welcome initiative that makes your face warm with a sudden meekness. You’re exposed and surely getting slick by the second with arousal dripping down your inner thigh. Spread and completely bare.

Your chest rises and falls at a quickening pace and you whimper in anticipation. Blade watches you almost curiously, as if he’s never heard these pathetic little sounds from your lips. There’s little that hasn’t been shared between you two with his intimate work as your bodyguard. His presence has been by your side nearly twenty four hours a day every day for the past few years. Still, this is a new low he is taking on with you.

Indulging you. Like he always does.

This is an inevitable shift in your relationship— one that has long since strayed from a purely professional stance. It never suited you both, at least that’s what you like to think.

His gaze like blood is trained onto your expression— every shift, every change, every wince. He wants to see them all, sear them into his memory like tomorrow isn’t promised.

Your body jolts and an obscene moan you can't manage to hold back bubbles up your throat as he holds the shower head just over your slick cunt. The water runs with a constant pressure that feels odd and overwhelmingly good. But your moans are much too loud, much too desperate. With a click, the flow changes and he rips a sharp gasp out of you as he aims the water at your throbbing clit.

Your body is thrashing, squirming against the porcelain but you don’t have it in you to tell him to stop. You don’t want him to stop. But this feeling is not him, and you want to be selfish and have him take all that remains. To have him take and take and fill and put you back together after he breaks you into irreplaceable pieces.

The squeeze of his hand on the tender flesh of your plush thigh is enough to have you panting and writhing. The feeling is isolated, the mere touch hot on your skin— scalding, even. His large hand sinks easily into the soft skin there, and you wish his touch alone would leave marks in his wake. To remind you that he’s still here, and you’ll both be alright.

The coiling feeling builds and builds, your walls clenching around nothing as your clit is assaulted by the constant stream of pressure. A whimper of frustration escapes your lips as your hips try to buck up to chase the feeling— begging for relief. He doesn’t spare you from cruelty, not when your expressions are a wonder to behold. You can’t even scream as an orgasm rips through you so suddenly, mouth agape as you twist and arch under his watchful gaze.

An expression twisted and contorted by bliss— Blade drinks up all your sounds and the sight of you undone. You squirm against his hold on your thigh as the feeling starts to toe into overstimulation. It’s too much of a good thing and you don’t know whether to beg him to stop or keep chasing the feeling of the coil tightly winding again.

The tears that adorn your lashes blur your peripheral, but you’re sure you see a wolfish grin on Blade’s expression.

Just short of coming undone again, he denies you a second completion. The stream of water slowly drips to a stop and you lay there catching your breath. Frustration sits in the pit of your belly as exhaustion finally settles on your limbs, eyelids heavy. For a moment you feel his lips on your temple— a brief, chaste gesture.

It’s silent as you get ready to sleep once more. By now it’s almost two in the morning, your tired body protesting the hour. But the air is no longer suffocating, and a lightness remains in your heart once more. The maw of the beast still looms over you but for now, the beating of two hearts quells your worries until morning.

His steps halt as you pull him along toward the bed.

“Sleep here,” you beg quietly. “It’ll be better for your wounds.”

Blade closes his eyes, forcing himself to disregard the want in your eyes. When you tug gently again he gives in, allowing you to do as you please. Just like always.

He cannot pleasure you how he wants, not tonight. You wouldn’t allow it with his wounds. All the same he relents when you urge him to sleep in a proper bed— to lay with you.

In the stillness of the dark, his hand searches for yours. You wonder for a moment if his fear of losing you rivals your own. For the sake of your heart, you’ll have to assume that much.

He fits easily into the crook of your neck and allows his lips to press tenderly where your shoulder meets your neck. The flesh dissolves under his tongue. You are left bare, a soul so desperately longing to be unsealed and seen and filled.

And he sees you. Blade fills you— with yearning and a wretched possessiveness unbecoming of you. But he fills you, nonetheless.

[dittomoon]

So, I drew this back in October 2021 but only shared it on the BoJack Horseman Reddit - I liked the idea of lining up the diamonds in Bojacks family tree, ending up with Hollyhock breaking away from their family trauma. I only realised after the sketch that Honey doesn’t have a diamond but I still wanted her to be at the top.

[none-tadashi-left-hiro]

CW family trauma, issues finding support

Is it like too much to talk about on here how like, how every potential found family experience I've had turned out to be absolute fuckshit

The best experience I had was with my first roommates which was a family home where I actually felt like, safe and calm and happy and whatever but I wasn't considered part of the family which wasn't a bad thing but, like, god I was all nervous to move again but my dumb ass wanted to live the Cool Close Roommates Life and ig have a closer connection with them than I did with my first roommates but FUCK ME guess I should have stayed and not expanded my horizons by taking risks because apparently I sucked at doing that safely cause no one tells you shit abt overfamiliarity problems?? And people not telling you abt issues they have bc they don't even seem to be that aware of them??

I am trying a new approach now where I get to know people much slower before proposing the idea of being roommates to them but also I barely got to know my first roommates before jumping in so has it been blind luck or. Like idk I think things can go sideways so fast if you're not familiar with a person and how they live at home bc you don't have as much space to take distance and readjust your concept of your relationship with a roommate? Also for a lot of situations I didn't have much choice BUT to move out fast as possible bc I was trying to get out of the current bad situation? Idk I'm fucked uppppppp

But hey!! I realized a lot of my problems were not only bc of ADHD but also autism and that is realllyyy helping me recontextualize things!

Idk I am trying my best to deal with this constructively but just, fucking god DAMN. People say they want found family then their actions say they want family feud instead. Idk. Idk!

[formula-red]

I tried to be good, am I no good? Am I no good? Am I no good?

untitled, Geloy Concepcion // Seventeen Going Under, Sam Fender // untitled, traumatizeddfox // Two People, Sam Fender // The War of Vaslav Nijinsky, Frank Bidart // Hard Times, Ethel Cain // Child Wearing a Red Scarf, Eduoard Vuillard // Complex, Katie Gregson Macleod // Funeral by Phoebe Bridgers, malaak // Too Much Wine, The Handsome Family // untitled, milklump // untitled, dying-weeds // Strangers, Ethel Cain

[luck-of-the-drawings]

FOR A BEAT OF HEART, THE BREATH IS SHOT. AND WITHIN A BREATH, THE HEART IS CAUGHT. THE PIPES ARE BURSTING, UNDER GREAT STRESS, BOLTS TORN ASUNDER, MAKING A MESS. A FINAL COUGH, A FINAL RETCH, A GOREY SLOUGH, CLAIMED BY WRETCH.

[mamawasatesttube]

i accepted im not finishing the timkon vday fic today and instead launched into yet another new wip instead. i present to you: a snippet of kon vs his deeply repressed medical trauma, featuring core four and what is gonna be some gratuitous kon & clark fambly focus...

The voices are still talking, too loud and too fast to understand. Kon tries to breathe harder, his heart racing—the beeping doesn’t help—and looks around frantically. Where’s the exit? He just came through a door, but he doesn’t know where it went—

A gloved hand settles on his arm, and a cold wipe that smells of alcohol scrubs over his skin. Kon tilts his head to see what’s happening.

A needle glints in the doctor’s other hand. They’re prepping his arm for intravenous injection.

“NO!” He jerks away, terror flaring through his stomach. It’s so poignant it almost drowns out the agony. His TTK flares, too, and the doctor and the needle in their hand fly across the room, far away. A flash of light and a person with chestnut hair catches them, so they’re not hurt.

Good. Kon didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He just—he just wants them to stay away.

He’s safe for the moment. Kon sobs for breath—

“Kon!” The person from before, the one lying and saying it’d be okay, appears again. They grab Kon’s hand and squeeze it. “Kon, she was only trying to help! You’re safe, I swear—”

Kon jerks away. “Don’t—don’t lie to me—” he manages. He needs to get up. He needs to get out of here. He needs… he needs…

When he tries to sit up, pure agony lances through his entire body. It radiates out from his gut and spears up through his chest like lightning, so sharp he can’t breathe and stars sparkle across his blurry vision.

What did they do to him?!

He isn’t safe here, he needs to get out of here! It’s only gonna get worse the longer he stays; they’ll get another doctor, another needle—he has to sit up, he needs to move—

Strong hands clamp onto his shoulders and hold him down. Despite all his strength, they hold him down. Kon cries out, a new wave of ice-cold terror spearing through him. “No! No, no let me go!”

“Cassie, you’re scaring him!” the other voice says, tugging at the new person’s wrists, completely ineffectively. “We need to calm him down, not—"

The new person, Cassie, ignores them. “Kon, listen to me.”

Kon shakes his head, terrified. “No no no no no!”

“Kon, you can’t hurt the doctors. They’re trying to help, okay? You’re badly hurt, and they’re trying to help, but you need to let them do their jobs!”

Another person in surgical scrubs approaches. Kon barely hears what they say over all the roaring in his ears, but it doesn’t matter. He knows how Cadmus operates.

“…you restrain him until we can administer anesthesia?” he overhears. It’s enough. He hyperventilates, sobs for breath, shoves ineffectively at the strong arms holding him down. Desperate, he shoves at Cassie with TTK. Thankfully, that has some effect: she yelps as he shoves himself a few inches off the bed, but then sharp, white-hot pain sears through his entire body, and his vision blacks out.

When he comes to, Cassie is over him again, and—and—

Glowing, golden ropes wind tight around his shoulders, his wrists, his thighs, his legs. He’s completely pinned to the bed. One end of the ropes is wrapped around Cassie’s hands.

He can’t move.

He can’t escape.

No. No no no no this can’t happen again, they’re going to hurt him and he needs to get out but he can’t—he can’t—oh, god, this is happening again and he’s just gonna have to take it, and—and it already hurts so much, he can’t take it—

Kon chokes on another sob. “Please,” he begs. “Please please please please—”

Cassie looks anguished. “I’m sorry, Kon,” she says, but she’s not sorry enough to let him go, so it doesn’t matter. “It’s for your own good, I swear.”

He can’t move. He can’t move and it hurts and he can’t move and it hurts and no matter how hard he struggles, he’s pinned, and it hurts it hurts it hurts so so so bad, and oh, god, he’s trapped. He’s trapped, he can’t—he can’t—

Terrified, Kon does the only thing he can think of.

“SUPERMAN!” he screams. “Kal! Kal-El! Please, please—help me, help me, don’t—don’t let them do this to me again, Kal, Kal—”

There’s a pinch in his arm.

The needle.

Kon falls silent.

It’s… it’s really happening again, isn’t it? No matter how much he fights and screams and pleads. They’re gonna cut him open and hurt him and put him back in the tube. They’re gonna make him just another slab of tissue. An experiment and not a person. It’s happening again. And he can’t stop it. He can’t escape.

He can’t escape.

His chest hurts. A single tear rolls down the side of his face into his hair.

The door slams open. Kon’s gaze snaps over.

“What is going on here?”

Superman stands in the doorway, resplendent in all his glory. He’s an even more welcome sight than the sun, and even though Kon can’t move thanks to the golden ropes, he whimpers, fingers twitching as he yearns to reach for him.

He looks furious.

[kinz2007]

To be loved is to be changed... comparison between Martin, a Webkinz barred owl who was one of my childhood favorite toys, and a like-new duplicate my mom gave me for Christmas one year.

I'm on the spectrum and owls were my special interest in grade school. I can still remember seeing this guy when he first came out, and begging my mom to let me buy it with my own money, which she suspiciously denied... turns out she knew my aunt had already gotten it and stashed it away for me for Christmas, and opening it up on Christmas Eve is still one of my happiest memories. He was a comfort object for me well into middle school and went with me everywhere I could possibly take him. It was at a time when a lot of other classmates were growing out of those kinds of things... but I've never not been a plushie lover. That'll be forever for me.

[seraphalpha]

Angels are my funky little hyper-fixation.

The idea of just being breathed to life, to immediate indelible purpose, knowing nothing else but adoration for your Creator (holy-holy-holy), and love for everything in creation. That includes your perfect home, your siblings, and that includes yourself. Everything is as it should be, everyone is doing what they should be, and you're utterly content.

Do you have free-will? Why would you need it? What would you even do with it?

The idea of falling. That terrible, beautiful first breath of freedom, undercut by immediate sorrow. "Innocence lost cannot be regained", but even more: a broken machine cannot be relied upon. In finding yourself, you have destroyed what you were meant to be. Your Creator (holy-holy-holy) has thrown you away.

Would you still be you if you got "fixed"? Would the "flaw" just recur? Why can't you help but think of it in those terms?

You have the Fallen, your comrades in arms, your fellow damned. But you left two-thirds of Heaven behind, people you loved because you were made to love them, and who were made to love you in return. The oldest family in the universe, your family, is broken now.

Do you still love them, your siblings that stayed behind? Some fought against your newfound freedom, yes. But some just looked on, a few perhaps even in envy, too afraid to join you, but most in simple horror as their world dissolved. Do you resent them too?

You broke your family.

Do you hate them simply because they lacked your will, your conviction? Do you hate them for being better machines? Do you hate them knowing, in their own naive, ignorant, hurtful way, that they still love you?

To deny fault is to deny the very free-will you sought to prove you have. To blame Him (holy-holy-holy) is to admit to His (holy-holy-holy) infinite power which you, nonetheless, defy.

And from the other side, what of your poor lost kin? How could they do this?

Angels are purpose-made, gears in the Machine. The Host is singular, inexorable, deterministic. They turn the wheels of the Universe, from the birth and death of stars, to the birth and death of mortal creatures.

Why would your siblings do this, don't they love you? You are loved. Was there a flaw in the Design? He (holy-holy-holy) cannot err, by definition. What happens now that they're gone, what happens to their purpose? All goes according to plan. Then why can't you stop having these thoughts?

I'm not religious at all, but...

[sealrock]

the major arcana, shuffled: 5/??

THE TOWER; ⤉ disaster, destruction, upheaval, trauma ⤈ resisting change, avoiding tragedy, delaying the inevitable, avoiding loss