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madaqueue · 1 month ago

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FALL FROM GRACE

do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes. put to death that which is earthly inside you.

pairing: priest!sunday x succubus!f!reader

themes/content: dubcon (char!receiving - he says "stop" and it's basically ignored, and there's some heavy coercion/corruption stuff going on here), somno depending on how you look at it (succubi technically visit people in their dreams, so he's asleep ? sorta?), lots of religious guilt around sex, heavy catholic religious imagery (literally straight up bible verses). smut. handjobs, fingering/masturbation, p in v. i wanted to explore the rigidity and internalized shame sunday feels so uh . here's this ! (wk: 3.6k)

a/n: me when he's burdened and tormented (also i had to put my religious trauma somewhere ! hope it's yummy) :3333

The first night is always the most fun.

They never wake, not on this visit; the mind is a simple thing to trick, eager to make excuses for the gentle touches trailing over one’s torso, down their chest. A dream, they call it, a ready and waiting path to forgiveness.

The second night is usually the same - feather-light hands, breathy kisses - but you find Sunday to be a near-impossibly light sleeper when he begins to stir beneath you. Pinned under thighs that straddle his waist, his eyelashes flutter, nearly roused; his lips part, almost a sigh. It’s an uncanny thing to be so beautiful and so unaware; you wonder if he’s grateful for this gift. With a quick peck, you send him back into the waiting arms of slumber.

The third night you visit him, his eyes open slowly, still clouded by dreams. It’s rather obviously unexpected to be found in this position, with a stranger resting over him, smiling, trapped beneath their weight.

“Who are you?” he breathes, barely above a whisper. There’s no fear behind his gaze, only shimmering curiosity.

“Who do you think I am?”

Your fingers trail lower, tracing circles into his abdomen. It’s a fitting pattern for what you’ve seen of him: controlled, precise, predictable. No hard edges or uncertainty, just smooth and calm. Something about a vow, you think, has made him like this. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. A promise to a power too self-righteous for your taste.

His eyebrows furrow as he attempts to focus upon you, vision still blurry. The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, curves casting shadows under the fading starlight, black lace and soft skin. Then, there’s a flash of horns, a flicker of your tail, the markings below your abdomen pulsing through the dark. He swallows. “What are you?”

Ruby lips spread into a grin, one that veers sinister - he’s such a cute little thing, a chocolate covered strawberry, all sweet and flesh and blood. “An angel.”

The silk pillowcase rustles as he shakes his head, too innocent, too naive to do anything but be truthful. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” you lean forward, feeling his pulse thrum below your palm. “I’m not.” You kiss his cheek, and whisper a goodnight.

The fourth night, he’s more awake, but less verbal. Instead, sun-bright eyes follow your movements, the crackling fingerprints that travel his skin. He lets you touch him, lets you trace out the muscles lying below the surface, feel the nerves and arteries that quicken under your touch. Drowsy little whines leave his throat, barely a sound, as you work. Up wrists, over shoulders, to collarbones, counting ribs and diving into his hips, along his thighs, and back again. It’s a beautiful routine, just light enough to keep him half-slumbering.

From there, it’s mostly the same - you touch and trace and tease him, and he watches, silent and mostly unconscious. A week passes, maybe two. The time doesn’t matter, not to you, not really. What matters is the way his skin sparks beneath your fingertips, the way his eyelashes flutter under the moon’s silken glow.

You aren’t granted the privilege of visiting him awake, not yet, at least. There’s no way for you to see the way he pours over text, books with cracked spines and dusty pages, to find the source of these…dreams, of the being that visits him and steals him from the respite of sleep. The word succubus is heavy in his mouth, more bitter than communion wine, with no unleavened sanctity coming after to dull the taste.

On the seventeenth night (you think, if your count is right), he wakes in a notably different position, no longer cradled by the mattress upon which he put himself to bed. Under the mottled moonlight, he finds himself sitting upright, the bare skin of his back resting against something much warmer than the wooden headboard.

“Good morning, Sunday,” you purr into his ear from behind.

He murmurs something, slowly turning over his shoulder to face you. For the briefest moment, you think you catch the flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, demon.”

“Oh?” you let out an airy chuckle. “So you’ve figured it out then. Good, I was worried all you priests were nothing more than fools.”

The lightest laugh brushes past his lips, allowing his eyes to rest for a moment. “I’m no fool. Now tell me, why are you here, demon?”

Through a feigned pout, your hands make their way back to his chest. “What, are you sick of me already? You don’t like me, is that it?”

“I have no particular feelings towards you.” He’s quick to respond, quicker even to remind himself of his place, of his duties, as your palms threaten to burn through his skin. Poverty. Celibacy. Obedience. Important ideals. Good ideals. Holy ones, at that.

Through a hum, you travel lower over his body. It’s a test, really, to see if he’ll stop you, grab your wrists and yank you from behind him and banish you from this place forever. It would take so little: a splash of holy water, or even a simple curse, and he’d be rid of you. Surely he found that little fact in his readings.

And yet, he simply follows your path downward with his gaze (you can’t say you’re truly that surprised - it has become your routine, after all. And Sunday cherishes his routines).

“No feelings for me, you say,” you say, pensively. Lower, and lower, and lower.

Just as his lips open to speak, to throw some calculated retort, your fingertips brush between his legs and the sound twists into something else, something needier, a noise he couldn’t have controlled with all the constitution in heaven.

You gasp at the response, too, awe bubbling inside your cheeks.

“Oh, Sunday,” you breathe. “You poor thing, you must be so pent up.”

“I- mmm.” With a second run of your palm over his hardening length, his eyes dance shut, his entire body shuddering.

“Don’t they allow you to touch yourselves here?”

It’s evil, this touch, coursing with sin and dark, dirty blasphemy. He ought to shut his mouth, rip out his vocal cords if that’s what it takes, and wait. Perhaps a blood smear above his lips would protect him, make you pass him over tonight and all nights thereafter.

“N-not in the monastery,” he chokes out. “It’s against the rules.”

He grants you the privilege of grazing his warming skin, before letting out a shaky breath. Thou shalt not covet. Dispel desire.

“You…you should stop.”

“Stop?” The absurdity leaks into your voice. “You’ve given up so much for this silly church, don’t you think? Why give this up, too? Don’t you deserve it?”

A pause, a steadying breath, to quiet your dissatisfaction disguised as rage.

“And besides, look how badly you need this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” An angel, caught in your trap; to think you may not even have to clip his wings. “Don’t you want to feel good, my dear Sunday?”

Eyelashes delve into the creases of his eyelids as he tightens them closed, lips pulled into a gasping frown. Everything in his mind, in the years of his training, of memorizing verses and teachings and sermons and rules and rules and rules, tells him to say no, to force a stop to this nonsense.

“And,” you perk up at his hesitation, “it won’t even be violating your so-called ‘rules’ if I’m the one touching you, right?”

Even through the feather-light touches, Sunday worries he’s losing his mind, like your fist might as well be piercing through his chest and ripping his soul from it, dragging it into hell with you. The thoughts that make it up his spine are too blurry with lust to let the more sluggish Reason through.

“Right.”

Smiling into his neck, you feel his carotid jump under your teeth. “Good, good. So just let me do this, okay?”

So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires.

He says the words over, and over, and over in his mind.

Do not be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshiping the things of this world.

He knows better than to make idols.

And yet, all he can do is nod his head.

He doesn’t face you, of course, buried under the shame of it. If the church was any older, he’d worry the brick would collapse in on him at any second, to punish him for the sin he was too weak to avoid committing. Perhaps he should be turned to salt, a fate befitting of his pathetic disobedience.

“Okay.”

It’s immediate, the way he relaxes when you finally reach below his boxers. The heat of your touch melts him, his throat craning as it releases strained whines. He’s heavy in your hand, a weight his so-called gods would surely commend, if they could spare such thoughts. Soft skin, unsoiled, untainted. Utterly holy.

As you stroke him with a tenderness only known to the clouds of salvation, he looks nothing short of angelic, the arch of his spine making space where wings ought to be, the tickle of his hair soft like a crowned halo. And you, wrapped around him like a flame, carry him through the air. Lower, and lower, and lower. To soften the blow when one falls from grace.

It takes so little for him to shake, to shudder and cry and bend, until you worry his shoulders may snap if you weren’t caging his torso against yours. His head falls back, slack-jawed and awe-struck, as he releases into your palm, pumps of white coating your hand.

It’s a beautiful thing, the sounds he makes, the purity of it. White and cream and gold, just as you’d imagine heaven to be.

There’s waves of pleasure, his stomach clenching with each one, pushing him further and further into you, and you swallow him whole, welcoming with open arms.

Slowly, you press your lips to his cheek, scalding hot.

“Goodnight, Sunday.” And he falls into your chest.

It grows increasingly difficult for him to hide the dreams (at least, that’s what he would convince himself they are). It’s been months now, although truthfully, you’ve stopped counting.

Every night, he falls into a troubled, humid sleep. Every morning, he wakes to a mess, still half-hard and panting.

And yet, he’s more relaxed, his shoulders less tense. When he turns to the parish, his neck moves more easily. As a well-educated (well-trained) man, he assumes he hides it well, but his relief is palpable, a taste too thick to anyone who knows him.

“You seem different lately, Sunday,” Father Wood observes casually.

With his back facing him, Sunday conceals the way his spine tightens. “How do you mean, Father?”

Pensively, Father Wood lights the altar’s candles, an honor given only to those most highly ordained, an honor Sunday used to dream of performing (now, of course, his dreams are consumed by other desires).

“Just…different, is all.”

Sunday’s attention falls to the flames before him, to the way they dance nervously despite the still, stagnant air inside the church. Perhaps they know something he doesn’t.

“I’ve been spending more time in the library lately. Perhaps my reading has enlightened me.”

“Perhaps,” Father Wood echoes. With quiet purpose, he lights the final candle. “This church is your home, my boy. You had nothing before you came here. I remember the day we took you in, the day you were saved.”

There’s a pit in his stomach, one that grows and grows and grows; he’d expect it to taste like acid, but all he gets is honey. “I remember it, too.”

Father Wood hums, facing away. “‘If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.’” A pause, a flickering flame. “Sunday, I trust you not to forget the oaths you swore.”

A shiver runs up his neck. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. “Of course not, Father.”

That night, you meet Sunday in bed. Normally it’s little trouble to untuck the sheets, to find the welcoming skin of his thighs, but tonight he seems determined to bury himself within the blankets.

“Sunday,” you say. He fails to respond, but his ears twitch. “Sunday, I know you’re awake.”

One eye slowly cracks open, revealing the sun behind his eyelids. “Go away.”

“Excuse me?” you choke a laugh. “You want me to ‘go away’?”

Closing his eyes, he hums in affirmation.

Within your chest, your heart flutters - he’s so cute when he thinks he’s in control. Perhaps that’s why you chose him (the chase is always the most fun, the tension of it all; you think Eve’s first bite of the apple must have been underwhelming compared to its weight in her palm).

Perhaps your routine will bring him back. Slowly, you trail a finger along his collarbone - before he pulls away. Curling himself onto his side, he tucks his knees to his chest and shuts you out.

This is certainly a novel development. And it certainly will not do.

“Fine then,” you state, leaning back to the corner of the mattress.

In response, his left ear twitches, but he gives no other response. So be it.

Against the wooden footboard, you open your legs, visible if he were only to turn towards you. With well-practiced hands, you easily slide the black lace panties down your knees, letting them fall at your ankles and leaving you bare (it requires few garments to do your work successfully, after all - they’re made for this).

Silently, you spread your ever-wet folds open. With your other hand, you draw circles around your clit, slowly, tauntingly. Delving into your own heat, a sound of relief comes as an exhale, one that finally has Sunday’s gaze peeking from between his eyelashes.

“What are you doing?”

“If you don’t want me to touch you, I guess I’ll just have to touch myself instead,” you say. The words flow easily, thick like milk and honey, something sweet, something to help him sleep.

This time, his eyes remain open.

His mouth does, too.

Silent except for the ragged breaths coming past his lips, he watches you pleasure yourself, the way your fingers curl, knuckles disappearing only to reappear shining. The inky pattern adorning your womb morphs and glows; a spot of saliva catches in the dim light, and he makes no move to wipe it away.

With an arch of your back and a tilt of your head, you beckon him closer - always such an obedient little thing, your Sunday (he was praised for it, once); he slowly rises. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, holding it unsteadily, as he crawls towards you. Unwavering attention held raptly between your thighs.

“Sunday,” you say, to snap him out of the trance that pulls him towards you. He says nothing, a small trail of drool spilling from the corner of his perfectly eager lips. “Sunday.”

His eyes snap up to yours, the sun eclipsed behind the growing shadow of his pupils.

Your palm cradles his jaw, thumb wiping away the glistening desire. “Are you going to behave now?”

A blank stare.

A fragile nod.

“Good.” Your grin splits the earth open with wicked flames, poking between your teeth. He drinks in the heat with a starving throat, ignoring the way it burns (or reveling in it).

A sparkling star shines in his eyes, nearly glowing. You pull the two fingers from your cunt, still warm and sticky and sweet, and hold them before his face.

You don’t even have to tell him to open his mouth - obedience is such a lovely thing.

When your taste lands upon his tongue, he releases a moan like molten gold. His lips close around your fingers and he sucks and licks the essence from them, hungry and gnawing. Your fingertips glide over his molars and he fights the urge to bite, to claim (a well-trained dog is still just a dog, after all).

There’s a half-hearted whine when you remove your skin from his, one that makes your cheeks ache.

“Tell me what you want, my dear Sunday. Anything you want.”

If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.

Perhaps dying here tonight, with your taste still lingering in his throat, would be a graceful demise. A martyr of his sacrilege.

Already, he looks ravished, his cheeks dusted red and eyes wild and unfocused. The pretty ones are always the most fun to ruin, to dirty with desecration; they look so beautiful as they fall.

“I want-” there’s a lump in his throat where his servitude lives, where the years of holiness coalesced and stayed. He swallows heavily. “I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good.”

“Ah,” you breathe. “I suppose I can do that.”

“But-” he catches himself. Rules, and rules, and rules. They clog up his esophagus, his vocal cords straining to get past them.

With a gentle finger, you hush his worries. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

He exhales, a shaky sound. “Okay.”

It takes little pressure to recline him onto the bed, the sheets already dampening from the sweat collected in the hollows of his back. He lets you undress him, lets you place scalding kisses into his skin, soft and sweet as a fig. Ripe like one, too.

Only two pumps of your fist up his length and he’s already leaking, twitching and aching.

“So eager,” you coo when his hips rut into the air, chasing your touch.

“M-my apologies,” he says weakly.

“Nothing to be sorry for, my sweet Sunday. Pleasure is a thing to be worshiped, don’t you think?”

They’d bury him for this. The other priests would crucify him and leave his body out to rot. He’d deserve it, he wouldn’t even complain, he’d be perfectly obedient until his very last breath.

As your thighs encase his, as you line his tip to your entrance, as you sink down, slowly, slowly, slowly, until you’re flush with him, until you’ve swallowed him whole and nestled him inside of you, his vision goes white and he feels the warm smile of forgiveness.

“Yes.”

From behind, your tail twitches into his peripheral vision. A cruel reminder, a crash and burn. Melted wings and the sea. But then your hips circle, once, twice, and he forgets himself again, he enjoys the fall.

His hands fly to your waist, before they’re swatted away with a click of your tongue and a sparkle in your eyes. “Ah, no touching me, remember? Those are your rules, after all.”

“Right.” Instead, his fists dig into the sheets, knuckles turning white.

With each plunge of your warmth up and down his cock, he’s reborn, fresh and gasping, each breath burning like the first. Crescent moons carve into his palms, and he groans.

“Is this…is this real?”

A chuckle bubbles from your throat. “Do you want it to be?”

He hesitates for a moment, lets your hand rest on his unsteady heart, lets your skin stick to his. Just below it, a knot forms, the strings tightening and tightening and tightening under years of strain.

“Yes.”

You fill his vision, all-consuming, eating the space between you with sharp teeth. When you speak, it’s a low sound, a rumbling purr. It makes his stomach clench. “Good.”

His breaths come in faster, now that he knows it’s real, that the heat creeping up his neck and down his legs is real, that this is happening. That something exists that feels this fucking good.

And then, all at once, the knot unties itself. The moans he releases are holy, more beautiful than a choir with all its ordained voices.

Damp palms grab at your hips, and you let them. With greedy fingers he holds you in place, fucking himself up into you. Tears well in his eyes and in the blurry haze, he thinks he sees heaven. It opens itself before him, warm and beckoning, in the space between your thighs.

“God, fuck,” he exhales, and you grin.

“How blasphemous, Sunday.”

If he hears you, he gives no indication. Curses tumble from his lips, raw edges cutting his lungs.

He chases a high with urgency, with uncoordinated thrusts and a too-tight grip. His dedication is truly a virtue.

It’s only a moment before he stills, eyes widening, jaw falling open to release an angelic cry. Truly beautiful as he falls, as he comes undone. In the space below his arched spine, you swear there’s a momentary flutter of wings.

Eyelashes open and close, as if to prove that this is not, in fact, real. But the heat still encircling him is proof enough. He shivers.

“Fuck,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

“Oh Sunday,” you hum, fingers tracing ribs that rise and fall unevenly. There’s a twinge of something mixed into the pride, something sadder, something longing. “This certainly has been fun.”

“Fuck,” he says again. Dread settles on his shoulders, heavy, heavier than duty or scriptures or a grave, than a cross. “Will I…?”

“Be excommunicated for this? Probably not,” you smirk.

Weakly, he shakes his head, sweaty strands of hair sticking to the pillowcase below. “Will I see you again?”

The question makes your heart flutter. How cute.

“If you’d like to, my dear.” With a gentle hand, you brush the fringe from his forehead. “Anything you want.”

At that, he relaxes, his shoulders sinking deeper. With heavy eyelids, his blinking slows. “Good.”

How beautiful he looks like this, half-conscious and spent, utterly debauched. Utterly holy.

“But for now, get some rest.” Warm lips press into his cheek, and he leans into them with a hum. “Goodnight, Sunday.”

#q writes #oneshot #sunday #sunday x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #sunday hsr #sunday honkai star rail #hsr smut #sunday smut #cw dubcon #cw religious imagery #cw religion #<- if i am missing any tags PLEASE do not hesitate to let me know and i will add them!!!!!#cw sacrilege #cw blasphemy

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felassan · 11 months ago

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Letters from Lovers

Transcriptions of the letters from the various gear store items. under cut for length.

Isabela:

“My dear Hawke, Do you know anyone with a flock of parrots? I'm trying to cheat on a bet with Varric and the stakes are exceedingly high. If you help me, I shall take you to that breathtaking beach you so crave. Free of ancient horrors, too. I think. I'd hate to take respite from all my adventures, but there are other ways to make the heart flutter. In fact I'm already imagining a few. Aren't you? Sailing there can be fatal, but Admiral Isabela will keep you safe. Are you interested? I would love to see you again. Yours, Isabela”

Morrigan:

“My love, Now before that grin reaches your ears, perish the thought that this letter was my idea. 'Tis Kieran who would not give me peace until I wrote to ask how you are faring. Regale us, if you please, with another of your tales that I might read to him in bed. He is particularly fond of those wherein you spur mischief whilst you save the day. Thank you for your most delightful gifts. I shall make certain to wear them the next time you come home. Dream of me until then, my Hero of Ferelden, and have a care. Morrigan”

Dorian:

“My dearest Amatus, Home is ever as it was: a glittering whirl of dancing, politics, and murder. I'm used to people staring daggers at me - I quite relish it, actually - but the glares seem to possess a new intensity since my return to Tevinter. Do they disapprove of House Pavus freeing its slaves while I work in the Magisterium to end slavery across Tevinter? Perhaps they simply covet my cheekbones, and who could blame them? Real reform will take time, but we're making inroads. I miss you terribly, Amatus, perhaps almost as much as you miss me. I treasure you and your belief in my work here. Yours always, Dorian P.S. I wouldn't take it amiss if you might send me another barrel of that dreadful Fereldan beer?”

Alistair:

“My love, How are you? Is it true that you recently killed darkspawn with only a mean glare and a pointy stick? Ferelden is ablaze with this rumor! You do give people so much hope. Tales of your heroism never fail to astonish me and almost ease the pain of going to sleep without you by my side. Almost. I can't wait to be with you again. I'd bring you some roses, you could give me a tour of the keep, we'd drink with the new recruits and then cuddle in a tent. Without the new recruits! Tent time is just for the two of us. I want to make that clear. Now excuse me while I practice my death glare and rummage through the dog's stash of sticks. I love you. Yours forever, Alistair.”

The Iron Bull:

“Kadan, You won’t believe what I did today. I got a guy to flip! Twice! So yes, all is well. Except for all the demons. And this whole thing in which I’m far away from the love of my life. Really keeps me up at night. Anyway, you hearing these rumors of a dragon on the loose? Yeah! The boys and I are on its trail. Last I heard, it was flying toward the Frostback Mountains. Can you join us? I hope you’re not uh… all tied up. Don’t worry, I’m fairly certain it’s not a Ben-Hassrath trap. And if it is, you know I’m prepared. Ataash varin kata! I love you, Kadan. See you soon. The Iron Bull.”

Tali:

“By the way, I left something for you up in your cabin. Go have a look.” - Tali’Zorah --- “Dear Shepard, As you may remember, I presented this picture frame to you as a gift on the Normandy. It was my way of expressing my admiration for you and our bond as comrades-in-arms. On the back of the metal frame, I've emblazoned a promise that will never fade - 'Shepard, wherever you go, I'm with you.' I know it's not much, but...this is what I look like under the mask. I'm sorry if it's not what you were expecting. I know Quarian faces can be a bit...different. Every time you look at my picture, I hope you will be reminded of our adventures on the Normandy, from our battles against the Reapers to our intimate conversations in the privacy of our quarters. I am not one to express my emotions openly, but thank you for being my friend, my confidante, and my inspiration. I look forward to many more adventures together. Keelah se’lai, Tali’Zorah”

Another letter from Tali:

"Whatever the galaxy throws at us, I'll be at your side. - Tali" --- "Shepard It's been a while since I last struggled to sleep. You must be dreaming of falling through a fish tank or starring in a hanar vid? I can hear you muttering about jellyfish. It's funny. I've spent my whole life hoping for the future, but these days nothing scares me more. Keelah, why can't we stop time? Even for just a little bit? No war, no Reapers, nobody counting on us. Just you and me, as free as the dust in the solar wind. When this is all over, will you settle down on Rannoch with me? I love you. - Tali"

Bonus:

Shepard's N7 acceptance letter, from Anderson:

“N7 Congratulations on your graduation From Captain David Anderson Shepard, When I graduated from the N7 program I had the honor of meeting Admiral Grissom, the man who inspired me to pursue a career in the service, and I never thought I’d feel prouder in my life. I was mistaken. Don’t get me wrong, it was a big day. An important day. But there’s something about welcoming driven young people like yourself into the ranks that’s also pretty damn satisfying. Your distinguished service record may have gotten you into this program - but it was your courage, integrity, and tenacity that’s enabled you to join an elite few. You represent the best of humanity, and I feel certain you’ll make the galaxy a better place. And I’m not the only one who feels this way. Becoming an N7 means the entire Systems Alliance is telling you one thing - we believe in you. Let me end by saying this. Welcome to the team Shepard. We know you won’t let us down. David Anderson Systems Alliance Interplanetary Combatives Academy N7 N7 Acceptance Letter”

#dragon age #bioware #morrigan #queen of my heart #feels #video games #alistair theirin #fav warden #alcohol cw #long post #longpost #mass effect #gpoy #more of these pls 🥺#maybe.. a fenris one...? 👉👈#(if i missed any of these letters #pls let me know)

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tp2-randomness · 8 months ago

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Eisoptrophobia, a persistent and overwhelming fear of mirrors or reflections.

I found out that the name of one of the main tracks of UCN is 'Eisoptrophobia'. I thought that maybe at some point in his life William had that.

Being afraid of his reflection, perhaps out of guilt and horror of his actions in the back of his mind. Of course he wouldn't want to reconsider anything he was doing, but maybe seeing himself in the mirror would remind him of those uncomfortable thoughts.

William would also think that he deserves to go to hell once he dies, which joins his tireless desire to find immortality.

On the other hand Mike… He just wants to be a good son. His father is the only family he has left...

#sorry if my english is bad #five nights at freddy's #fnaf #fnaf fanart #fnaf ucn #ultimate custom night #william afton #michael afton #eisoptrophobia #cw body horror #tw body horror #cw death #tw death #cw blood #tw blood #please let me know if i miss tagging any cw or tw #my art tag

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lavendermin · 8 months ago

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the lovers, reversed | stellaron hunter sunday

pairing | sunday x fem!reader

wc | 1.6k

genre | angst, one sided love, unrealized feelings

warnings | mdni, alcohol mention, brief mention of sex, blood, wounds, unhealthy relationship, spoiler I guess if sunday really does end up being a stellaron hunter (have not yet played 2.3)

Fresh wounds, a few gashes. Nothing he couldn't treat. Because you wouldn't have anyone else though Firefly has always offered.

"Hold still," Sunday quietly instructs as steady hands work quickly to disinfect and dress unsightly marred skin.

You wince and clutch the sheets until your knuckles turn white. The pain was never easy, but a consequence of your recklessness nonetheless.

Under deft fingers you're all skin, no shame. Not when it's him.

Another whimper you can't suppress escapes your lips, and maybe it finally breaks something in him because you hear him sigh quietly. With his teeth he swiftly pulls off one of his gloves and holds it to your lips.

"Bite down on this," he instructs, voice calm and level. "There's still debris in one of the gashes. I have to take them out one by one."

You can only nod, not registering much else as the pain has your vision tunneling. It's another twenty minutes as he tries to work as quickly as possible. It takes everything to keep his composure despite your muffled cries of discomfort.

"This should have been done in the medical wing." Sunday's reprimand has little to no bite as he clears the medical supplies from the coffee table he had pulled up from across your room.

Your breath is weak and shaky, but still a gentle thing he's used to. "Too bright in there. Makes me feel like a lab rat within those white walls."

"Smells too clean?" he chuckles. Something he can't help around you more recently. There's an innocent and peculiar way you view things. Much like–

Sunday shuts the cabinet in your bathroom a bit harsher than he intended. He can't think of her... not right now. It would only bring emotions he didn't need to process—couldn't process at the moment.

There's red on his hands, on his clothes, staining his once pristine gloves. The awful metallic smell feels like it’s burned into his nostrils—a nauseating mix of crimson and the strong smell of sterilizers as he cleans the tools. His hands work on their own under the running water of your sink, almost out of body as his mind wanders. There’s a slight tremble he catches. Pathetic, he thinks, unable to keep it together in such a dire time.

The 'script' did not mention anything of a necessary death, but of course it would never detail wounds or misfortunes in detail. Some of those just come with the job. And sometimes he would feel a bubbling anger at the twisted fates that often befell you. But he knows it's a spiral that leaves him down a foggy road, one he shouldn't tread on.

Still, you're alive, and he's here. And for now, that's enough.

Your strained voice pulls him back to his body. Back to the present with a clearer head.

Right. The painkillers.

Sunday is quickly back by your side, pushing the small pill past your lips and lifting your face gently to give you water.

"You forgot," you tease despite your hoarse voice.

And those golden eyes you love dearly can't even bear to look at you as he sits next to you on the bed. There's no response other than a halfhearted hum he gives you. You know he didn't forget, and his lack of correction knowing how matter-of-fact he is only further sinks your heart.

But you don't get to tell your heart who to love.

The now-wrinkled glove he gave you is placed next to his leg. "Sorry I messed up. I'll buy you a new pair."

"Thank you..."

"You're wel-"

"You should say ‘thank you’. For the gesture. But don't apologize for the inevitable from missions. What's done is done," Sunday interrupts, voice firm. A little cold.

"I-" You're cut off as he grabs your wrist, his eyes unfocused as he looks at the ground.

"If you had done as I said– You could have gone missing. A lot of things could have gone wrong. Don't use yourself as bait. If anything happens to me, you escape by any means necessary. Understand?"

The grip is a little less than comfortable and you can only nod. Obedient only if it was his words that commanded. It brought a feeling he didn't want to describe rushing through his chest. The way your eyes looked at him—a mix of fear and blind adoration. It made him nauseous to consider himself worthy of such affection.

The morals of why he kept you by his side—of why he sought you during moments of his own damned weakness... He would dwell on that another time. If his morals were in a slow decline, perhaps he would even turn to burn the words stuck in his throat with the liquid he once detested and swore would never stain his lips. The liquid courage might bring him tumbling into your arms, an eagerness to be held and soothed for the sin he feels tainted with.

That maybe in his drunken stupor with his face buried in your neck and his throbbing frustration filling you up, he would realize even in nothingness, there is you. Always you.

A rebound. A close second. A replacement.

Sunday subconsciously has been latching onto you. It’s something he doesn’t remember starting, something he can’t stop nor explain. You, who are like an injured little dove to him, easily hurt and predictable in seeking comfort with his presence.

At first he firmly tried to keep his distance, remain cordial. But now… You provide him some psychological need to keep his same routine from before or have some semblance of familiarity amidst this new path he's been set on. This relationship was just something platonic, he swears by this. Just an innate need to protect and guide you since you were also a clumsy new recruit.

You couldn't help it—falling for him. Slowly being consumed by an infatuation that morphed into a hopeful yearning that filled your chest with a syrupy thickness of strong emotions you were inexperienced with.

And Sunday was at a loss. That wasn't part of the plan. Well…granted he didn't have much of a plan with you. The platonic acquaintance he had built with you was nothing more than for his own gratification. His desperate attempt at normalcy. Someone to fill the void of not being able to see his dear sister.

Still... you're so willing to just give and give and give to him. Anything, for even the slightest possibility of returned affection. Even if you don't outright confess to him, he sees it. In your actions, your speech, your eyes.

Would it truly be so bad to take that which is offered in earnest?

A heart in his hands with nothing to show for it. Lies to himself that this closeness is his attempt to bring you salvation. To settle your heart.

He knows how your script ends, looming over his consciousness. Testing his heart as if he were a newborn god stumbling over his first creation meeting its written demise. Some part of him is too scared to ask if you know it, too. Maybe there's still some naïveté in him if he believes for a second that you don't. A hope that your heart remains innocent and lovely and–

For now Sunday lets you love. It would be a bitter thing to not take the heart you have handed to him.

The painkillers have started to work, your body finally able to sleep for a bit after he changed your soiled sheets from treating your wounds. Before he leaves, Sunday presses his lips to your knuckles and idles for a few moments to watch your steady breathing. Sweat glistens on your brow from the exertion the wound treatment put on your body. Your endurance was nothing to be laughed at.

Sunday doesn't need to turn to know who's outside your door when he leaves.

"Was there something you needed?" The question lacks any warmth.

Kafka chuckles where she leans against the wall, fiddling with a card in her hands. "Here to drop off your compensation for the mission and look after the little lamb," she replies simply, throwing the card to him. He catches it between two fingers. "She lost her phone this past mission so make sure to give her that card for the time being."

Sunday's eyes narrow. "I'm looking after her."

"Poor thing sent me a message asking that I check in on her so she won't bother you. Unless that's a problem?" Her unreadable smile is something Sunday is growing to detest.

"Not necessary. I'll be handling it." His voice is firm, a warning woven into his tone with careful consideration. A natural habit from his years as the head of the Oak Family.

"Really now? If you don't want me looking after her due to trust issues then Bladie can–"

"No." Sunday can feel his heart pounding in his ears, a frustration deep-set in his veins at the pure thought of someone that isn't him near you when you're at your most vulnerable. He wishes he could wipe that smile off Kafka's face. Victim of her teasing again. Remember your composure, a conditioned mind rings. With a clear of his throat, he continues, "No, that won't be necessary. I've already cleared my schedule to ensure her wounds are looked after so there isn't any scarring. I'll take care of it."

Kafka relents and pats his shoulder as she passes him. "Very well, birdie. Sounds like you have our little lamb's heart in your pocket. Or perhaps it's your own?"

Before Sunday can ask her what she means, she's already vanished from his sight. His hand reaches into his jacket pocket when he feels something rigid and pulls out a card he's sure she placed there.

A tarot card depicting a dove perched on a lamb. The lovers.

#mii writes #nsf mii #sunday x reader #sunday hsr #cw blood #cw unhealthy relationship #cw wounds #he’s my pathetic bbygirl #stellaron hunter sunday #he’s trying guys #he pulled a bad bitch and just doesn’t know what to do #lovers in reverse meaning… YEA…#It’ll be on ao3 tomorrow #what if I wrote another part #eventually #if I missed any tags let me know pls #it’s like 2am #fem reader

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shinyzango · 1 year ago

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I've been craving to draw something in celebration of the news of the Hypno's Lullaby Mod's development being resumed...

So I ended up channeling my freezing ass into drawing some faces I've not attempted yet. Totally not because of the cold lol

It still feels weird to draw anything gore-y in general, but ngl it still was fun to try out. \ o /

#body horror #tw body horror #cw body horror #hypno's lullaby #fnf lullaby #frostbite fnf #blake #gold #red #freakchu #snow on mt silver #sketch #my art #I always fear to not include all the necessary tags dskgjns #please let me know if I missed any!

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koszmarnybudyn · 1 year ago

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Cw. gore, blood, eye sockets, teeth, really wide smiles, body horror,

I just think he's neat :)

#kevin wtnv #wtnv fanart #wtnv #welcome to night vale #my art #cw gore #cw blood #cw eye horror #cw body horror #i need to get wierder with my outfits #also was the eyes a strex-thing? cause i read that in a fic but idk if it was #is this fanart accurate to his design probablly not but i like him and i enjoy drawing creepy stuff #please let me know if i missed any tags #also on a sidenote i think kevin sound like if bev from naddpod was evil and i can't stop thinking about it #also im on episode 147 now wow

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whump-in-the-closet · 22 days ago

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"Not so fast"

--An empty wash of space between Hero and Villain. "Not so fast, Hero." The click of a gun's safety and Hero freezing, slowly raising their hands above their head. Villain smiling. "Turn around, I want to see your face when I pull the trigger."

--Hero coming to rescue their kidnapped teammates but Villain is waiting. Their movements are almost lazy as they stretch the tip of their blade over a teammate's gag "Mm--mmf!". Villain locks eyes with Hero and grins. What are you going to do about it? Hero lunges forward, only for Villain to press down with the knife, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. "Not so fast, Hero, take it easy." Hero snarls, "I'll take you down, easily."

--In the middle of a fight, Hero twists Villain against a wall with a thud. Plaster shakes free and showers the both of them. Villain gasps for air as Hero leans in, a cold light in their laughing eyes, "Not so fast now, are you?" Villain hears the punch before they feel it, below their ribcage. "Try to dodge this one, smartass."

-- Hero running into Villain late at night, lying on a rooftop. For a second, there's high tension and an intake of air. To fight or not to fight. Then Hero shrugs and sits down next to their sworn enemy. A heartbeat later, they catch a glimpse of a sprawling scar-- burn tissue, nasty work-- and their stomach sours. "I didn't give that to you." Villain yanks down their t-shirt sleeve, jumping to their feet. "You just had to ruin the moment, didn't you?" It sounds lighthearted, but it isn't. "Wait!" Hero scrambles after them. "Not so fucking fast. I asked you a question." Their tone is almost possessive, definitely angry. "Who gave that to you?"

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lexydakitten · 3 months ago

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rot rot rot rot ... this particular kind infests the grounds of my iterator oc one step ahead / osa, and inevitably him as well. time for me to ramble yayy yayy

meant to post this earlier i just was fussing over names. i have concluded that the colloquial name for all these together is inflorescence longlegs because that means that i still get to use the acronym ILL and thats cool i thinks. proto-rot is creeping longlegs, then in order of size smallest to largest is sprout longlegs, flowering longlegs, and wilting longlegs. they're a sort of mutated vine, one which was pretty common on osa's grounds, but he got just a Little screwed over by astronomically low odds. vine turned into rot naturally as certain background environmental conditions on his grounds make that something that happens from time to time (in more than just vines - any organism). the atypical and astronomically low odds part comes from the fact that it did not resolve itself, because when this occurs on his grounds it's usually such a small sample produced that quickly dies or is otherwise destroyed. in this case, by the time it becomes noticeable to him, it's already grown too quickly to be easily fixed.

because of it occurring naturally, a lot of properties and behaviors are retained from what it was originally. this is mostly because it's scarier that way and i made osa for me to project my nightmares onto👍

for visual - osa's grounds are mostly a tight thicket of bushes and shrubs that are adapted to a higher latitude environment. the thicket provided a fair amount of shelter for the ILLs until the infestation had a sizeable population. a common behavior seen in all ILL specimens, proto or not, is that they try to climb up other plants as they infest them, something retained from being a vine. additionally, when they have infested a significant amount of one shrub, they will start trying to spread to find another by growing on the ground in arches (top right) which is another thing based off of certain vines. they're green because they also can still photosynthesize, though because of high energy needs this is only sustainable for smaller specimens and really only means they can survive longer in a starving state. also, they're very thorny, which makes mobile cysts move slower, and they typically prefer not to move much anyways aside from the wilting longlegs. because they originate from a plant, they're all weaker physically, i think a sprout longlegs you could probably spear to death very easily in one cycle if you had enough spears to expend, and none of them are explosive resistant. fighting any of them with explosives in a particularly large thicket of rot though (or a wilting long legs) is something i would not advise though ;3c.

while slls are parallel to blls, flls to dlls, etc, there's a few distinctions worth making. sprout longlegs and flowering longlegs are very small, with sprout longlegs being probably roughly a bit larger than the size of a squidcada and flowering longlegs being the size of blls or a small dll. wilting longlegs are dll/tll sized. flowering longlegs don't break down into sprout longlegs when starving either (though a wilting longlegs may break down into a group of flowering longlegs), and they occur differently. sprout longlegs are commonly found outside of or on the edge of rot thickets and are common in clusters, as they are all cysts that were broken off the main patches by rain, and very few became mobile through normal means. sprout longlegs are though, like blls, completely senseless, and they don't pose a significant threat - i like to imagine they do have a tendency to fall when they start moving as they have the least amount of thorns though, so the majority of their threat comes from falling from above. flowering longlegs occur via normal means, just cysts that became mobile. they have the ability to hear, and in particularly heavy thickets of creeping longlegs they can also have what is effectively telepathy. think orange lizard. wilting longlegs are similar to flowering longlegs here, they're just much much larger cysts that became mobile, in some instances they may even be cysts that have completely consumed a shrub or bush and then became mobile, hence their size.

wilting longlegs.. :3. they can hear, and regardless of where they are, they're large enough to exhibit telepathy towards each other. wilting longlegs are the most aggressive as their ability to photosynthesize is entirely unsustainable for them - a sprout longlegs will last fine consuming things minimally, a flowering longlegs can last though will eventually start starving, wilting longlegs MUST consume however. their size and energy need is too costly and they're practically always on the edge of a starving state. an additional ability is that their toxicity is extremely concentrated - all ILLs produce toxins, as the vine they originate from did. in most instances, it only becomes a significant threat when consuming them. sprout longlegs are a similar effect to the ingame mushroom effects, flowering longlegs would be similar to the effects hunter experiences when rotting. wilting longlegs, due to their size, produce it the most, and it becomes dangerous to creatures that are grabbed by them. because they are covered in it, even if the creature breaks free, they will experience effects of the toxin shortly after. it's not life-threatening, but it would cause temporary immobility, like spitter spider spit does, alongside the psychoactive effects. wilting longlegs are escapable, but they present a greater hazard than a tll does.

said effects also apply to iterators. which osa learns pretty hard. because he can't ever find a fix to the issue, and his group members become too scared to put effort into helping him, he ends up having to deal with it alone. and the infestation reaches him initially through his intake system, but he can flush it out to prevent it from taking hold. it still damages his systems when it does get in, in very small amounts, and the damages accumulate until there's nothing he can do about it getting in. as more and more rot grows and damages him, he also becomes poisoned by it, and suffers from that as well. and the entire time he's terrified of it, even before it starts reaching him, that combined with the negligence of his group members is why he's a vicious jerk. not evil but he isn't in his right mind from the pressure of how terrifying his situation is from his perspective + inevitably becoming sick too. he was pretty unremarkable before, especially considering he's the oldest one in his group - i'd say senior but i'm still not sure if that's a fanon thing or not? i dont wanna accidentally take someone else's ideas by referring to him as that lol

but. i figured i'd make this as a reference and then also as an excuse to ramble about my nightmares goober🙌yay. it didnt make sense to not have significant depth to the nightmare-inspired parts so i fixed it :3

nvm just remembered the thing i forgot to put. also while their starving colors are not shown here, they shift into a more autumnal/stressed set of colors and become significantly lighter and more desaturated as well. wilting longlegs are the ones you'd find with these colors most often and they're already somewhat adjacent to it. just cuz i think it's cool

#if this needs any cws let me know please btw i'll tag them /gen #i cant think of any in particular i would need to put?? but still just in case #i think if i got more detailed explaining things about OSA i might've needed one tho lol. hes a Little dark pinch #rainworld #rainworld oc #rainworld fanart #rain world #rain world art #rain world oc #rainworld iterator oc #rw rot #most likely missed a few details about these tbh. this is at least 90% of it i think though #oc rambling

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smokszyvverstar · 27 days ago

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I've talked about the Fireheart kids so much, so now its their parents' turn!

So lets have some time skip fun!

Mario and Luigi, a few years after getting peace between the mushroom kingdom and the darklands. In a fight againts Bowser Mario loses his leg, and Peach uses this to trick Bowser's ego into getting him to give up on invading the mushroom kingdom. "Oh Bowser you have finally won. Better quit while you're ahead or the bros will come back with a vengence!"

This peace allowed the bros to finally settle down and marry their respective royals.

These are the bros' favourite overalls, and so every time they get ripped or torn, Peach patches them up. And whenever the bros visit each other, they always wear them.

King Bean and Queen Toadstool.

Whenever Peasley comes to visit, he wraps up warm. The purple gem on his cape, a coronation gift from his retired mother, feels to him like a symbol of his vow to protect his people. Having been reasurred time and time again by Luigi's caring love, Peasley has learnt to fuel his body instead of striving to fit a different species' beauty standard.

Peach has invited Luigi and Peasley for a catch up, and thus put on her favourite poofy pregnancy dress. Its pink, its pretty, its soft, and the poofy shoulders make her feel powerful (like a protective mama)

Dr Toadsley says Chanterelle is due in two months. Peach chose her name, recommended by Toadsworth.

Twenty-five years later

The Shroobulus has awoken. Luigi went to fight it, giving his life to give the people more time to escape. Mario was very ill so he could not go. He carries this guilt, and it is eating away at him. So he stayed behind as his wife left for safety with their twins and their people. He tries to help Chanterelle, who stayed behind, too, to repair E.Gadd's time machine and to round up the others who stayed in their falling kingdom.

Luigi grew his hair out even more, and now he has a little braid how cute. He mostly hangs around his child, Edama, who has the power to attract ghosts. Their power is literally that they are haunted its pretty cool. He usually tries to stay away from the Luigi who came from the past, as he knows if regular ghosts are scary, his own ghost would be even worse.

Peasley stayed behind, vowing to avenge his lost love. He and Edama moved to the mushroom kingdom to help them as best as they can. Because Luigi's ghost still haunts him, and the Shroobulus is still out there, he still wears the same royal clothes as usual as a sign to the others to not lose hope. He stole Luigi's hair tie.

Peach took the Toads and Beanish to hide in the dreamworld. Pi'illo island is so far away, and the only way into the dreamworld is through the Pi'illo, so this was the safest place possible. Dreambert wishes he could do more for the heroes that defeated Antasma. But without the Dreamstone, there is nothing more he can do.

#tw major character death #tw character death #cw pregnancy #if i missed any warnings please let me know #i started this so long ago but finally finished it #M&L: Fireheart #will i tag the regular mario tags? the characters are here even if they are changed by time and AU stuff #mario and luigi #super mario #smok shrooms #prince peasley #princess peach #but theyre king Peasley and queen Peach now

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ghosty-elliot · 1 month ago

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Regicide!Lehiri

Got prompted by @raymurata and @luciferiana to draw Lehiri in regal clothing and I just had to make it a whole thing.

Only situation I can see them wearing that is after killing a king tho....

As always, thank you @adorkastock for always providing amazing pose references ❤

#shattered moon #oc: lehiri #lehiri #the hateful six #tiefling #dnd character #dnd art #they gave me the prompt and I had a Vision TM #I had to make it a whole thing I ran with it and honestly im glad Lehiri made me love painting gold and jewelry #blood #violence #cw blood #cw violence #tw blood #tw violence #if theres any cw missing please let me know so i can add it #oc #tiefling oc #dnd oc

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noodlesoup1819 · 7 months ago

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Day 5: Chronic Illness - Sigma with endometriosis

(Cw: periods / menstruation, panic attack, throw-up)

(Read on Ao3)

For some naïve reason, Sigma thought this would stop once he joined the agency.

He had woken up multiple times in the middle of the night, lightheaded, nauseous, and hurting. He had probably only gotten a few hours sleep total and what he did get was restless and uncomfortable.

This wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence for him.

Sigma might only have a few years’ worth of memory, but for its entirety, he’d felt like this. Nausea and headaches. Bone deep fatigue. Joint pain and body aches. Not to mention the sensation Sigma can only describe as someone trying to chip off pieces of his hip bones as they stabbed at his organs…

Not pleasant. To put it lightly.

Regardless of how unpleasant it is, it’s how it’s always been.

Dos-kun had once explained that stress could exacerbate the symptoms of periods. And both the desert and the sky casino and everything that followed were nothing but stressful. He also told him that all periods hurt. Sigma often spent time gazing at the women he knew wondering how they did it.

While the agency was no where near stress-free, it was still leagues better that anything he’d had previous. He’d only been there a couple weeks, but…he’d still expected things to get better.

Nonetheless, Sigma had a job to do and he prided himself on doing his job well, no matter if that was the casino or here at the agency. In fact, Kunikida-san often praised his exceptional work ethic and Sigma had no intention of messing that up regardless of how he felt.

Popping a few Tylenols, Sigma finished getting dressed and headed out the door. If he was lucky, he’d have enough time to stop in the café and get a coffee and something for breakfast before he needed to head upstairs to work.

-----

With caffeine to dull his headache and a small muffin in his stomach, he’d felt a little better all morning. The Tylenol was doing it’s job and while the pain in his abdomen wasn’t exactly comfortable, he was able to go through his daily morning routine of checking his emails, filling out mission reports, and assisting the office staff with anything they asked. He’d even managed a small mission with Kenji.

But by the time the two were heading back at close to lunch time, the sharp pains in his hips and lower stomach were becoming unbearable again. It was hard to keep walking without folding over and his nausea was building quickly. As soon as the two got back to the agency, Sigma excused himself to collapse onto the floor and heave into one of the toilets in the agency’s bathroom.

“—Sigma-kun~? Are you in need of my assistance? I’d be happy to help if you’ve gotten hurt on your mission~” Yosano-sensei’s voice traveled through the door. If Sigma was honest with himself, she still scared him a little.

“No, no. Don’t worry about it. I’m alright.” Sigma called back.

“Really? Because Kenji-kun said you looked like you were in pain when the two of you got back. And I’d be happy to fix you up~.”

Getting up and rinsing his mouth out, Sigma tried to make himself as presentable as possible before opening the door. “I’m alright, Yosano-sensei,” Sigma said, trying not to grimace at the pain, “I’m not injured. And besides, I don’t think your ability would help with this anyway.”

Yosano seemed skeptical. “You sure? You’re doing a pretty terrible job of hiding the fact that you’re in pain. And what is ‘this’ anyway?”

“I’m just on my period,” Sigma sighed. “This just happens sometimes.”

“Your period is causing this? And this is frequent?” Yosano seemed concerned. “Have you ever been to a doctor about it?”

“No?... I thought that it was normal for periods to hurt?” Was that not true?

“Sigma,” Yosano started, “periods are not supposed to hurt. They can be uncomfortable, sure, but they are not supposed to cause you debilitating pain. They are not supposed to make you so sick to your stomach that you have to heave in your work’s bathroom.”

“But… I was always told…” …By Fyodor. He was told all those things by Fyodor. The person who lied and manipulated more than Dazai. The person that lied about a whole world war and used it to manipulate someone revered as a hero into a weapon of destruction. He told him that it was normal. That that was what was supposed to happen. What an idiot he was for believing that load of crap.

If it wasn’t normal, what about him was. He doesn’t have a family or a home. He doesn’t even have a place where he was born and then tossed away. He was written down on a special piece of paper and then thrust into being a pawn for everyone he’s ever met since. He doesn’t have an ideal type or romantic fantasy. He doesn’t have a strong gender identity. And now, the one thing he thought was at least somewhat normal, isn’t either. Does he even count as human at this point?

“—Sigma! Breathe!” Yosano’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Was he not breathing? No? He was breathing too much? His chest hurt and his body hurt and he can’t breathe. Is he dying?

Something grabbed his hand. “Sigma follow my breathing. You’re okay. You’re fine.” Sigma doesn’t think he’s ever heard Yosano’s voice be so comforting. As he followed her instructions breathing got a little easier again.

“Sorry—I just…”

“Sigma, it’s okay. Let’s start from the beginning, alright?”

------

After that day with Yosano-sensei, things got better.

She gave him some stronger painkillers and nausea meds and sat him down to explain things. He learned what was normal and what wasn’t.

He learned that periods usually only last 5-7 days once a month instead of the almost 9 days twice a month he was experiencing. He learned that periods usually cause cramping and could cause other things but were all things that should be managed (as in taken care of completely!!) with over-the-counter meds. He should not throw up or feel like passing out.

But, as much as he learned what was different, he learned what was normal about him. He learned that he was aroace and that lots of people didn’t experience romantic or sexual attraction. He’d even learned that Ranpo was aromantic! And he learned the word agender. Something that described his experience with gender completely.

He’d felt…whole. Like he was a whole person. Like he was normal. Like there was hope for things to get a bit better.

He’d started playing with different ways to express himself. He was diagnosed with something called endometriosis and Yosano-sensei worked to find meds that helped him. Even though they didn’t stop things completely, his flare-ups had become manageable.

The agency had been really accommodating too. It’s become common to see Sigma cozied up on the agency couch with a heating pad and his laptop on worse days. The president said he could take the day off on those days if he wanted to, but he liked being at the agency.

“—Ku-ni-ki-da-kun~ Sigma-chan looks so lonely sitting all alone on the couch! It’s my duty as a member of the armed detective agency to make sure all our members are taken care of! You should let me go join them!”

That was a new development, too. Being invited into Dazai and Chuuya’s weird situationship has been interesting to say the least. Even though she doesn’t experience romantic or sexual attraction, they’ve grown fond of the two of them and their relationship worked well.

“I can guarantee that Sigma is not lonely the all of seven feet away that he is. And Sigma actually completes their work when she’s on the couch! You’d just use it as an excuse to nap all day!”

“He’s right, Dazai,” Sigma interjected before the two could start actually fighting. “I’m fine. I’m a bit ahead actually. We can head home a bit early if you get your paperwork done.”

Yeah… that sounded nice. Heading home early to spend the evening in with both his partners. Chuuya would probably prepare a nice bath and he could relax as much as they could. Flare-up’s weren’t pleasant, but between her concoction of meds, the agency, and her partners, they were bearable.

“Hmph. Fiiiiiine. But only because Kunikida-kun will let us leave early if I do.”

“Sigma. You’re a godsend. Please never quit the agency, please.”

Yeah… Things were pretty alright.

#my writing #own #bsd disability week #bsd disability week 2024 #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd sigma #armed detective agency #sigskk #cw periods #cw menstruation #cw throwing up #cw vomit #cw panic attack #<- let me know if I missed any and I'll update

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