#living with dissociation fucking SUCKS i want to scream

[destiny-in-the-universe]

Well. This is kind of embarrassing and I’m struggling just to write this but it seems I’ve hit a block on things I want to write- it feels genuinely like I’m about to crash into the deepest icy waters that exist, and I’ve honestly my mental limit this week and it’s only a damn tuesday; feels like I am not all here atm, and I just don’t know if I can carry out any ideas or plans right now

You might still see me reblogging and posting smaller content for a few days- or it’ll go away tomorrow, but fuck I just feel not myself?

I’m deeply sorry, it’s either burn-out or I’m just drained and need a bit to recover, ‘m not going anywhere. I will be back, I’m just… tired is all

~ Mod Danny (🐾) / Co-Front: Rivaille, Ray, Saiki

[sunwarmed-ash]

🔥Sinful Sunday🔥

Chapter 3: I want to scream I love you from the top of my lungs, but I’m afraid that someone else will hear me

Ship: Past Harringrove-> healing Harringrove, maybe harringroveson too, tbd Rating/TW: Graphic depictions of violence, child abuse, domestic abuse, homophobic language/violence Tags: Angst, neil hargrove sucks, billy hargrove needs a hug, and two hot boyfriends if I'm being honest, post season 3 & 4-Billy lives, Billy and Steve are ex's, Eddie is a worried friend(for now), hurt/minor comfort, dissociative/Major Depressive Disorder Billy, Preview:

Since knocking his father unconscious and tying him up over an hour ago, Billy’s smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes. His brain is struggling to keep up with the latest turn of events so he’s spent most of the hour dissociating. He hates that this is his life. Hadn’t he suffered enough already? How did it just keep getting worse? 

By the time he finishes the last cigarette in the pack, there’s a knock at the door. Optimistically, it's the cop, here to take his shitbag father away. 

Instead, it’s fucking Steve Harrington. Who is the absolute worst person to be here right now, seeing as Billy just sent Max and Susan over there to keep them safe!

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Billy spits furiously.

“Hopper’s at my house,” Steve explains, hands already up in surrender. 

When Billy’s face doesn't change, Steve’s own temper flairs. “I wouldn’t have just left them Billy!”

“Why not?” Billy scoffs cruelly, “You’re good at that.” 

It’s harsh, but Steve deserves it. Steve’s abandonment ruined him. 

His comment works. Steve’s previous heat extinguishes and he folds in on himself. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and tries to make himself look as unthreatening as possible. 

Billy hates that it's working on him. 

“I’m sorry Billy.”

[reimeichan]

God, this "recovery" thing is insane. Yes I've been doing poorly recently. I was pretty intensely triggered by one of my partners for the first time since dating them (it was absolutely unintentional, one partner triggered another and the triggered partner's reaction ended up triggering me), which resulted in a lot of back-and-forth of the two of us being triggered and activated by each other. After a while, however, I was finally able to sit down and examine why I was acting that way and what I wanted to accomplish, and I realized: ah. I've been over-relying on fawn responses because I'm scared of said partner pushing me away and no longer loving me, but instead of just saying so I over-compensate which felt infantilizing for said partner who would then push back against me, resulting in a pretty awful cycle until we were finally able to break out of it.

And I just. The old me absolutely would not have been able to do that. The old me would have continued to have us in an activated state without realizing we were, the old me would not have had the insight to know how to stop the cycle. But the current me does. And that's kind of amazing.

Unfortunately, that's kind of the end of the positive interactions I had with that partner. Things kind of continue to spiral out of control for them and we've had to end things between us. And it sucks. And I've been dealing with the grief that comes with ending a relationship so suddenly, and the anger of my trust having been broken, and the dissociative numbness as I tried to process through everything.

And yet, still... despite this week having been one of the worst weeks I've had in years, I'm doing surprisingly alright all things considered. I'm still mourning the loss of that relationship, but I've been able to continue to live my life without wallowing fully in despair. I've actually picked up job searching again. I've made plans with my other partners on how to move forward with our lives. And I've cried, so many times, but that's okay and to be expected.

I've put in so much work to get to where I am today, where I'm able to grieve and both allow myself time to grieve while also trudging forward bit by bit. I've found ways to get myself to keep moving forward, both in spite of my emotions but also because of my emotions. And in my darkest moments, I may not actually feel like I've done enough, as I'm screaming and sobbing and wondering where I went wrong and what more I could even do. But also I know that... even if I'm not okay right now, it's going to be okay. And I'm so proud of how far I've come.

But, also, when I'm low again, that doesn't mean I fucked up. It just means I hit a low, that sometimes life doesn't turn out the way I thought it would. But at least I know how to keep going when things are rough, and I know how to stand back up when I'm knocked down.

[avvail-whumps]

‘guns for hire’ — compromises #8

previous · masterlist · next

content warnings: captivity, restraints, punishments, shock collar, electrocution, dissociation, emotional whump, intimate whumper, non-con touching (not sexual), blood and injury, whumper caretaking (whumper is the reason they need it in the first place?)

Leo was exhausted.

Each question buzzed through his brain, sinking straight to his stomach, and he hardly even had the strength to brace himself against the shocks everytime the mercenary pressed the button.

He was slumped haphazardly in his seat, a cold sweat beading on his forehead, panting so hard his chest was burning irrevocably. Whimpers spilled from his lips, mumbling weakly in an attempt to find his voice and tell him to stop.

Leo had begged and begged Roy to stop.

He’d wanted nothing more than to avoid those questions; those prodding, personal ones that he was shooting at him, but he caved under the pressure nonetheless.

Caved until he was sobbing and screaming at him, telling him just about anything he asked for.

Leo felt painfully miserable, as he shifted in the restraints. His ankle was numb. He was sure the agony was blending into each other, and Roy must have aggravated the injury, making the long stretch of recovery even longer.

He sucked in a horrible breath, throat and mouth painfully dry.

Roy had asked all about his home life. All about everything that had made him run away, everything that he was still gripping onto. His stomach felt pitted with dread at the mere thought of what he’d said.

“M-My mother...” He remembered blubbering, after begging Roy to stop the shocks. “...she left us. She didn’t want anything to do with us and she packed her bags and left...”

He remembered the way his voice had cracked, barely able to suck in a violent breath before he was choking on his sobs again.

“My father became depressed a-and he...he couldn’t handle it. He didn’t want anything to do with me either. H-He stopped teaching me violin, he stopped talking to me, he, he...”

He’d sniffled, feeling shame creep up his spine. He was truly pathetic. He could hardly keep his hyperventilating hiccups in his throat, head hung low and hair falling haphazardly in front of his face.

“I ran away, b-because he couldn’t handle her leaving, a-and he pushed me away too,” he’d continued, breaths low and deep. “I couldn’t live with it. That’s it, that’s it, I swear...please, stop. Please, I’m begging you.”

Roy had, his lips barely twitching into a smirk, and his expression satisfied. He’d praised Leo in a twisted form of affection, taking the collar off his throat and gently pushing his hair back. He’d promptly left up the stairs, leaving Leo to shiver in the chair, numb.

He stared blankly at a spot on the ground, struggling to keep his eyes open.

He just wanted to drift off into the depths of his mind and never come back; he didn’t want to deal with this situation anymore, and he didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to do anything, but shut himself off and try to imagine himself anywhere but here.

Roy returned with another bag, this time full of medical supplies. His steely eyes watched Leo for a moment as he closed the door behind him, before approaching him with those ghost-like footsteps.

“Lion?” He drawled, leaning down and tilting his head to try and get a look at his face. He noticed the way the secretary’s eyes looked — glazed over, completely fixed, as if he was in a strong trance. The mercenary pressed his lips together, before straightening up with an abrupt sigh.

“Fuck, get a hold of yourself,” he grumbled, pressing a hand to his forehead and tilting his head back. Leo didn’t react, not even when Roy firmly patted his cheek, trying to snap him out of it. Closing his eyes, the mercenary decided that he would have to call it a day.

Slicing the duct tape keeping him trapped to the chair, he easily hefted the light man into his arms, patting his back as he did so.

“You’re so thin,” he sighed, gently lowering him down onto the mattress. “You’ll be skin and bone soon, lion.”

The man got to work on what he intended. Gently dabbing down the purpled marks collaring his throat, and checking his tongue to make sure he hadn’t bitten it took up only a fraction of his time, as he tipped the contents of the bag onto the ground, and began to wrap his ankle in a splint.

He worked expertly, as if he’d done this plenty of times before, tipping a number of different pills onto his hand to help with the swelling and pain, and wrapping an arm around Leo’s shoulders.

He was so much smaller compared to him, Roy felt as though each grasp engulfed him. He helped the disoriented man swallow down the medicine, before lowering him back down, setting his ankle on the pillow, and chaining him him.

When he stepped off, he heard a faint crinkle.

A frown found its way onto his face as he swept up the remains of the glass he’d shattered, tutting softly under his breath.

After clearing everything up, Roy shrugged off his jacket. He was always radiating pleasant heat, so he draped the jacket over Leo’s form, drowning his figure. He didn’t hesitate to pick up his bag, and make his leave.

It wasn’t like he was much fun like this anyway; Roy much prefered making him squeal and squirm when he had the inkling of freedom just in his grasp.

When he made it to the top of the stairs, he stilled.

His eyes drifted down to hand, wrapped in tissue. The blood was soaked through, reflecting in his eyes, making his throat bob. He clenched it, letting his fingers dig painfully into the flesh, and a trembling exhale fell from his lips before he could stop himself.

It was making his heart pound in his chest. The adrenaline that had sparked when he’d seen the man coming for him, milking the confession out of him through his tears, was something that made him shiver with excitement.

Keeping him down in the basement wasn’t much fun.

Roy knew the bird would try to fly if the cage was left open. So open, it would be.

–

It must have been weeks of being trapped down there.

Leo felt like he was starting to lose his mind, waking up every morning — could he even call it that when he didn’t have a single grasp on the time? — to the same, bleak walls, windowless space, same mattress and chair.

A diet of porridge and water hadn’t changed, as it didn’t seem Roy knew how to make anything else.

Dark circles had easily formed under his eyes, and his ghostly complexion stood out from the black jacket the mercenary had laid over him the night of the interrogation. It had become the only sense of comfort and warmth during the mind numbing experience, and he found himself curled up with it, or sitting with it draped around his shoulders and pulled around his body at every chance he got.

The mercenary hadn’t hurt him since then; Leo knew it was because he had been as obedient as could be, not attempting an escape when he was blindfolded and lead upstairs. The secretary was grateful each time he could stretch his legs, and the weight on his healing ankle improved everytime he did.

Roy placed pills on his tongue, checked his splint, and came down to either give or retrieve his food and water.

Leo’s body was overcome by a horrible depression, lay subject to being sprawled on the mattress and counting away the seconds in his head. Soon, even that became too much effort for him, and he let his body shut off, imagining himself elsewhere, playing the violin or having a lunch break with his co-workers.

He weakly gripped the jacket, drawing it further over his shoulders until it was under his nose.

The fabric even had Roy’s scent clinging onto it, and Leo’s stomach coiled at the fact it was the only thing bringing him comfort.

He liked it; the warmness, the comfort, having another person’s scent to accompany him while he slept. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep if it wasn’t constantly bunched over his face, blocking out the lights and cacooning him in a pleasant warmth.

He gingerly licked his lips, the flesh dry against his tongue. His fingers deftly traced the markings on his wrist, lightly dragging along each line. It wasn’t sore anymore; Roy had applied an ointment to it every once in a while, which took the redness out of his skin. The cuts were slowly healing, leaving noticeable scars in their wake.

When the door clanked open, Leo didn’t get up. He closed his eyes, hoping Roy might mistake him for being asleep, and leave him alone.

He didn’t have that much luck, since the mercenary had already tugged the jacket off his body, and it made his eyes snap open in surprise, turning to face him with a shocked expression.

“Shake yourself awake, sleeping beauty,” the mercenary smiled, his tone leaving only a slither of emotion as it always did.

Leo tensed at the sight of him, his eyes drifting over to the jacket, before snapping back to him in fear. Roy tilted his head, and it was then that the secretary noticed he was clutching two crutches in his hand.

He gawked, confused.

“I’d like to ask you a question,” Roy perked up, his eyes fixated on him. Leo barely found the strength to speak, but the words were slipping from his lips before he could stop himself.

“Yes?” He croaked softly.

“So eager,” he chuckled, lip quirking with a subtle quirk at the corner. “How well can you cook?”

Leo blinked. He processed the question once more in his head. Then he blinked again. “...what?”

“I’m asking you if you can cook.”

Leo didn’t dare shift into a sitting position, staying on his elbows. His lip quivered as a breathless squeak left his mouth.

“I-I...do you mean...drugs?”

Roy squinted his eyes. “Drugs? No, lion. Food. I’m talking about food. Can you cook food?”

His face went scarlet red in embarrassment, the heat rivalling that of an oven as it pooled into his skin, and warmed the shell of his ears. He shut his mouth in humiliation, letting his eyes drop to the ground swiftly.

He nodded.

Leo had lived alone for a few years; cooking came easy to him.

“Good,” the mercenary hummed, straightening up and letting the crutches balance on the floor, jacket draped over his arm. Leo stared at it with begging eyes, his bottom lip tucking in. “Here’s the arrangement, lion. In exchange for cooking, for me, yourself, and whoever else might come along, I’ll let you upstairs.”

Leo’s eyes lit up, expression switching almost instantly.

“You can take a spare room. Sleep in a bed, and start walking around on that ankle.” He rattled the crutches for good measure. “It goes without saying — don’t try to escape. Don’t attack me again, and don’t think you can find a way to call for help. I won’t hesitate to ring that pretty little neck of yours if you step out of line.”

Cold sweats broke out along the back of his neck, hairs prickling to attention. Leo didn’t doubt Roy would do just that. He swallowed the dry lump in his throat, nodding his head eagerly.

Anything to get out of here. Anything to sleep in a proper bed.

Roy smirked, and bent down to ruffle his hair. The secretary winced under the touch.

“Good boy.”

It took a moment for Leo to get to his feet, barely able to stand by himself without Roy’s thick arm secured around his waist. His trembling fingers dug into his shirt, pressing tightly against his chest as the man released him for just a moment, only to drape the jacket over his shoulders and fix his arms inside.

It was far too big for him while he was wearing it, drowning his malnourished body, yet it was hard to resist those pretty eyes when Leo couldn’t take his gaze off the thing.

“Come on, arm through,” Roy murmured under his breath, helping Leo fumble his way into the crutches, gripping onto them weakly. He wobbled as a horrible wave of dizziness gripped him, something that had often started to occur when he was on his feet for too long.

But he bit down, and ignored it. There was no way he was coming back down here. No way.

Hobbling up the stairs was difficult, but Roy guided him easily, seemingly amused by his struggles. Leo had a clammy forehead and hands by the time they made it up to the top, and his shallow breathing almost made him miss the sight in front of him.

A house.

He had been under a huge house the entire time, one he could only assume was Roy’s. It made his stomach curl, not being here without a blindfold, but he made sure to drink in every little detail he could. All the framed paintings on the wall, the furniture, the huge television...

His fingers curled around the crutch, almost turning white.

“Mercenary business pays good,” was Roy’s only remark, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Let’s get you to your room, hm?”

Leo’s heart was thrumming in his chest.

tag list – @unorganisedalienrubbish @d-cs @rabidrabidme @sordayciega @burningkittypoet @whumpawink @mannerofwhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @welcome-to-the-whumpfest

[kennyomegasweave]

Clyde's Thoughts On The Only Friends Mains After Episode 8:

This is entirely on vibes cause I miss when we were all just so excited to have Messy Gays: The Series.

Boston: Him drinking alone at the bar while sadly looking at pictures of him and Nick? Hilarious from a self proclaimed man with no feelings or attachments. Basically going "fuck it, why not?" when he realized Cheum's baby brother wants to smash? You can't blame a hoe for doing what hoes do. He very clearly doesn't want Top's dick anymore, making all his earlier actions even more insane because he was an entire circus trying to get a repeat performance, finally got it, got called a pathetic mistake the next day, and just said alright and moved on. Did he dress up like Tyler Durden, Peter Quill, or just a hot dude wearing a red leather jacket? The world may never know.

Nick: He really did bug Boston's car and just sat on that audio listening to it for his own humiliation and/or degradation and/or cuck kink. At no point did he have a plan for that audio except for his own personal use to cause a smad boner. Him and Boston really deserve each other cause they both make insanely stupid decisions for no reason except boyish whimsy (fucking your friend's man, outright antagonizing every single one of your friends and then being like “fine I’m a pariah”, illegal voyeurism, wanting your not man man to not hate you but telling his ex friend and new found enemy about where to find illegal filmed revenge porn of him). His new boss 100% wants to explore his body and he has no idea. I predict struggles in his future because of that when all he deserves are snuggles. And make no mistake, he deserves snuggles despite being a weird little voyeur. Is it illegal for a boy to have INTERESTS and HOBBIES? I didn't think so.

Sand: GET ON UP OUT OF THOSE TRENCHES BROTHER. As I've said for eight straight episodes, Jesus be some self esteem for Sand. Because GET OFF YOUR KNEES GIRL RISE UP OFF THAT GROUND. But bless him, he did try more in episode 8 than he's tried the previous seven. I'm not even upset that's only trying cause he thinks Ray loves Mew and he's sad about that and not because he thinks Ray sucks even a little bit. So I award him 50 points for finally telling Ray to fuck off, but still deduct 100 for almost getting himself arrested trying to save Ray from his own stupid self centered actions. I want him to lay on his bed and listen to New Rules on repeat until he internalizes it, lives, and breathes it. Because you know he's only calling cause he's drunk and alone. Sadly, he's a textbook "behind every bad bitch is an ain't shit man dragging her down while she’s Ariel screaming DADDY I LOVE HIM." He and Nick making a bestie pinky promise that they're both done with those flop boys, but then both still being at the party, tells us all they've both already lost. We’ve all been there and you hate to see it.

Top: I am standing before you all today as a noted Top Hater since episode one to tell you I really did mostly hate this young man solely cause he dresses like a 48 year old uncle. I'm a weak shallow individual and I've never claimed to be otherwise. But baby he put those polos AWAY in episode 8 and looked hella good. Him in that Top Gun flight suit? I am looking disrespectfully, carnally, and like a whore. I see why Boston was desperate to bounce on that dick again, I see why Mew's just dissociating with booze and coke. I see the vision. Call me Rapunzel because at last I see the light.

Mew: It's sad watching him be utterly devastated over Top and his polos because he got played, in a way, by a 22 year old wearing polo shirts buttoned up to the top and tucked into dress pants. I know that stings, because how could it not. But he's a drunken woo girl and I’ll always go up for any and all characters that get white girl wasted. I appreciate how much he just doesn't see it for his bestie Ray in any romantic or sexual way at all. I also appreciate how he's just not cut out for the slut life. There's nothing wrong with slutting it up, I was a prolific slut in my heyday, but there's also nothing wrong with not being cut out for it either. He needs to stop getting blackout drunk and doing lines and just meet Top's mom to tell her her son sucks.

Ray: He’s on my shit list right now and I make zero apologies. But he has beautiful big cow eyes. I just really need to see him fucking wrecked because Khao is, imo, by far the best actor on this show where I don't think anyone is bad. And as previously mentioned, I am a weak shallow individual and if you give me a cute short king with how now brown cow eyes crying at rock bottom? Well I'm gonna cuddle him to my bosom. So I have nothing good to say right now, but I hope to cuddle him to my bosom in episode 11. 

I forgot how much fun this show is. I was too connected to tumblr, but now I'm letting the mess flow through me and I'm living. Thank you and god bless.

[pink-sunset-skies]

This is not something I planned to post but I don't know what to fucking do. I'm so fucking angry.

This post has a lot more than ocd but my social anxiety says I can't add more/the proper tags cause that would mean more people could see this and that's scary

Also I added the ocd tag cause this thing I deal with seems like it's probably ocd ,I don't know, either way it's fucking frustrating. (The stuff in this post is not the only stuff that I've experienced that seems like ocd.)

So I have meds for my social anxiety finally and during the past hour I was planning the time I wanted to take them.

First I thought I'll do 4:44, but then my mom texted me and I missed my chance, almost hyperventilating and screamed cause of that.

So then I was like okay how about 8:55 in the morning? But then my mom texted me at 5:05, so now that time feels dirty, along with 4:44/any -:44 time feeling dirty.

I'm so fucking tired of this shit. Second of all I'm so fucking pissed at those odds. I just wanted to take my meds at a certain time, with a certain number, THAT FELT FUCKING CLEAN

I'M SO TIRED OF LIVING HERE WITH HER AND FEELING LIKE I HAVE NO FUCKING CONTROL.

AND AGAIN, WHAT ARE THOSE ODDS?!?!?!? I CAN'T, I FUCKING CAN'T

I AM A BOY, I AM TRANS, I HAVE SOCIAL ANXIETY, I HAVE BEEN TRYING, I DO ENOUGH YOU DUMB ASS PIECE OF SHIT

I HATE HER SO MUCH FOR WHAT SHE'S LET ME GONE THROUGH. AND I FUCKING HATE IT CAUSE NOW I'M AN ADULT SO IT'S ALL MY PROBLEM NOW SHE'S NOT OBLIGATED TO HELP ME ANYMORE, NOT THAT SHE EVER FUCKING DID ANYWAYS, NOT EMOTIONALLY. SURE PHYSICALLY/THROUGH MONEY, LIKE MY THERAPY AND MY MEDS, WHICH I'M REALLY FUCKING THANKFUL FOR, BUT GOD FORBID HAD SHE TRIED TO TELL ME I WAS DOING ENOUGH, THAT I DID GOOD IN A SOCIAL SITUATION. TO GIVE ANYTHING POSITIVE TO ME THROUGH WORDS AND NOT FUCKING MONEY GODDAMMIT

Goddammit, now she's asking if she caused me to not take it now. Like what do you want me to fucking say? "Yeah you've let me go through a lot of isolation through the years and when I asked you for help with it and my social anxiety you'd just yell at me about how I don't do enough selfcare and schoolwork and yell about a bunch of other stuff and now some years later I feel like I have no control over my life and that's why I probably have this ocd shit to compensate and feel like I have some control over something :)" Like!?!??!? The fuck you want me to say?

Goddammit I need a fucking job and I need to fucking drive. It just sucks cause most days I can barely stand to be here, I just waste the day dissociating and listening to music or watching youtube or tv. If I can barely stop dissociating for a day how the fuck am I supposed to do those things?

(I don't actually need advice on that, I'm just deep in my feels and one of those feels is fucking hopelessness)

[sleepyheadscompany]

THIS IS A RANT, LEAVE IF YOU DON’T WANT TO READ IT!!!

TW for everything DID?? Idk:

Been a bit lost and disoriented for a few days and thought I’d let the void hear all about it.

I’m so fucking done with this system bullshit. Whoever gave this to me can take it the fuck back, I don’t want it and never HAVE wanted it. Can’t imagine why people would want to have this disorder. It sucks. It sucks when I can’t have my partner because of it. it sucks when I keep myself awake for days at a time over sleep anxiety that someone gonna hurt me again. It sucks when I’m in bed crying about not being able to remember shit. It sucks when I’m in bed dealing with flashbacks and nightmares. It also sucks when I’m in bed crying about both of those things and also crying and screaming and kicking at the fact that this is my reality, and I can’t escape it.

I can never get out of my own head. That shit stings. I can’t ever leave, as much as I’ve tried, hence why I have this disorder in the first place. Because I couldn’t handle the shit going on in my head. So, I screwed myself over for life by trying to run away so hard my brain took it too literally and put someone else there so I could run away for a little while, not knowing that that same person would also fuck me over themself later on in life.

I don’t blame them, at least not anymore, for fucking with me like she did. Alters have so much control over each other. They don’t even realize they have that much power most of the time (from my experience, at least). You can fuck with someone’s whole reality and interpretation of the world in a system. Sharing a brain with someone who has a narrative that they won’t give up on to the point that they literally get into your head and fuck up years of your life sucks. If you didn’t catch that already.

I’ll never be the fucking same. I can’t trust anyone. Even the people in my own goddamn head who are meant to protect me. Them’s the breaks I guess..

This disorder has RUINED my life and people WANT to have it????

What kind of masochistic shit is this??

I’d like to personally ask every person that fakes this disorder for fun or who romanticizes it why the fuck they hate themselves so much. Like, I HATE myself, with a very capital H, but even I don’t hate myself enough to want to subject myself to the torment that is this disorder. People are fucking insane, man.

AND THEN there’s the people who want to deny that it even exists???

Like, excuse me but WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK????

YOU AND YOUR BELIFES DETERMINE THE COURSE OF MY LIFE AND THE LIVES OF SO MANY OTHER TRAUMATIZED PEOPLE WHO HAVE BEEN SO ROYALY FUCKED BY THE WORLD THAT THEIR TRAUMA HAS UPROOTED THEIR LIVES AND YOU WANT TO. WHAT? SAY THAT OUR MASS AMOUNTS OF TRAUMA DIDN’T DO WHAT WE THINK IT DID WHEN WE LIVE WITH THE REALITY OF THE SITUATION EVERY FUCKING DAY?? HOW FUCKING SICK TO YOU HAVE TO BE???

Is all of my suffering and trauma and torment by the hands of people I can’t even escape fake to them? I don’t know what to tell you, man. The science is there. The consistency of symptoms between people that have never even met and all share similar experiences is there. What more evidence do you need? Like the theory of structural dissociation is pretty sound to me and reflects a ton of people’s experiences. 

DID has been in the DSM for years and has still kept its place, to this day, in the latest versions. Yet, people are still denying its existence when a good amount of them a) DON’T EVEN HAVE PSYCH DEGREES?? and b) use outdated information on DID and its history. Like, get over yourselves. Not seeing much room for argument. And people LOVE to bring up all the times YEARS AGO that people diagnosed it willy-nilly because it was cool when, nowadays, even some of the worst therapists I’ve ever had are hesitant to diagnose it out of fear of repeating history. Thats gotta mean SOMETHING.

And yeah, I understand that people don’t want to believe that so many young children are getting traumatized so badly it fucks them over from before they reach double digits to the moment they die (sometimes) but FUCK! The world is messed up and the brain does what it’s gotta do to survive dude. Idk man, cry about it, I guess.

I’m so fucking done with everything that comes with DID that I just might do something I’ll regret (I’m not actually gonna do anything, but let me be dramatic.) Everything sucks and I just wanna go home, wherever home is. I’m genuinely gonna cry I’m so fucking done get me out of here PLEASE!! I’m begging and I want out. Lord.

(Came back and read this months later and damn some of this didn’t make sense. I edited some stuff but everything said is the same as before.)

-🐢

[creepycrawliesinyourwalls]

yall is it still ana if i have all of the habits and none of the distress and emotion? i dont feel fat, but i want to keep my figure. i have that little dip in my waist, if i suck in a little im perfect. i have arfid, but its getting better.

im so sick of being sick. but i cant live without it. who am i if not pitiful? no one would sanely want me without that interest of "wtf is that."

back to the ana thing lol, i still get the urge to throw up everytime i eat. i feel so full, and i hate it. it's uncomfortable in the way a tag makes me want to rip my skin off. i dont think of myself as a pig, but the feeling of being full makes me want to throw myself off a cliff. im too conscious of my cal intake, i feel guilty. im what so many people want, but im destroying it recklessly.

when i threw up recently (i got a kidney stone and had trouble holding things down without extreme pain) i felt clean. i felt like i found the reset button.

and i know no one is going to notice. no one has before, why would they now? i could fall so far and no one would think i even tripped. im good at things like this. i love getting away with it.

everything i do is a cry for help, im now realizing as i type this. everything i say i try to make unsettling, i want people to notice, to challenge me. no one notices. i want to be obvious. i want to scream im still sick. i want to cry. i sat last september/november in my own vomit and tears and no one helped me. i wanted help, why is no one helping me?

my friends all have their own severe problems, i have no reliable support that wont calapse as soon as i even touch it. my parents aren't reliable, who do i have?

i thought i was privileged, i really did. i deluded myself into believing i had help, and that i had something to fall back on. i have no net. but i still have money, i still have privilege.

wheres my support team? whos my support team? i dont have a therapist currently, either. my coping skills are to dissociate and harm mysef to feel in control.

best part is im going swimming friday, i cant even cut rn until friday. fucking friday. i cant wait that long, im greedy and i need it now.

god i sound like an addict lol. but i need it, i need the chemicals, i need it rn. i already threw away everything for no reason, i have nothing to lose.

i will never win. my name means victory, fun fact. i should probably change it. god i feel insane, so genuinely i feel crazy.

i need to be perfect but nothings working. i need care that im not willing to get. i cant let go, i just cant. i cant let go of her, of cutting, of starving, of anything. i never got better, i suspended the inevitable.

would my friends miss me if i died? i asked that once, as a "joke". i want to ask again. i want them to do something to keep me from drowning. i know it's selfish, i know im bothering them with issues that i should handle myself. i want my friends. im not real without them. maybe they'll hate me when they realize how much i depend on them to live, so i wont tell them. i cant tell them. they'll hate me.

[alienjaded]

Bathing, baking, and saving my own life: Dreams of the future.

I took a bath yesterday and then continued to cry for twenty hours straight (and more, I'm still crying as I write this).

Does this mean I'm healing? Broken? Human? Not human anymore?

I don't even know anymore, dude. I haven't felt feelings so hard in so long, but I've just been laying here crying, working, not sleeping, drinking coffee and energy drinks, vaping, and crying. Crying, crying, crying. It's weird.

I don't bathe regularly. I don't move regularly, or eat regularly, or sleep like ... at all.

I just work. I work, I vape, I may or may not pass out from fatigue, I take impeccable care of my teeth because they are my last human strength, but let my hair tangle into dreadlocks, rinse, and repeat. I am a mother fucking mess.

But I bathed. I don't even know why. I really didn't feel like it. I was just in a state of derealization and dissociation, where thoughts were no longer the boss of me, and I just bathed almost of curiosity. Maybe I was subconsciously aware that I was crossing a threshold between passingly functional and alarmingly clinical if I did not force myself to take a bath right then ...

Bathing ... hurt. It felt really good. And that pleasure really hurt. It hurts to feel good, because I don't trust it.

Living hurts a lot right now. Every time that I am silent and alone with my thoughts - no media, no music, no conversations - all I can hear in my head is "ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch." I don't even know when that pain started, or how long I have been carrying it. I've grown so used to drowning it out and numbing myself entirely. But I'm feeling it finally, and it seems unending.

My husband and I are moving away from this God forsaken state that is way too sickeningly bloated with shitty history. I hate this town and I'm ready to leave, but I'm not excited. I hate being married to my husband. I hate living with him and being in the same room with him. I want to die when he looks at me.

Funny thing is, I don't actually hate him. I actually love him dearly. He is my family and my best friend, so although I feel absolutely nothing but pain when I am around him, I give him the spousal support and kindness that I feel my friend deserves. He deserves a teammate, kind words, and affirmation. I can only be his friend, but I try to be a good one ...

But my body writhes in agony around him, because it can't forget what he did to me. It sucks. My head and my heart forgive and want to move on, but my gut, my nervous system, my adrenal glands, my kidneys, they scream and shut down whenever they are in the same room. I am miserable.

There was a time when he was absolutely fucking awful to me. I tried to leave him, but he wouldn't let me. He would either hold himself hostage by cutting his arm with kitchen knives, punching himself in the face, or tearing handfuls of his hair out ... Or he would physically hold me prisoner. He would hold the door closed when I tried to open it, wrap me in a bear hug if I tried to run away, and lick my face (I am autistic and horribly disgusted by spit - even my own). These were the tamest methods he would use to stop me from leaving.

That period of time was the darkest of my life. And although he has seen a therapist, and things have changed, I have not been able to move. I've been physically frozen. I rarely leave my house - or bed, for that matter. I've dropped twenty pounds and three pant sizes from atrophy alone. I'm thinking about taking up smoking, just for the fresh air.

I'm free now, but in my body, I am still a prisoner. I think he broke me. As I mentioned, we've been moving. He hasn't lifted a finger to pack a box. I normally wait until he falls asleep to enjoy precious moments of alone time, when I can just be with myself. I recently spent those liminal hours packing. It took all of my will power to leave my bed and pack these boxes. They were, to me, my statement to the universe that I was ready and willing to "move." Truly move. To truly live, open to this next chapter.

The next fucking morning, my husband woke up and unpacked my fucking boxes. He did not repack the boxes, he just left the shit all over the floor. His reasoning was that he wanted to throw away everything in them, and that I did not pack them properly in the first place. I can't pack sugar with tea, apparently. FUCKING WHAT? Ugh, anyways.

Here's the fucking thing. Everything that he wanted to throw away was related to baking - the activity that I engage in when I am happiest. I never bake unless I am happy, and when I am happy, I bake all of the time. At one point, it was my dream to open a bakery; baking is the overflow of joy and light in my soul. This is exactly why I chose to pack that box. Isn't it just so fucking appropriate that he unpacked this specific box and left the shit all over the floor.

His reasoning was that we can just buy more baking ingredients when we get there. Apparently, it was a waste of time to pack the ingredients in the first place (clearly). Also, according to him, I used the wrong box I used a canvas box, when I should have used cardboard. It does not seem to matter that the sound of cardboard sets my level 2 ASD on edge, catalyzing almost instant sensory processing meltdowns. It's not like that exact detail, which I have shared many times with him, happens to be exactly why we have canvas boxes. Fuck, man.

Ultimately, I compromised, telling him that he could throw away only the expired ingredients ... This ended up being literally everything. Every item was expired, some by four to five years. We've been married for five years ...

The very last time that I made baked anything was for his birthday last year; the very last night that I felt any hope in my life. This particular night is what siphons my sleep and stabs me in every silent moment. This was the night that I silently packed my bag and tried to sneak away at 4 am; the night I got caught by him, and he almost took our lives in his manic delirious fit. The night that he cannot talk about or own up to when he asks me why I am too lazy to move, and why I seem to have given up on living. The night that I stopped baking and my soul died.

I absolutely hate my existence with him. I feel like I've been slowly killing myself, the long way around, with substance abuse and sleep deprivation. I know that if I were to just off myself, he would follow. But if I were to do it slowly, subtly, and outside of his radar, he might just be able to move on and be happy.

I'm basically already dead inside. I think I might still care about living, because I've learned to shut up and bite my tongue when we argue, because a part of me still feels primally afraid that one day he might just take both of our lives if he becomes unstable enough.

Anyways, I took a bath yesterday. I lit incense and played music, and just cried. I cried, because I remembered what bathing was like before I met my husband. What living was like before him. I stopped burning incense because he didn't like the smell. I stopped playing guitar and signing, because it triggered his insecurities. I stopped speaking and sharing my opinions with him, because his fragile fucking ego could not allow a single sentence that I said to make any remote sense.

I parted with every possible comfort that made my life beautiful, because he did not like them. And he would not let me leave to go be with them again. Every time that I tried, and managed to get away from his physical grasp because I was fast or sneaky enough, he would follow me to hotels, family members' homes, or other towns ... he would stand in front of my car when I tried to drive away, in front of the Ubers when I tried to Uber away. In front of me, every few steps, for miles, when I tried to walk away. I fought with every ounce of tenacity and determination, but he just beat me fucking down with his stubborness. I fought with all of my might; he was just stronger.

So, I gave up. I tried leaving in other ways. Mostly doing a fuck ton of drugs. I became infatuated with another man. I didn't allow myself to seduce this man the way that I continuously fantasized about doing, but I did allow myself to fantasize about doing it. Fantasizing about this stranger was better than doing drugs, for a period of time. And then it wasn't. I accidentally fell in love. After that, it got real for me. And when it got real, it got moral, and when it got moral, it became torturous.

So then I would just do drugs to not only escape my husband, but also to escape the fantasy of another man that emerged as a method of escaping my husband. Escaping to escape my escaping, I realized, was the most fucked up prison. But I just needed to escape. I needed to check out. I could not leave my house, so I tried to leave my body and mind. I needed to leave my feelings, so I could not feel the grating harshness of my husband's voice, the misery of his ego, his infuriating gaze, his terrifying mania, my ever present fear of him, my yearning for freedom, and my longing for someone else who represented life to me. It hurt. It all hurt so bad, so I just did whatever drug that I could.

When I was prescribed opiods, I popped them like candy. I don't even know how I survived that, and honestly, I don't think my soul did. I'm just a husk. I don't know if I will ever get myself back. I feel so dead inside. I want to say I got better. I stopped doing drugs. But I never stopped hurting. It hurts so much,

I hope that someday I'll see myself wearing a nice suit with good posture and combed hair, talking about something cool that I did to help people ... or even just to help myself. I hope that my future self someday speaks to my present self, about how strong, smart, sneaky, and strategic I was in saving my own life and escaping this absolute hell of a life, with all hearts intact. Including my husband's, but especially my own ... if I still have one, that is.

I think I really need to save my own life, assuming it isn't already over.

[ascensionismm]

July, 6th

Today felt like a year of emotions. I woke up feeling like I have been stung by a needle and my whole energy was sucked out. My eyes felt like mountains and I was struggling to concentrate. Dissociation!

It's been a few days now since I felt an ounce of energy in my body and most days I feel like I'm pouring out of an empty glass. It's like dust. I pour nothing. I kind of hate this feeling. I kind of miss myself. I kind of want her back and I feel like I'm in a dense forest, lost, on my way to find her. Feels like I'm desperately trying to pull the strings back to me and they always slip through my fingers.

Most days my mind is foggy and I struggle to understand the most basic sentences. It's tiring to pretend you're fine. It's tiring to pretend that your brain is not a constant wave of words and questions. Ugh.. I fucking hate it!

I find it so stupid to feel bad about feeling dead inside. I feel guilty about it, like it's not valid because there are worse things out there. I have my worst enemy with me at all times and it's a constant battle. My brain feels like when you scratch your knee and then you sand it with sandpaper. I want it to stop for just a minute but it's so loud in there. Like a constant scream of "let me out" and I have no idea who I have to let out.

I'm living with a screaming brain and a heart tied in barbwire and every move tares it a little more everyday... But I must give so many praises to my heart! It's been beaten, strangled, stabbed, fucked, spit in ... and it still has the power and strength to love purely, unconditionally and deeply.

I feel like I'm doing it injustice by giving it away so easy. On a tray.. just take it no matter what you do it just take it. And it's not fair to it..

My barely beating heart, I promise I will love you better.

[spagettiyeti-blog]

I went to Min Yoongi concert in Newark,NJ with my best friend!!!! It was super fun, we were in the nose bleeds but I screamed my lungs out like a good little fan and it was fucking amazing. I still had a voice afterward so ig I didn’t scream hard enough (I’ll go for strep throat next time) but even on the tiny walkway I was having the time of my life. He was about the size of the tip of my thumb to my knuckle, and he was an absolutely feral little thing, Daechwita was insane, the crowd went wild and it was one of my favorite moments a I was there the The Guitar string broke and actually caught a video of it, and Park Fucking Jimin was a balcony or two away from us, it was a dream come true, seriously. I had never been so happy in my life and I can’t believe it’s been about a month already…we stood in line for two hours to get in, and when the concert ended security kicked us out and those of us without rides went across the street to a bar. They ended up playing a bunch of BTS songs and the lot of us sang along and danced, there was laughter and cheering, it was all super friendly. When I left I called out “BYE ARMY” and no one said anything, at least not that I heard and it made my stomach twist in anxiety and my mind was running but I can give it a little laugh now, hopefully later on I can laugh about it more wholeheartedly. It’s still a bit sore ^^*

I wish it went on forever, I wish I had more space on my phone for videos, but I got to watch with as much attention as my dissociated brain would allow, I was so happy I could cry (I wanted to but ironically, couldn’t) and I wanted nothing more than to hug the man that understood me more than anyone else despite not knowing who the fuck I was.

I made a friend, a person with long neon green hair and a cut out Yoongi head that their girlfriend made, we tried to get it on the board when they showed ARMY posters and stuff but they never did, Greenie reassured me it was okay but I think we were both a bit disappointed. But there were to people with pumpkins on their heads, they were the absolute best in my opinion and my next concert I’d like to do something like that.

I miss Min Yoongi. So much more than I thought I would. It was the most amazing magical night I could’ve ever experienced, and coming back home was the most painful. Big city back to small city…streets became recognizable and once home, I cried in my kitchen. I spent a week missing Yoongi, two weeks missing New York and Jersey, and three realizing what I genuinely missed was freedom and understanding (and Yoongi). I’m going to every concert I can, whoever I can see, enjoying the moment and traveling to wherever I can until the day comes that I don’t have to come back unless they’re home visits. I’m going to miss this place, yeah. I grew up here, know only this place and it’s crusty roads and tiny landmarks, ones that I have grown to love. I’ll appreciate my time here, but soon enough I’m going to leave, because as much as these tiny roads and crusty landmarks hold my heart, I’ll seriously never be able to live. It’s suffocating here, the people suck, the roads suck, the memories suck and then they don’t, and Min Yoongi made me understand that…I can do whatever the fuck I want. Fuck I stayed in an Airbnb for three days with just myself and my best friend, took a train on our own with our own money, watched our tiny city fly by, watched people become stranger and stranger as buildings got bigger, crustier, more refined, then crustier again. Heard the train honk it’s fucking horn, felt it speed up and slow down and felt so god damn fucking free that for the first time in my life I felt like I could breathe fresh, stale air. And I felt great walking out in New York City streets, I was a new person the entire trip, I breathed in stale, fresh air and listened to the sounds of the night encased around me and god damn NYC never really went to sleep, did they? 3am and the sounds never stopped. 12 o’clock here it’s dead silence save for a few drunken yells, a couple gun shots and squealing tires, the neighbors fighting and beating, or maybe complete and utter silence, depending on where you slept.

This wasn’t meant to be a poet, I wasn’t supposed to rant this early on, buts it’s 5am and I’m feeling. I’m missing my freedom. I’m missing Min Yoongi and all his glory, standing tall from the tip of my thumb to the knuckle. I can’t believe the light shining in my room right now, but it’s nothing like waking up at 1pm on a air mattress on the urban streets of New Jersey. It’s nothing like eating at Tick Tock diner at 3am and hearing some random woman scream at her boyfriend with strings of insults that made us all laugh and worry for his life. It’s nothing like waiting in line for two hours, anxious and buzzing while the cold stung my thighs in pants that just weren’t pant enough. It’s nothing like hearing the screams of ARMY as Park Jimin walked into the venue, 10 feet away from us in line.

Waking up here, it’s nothing like being alive.

Not at all.

One day, I’m going to see the 7 of them in concert, and when that day comes, with all the memories I make, I might just miss my train back home.

[celestial-fucking-weeb]

NAGĀ!SERO

Hey y’all! This is a part of the Citrus Server Hybrid!AU Collab! The masterlist is HERE, please please please go check everyone’s pieces out!

A/N: I am fully aware that this is all over the place, ya girl is off her meds and will edit later. Please don’t tell me it sucks, I already know and I hate it, too.

SERO HANTA X F!READER

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, angst, smut, double penetration, aphrodisiac, interspecies miscommunication, size kink, breeding kink, mating, idk tell me if i missed anything

You had always heard stories about creatures in the forest; ones that eat humans, ones kidnap children, ones that would hurt you if you ever ran off by yourself. You didn’t believe them… Or maybe you did, but either way, the creatures could never be as scary as the life you already lived.

You had been taken prisoner when your coastal village was raided by pirates. Your clan’s viking warriors were off on a journey, leaving all of you oh so vulnerable with depleted numbers. They were going to kill you, like they did most of the others, but the pirate setting fire to everything in his path halted when he found you trembling under the rubble.

“Tomura, come see the new toy I found. Don’t you wanna keep her?”

“You sadistic bastard, how you get off to them crying like that never fails to make me sick. I don’t care what you do with her, Dabi, but I’m not cleaning up after you this time.”

They hauled you back to their ship, stripped you of everything and chained you in the hull. People came in and out, always different but always vile. You never spoke, you knew they wanted your screams. Overhaul, the captain, was the worst. You never knew when he was coming, and once he was there, you wondered what he wanted from you at all. Chained up, never touching you with anything but knives and his boots, not looking for your reactions… You wondered if he’d even notice if you stopped breathing. You dissociated for most of it, choosing instead to safeguard your mind, plan an escape.

About a year later, you found an opportunity in the carelessness of one of your captors. You docked someplace warm, someplace humid, maybe tropical? Toga had left your chains too loose after your last “date”, and had tossed the keys just a bit too close. As soon as she left, you had slipped your wrists out of the restraints, strained for the keys, and unlocked the shackles around your ankles. Not taking a moment to revel in the surreal feeling of being unchained, you listened until the heavy footsteps above you all faded into nothing, leaving the ship and most importantly: leaving you alone.

You ran. You ran so steadily, somehow comforted by the sounds of destruction getting further and further away. You found yourself blindly sprinting into a forest that looked nothing like your own, so damp and bright and warm. You kept running until you heard shuffling behind you, causing you to find the first thick vine hanging in your vicinity and clung to it as you climbed. Looking back, you see a simple boar grazing the forest floor. Sighing in relief, you relaxed a bit too soon, as the vine you had wrapped yourself around began to move.

Before you could react, you were wrapped up tightly in bands of muscle and brought towards the head of the- wait…- man? You had heard of nagā before, but the ones from your village’s stories were never described as so… tan, muscular, handsome. He didn’t look all that mean from the waist up, just the black, orange, and yellow scales trailing down his massive, strong tail seemed intimidating. He looked confused, concerned even, by your nakedness and panic stricken silence. Forked tongue flicking out to taste the air, smelling the blood and the abuse on your skin, seeing your quickly defeated body give up, and your mind resign itself to the comfort that at least you died free of your captors.

“Are you… okay?” The giant snake rumbles, human hand reaching towards your face and recoiling when you flinch.

You haven't spoken in months, your silence having been a security blanket, and you’re not ready to give that up. You do nothing, just look into his eyes and search for any sort of indication as to what he’s going to do. He loosens his grip a bit, just enough to slip down from his tree and head towards his hide- an old cave covered in ivy, moss, and little orange blossoms. He brings you in, and places you down on the ground before turning away to rummage through his things. He brings out water and bandages, along with some kind of salve that looks like a mixture of plants. You don’t reach for the water when he sets it near you, so he resorts to using the tip of his tail to bring it to your lips while his hands are busy tending to your wounds and gently rubbing the salve over your poorly healed scars. He offers you food, very confused when you don't seem to know what to do with the forest rodent he’s brought you, and decides on fruits he’s found. You don’t seem to want to do anything, not even going to sunbathe even though you’re obviously shivering.

THAT’S IT!!! SHE’S COLD! He thinks to himself, before wrapping his tail around you once more and bringing you outside to the rock where he typically warms himself. He gently places you down, uncoils you from his grasp, and gives you enough space to move as you please. You blink a few times, slowly realizing you’re free. He helped you? For no reason? He doesn’t know you…

“H-Hi… Thank… Thank you.” You mutter, looking away and blushing.

Cute… He thinks. “YOU TALK!!! What’s your name? I’m Sero, but you can call me Hanta! I was worried about you! Who are you? Why are you here? How did you get here?”

The line of questioning makes your head spin, and you try your best to answer before looking down and realizing you never found clothes. Blushing once again, you meekly gesture to your body and ask, “C-Clothes. I need clothes.” Hanta looks confused, but retreats to the cave and returns, bringing you a large piece of cloth that somewhat resembles a hemp blanket. It smells like oranges and spice, and you unconsciously snuggle into its comfort. Sero notices your calmed reaction to his scent and approaches you, gingerly grasps your ankle and picks up your leg, never having been so close to a human, and explores the strange angles your appendages bend.

“What are you doing?” You seem embarrassed, despite the number of people who've touched you before. This is too familiar, too intimate, almost too gentle.

“Tiny… Humans are… Small…”

You let him bend your limbs and play with your squish, strangely calm and trusting in his presence. He seems so enthralled by your body and how you move, so intrigued. That is, until he makes his way to massaging your plush thighs, causing a rush of arousal you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. He prys opens your legs to continue his ministrations, not knowing the smell of your lust would have him flicking his tongue out and his eyes turning to hyper-focused slits. He suddenly releases your legs, slithers around your back, and presses against you. He taps the top of your head with his chin and waits for your response. Not knowing what this means, but wanting him to continue his exploration, you lean back into him and whine quietly.

You have no idea what you’ve started.

Hanta leans down, pressing sweet kisses down the column of your throat and leaving scathing bites in all the right places. Aphrodisiac venom coursing through your veins, you don’t even register his muscular arms wrapping around your body and lifting you, carrying you back into his cave and up into his hammock. He wraps his strong tail completely around your torso and takes his time kissing and groping your soft body, mumbling “mate, mate, mate” into your heated flesh. He finally makes his way down to your mound, prying your thighs apart and diving straight in before you could question his reverent gaze.

“HANTAAA~” You practically screamed as his long tongue slipped between your folds, running along your clit and down to your clenching hole, his saliva increasing the heat coursing through your core. “M-More, please… More~”

“More, what?” He smirks against your heat. “Say it. Tell me I’m your mate and I’ll make sure you’re fucked dumb, yeah? My pretty little mate.”

You stutter for a moment, getting more desperate the longer his fingers drag along your wetness. “Mate… Please! I need you… I’m yours!”

“Good mate~” His tongue wriggles back into your cunt, and his fingers slowly move further down to stretch your tight ass, making you squeal in surprise. Your orgasm takes you by surprise, all thoughts abandoning your mind as you ride out your high on his face and fingers.

“Are you ready, little one?” He growls lowly, lining up two long, thick cocks with each hole. Your eyes widen in surprise, head clearing for a moment after your climax.

“T-two?! Wait wait wait, I’ve never… I can’t! Two?!”

“Oh, little mate, but you can and you will!” He punctuates his statement by spitting down onto your cunt, thick venom slipping down to your tight rim. You moan and grind against his cocks, aphrodisiac leading your body into a blissed out state of submission. “Gonna fill you up so good. I promise you’ll be so full, feel so good, little mate. Trust me?”

“Y-yes! Wanna be full, want my mate!” You beg and plead for him to push into you, hips bucking against him, trying to get him to satiate the burning want he’d created. It isn’t until you thread your fingers through his hair and wrap your legs around his waist that he thrusts into you completely.

“That’s it, wrap around me like that. So tight, so warm… Fuuuck!~” Sero pants, chest pressed tightly to yours and face tucked into the crook of your neck, licking and sucking deep marks over your pulse point.

You’ve never felt so full, your body strangely welcoming the pleasurable stretch of your holes, pulling him deeper and deeper until you can feel him in your belly with every roll of his powerful hips. Your whimpers and tears only seem to spur him on, drawing orgasm after orgasm from your body.

“S-Shit, keep squeezing around me like that. Come on, little one, I know you have one more for me. Cum with me, I wanna feel you cum one more time. Gonna breed you, gonna fill you so good. Come on, pretty mate- fuck- cum for me~” He reaches down and pinches your overstimulated clit between two fingers and bites down on your neck one last time, sending you over the edge with a cry of “breed me, breed me, breed me!” and nails digging into his back.

“Mine! My mate, pretty little mate. Breed mate, all mine!! Gonna- gonna… Ah~” Hanta’s words steadily fell from his lips as he released deep inside your holes, belly bulging from the sheer amount of seed he spilled into you.

Utterly exhausted and dreamily floating off, you cling to him. Sero wraps you up in his tail and lays back into his hammock, keeping you as close as he can. When you snuggle into him, he whispers little praises into your hairline, a constant stream of “so good, pretty mate, all mine, i love you, so perfect, did so well, took me so well, such a good mate”.

The next day, you wake up surrounded by soft cloth, feathers, fruits, fluffy furs, a dozen shiny objects and pretty dried flowers. You sit up, looking around frantically for your mate before your eyes settle on a sheepish-looking Sero, wiggling nervously around the cave.

“Um… Do you… like it? I made it for you… I just- please tell me you like it!” He shrinks himself a bit, arm coming up to palm the back of his neck.

“Oh, is this a… nest? It’s- It’s very nice. Thank you, Hanta!” You smile softly at him, curling up into your nest and reaching out for him.

“MATE!!! I’m so happy you like it, I was so nervous!!! My mate. You can stay here all the time, so I can protect you, forever! My pretty little mate.~” He climbs into the nest and coils himself around you, content to guard you.

Maybe this time, being kept isn’t so bad.

[circulars-reasoning]

Alter Spotlight: Curtis

Curtis felt this was important to get in today, in the discussion of alters. Poetry below, written by him. Happy System Education Week, everyone!

Tw in tags and under the cut.

Tw: sui (ideation and attempt), blood, SH, sex (mentions), depression

“More”

There’s so much more.

More.

But I’m here, and I’m gay as fuck, and I’m just trying to live it up.

What does living even look like?

When I first came to be, birthed Of a mind that wrestled Grasped with every ounce of being At everything it’s been through, I was hiding the pain through smoke And mirrors I wished shattered.

But I was there, at least, finally. But was I? Was I me? Not yet, not yet.

I craved the taste of things familiar that I’d never tasted once. I craved the touch of things familiar that had never touched my skin.

Did they? Bury it. This isn’t living, it’s hell. I want to live. Is this living?

I moved on. I didn’t do anything; I recognized I’m just a fragment of a person, not real, just a part A piece of some dumbass chick’s life because she was too weak Too stupid to just come out and move on and-

No, stop, shut up, she’ll hear.

Whatever. I’ll keep her stupid body safe. I won’t do what I want, cause I don’t have a choice - there’s too many other fuckers in here who apparently matter more than me.

Downward.

Time to spiral Downward, down my arm Tracing with a marker the broken cracks I feel inside A coping mechanism that fails me But god, these arms aren’t even fucking mine So what else can I cut? Where else can I bleed but in the fucking depths of my mind, god I just want to feel, or maybe stop, or maybe both- So I do. And it doesn’t fucking work.

It didn’t fucking work

I’m just f a l l i n g apart and the goddamn protector has to hold me while I break

Why me?

Why is there more than just Me?

Why can’t I just suck lollipops or dicks or the dregs of a cig, and get off these tits and dye my hair a dark green?

Why can’t I stand in my own body, without remembering all these things- the memories of

Touched skin. Screaming. Shatter, shatter- blood on the ceiling, how is this my fault? Blood on the ground but dissociate it away, she wouldn’t want that but death has new meaning, did I have a crush on her or just want to be her, and it’s all too much to think about.

And I’m still there, still bleeding, because it’s what I remember And Octobers are hell now, but god, it almost feels good because it was Mine. That’s what “living” looked like then. All I wanted was something that was mine. All I wanted was to be me.

And I wasn’t.

But now…

Look. Look with eyes and ears and soul.

See, me:

Married to the man who held me when I cried (in theory, at least, if we count littles as priests).

Happily in love, using sex to have fun instead of to cope.

Who needs smoke and mirrors when you’re loved?

Love. So much love; from me, from others.

And vines Vines growing up my arms (no, it’s not literal, At least, not in that way, And who needs a tattoo parlor when you’ve got an imagination like hers?)

Wait- pause that thought. Like mine. Cause she is me, and I recognize that now.

Even if I’m a pansexual, transsexual (and I mean that one literally, I don't have a better word yet-) cisgendered man with a taste for cock and lollipops,

And she’s a genderqueer cisgender woman whose sexuality is a big shrug and whose hobbies include sleeping forever and forgetting it all,

We’re still me and her and us and I. And always, always so much More.

There’s so much more than just who I am. There’s so much more than just alters. Because when I look in a mirror, I’m not an alter.

I’m her.

And she’s me.

And she loves me. And I love her. And I love me. And she loves her. And I am loved. And the universe loves me. And the universe loves the universe, and the stars welcome me.

Because I am finally,

Us.

And us is what living looks like. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just us.

[queerfictionwriter]

On Standard Writing Advice

I might’ve ranted about this before, but this is my blog and I’ll be unhinged as much as I like. So much of the writing advice I see comes from a blatantly abled and ableist perspective that I roll my eyes and scroll past it while gnashing my teeth and, sometimes, resisting the urge to scream. It’s not applicable to me, or people like me, so I won’t reblog it and increase its’ reach. But having to see it all the time is infuriating and

Because advice like “write every day!” or “set a routine and stick to it!” ignores the realities of having unpredictable health. You can’t write four days a week when, at any moment, your body might pull rank and leave you bedridden in a flare, or insensate with pain, brain fog, or a migraine, or when all of your plans for the week are thrown into disarray by a sudden doctor’s appointment, or an emergency trip to the hospital or your pain management provider. You do the best you can, obviously, but when that’s your reality, it’s frighteningly easy for goals and targets to become weapons of self-flagellation for factors beyond your control.

The valorizing of routine and steady progress also ignores the unpredictability of minds that cope with mental illness and other forms of neurodivergency. There are days where, no matter what was on the to do list, fuck all is getting done because you’re out of spoons or didn’t sleep, because you’re dealing with a dissociation or med change/adjustment, because all available mental energy has been diverted to basic self-care or Not Spiralling or coping with a trigger. Sometimes there are just Bad Days.

And that’s not even mentioning the fact that basically every disability and chronic condition comes with “chronic fatigue” as a symptom, and creative work is, in fact, work and requires energy no matter how important or rewarding it is to us. and it would be easy and defeatist and ableist to just shrug and assume that disabled people should give up, that it’s too hard, that it’s not worth it. Or to assume that we don’t have anything to say, nothing worth listening to, that our art and writing doesn’t matter, that we should let go of our dreams and goals because it would be “easier”, somehow. and of course this attitude contributes to the whole “i could never live that way” nonsense that gets thrown at disabled people all the time, but that’s a rant for another day

In these situations, you have to be a particular mix of ambitious and relaxed, determined and forgiving, because you have to want to be creative enough to persist, despite the obstacles, and practise enough self-kindness that you don’t overextend yourself because you pushed too hard, or crucify yourself for failing to meet the target you set for yourself. And that is why the advice that I give to all writers, but that I especially the ones with health challenges is:

1) Learn to trust yourself. This one is maybe the hardest thing to do as a creative, but it’s so, so important, because so much of your creative work gets easier once you trust yourself--to tell the story, to know your limits, to finish eventually even if it feels like it’s taking forever.

2) Learn to listen to yourself. What are your instincts telling you--about this scene, this character, this story, this trope? What is your gut feeling about where you’re at and what you’re capable of today? Is today a day to try, to rest, or to push?

3) Don’t be afraid to suck. We all start somewhere, and there’s no shame in being bad at things, especially things that you were never taught--we’re never done growing and learning and experiencing new things. The important bit about the sucking phase is not giving up--because you can push through it until you’re out the other side with new skills and greater mastery over your craft.

4) Cultivate a healthy relationship with feedback. Not everything you create is going to be for every single person. It’s okay to have a target audience in mind. And, when that happens? You have to let the negative opinions of people who aren’t in that target audience roll off your back, because you will never make everyone happy. One story--or even the collective work of one person--can never be all things to all people. Representation is a team sport. That said, though? It’s worthwhile to cultivate feedback from people that you trust--to understand your intentions, and to be honest with you. We all have blind spots about our own work, because we’re all human. Having someone you trust to point out those blind spots is incredibly valuable, but it’s also okay to be picky about who you choose to take that feedback from.

5) Write for yourself. Do it because you love it--because you love to write, because you love the topic or the characters, because this is your niche interest. Write with love and it will bring your words to life for your readers, in addition to making the overall process more enjoyable for you. (It also helps in letting the haters’ opinions roll, because if you love it, everyone else’s opinion matters a little less.) If you’re just writing it--whatever “it” is, a story or trope or particular plot or character interpretation--because of some notion of “should” or “tradition”, rules or social pressure, that half-heartedness will translate for readers. The words will feel lacklustre.

[slutsofren]

Danger Days Chapter 7: I Never Told You What I Do For A Living

summary:  Joel isn't looking good after the recent run-in at the university. Ellie and you have to do everything you can to stop the bleeding and save his sorry ass.

word count: 2,648

content warnings: gore, hurt/comfort, cursing, unconscious Joel, general canon-typical violence, you know the drill.

note: this was so exhausting to write lol

read on ao3 here / masterlist

“I think we're safe.”

You look over your shoulder, back to the stone walls that lined the university. The three of you narrowly escaping it and you wanted to scream, yell, throw a fucking tantrum at the situation but you held it in. “For now,” you replied spitefully. “C’mon, kiddo, we should put more distance between us and them.”

“How is he holding up,” Ellie asks you tensely,

“If I’m being honest, I won’t know until we find somewhere safe.”

“You gotta tell me what to do,” she was beginning to sound more and more scared as your back got coated with Joel’s blood. What little patching up you did on Joel wasn't holding up, and wouldn't for much longer.

“Keep an eye out for where we can hold down for a couple nights. I gotta watch Texas here and make sure he doesn't fucking die on me.” Literally.

Ellie looks over at Joel, “Let's go.”

The two of you took off, Whiskey sensing your agitation and being the gentle beast he is, didn't jolt around too much. Speeding as best you could've in the situation you were tied down in, you suggested to Ellie that it would be nice to find somewhere rather far away from the university, far from trouble. She agreed, not wanting to run into whatever group that was again.

After a couple miles, safety seemed within grasp.

“Look, over there,” Ellie points off to the distance. You can see it, just barely. A shopping mall.

Like everything else in the area, it looks abandoned. Even by infected standards. It’s quiet and private, therefore it’s perfect.

Upon further gazing at the storefront, you recognize the banner. “Is that Swirls? The yogurt place?”

It takes you a bit off guard, recognizing something familiar from the time before, but for some reason it brings you a tiny bit of hope. Maybe.

“It says ‘Colorado Mountain Plaza’ over there,” Ellie points out.

“Looks safe enough.”

“Thank fuck.”

“Language.”

“Sorry,” she apologizes. Then sarcastically adds on, “Mom.”

You snort at her, shaking your head. Although she teased, you’ve come to enjoy the way she called you mom, but those were thoughts for another day.

Approaching the yogurt bar, Ellie jumps off Callus and reaches for the garage type door and lifts it. It creaks loudly which puts the two of you on edge but no signs of infected ring out. Joel does grumble a bit over your shoulder, likely at the sound of metal grinding on metal.

“Careful, Ellie.”

She waves you off then ducks beneath the door, disappearing from your sight. You hear a muffled ‘it’s clear’ from the other side as she lifts it up again to its full height. She leads Callus in by his bit and you follow with Whiskey. 

“I’m gonna need your help, El.”

You try not to jostle around too much as Ellie comes close to your side, “What do you want me to do?”

After taking a couple moments explaining how to safely pull him down, you adjust yourself on Whiskey. Side-saddling him, you put your arms around Joel, “He is not gonna like this one bit.”

“Damn straight he’s not,” Ellie mumbles.

“On three.”

Sliding down Whiskey, you pulled Joel with you and with her help, the two of you managed to get him down with potentially only minor bruising. Laying Joel on the ground as gently as possible, he groaned harshly at the adjustment. “I know, cowboy, I know,” you said to him softly.

Checking over him one last time, Ellie looks up at you. “Now what?”

“Now,” you sighed. “We try to stave off an infection. The bar itself wasn't clean by any means. And you see this,” you pointed to where the puncture wound was. “This is where his large intestine is.”

“Okay,” she shrugs. “What does that mean?”

You hesitate for a moment, mouth agape. “It's where food gets absorbed and gets-,” you trail off.

Ellie looks at you for you to continue.

You sigh, “The biggest problem is his poop okay? Basically if the bacteria from his intestines, specifically his colon leaks out into his body then we're going to have much bigger problems than the wound itself.”

“Gross.”

Chuckling, “Yeah. Imagine how he's gonna feel if his own shit kills him.”

Ellie lightens up just a little at your off-colored joke. “He would be really pissed.”

“I'd argue maybe even a tiny bit of embarrassment.”

The two of you lightly laugh, both just as drained as the other. “How do you know all this stuff anyways?”

“I was a field medic with FEDRA, remember? Didn't last long there, after I lost my finger but I picked up a thing or two from the other nurses.” You shrug, you never found out much about the soldiers you aided, if they survived or not but maybe that wasn’t the best thing to tell her right now. 

You point towards the metal garage door, “Go lock that up for me will ya?”

She gets up and does it, using a padlock to secure it shut. “Think there's anything out in the mall?”

“Possibly,” you groan as you get up off the ground. “I'll have a look around.”

“No, you stay with him, I can go,” Ellie offers. For a moment you want to argue with her, you know what you're looking for, but you see it in her eyes. Just a hint. A hint of uncertainty and fear. “You know how to keep him alive.”

It takes you a second but it clicks, Ellie doesn't want to see Joel like this. “Okay,” you relent. “I saw a map on the way in, I think there's a pharmacy on the second floor.”

“What do you need,” she asks, shifting on her feet.

You rapidly tell her everything within reason - needles, thread, alcohol, gloves, anything and everything that could possibly help the situation within reason to help the fucking dying man laying in front of you. “I'd be grateful if you found a saline bag or a IV or, fuck, even a staple gun but that’s bein’ too damn hopeful. Whatever you find, just bring it back alive. Take your bow.”

She nods as she picks it up along with her backpack and you give her a tight hug. “There and back, Ellie.”

“There and back, promise,” she says, her words slightly muffled by the embrace.

She backs away and opens her mouth to say something but decides against it. Instead mumbling a couple words of encouragement to herself as she leaves. Turning on her heels and lifting the gate separating the shop from the mall with little to no hesitation, Ellie is gone before you know it.

As the metal slams behind her you sigh, listening to the sounds of her locking the gate behind her. Faintly hear her talking to herself. You chew on your bottom lip, thinking of what to do next.

Well, for starters, it would be awfully nice if the man of the hour didn't fucking bleed to death before Ellie comes back, you thought.

Taking off to your left, you scoured behind the bar looking for something, anything, that would help. The shop itself looks picked over so whatever is here isn’t going to be much. Finding nothing but nearly empty drawers until you find a roll of duct tape. Nice.

You walked back to Joel and dropped to your knees, taking off your backpack. Lifting his shirt up to see the poorly done bandages you had applied earlier were thoroughly soaked in sickly copper tinged blood. “Shit,” you whispered.

“Okay, Texas, this shit is gonna hurt like a bitch but you're just gonna have to suck it up and deal with it.”

You took a moment listening to Joel’s uneven breathing, the moans of pain. Hoping to hear some kind of response from him but received nothing from the man. Nodding to yourself, you went to work. “Okay, I can do this,” you mumble to yourself. “Nothin’ you haven’t done before.”

Reaching into your backpack you pulled out some fresh gauze, water, and the bottle of alcohol you were genuinely hoping to drink one day but it is what it is. Next, you grabbed the duct tape and pulled off some strips and lined them up, making a square patch. 

Lifting his shirt, you removed the front bandage from his stomach. A slight gag came up from the smell but you suppressed it, allowing yourself to dissociate from the situation and work mindlessly. Grabbing the water bottle, you rinsed your hands then his stomach, repeating the same motion with alcohol, and used one of the extra shirts you had in your backpack to dry him off. Blood still seeped from the wound but you used the gauze to seal the puncture then covering it with the duct tape square.

One side down, now the other.

“Hold tight,” you told him as you pushed him onto his side. His back looked just as bad as his front but you grabbed another spare shirt and shoved it under his head, adjusting him to make him lay on his stomach in an indirect way to put some pressure on the front.

Joel groaned in pain at the movement, you tried to be gentle but he was not being a rather good patient. “I know, I know, I'm sorry,” you whispered.

You got to working on his wound, doing the same as what you did on his stomach. Rinse, disinfect, gauze, patch. Once the duct tape square went on, you sighed heavily looking down at yourself.

Truly a sight of horror. Your hands and clothes were soaked in Joel's blood. Blinking once, then twice, turning your hands over, seeing the glistening and the flakes peeling off from long since dried blood, you rose and reached for more clothes to change into. 

Discarding the stained ones save for your coat. It was going to get colder, winter was soon. Shit, winter was already fucking here, you recalled the first hints of it when snow started falling earlier. It would be best to not throw away the only thing that would give you warmth in the coming days.

After you changed, you thought you should also change Joel. His dirtied clothes would only worsen his situation if any germs or bacteria got into his injury. You approached Callus and got Joel's pack, scouring around until you found a suitable shirt, flannel, and coat for him.

“This is going to embarrass me more than you,” you told the unconscious Joel.

If you were being honest with yourself, this was not the way you wanted to undress him but those were thoughts for another day. One where he survives this whole fuckin’ ordeal.

You got to work on him, doing everything humanly possible to be careful. Once the bloodied clothes were off and fresh new ones were on, you were going to take one hell of a break.

Adjusting the coat back onto his body, you laid him down gently as before, resting his head on a makeshift pillow. Now the only thing you could do is wait for Ellie.

She’d been gone for an hour tops, nothing to worry about just yet. Maybe the pharmacy was a bust and she’s looking around for first aid kits, you think. It wouldn’t do you any good to worry just yet.

The two horses start chittering behind you. “Looks like we got a couple of chatty birds over here,” you raise a brow at them.

Callus neighs a bit loudly at you and before you say anything you hear a very loud voice. “Hey! I hear the fuckin’ horse behind here! Help me get this open,” then the locked gate started rattling. Those fucking people must have followed you all through the fucking snow.

“Oh, shit,” you curse and immediately start rummaging through your things to reload your empty guns. Your hands were shaking, making the reloading just that much more difficult. You looked up once you heard another voice.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get the door. You guys keep searchin’, I don’t wanna get ambushed.”

No shit, I don’t either, you think.

You try to make haste and get your shit together. After you top off with whatever remaining bullets you have available, you corral the horses against the wall and drag Joel behind the bar to shield him from any debris or accidental fire.

Just as you finish you hear a loud bang, someone kicking the door in frustration. “Fuckin’ door!”

You couldn’t help but smile. Good door.

“Get the kid, take the woman, and find the old man. I’ll go for the door,” the same voice shouts.

Then another voice further away, “Shit! There’s someone out here.”

Ellie.

“Wait, shit, I think it’s starting to give,” the first one shouts as the metal door begins to creak and whine.

You decide to do something incredibly stupid but before you could talk yourself out of it, you dive and lay down next to the door. It begins to lift and you hear how the men start to cheer. Just as it gets high enough you take aim and shoot at them, unloading a healthy mix of lead, anger, and frustration into them.

Just as the door slams back down with a loud clang, you hear two soft thuds as their bodies drop.

“Oh fuck this, I’m comin’ Ellie,” you say as you get up and begin lifting the metal door. Just as it slides high enough for you to get under, you slam it shut behind you as you run forward and take cover behind some metal crates that were conveniently positioned just outside the yogurt place. As you do, you see a flash of pink and white to your left as Ellie comes running next to you.

“It’s the same guys from the university,” she says breathlessly. Her freckled face is etched with frustration, matching yours. It’s like none of you could catch a break, catch a breath.

You put a hand on hers, “We got this, sweetheart.”

Her hand squeezes yours and the two of you start fighting back. Fighting for survival, each other, for Joel, fighting for the sake of seeing another sunrise together.

A bullet whizzes overhead and hits the wall, “We got them pinned down over there! Finish them!”

You smile at the men’s clear underestimation of the two of you. Chuckling, “You go left, I’ll go right. Meet here in say ten with dinner?”

“Sounds good to me,” she bumps her fist with yours. With a nod, she’s off. You, the same.

Trying to take it easy, you found yourself trying to be stealthy by using the hunting knife Gustavo had gifted you months ago. It was hard between the harsh winter wind and lowering visibility with the ongoing snowstorm outside that was leaking through the broken roof of the mall. It possibly hurt more than helped.

Two gunshots rang out on the opposite side of the mall than a shout, “Shit! Infected!”

“I’ll take that as a no for dinner,” you mumble to yourself.

You pick up a couple bottles and throw them at the men who were hunting you, screams and clicks followed the noise until you heard more gunshots until silence. Figuring it would save you on ammunition if they just fought and killed each other. You followed this same sequence until there was complete silence, only for it to be broken by Ellie.

“That’s it! If anyone is alive don’t even think about surprising me! You’ll end up like your friends. You hear me? Yeah? Yeah.”

You laugh a little loudly, tears welling up. Just for a moment you let yourself reel in the moment that the two of you fucked up those people on your own. “C’mon kid, let’s save that old bastard of ours,” you shout at her.

[honey-dewey]

The Monster we Share

Pairing: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales/Reader

Word Count: 2,812

Warnings: PTSD for military action, sexual assault, and abuse. Mentions of abuse, panic attacks and dissociation, one very bitchy ex-wife, mentions of canon-typical violence, I think that’s it. 

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Frankie would tell you he was messed up, at which point you would retaliate with the fact that you were just as messed up as he was. Both diagnosed with PTSD, life isn’t easy, but it doesn’t always suck either.

Dating someone with PTSD was difficult.

Dating someone with PTSD when you also had PTSD was nothing short of a hellscape.

You had met Francisco Morales through a friend of a friend, and after a few drinks and some chatting, you two were close friends. Fast forward six months, and you were dating and living together in Frankie’s house. It would’ve been a miracle.

Would’ve, of course, being the key word here.

Soon into your relationship, you heard about Frankie’s PTSD involving his time in the military, specifically his non-military mission down in South America from a year ago. You had opened up then, spilling about abuse from an ex and the horror show that had been your life for almost three straight years. You’d never seen Frankie look vicious, but in that moment, he looked like a killer.

Now, a year into your relationship, and you were still navigating the rocky parts.

Namely the nightmares.

You woke in a cold sweat, broken from your nightmare by a harsh scream coming from your side. Scrambling upright, you tried to rouse Frankie, who was thrashing and screaming, his eyes still closed.

“Frankie!” You yelled, putting your hands on his shoulders and doing your best to wake your boyfriend. “Frankie please!”

Frankie shot upright, eyes wide open, and immediately took a swing in your direction. You jumped back, but he was faster. Thankfully, his fist didn’t hit your face, which was where he was aiming, but with all the jostling around, he did catch your shoulder.

You yelped, falling off the bed and immediately starting to cry, curling up as small as you could. Despite the obvious differences from your previous apartment and relationship, all you could see, all you could hear, was your ex.

“Babe?” Frankie’s raw voice echoed through your mind. “Babe?” He sounded more urgent, and you realized, with detached worry, that it was because you were hyperventilating. “Babe!”

He pulled you close, something which you didn’t have the energy to object. Carefully lining your back against his chest and sitting you in his lap, Frankie leaned against the wall and held you against him as your panic died down, as you realized you were safe. No one in this house would ever hurt you, not on purpose.

When you finally stopped breathing heavy, you collapsed into Frankie’s embrace, feeling utterly boneless and totally spent. It was rare you entered a dissociative state after panic attacks, but this time must’ve just been unlucky.

“Hey,” Frankie breathed, and you heard him very faintly, as if he were speaking through a pane of glass. Not much stuck when you dissociated, but despite that, Frankie was determined to talk to you. “Can I lift you onto the bed?” He never got a response, but just him having the heart to actually ask instead of just doing it was comforting. After a beat, he lifted you up and carefully placed you on the bed, laying beside you once he was done.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, running feather light fingers across your aching shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes were open, but you couldn’t really see. All you could do was lay there, waiting for your brain to turn back on again. Frankie stayed beside you the entire time, humming ABBA songs and trying to shake away the remnants of his own nightmare.

When you finally sparked back to awareness, it was your hearing that came back first. Able to anchor onto Frankie’s humming, you pulled yourself out of the dark, blinking and twitching your fingers as your sense of feeling returned. Then your sense of smell, then your touch, then you could taste blood on your tongue. Finally, your sight unclouded.

Frankie must’ve noticed you blinking more than once in a row and immediately reached over to the bedside table and held a glass of water. With one hand, he helped guide you to sitting, and then he pressed the glass into your hands. “Drink,” he said softly, and you did, glad for the water to wash the metal taste out of your mouth.

“Are you okay?” Frankie asked, taking the glass once it was empty. You nodded, not trusting your vocal chords to work right now.

“Just wanna get some sleep?” Frankie asked, and you nodded again.

Nothing makes you want sleep more than a two AM panic attack, so you ended up sleeping until noon, only really rolling out of bed because Frankie was missing and you wanted to check on him.

You found him on the couch, eating lunch and sitting on the phone, quietly arguing with someone.

“No!” He whisper yelled. “Absolutely not, I get custody! She’s my daughter too!”

You slowly walked into the kitchen, trying not to be spotted. There was still coffee in the pot for you, and you made yourself a cup while Frankie got even more mad.

“Marisa,” he hissed. “Don’t you fucking dare. I deserve to see her too, even if it’s just weekends!” He was quiet for a minute before responding. “You leave my partner out of this!” He yelled, practically at full volume, and you jumped, splashing coffee all down your front. Frankie turned, shocked. “I’m calling you back,” he said firmly. “This is not over.”

As soon as he hung up, Frankie rushed over to you and took the nearly empty mug from you. “Hey, you okay?”

“Better,” you said softly. “How’s Emmie?”

Frankie sighed, leaning his forehead against your shoulder. “Marisa still won’t let me have custody,” he said weakly. “I miss Emmie. I want to see her.”

You sighed, wrapping Frankie in a hug. “It’ll be okay Frankie,” you promised. “It’s been a year. I’m sure if we went to court, you could get partial custody if you proved you’d been clean for the whole year, which you have.”

Frankie began to shudder, and you sunk to the ground with him still in your arms. “You’ve never been in a legal battle with Marisa,” he said shakily. “She’s determined to never let Emmie see me again.”

You ground your teeth. “I hate that woman.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Frankie said.

Eventually, with cold coffee on your shirt and your stomach empty, you got up and urged Frankie to get dressed. “We’re going out to lunch,” you said insistently, kissing his knuckles. “Please?”

Frankie relented, and you two ended up driving to a small 24 hour diner that had the best pancakes pretty much ever. You’d only found it because of Benny, who had gotten a job as one of the waiters. You sat at your favorite table, the one in the corner where Frankie could see all the exits, and ordered pancakes.

Five minutes into your meal, you were interrupted.

“Daddy?”

Frankie’s eyes widened, looking at a small baby, barely two, standing near your table. She was a spitting image of Frankie, right down to the curve of her nose and the spark in her eyes. Her two thick pigtails bounced as she began to get excited. “Daddy!”

Frankie was frozen, face stiff. You bent down, smiling at Emmie. “Hiya Emmie. Where’s your mommy?”

Emmie shrugged, and you grew more worried. “Well, where were you sitting?”

“Over there,” Emmie said, pointing to a table.

“Okay,” you said, standing and holding out your hand. “Why don’t we sit back down over there. Your mommy is gonna be super worried when she doesn’t see you over there.”

Right as you finished, a scream echoed through the diner. “You bitch!” Marisa yelled, running over and yanking Emmie from your gentle grip. “How fucking dare you!”

You stepped back. “I’m so sorry Ma'am, she approached us. I was just trying to return her.”

Marisa’s eyes found Frankie and she seethed. “Good luck getting custody now,” she snapped loudly. “You just tried to kidnap Amelia!”

Emmie whined, tugging against her mother. “Daddy!” She yelled, pointing.

For you, everything else faded when you saw Frankie. He was sobbing, curled in a ball and shaking violently, hands gripping his hair and breathing uneven.

“Frankie!” You immediately rushed to his side, trying to dislodge his hands. “Frankie, honey, it’s me.”

“Fish?”

You looked up, seeing Benny standing there, wearing an apron and a horrified expression. “Benny!” You said gratefully. “Thank god, can you comfort Frankie? I’m gonna call the cops.”

“I already did it,” one of the other patrons said, holding up their phone. “And my girlfriend has been filming this whole thing.”

You nodded gratefully, turning your attention back to Frankie. “Hey babe, hey, that’s it,” you praised softly, hearing his breathing even out. “You’re with me, it’s safe. We’re here, in the diner, and Benny’s here. Hey, see, we’re all safe.”

Frankie nodded slowly, regaining himself. “Em?”

You pointed to Emmie, who was being held back by Marisa. “She’s still here. Still safe. See?”

Another slow nod, and then the cops were rushing in. You sat in Frankie’s lap, cradling his head and keeping him secure as they cops asked everyone what had happened. Upon reviewing the footage from the other patron, they took Marisa for questioning, at which she screeched and threw a fit and tried to assault the cop. Emmie, as soon as she was free, ran towards you. Benny scooped her up, holding her close.

“Are you this girl’s father?” The cop asked Benny.

“No,” Benny said. “I’m one of her godfathers. That’s her father, but he doesn’t have any custody.”

The cop sighed. “Write your name and number here, we’ll be in touch about the custody.”

Benny jotted down Frankie’s name and number and nodded to the cop as he left.

“Aight Fish, you ready to go home?” Benny asked, bouncing Emmie in his arms.

Frankie nodded, getting up with your help and trudging to the car.

Emmie watched as Benny sat in the back with her and you drove, holding Frankie’s hand and trying not to let yourself waver. “Is daddy borken?” She asked Benny.

Benny sighed. “No hon, he isn’t broken. His brain just doesn’t like him very much.”

“Oh. Otay.”

The rest of the ride home was near silent. Benny kept Emmie occupied as only he could do, mostly by very quietly teaching her to sing ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall. You didn’t object. It made Frankie smile when she lisps her way through the song, and you would do anything to see that smile again.

The other two boys were waiting for you at home, sitting on the porch. They jumped up when you two arrived back, both eager to see Emmie and make sure Frankie was okay.

“Hey,” Will said softly, pulling you aside as everyone trudges into the house. “Y’know how you told me to keep an ear on you-know-who?”

It’s like a ton of bricks hit your chest. “Yeah?”

Will smiled. “Gone. Completely. At least ten years behind bars for abuse, but the more they look into his past relationships, the more time he gets.”

The bricks suddenly crumbled, and you were crying, tears bubbling over.

“What the hell?” Frankie asked, coming back out and pulling you into a hug. “What’s going on?”

“He’s gone!” You said happily, beyond the tears. “Gone Frankie! He’s gone!”

Will filled in the details, and Frankie was grinning wildly when he finished. “This is amazing,” he said, still hugging you. “Amazing.”

You two headed back in, Frankie’s arm over your shoulder. None of the boys knew how bad your past relationship ran except Will, but they definitely knew something was wrong. So when you came in, teary but smiling, they immediately asked what was wrong.

“Their ex is gone for good,” Frankie said happily.

It was a cause for celebration, which was just what you did. Benny, along with Will and Emmie, went to go get a cake while you, Santi, and Frankie made dinner. Dinner wasn’t fancy, mostly just warming up whatever you could find and hoping Emmie would eat it.

“We’re home!” Benny said happily, opening the door and holding up a cake. “I got cake!”

“And I’ve got dinner for Emmie,” Will said from behind Benny.

While Emmie at chicken nuggets and honey mustard, you and the boys ate tacos and cake. It was a messy dinner, but it filled your bellies and made you happy.

“Movie?” Benny asked hopefully once you’d packed up the leftovers.

You sighed, putting the pan in the sink to be washed later. “Yeah, sure. Go turn the TV on.”

Benny eagerly hopped over to the couch and sat down, turning the TV on and flicking through channels. When he found a decent movie, he let the channel sit as he watched.

The movie was a violent one, something you didn’t want Emmie to watch. She yawned as you carried her to the guest bedroom, which wasn’t fit for a two year old, but it would have to do for now. You tucked some pillows under the sheets to protect her from rolling out of the bed and set a box at the side so she could get down in the morning. With a kiss goodnight, she was out like a light.

“We good in here boys?” You asked, poking your head back into the living room. “Oh for god's sake, change the channel.”

“Why?” Benny asked. “I like this movie!”

You pointed to Frankie, who was gripping the armrest of the couch. “You’re gonna set him off.”

Frankie nodded his thanks, eyes wide and body stiff. Benny changed the channel to some cute animated movie you’d seen the trailer for but never bothered to watch the movie.

You hummed, sitting practically on top of Frankie. He never panicked during movies with live fire and violence anymore, but they still made him jittery.

“You okay?” Frankie asked softly, running his hands over your skin.

“I should be asking you that,” you pointed out, kissing the hairless patch on Frankie’s face. “Tomorrow will be better. We’ll take Emmie shopping.”

Frankie smiled. “Lord, we really are two complete messes.”

You snuggled closer into Frankie’s arms. “Messes shmesses. We’re together. Our pasts are being amended. One day, we might even be able to look back at how we are now and laugh.”

“Yeah, when Emmie’s in college.”

Smiling, you reached up and grabbed Frankie’s face, squishing his cheeks. “Even if we aren’t, if we’re still waking up at two AM with nightmares and spending our days comforting each other through panic attacks, I’ll still love you.”

Frankie grinned. “I’ll love you more.”

“Oh no you don’t,” you argued playfully. “I’ll love you more.”

“Nah, I definitely love you more.”

You heard gagging from the other side of the couch and turned to see Benny making a face. “Get a room!”

Frankie stuck his tongue out at Benny while you laughed. Santi and Will both whistled when Frankie scooped you up and carried you to bed.

Because of your ex, you and Frankie had never slept together. Bed sharing was difficult in the first months, and then cuddling was the next hurdle. You were finally comfortable enough to snuggle in the bed together, and when you reached the bedroom, Frankie plopped you on the bed and immediately snuggled up. Clothes still on, he gently rested a hand on your waist, murmuring soft words in your ears.

“I don’t think this is what Benny meant when he said get a room,” you said happily as Frankie peppered kisses across your collarbones.

“To hell with what Benny meant,” Frankie said. “You aren’t ready.”

It almost made you cry. “Thank you Frankie,” you said, a slight wobble to your voice. “Thank you.”

“You adjust your life for me,” Frankie reminded you. “I can adjust my life for you.”

That night, as you lay down to sleep, you stared at the ceiling, listening to Frankie’s low and rhythmic breathing. He was right. You had mindlessly adjusted for him, noticing what set him off and silently making changes so he didn’t have panic attacks on the daily. But he had done the same for you, changing his words and his mannerisms so he could be the best person for you, the person you needed. It was so seamless, the way you two molded to each other.

“Love you,” you whispered softly into the air, swirling around because of the fan Frankie needed on. Frankie, dead asleep, didn’t respond, but you didn’t mind. Rolling closer to Frankie, tucking yourself up and under his arm, you breathing in his late night smell. “Thank you.”

You knew, in the morning, he’d either wake up at three in tears or slowly in the sun. But either way, he would wake up to you, ready for his worst, and no matter what, he would be there for yours when it struck. You both had each other, no matter how dark life got. The monster you shared would always connect you.