#not distressing but distracting and aggravating

[nervousyoungtwinfantasydog]

open up your skull, i’ll be there

climbing up the walls

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words for characterization (pt. 3)

Mentality

abhorrence, absentmindedness, abstraction, ache, aggravation, agonize, alarm, allergy, amazement, angst, anticipation, apathy, assurance, attention, attrition, awe, bathos, behalf, belonging, bitterness, boast, bosom, breast, buoyancy/buoyance, capitulation, care, censure, cheer, clemency, cogitation, comfort, complex, compulsion, conception, confusion, consideration, constancy, content, contrition, corollary, credit, curiosity, darkness, decision, deference, delight, delirium, dementia, dependence/dependency, design, despair, difficulty, disaffection, discipline, discomfiture, discontent, discrimination, disinclination, disorder, disquiet, distraction, disturbance, dolor, dumps, ecstasy, elation, emotion, enjoyment, envy, esprit de corps, exaltation, excitement, exhilaration, expectation, exultation, fat city, felicity, firmness, fog, forbearance, foresight, forgetfulness, frame of mind, free will, fret, frustration, funk, fury, glee, gratification, grief, happiness, heart, heartbreak, heaven, hoopla, huff, humanity, humor, idiocy, impulse, indignity, insight, introspection, jealousy, joy, kick, lament/lamentation, letdown, levity, madness, mania, melancholy, merriment/merrymaking, mirth, monotony, mope, mortification, mourning, nausea, neglect, nervous breakdown, neurosis, objection, observance, obsession, optimism, outlook, panic, paroxysm, pathos, penance, perception, pessimism, pity, Pollyanna, pout, precognition, premonition, presence, psyche, push, qualm, rage, rapture, red herring, rejoice, repent, repose, resent, resignation, resolution, restlessness, ruckus, sadness, satisfaction, security, self-satisfaction, sensibility, sentiment, servitude, simmer, slump, solace, sorrow, soul-searching, status quo, strain, stress, surprise, sympathy, telepathy, temperament, tension, tolerance, torpor, trance, triumph, umbrage, unrest, vanity, waver, wonder, worry, zeal, zest

Attributes of Mentality: aback, absconder, absent-minded, absorbing, accustomed, affected, afraid, aghast, alert, amatory, angry, apathetic, apprehensive, assumed, attentive, averse, bad, beaten, believable, berserk, bewildered, bigoted, bleak, blue, breathless, broad-minded, brokenhearted, burning, captive, cautious, cheerful, chipper, clairvoyant, compassionate, concerned, confused, contemplative, contented, crabby/crabbed, crazy, cross, curious, daffy, dearly, dejected, delirious, depressed, desolate, desperately, disaffected, disbelieving, disconcerted, discontented/discontent, discouraging, disenchanted, disgusted, disillusioned, disinterested, dispirited, dissident, distressed, doleful, dotty, down, downcast, dumbfounded, elated, emotional, enamored, enraged, excited, exultant, fed up, firm, flushed, forgetful, forlorn, frenetic, frightened, fulfilled, furious, glad, gleeful, glum, grateful, grief-stricken, gut, half-baked, happily, hard, hard-boiled, harried, headstrong, heartsick, high, hopeful, huffy, hysterical, ill-tempered, impassioned, inattentive, inconsolable, indifferent, indiscriminate, insane, insecure, intent, interested, intoxicated, irate, irresolute, jaundiced, jovial, joyful/joyous, jubilant, keen, languid, lethargic, livid, lonesome, loony, low, lukewarm, mad, malleable, manic/maniacal, mental, mindful, mirthful, mixed-up, morbid, mournful, narrow-minded, nerveless, neurotic, new age, normal, numb, nuts/nutty, objectivity, observant, obsessed, off-guard, one-sided, on the fence, opposed/opposing, overjoyed, partial, pensive, pent-up, petrified, phlegmatic, platonic, pooped, predisposed, prepared, profound, provincial, psyched, psychological, pumped, punch-drunk, puzzled, rabid, radical, rapacious, realistic, regretful, restless, rigid, rueful, salacious, sanguine, saturnine, sectarian, self-assured, sensitive, sick, skeptical, small-minded, solicitous, sore, sorry, sound, spellbound, steady, strong, stupefied, sulky, susceptible, tearful, tender, testy, thirsty, thoughtless, tired, torn, tough, ugly, unbalanced, uncaring, uncommitted, undecided, unemotional, unfeeling, uninterested, unsound, untroubled, upbeat, versed, wacky, wary, weary, wide-awake, wishful, woebegone, wrathful, wretched

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary.

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ Part 1 ⚜ Part 2

[mistyorchid]

Meet-Cute (Ch. 3)

Old Man!Logan x fem!reader

summary: You and Logan relax during a particularly hot summer day, engaging in "parallel play" together. An innocent hangout quickly gets heated after he overhears a nsfw Twitter video blaring from your phone. Goddamn auto play. Ch. 1 Ch. 2 warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, smut, established relationship, age gap, reader is 21+, oral fixation, praise kink, oral (male!receiving), light d/s, pet names (bub, baby, babe, daddy, good/dirty girl, princess), size kink, slapping (referenced + explicit), cum play. wc: 3.6k

Logan kept his promise. Well, you didn't go on a million more dates, but the time you spent together stretched the meaning of time itself. They started as singular outings; with early nights overlapping into early mornings. It didn't take long until your dates morphed into week-long "hangouts" at his place.

You willingly uprooted your life for Logan after a year of dating, packing your world into cardboard boxes and weaving it into the fabric of his home. The only thing you missed was the in-unit air conditioner that cooled your tiny apartment. It turns out that summers are unbearable when you live in a smelting plant.

The metal walls and poor insulation transform your makeshift studio into a furnace. Oil paint fumes waft upwards from the canvas, aggravating a migraine that slowly travels from the top of your head to your temples. In an attempt to preserve your sanity, you rapidly untie the paint-stained apron and storm out of the studio.

Beads of sweat trickle into your cleavage, gathering at the underwire of your bra. You tear it off somewhere between the kitchen and the living room; you can't be bothered to pick it up from the floor. Maybe Logan will stumble upon it and stash it away, an uncharacteristically pervy habit that he thinks goes unnoticed.

"I'm melting, Logan. Save me!" You slump into the couch, dramatically grazing your forehead with the back of your hand to mimic a damsel in distress. Logan lowers his newspaper to acknowledge your presence. Cigar smoke billows from his mouth; the inky tendrils momentarily fogging his glasses.

"Not much I can do, bub. Fan just died," He explains, tilting his nose towards the archaic floor fan. An annoyed grumble escapes your lips as you move to the end of the couch, relaxing your head against the armrest and stretching out like a starfish. Logan shifts the paper to one hand to lightly caress your ankle.

You stare at the ceiling, mentally conjuring metallic constellations by connecting the bolts and welds. It takes five minutes for you to snap your eyes shut in defeat. Although you normally accept boredom as a challenge—a testament to your imagination, the sweltering heat makes it difficult to think.

Logan quirks his brow, sensing your exhaustion. "You're such a baby. It's barely ninety in here." You shake his palm off your leg and draw your knees toward your stomach, creating a makeshift boundary against his feigned judgment. "Barely ninety? Don't piss me off," You laugh, reaching for your phone on the coffee table.

Parallel play is new to Logan. He tends to isolate himself, preferring to spend his leisure time alone. When you introduced the concept to him, he dismissed you with an eye roll that bordered on sassy instead of annoyed. "You getting this from your Tick-Tock-whatever the fuck?"

"Let's be alone together," You reasoned. He’s enjoyed these moments of domesticity ever since.

Your index finger lingers above the touchscreen, debating which app will distract you from the heat. The comforting feeling of Logan's hand returning to your ankle inspires you to open Twitter. Your body is slowly relaxing and you want your brain to follow suit.

Logan cherishes your laugh as you stumble upon a hilarious tweet. You scroll further, settling on a video that displays a pitch-black screen. Assuming it was an edit, you wait for a transition to reveal a montage from a show you liked, or an incredibly depressing edit of Kendall Roy. Those always seemed to invade your TikTok for-you page around 3 am.

Your jaw drops when it fades into the unmistakable sight of an amateur porn video. It depicts a woman on her knees, presumably filmed by her partner. The man slaps his cock on her tongue before slowly inching the tip into her eager mouth. "That's a good girl, drool on my cock," the faceless man praises.

The video had been relatively silent until that moment.

Nothing could have prepared you for the high-pitched moan that traveled from the girl's throat and out of your phone's speaker. You were ambushed. Logan pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, pointedly refusing to react to the noise. "I'm reading the paper, and you're watching porn?"

"I didn't click on it, I scrolled, I—" you threw your phone onto the couch, crossing your arms over your eyes to shield your flustered cheeks. "—Ugh! whatever." Your embarrassment provides Logan ample time to grab your phone as he quickly unlocks it and scrolls back to the source of the moan.

Auto-play resumes, suddenly filling the room with the sound of more slapping. "Please give it to me, Daddy! Promise I'll be good for you," the woman pleads in an exaggerated falsetto. Logan shoves the phone in front of your face, forcing you to acknowledge the video.

"You into this shit?" He asks, invading your mortified posture to push your arms away from your face. His knee slots in between your stretched legs, effectively caging you in. "I asked you a fuckin' question." His gruff tone would have scared you if it wasn’t accompanied by the slight upward curve of his mouth.

Logan's cock throbs as his eyes linger on your gaping mouth. You were reacting appropriately, dropping your jaw in shock. All Logan could think about was how your plush lips formed a perfect "o," similar to the woman on the screen.

"I plead the fifth," You huff, narrowing your eyes and reaching out to pause the video. Logan clicks his tongue while mocking you, shaking his head side-to-side. "It's in your feed. Doesn't that mean you are into this shit?"

Fuck. You regretted explaining social media algorithms to Logan. It was an act of charity, showing an old man how to use the "interwebs," as he first called it. He'd still have a flip phone if you didn't explain why only drug dealers and Y2K-obsessed tweens used them.

You push Logan's knee forward, making him momentarily lose his balance. He falls on top of you, the full weight of his adamantium-plated bones pressing you firmly into the couch. Logan's heart drops in his chest as he sees you shut your eyes in pain. "Oh my god, I-" He uses his elbow to twist away from your chest, landing on the floor with a comically loud thunk.

He groans with the force of the fall and immediately regrets landing on his back. The scarred planes had already been traumatized by decades of recklessness, but his old age further weakened their tenacity.

"I'm sorry, babe. You okay?" He slowly rises to his feet, grimacing when he hears his joints creak under the weight. Logan uses the edge of the coffee table to stand up fully. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks," You squeak, unable to meet his worried stare. When he fell on your chest, you could feel his bulge through the thin cotton boxers.

Two can play that game.

You fail to stifle a giggle as Logan waves his hand in a sweeping motion in front of your face. "You sure I didn't hurt you? Seems like you're in shock," He asks, genuinely concerned with your well-being.

"You're hard," You state, fixated on the prominent tent in his boxers. Logan is a cocky motherfucker; he rests his hands on his hips and slightly leans backward, emphasizing the bulge.

"Yeah? So what? I’m always hard when you wear those shorts. Makes me feel like a fuckin’ teenager." He smirks, clearly enjoying the sight of your flustered face. His nostrils subtly flex and you can tell he smells how wet you are for him. It's simultaneously embarrassing and empowering unraveling for Logan—you feel so timid under the heavy weight of his gaze, yet so brazenly sensual.

“Know what I think?” You drawl, shifting from your position on the couch to stand before Logan. His broad frame would be intimidating if he weren’t so gentle with you. Only you. Sunset filters through the lace curtains you installed last summer to soften the hostile industrial space. Soft, indeed. The living room is swathed in an amber glow, and so is Logan’s face. The light tenderly traces each wrinkle and scar—decorations gifted by the tedious passing of time. Your calves burn as you rise on your toes, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

You grasp his strong shoulders to stabilize yourself before whispering, “I think you’re secretly into this, too.” Logan turns his head away from you, closing his eyes to conceal how much your words affect him. He’s confused when he feels you rake your palms against his chest, only opening his eyes when your hand catches on the waistband of his boxers.

Logan’s a man of few words. Your unabashed look of adoration combined with your position on the floor stole any he could use to disagree.

“What’s the matter, Daddy? Cat got your tongue?” You lean forward, tenderly nuzzling your cheek against his leg. 

“Jesus,” Logan mumbles, tentatively reaching down to pet the top of your head. “You’re fuckin’ filthy. Don’t call me that.” The gravel of his voice triggers a dull throbbing in your core. It was easy to unravel for him because he never demanded your submission. He earned it by respecting your mind and body, nurturing it like a fragile orchid that could wither if handled without care. 

You strain your neck to peer into his eyes. He tugs on your roots before tenderly tracing your bottom lip—a silent betrayal of his plea. “Why, you don’t like it? I’ll stop if you don’t,” You reason, allowing him to admire your plush lips. A ragged groan escapes him as he watches you suck his callused thumb into your hot mouth before releasing it with an audible pop.

“It’s not that, I just—” His words die in his throat as you pull the hem of his boxers down, tugging the elastic until you can feel his hard cock bob on your face. You gently stroke his length before pressing your cheek against it, smiling against his warmth. “I don’t wanna ruin you any more than I already have,” He chokes. The doubt written on Logan’s face kills you. You’re suddenly on your feet again and Logan’s cock can’t help but twitch at the absence of your hot breath. 

“Stop it. I hate when you say shit like that.” Logan resists the urge to clench his eyes shut. He hates it when you look at him like he’s a puzzle you’re eager to solve. “All you’ve done is give me everything I’ve ever wanted,” You sigh, reaching on your toes to burrow your head into the crook of his neck. 

Logan wallowed in self-deprecation like it was his job. The age gap between you both was a recurring theme of past arguments. He often distanced himself whenever you begged to ride him, gazing sympathetically into his eyes as you felt his thrusts falter. 

You cherished it.

He could be bandaging your knee after a bad fall in the studio and then spanking your ass until it matched the deep purple and red hues mixed on your palette. The duality drove you crazy. Logan knew exactly when to nurture you and when to fulfill your desire to be taken, worn down; he masterfully chipped away at the facade of your resolve until you were pliant in his rough embrace.

“Besides, ‘Daddy’s just a term of endearment. Same as baby, doll . . . my girl.” You whisper, teasingly nipping his earlobe. “I love being your girl.”

Logan’s hesitation breaks at that, planting a chaste kiss on your neck and inhaling the comforting scent of your hair. You smelled like home.

“Can you get on your knees for me, baby?”

The subtle command ignites a tender ache in your bones—you’re suddenly slinking down his form and bracing against the cool concrete. This must be how people felt when the first skyscraper was built. The towering mass of his body is deliciously intimidating; you’re at his feet, worshipping the foundation of an idol that refuses to be honored.

His hips jut forward as you teasingly lick the head of his cock in short, cat-like strokes. You indulge in his flesh, roaming the hard planes of his thighs and caressing the black tendrils around the base. Something in Logan breaks when you pause to gently kiss the tip while peering up at him through your fluttering lashes. 

“Give me your phone,” He commands. You were too embarrassed to admit how much you craved this side of him. Your back strains with your sudden movement to reach behind you, knocking little knick-knacks on the coffee table as you fumble for the phone. 

Logan’s cock twitches as you hurriedly unlock it before presenting it to him like a pup offering its owner a bone. “I, uh—” His voice hitches when you place your hands on your thighs; your arched back pushing the swell of your breasts against his legs. “I need you to open the camera app for me.”

A teasing smirk overpowers your once coy visage. “Sure thing, Daddy.” You strain to reach the phone, quickly swiping to find the cute camera icon. He’s purposefully not bridging the distance. 

He’s making you work for it.

Logan reverses the camera before angling it in front of your face. “Repeat what she said.” His hooded eyes follow your dumbfounded expression, lingering on the inviting expanse of your lips. You stutter as Logan’s thumb traces dizzying patterns on your open mouth, dipping in quickly to collect your spit.

“Pl- please give it to me, Daddy . . . promise I'll be good for you,” You drawl, satisfied now that you could feel Logan in your mouth. Your face is inches away from his hard cock and you can’t help but admire how fucking pretty he is. When he’s worked up like this, his cock resembles an enticing red lollipop, shiny with the glaze of your spit. The line between your internal thoughts and external babbles blurs as you murmur, “Wanna suck you off so badly. Need to taste you.” 

“What was that, bub?” He props up your chin with his finger, helping you focus on his hazel eyes. He shifts the phone into his left hand before firmly grabbing the base of his cock with his right to lightly slap your cheek. “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” He growls, snapping you out of your horny reverie.

Your voice is meek and airy, a familiar sign that you’re falling further into a comfortable haze. There were no labels to describe your relationship, but you both fostered a nurturing pattern of dominance and submission—often smudging the lines whenever necessary. At this moment, all you wanted was to surrender to him.

“I need to suck your cock, Daddy.” You smirk as it bobs almost subconsciously, leaving dribbles of precum on your cheek.

“Good girl. Fuck.” The praise lures a wanton moan out of your throat that sends pleasant vibrations throughout Logan’s body. You slowly inch the tip in, eagerly spreading his precum around the head with your tongue. Heavy, thick, and wet. So unbelievably wet.

Logan’s stifled growls encourage you to grasp the heft of his cock with both hands. You often joked that jerking him off would give you arthritis in your right hand; the stamina needed to twist up and down his length utterly exhausted you.

His eyebrows knit together in pleasure, a silent love letter to your unabashed yearning to soothe him—in mind, body, and spirit. You adore Logan like this, all bark and no bite. 

“So fuckin’ needy, hm?” You peer up at him through your lashes, focusing on the subtle twitch of his nostrils. “Just the tip and you’re already a mess,” He chuckles. Although you’ve enjoyed each other’s company for a few years, a warm blush always manages to reveal how flustered you get whenever Logan smells your arousal. The strained moans that tumble out of his throat ignite a dull throbbing sensation in your core.

Logan opens his eyes when he realizes your hands have left his cock, eager to scold you (lovingly, of course.) He thrusts into your mouth as he’s greeted by the sight of you desperately toying with your clit, pausing here and there to slap against the sensitive bud. 

You can barely think. Pleasure transforms into a tangible gift, tied off with a voluminous red bow. The pressure to open the box is removed—you’re content with admiring the details of its exterior, swirling your fingers on the silky textile and getting lost in the feeling.

“Ah—Logan! I’m gonna— fuck, I—” You stutter, unable to string together words into a sensible arrangement. Logan slowly thrusts deeper into your hot mouth, reuniting your nose with the coarse hair around the base.

He pulls back slightly when you gag around him. Your pussy flutters as you feel his cock harden at the involuntary sound, somehow stretching your mouth even more. “I know, baby,” Logan sighs, gently wiping away your tears. “Shhh . . . you can take it.”

Every time your mouth swallows his entire length, you dart your tongue out to playfully coat his heavy balls with spit. You’re acting like a bitch in heat—as if the thought of living without the taste of Logan’s cock would be futile. Realistically, you knew that the masculine salt of him on your tongue served as a reminder of his tangible presence in your life, a presence that was meaningful, nurturing, and everlasting.

“That’s a good girl. Drool on Daddy’s cock,” Logan praises, adapting the line from the video.

Your release is sudden and impactful. The shaky tone of your cries corresponds with the shakiness of Logan’s hand. His knuckles turn white as he struggles to hold the phone upright.

“Oh my god, oh my god, mmmm!—” You moan, muffled by the delicious drag of Logan’s cock. “Ah—I’m coming, fuck . . .” Your swollen clit pulses as your thighs cave inwards, pushing you even closer to the hilt.

He comes immediately following your orgasm, finding your fucked-out expression unbelievably attractive and haunting. Thick ropes of cum flood your mouth and you can feel his cock twitch when your eyes meet. A rough cacophony of moans and grunts breaks free from Logan’s chest.

You look utterly ruined. Swollen lips still stretching around his girth, tears etched onto the flustered apples of your cheeks. “As beautiful as you look right now, I need to pull out, baby.”

You’re desperately trying to taste more cum from his weeping slit, but Logan manages to push away from you with a dramatic hiss. His jaw falls when he watches you emphasize the act of swallowing his cum.

“My dirty girl,” He drawls, pleased when you stick out your tongue as proof. You want the echo of Logan’s thick cock slapping onto your tongue to be ingrained in your mind. It doesn’t take long for him to explode again. You help him along, breathlessly stroking the plush stiffness of his cock and looking up at him with sinfully soulful eyes.

The first streak lands on your lips. Logan’s head rolls back as he mindlessly ruts forward, painting your entire face with hot cum.

He returns to earth when you press chaste licks to the tip once again. “Holy shit, there’s so much cum, I’m sorry—” Logan apologizes, stunned by the masterpiece he’s created. His release drips down the sloping facade of your cheekbones before landing on your cheeks and lips. You quickly dart out your tongue to taste him.

“Don’t be, Daddy. Can you give me some more?” You plead, batting your eyelashes. Logan pauses the recording and  tosses the phone onto the couch. Before you can process why, you hear a loud thunk on the concrete.

Logan kneels in front of you to match your position on the floor. He reaches out to brush your hair away from your face, studying the white marks adorning your skin.

“You’re so pretty with my cum on your face,” He sighs. Your eyes widen when he reaches down, dragging two thick fingers through your sensitive folds. Then, he swipes the same fingers through his cum before bringing them to his lips and sucking gently.

He closes his eyes, truly indulging in the delicacy of your love. “Mmm. We taste so good together, baby. Wanna try?” You nod earnestly, biting your lip to dampen your whimpers. Logan repeats the process, in awe of the way you lean into his touch.

Logan doesn’t register that you’re falling until he’s sprawled out on the cool concrete floor with your tits cushioned against his chest. He’s quick to check on you, stunned by the sudden movement.

“You okay, princess? What happened?” Worry is framed by the wrinkles between his brows.

“Mhm, Logan. Daddy. We do taste good together,” You confirm, feeling pleasantly overwhelmed yet supported against the solid foundation of his body.

Logan kisses you sweetly, wrapping his broad arms around you to stabilize your torso. “It’s a lot cooler on the floor, baby. Gotta clean you up, I’ll be right back.” You whine as he gently rolls over to lay you on the floor before walking towards the kitchen.

After picking up a nearby towel and wetting it under the faucet, Logan almost slips on something on his way back to the living room.

The familiar heart pattern of the bra makes the corners of his mouth turn upwards; it’s satisfying knowing that you left these out for him rather than randomly forgetting a thong here and a lacey bralette there. You were deliberately feeding into his desires and he loved you for it.

You both played the game of life together, and Logan wouldn’t want it any other way.

an: I heard it's someone's bday today . . . I hope they never read this but consider Meet Cute Ch. 3 my gift to all of you. Thanks for being so patient, I know it's been a while. FYI I imagine the character whenever I'm writing, not the actor. Hope everyone has a great weekend.

tag list: @bratscave @elflutter @fairiebabey @pointyxsole @scorpiosaintt @th3mrskory

[minus-plus-zer0]

Jealousy

♡ Genre: Hurt/comfort, very fluff ending ♡ Pairing: Pro Hero!Bakugou x Reader ♡ Tags: Aged up, established relationships, dating (Jealousy on both sides, it's all unfounded so don't worry! You two are loyal like dogs to each other)

Bakugou was the jealous type.

Everybody in the entire country knew that. There was nothing Bakugou hated more than imagining you leaving him for somebody else. You wanted to tease him about it sometimes, but his jealousy made him so distressed that you ended up comforting him instead.

Currently, Bakugou was still seething at the man who last flirted with you. The guy disappeared into the street's crowd under Bakugou's contemptuous gaze. His anger could only be distracted by you and your words.

"It's okay, Katsuki," you said, while hugging him. "I only love you. I didn't even flirt back, you know?"

"...I know," Bakugou said. He kissed you on the lips, somewhat possessively. When he opened his eyes again, he looked so sad. "One of these days I wonder if you're gonna find somebody better than me."

"Katsuki!" You glared at him. "I could never find someone better than you! You are the sweetest, most loyal guy I've ever met! Even if you do have a temper." You giggled, poking his forehead.

"Dummy." Bakugou rested his forehead against yours, his arm close around your waist. "Sorry. Shouldn't have gotten jealous."

"No, it's okay! Always tell me when you're jealous, always!"

That's how most of Bakugou's jealousy fits went. Over time, Bakugou became less and less easily aggravated, but he still had his possessive moments. But no matter what, he'd never take his anger out on you or try to control you out of fear.

Meanwhile, you rarely got jealous of Bakugou, mainly because you weren't the type but also because there wasn't much to be jealous of. Bakugou made it crystal clear to everyone what he did and didn't like, and you were one of the few things included on the "like" list. In fact, you were the only person ever included on the "love" list.

But despite Bakugou's poor reputation with the public, he still occasionally found fans who fawned over him. These fans sometimes made you uncomfortable.

One day, you two were out in public together in a quiet side path of the town, walking between various shops. Coincidentally, you caught some of his fawning fans exiting a store. Bakugou paid them no attention but you couldn't take your eyes off of the potential "predators" on your relationship. The fans soon passed but not without some loud screeching and several pictures taken without Bakugou's permission. Initially it irritated Bakugou, but you noticed by the end of it he was paying more attention to you.

"Are you jealous?" he asked, seriously. You two walked in the opposite direction of the fans, their voices getting less loud with more distance.

"Of course not..." you lied. "They're just random fans, it doesn't matter."

You didn't want him to tease you for this. This was one of the few times you had to deal with jealousy, and it took you off guard. It was irrational too, and you knew it. Still, you didn't always like being actively reminded that Bakugou could be wanted by others.

Bakugou wasn't having this. He stopped you in the middle of the side path you walked down, his expression focused.

"Don't be jealous, alright?" he said. You opened your mouth to speak, but he interrupted. "And don't deny that you are jealous! I've been jealous of you tons of times, so I can recognize that shit anywhere. But it's just your mind playing tricks on you. You're still the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I only go for the best, ya hear me?" He started beaming at you, and you could tell he really meant it. "I'd rather throw myself off a cliff than go back on my promises to you."

That did warm your heart. He caught your lips turning up and his hand brushed against your cheek, but you still shied away from him.

"I just don't get why you chose me," you said. "You've got so many fans. Sometimes I wonder if there are better options for you out there..."

"I fucking doubt it. I have the best judgment and the best taste, so if I chose you, that fucking means something. It means you're as great as me... or better. Now don't go saying that negative stuff about my girlfriend. Or else."

"O-okay! Alright!"

You didn't know what the heck he could be threatening you with, but you didn't want to find out. Regardless, he still looked after you and made sure nothing the fans did ever bothered you. He would never tease you for your jealousy, because he personally knew how much it hurt. You were one of the few people he could trust, and because of that you two were dead loyal to each other no matter the odds.

[kittyoncescribbled]

“I can teach you if you’d like.”

Pairing: OPLA Sanji x Reader

Summary: Sanji finds out you’ve never been kissed, and he’s a very eager teacher;

Word count: 1.6K;

Rating/Content Warnings: PG-16, AFAB reader;

Author’s note: Can you tell I was scared of writing actual smut?

Kissing Sanji was a mistake.

Ever since that night, you just couldn’t stop thinking about him; sometimes, you daydream about it, wishing to drag Sanji by the collar to a secluded area and have another lesson with him. It was embarrassing, really; Zeff would scold you on a daily basis, as you were frequently seen in the kitchen holding a knife in the air or burning the very expensive cut of meat a client had ordered just because you couldn’t forget the feeling of Sanji’s lips on yours.

One time, Sanji was preparing a dish right next to you, and the way his perfume seemed to envelop you got you so distracted that you ended up with a cut on your left thumb and an earful from Zeff about not being an airhead. But was it your fault if the combination of expensive cologne and cigarettes was so enthralling? 

And to add insult to injury, Sanji seemed to be ignoring you — not exactly ignoring you, but more pretending like nothing happened between the both of you. He had even turned down the flirting and was treating you like one of the guys. You had to admit that it hurt, thinking that Sanji seemed unaffected by the whole thing while you couldn't get it off your mind; you wanted it to mean as much to him as it did to you, but honestly, giving that Sanji had his way with so many women before and this was merely a kiss, you couldn’t expect it to be so important to him as it was to you.

But still, it was enough to keep you awake in your cabin at night, pacing back and forth like an entrapped lioness, fighting the urge to stomp your feet like a little child. You had been all set up to bed: in your most comfy pajamas, hair tied up in a bun and skincare routine done, teeth were brushed, and you had a pair of soft socks on, but you were so aggravated by the situation you just couldn’t sleep. Eventually, you had enough, and before you could realize what you were doing, you found yourself at Sanji's door, knocking at a very fast pace.

Sanji opened the door in his pajamas, clearly confused as you passed by him and planted yourself in the middle of the room, tapping your feet furiously and tightly with your arms crossed. The blond looked at you with confusion printed all over his features and opened his arms as if to ask what was happening, letting the door close softly behind him. His cozy night, involving curling up in bed with a book under the dim light he had set up and some scented candles, was clearly canceled. You were distressed, and he would know about it whether he wanted to or not.

“Was I really that bad?” you asked, with a mix of hurt, indignation, and shame tinging your voice. Sanji tilted his head and furrowed his brows, even more confused. “Sorry, sweets, but I’m not following. What are you talking about?”.

Almost involuntarily, you pouted, and Sanji could see a shift in your demeanor. Not confrontational anymore, you seemed embarrassed, and Sanji could see your cheeks getting flushed. “You know… was I that bad? I know you were my first, but I couldn’t have been that bad… right?”

The vision of you all flustered, mindlessly tugging at the hem of your shirt and chewing on your bottom lip, had his heart aching. He never wanted to see you feeling inadequate, let alone be the cause of it. “I’m very sorry if I made you feel that way, Y/N,” he said, approaching you very carefully. “I just thought that’s what you’d want… you’ve never wanted to get involved with any of us, so I just concluded you wouldn’t want me to be all over you”.

Sanji was now less than a couple inches away from you, his voice barely audible, his fingertips ghosting over the few strands of hair that had escaped from your scrunchie, and his eyes locked into yours, the blue irises slowly disappearing as his pupils grew wider. Your lips parted, feeling your heart beating faster and a rush of adrenaline running through your veins; too shy to look up at Sanji directly, you peeked at him through your eyelashes, taking in the look of hunger in his expression. “Just give me the order, sweetheart, and we can continue with your lesson because trust me… I haven't been able to get it out of my mind”. 

You felt a whole swarm of butterflies in your stomach; your heart felt like it was going to explode. Unable to verbalize exactly what was in your mind, you simply nodded while shyly grabbing at Sanji’s sleeve. Slowly, Sanji’s hands made their way to your waist, pressing his body against yours; he was very aware that you were still finding out your boundaries, and he didn’t want to scare you or impose himself. “But we need to have some ground rules… and the first one is that if you’re uncomfortable, you need to tell me, ok? If you don’t feel like doing something or want me to stop, I want you to say it to me”. You nodded eagerly, feeling your heartbeat so fast it seemed like it would jump out of your chest.

Sanji cupped your face in his hands, studying your eyes and making sure you were still on board. “Sorry, sweetie, just a nod won’t do. Be a good girl and use your words.” You parted your lips, mustering up the courage and pretending to ignore the flush of blood that went straight to your cheeks. “Please, Sanji… I need you to kiss me”.

Even though he wanted to grab your face and finally let out the pent-up desire he had been fostering for so long, Sanji managed to compose himself; slowly, he lowered his face until your lips were touching, and a low moan left your parted lips. You had your fingers clutching harder onto his sleeve, trying to pull him as close as you could, and Sanji couldn't contain a smirk when he realized your eagerness. After all, you made yourself as unavailable as possible for so long that it felt like a hazy dream to have you there, in his bedroom, timidly exploring his torso over his pajamas and producing little soft moans that were enough to make his nose bleed.

Slowly, Sanji guided you to his bed; you felt the mattress at the back of your knees and timidly crawled making your way to the pillows. You looked up at Sanji, chewing on your bottom lip, silently asking for guidance. The cook’s smile softened while he positioned himself on top of you, wavy blond strands of hair tickling your face. “It’s okay, princess. You just relax, and I’ll take care of everything,” he said in a low voice, peppering light kisses all over your face. Your eyes fluttered shut while a smile tugged at the corner of your lips, overwhelmed by Sanji's presence, the perfume that lingered on his sheets, his lips all over your face and neck, and his strong hands grabbing at your waist, leaving a fiery trail where his fingers dragged into the patches of skin where your shirt had ridden up had your brain in a haze, allowing yourself for once to trust someone else and letting them take the reigns.

Working in a male-dominated restaurant made you distrustful and unable to display anything that could be mistaken for weakness, even remotely; you knew that if you gave any of the guys an inch, they’d take a mile, so you made a conscious decision to make yourself as distant and unavailable as possible. Sometimes, the guys would make fun of you for being a Strong Independent Woman as you never let any of them take the lead; letting go so someone else could take control was scary but, at the same time… freeing.

Sanji pressed his body on yours, and you could feel his cock against your thigh, and you blushed, your fingers interlocked in his hair, pulling him incredibly closer. Sanji’s hand made its way under your shirt, finding the doughy flash of your tits and expertly rolling your nipples between his fingers. You gasped, giving him a chance to attack your neck and collarbones with kisses and love bites; you felt like your brain had turned into cotton, an overload of sensations taking over you in a delirious way.

In one swift movement, Sanji managed to remove your shirt, exposing your naked torso to his hungry eyes and wandering hands. Sanji captured your left nipple between his lips, his hot tongue making you whimper; the cook couldn't stop the cocky smile that twisted his lips as he rejoiced, knowing he was the only one who was able to hear those sweet little noises.

Without thinking, Sanji's fingers went to your pants' waistband, and he was startled by your hand grabbing his wrist. When Sanji redirected his gaze to your face, his blood went cold: your eyes were big, not hooded or glassy anymore, and you had an almost scared look on your face.

“Can we… Can we stop for now?”

The blond stopped, immediately looking for your shirt. Sanji helped you get dressed and planted a kiss on your brow. He pulled you under the covers and allowed you time to get comfortable—you were cuddled up against his side, first balled up with the blanket pulled against your cheek.

There was no need to rush. There would be plenty of time for him to show you new things.

[cambion-companion]

Domestic Drabbles

Where their small daughter mistakes certain sounds for cries of distress.

Aemond x wife!reader

word count: 675

Silken spun silver curled around your fingers as you dug them into your husband’s hair, pulling him in for another deep kiss as he moved against you.  His weight pushed you further into the plush mattress, warmth enveloping your body as you sighed in pleasure.

The wooden bed frame creaked with each thrust, your whimpers of pleasure barely muffled as you bit into Aemond’s shoulder.

“Māzigon issa jorrāelagon.”  His voice was liquid velvet as he coaxed you to come undone around him.

You cried your release to the vaulted ceiling, feeling Aemond’s hot seed spilling within your heat as your muscles clenched and fluttered.  You pulled him deeper, his forehead coming to rest against yours as you breathed together, gently coming back to earth.

Aemond trailed his lips to the hollow of your throat, his hands caressing the curve of your breast as he tasted your flushed skin.

Amidst the post-coital bliss, wrapped together in a tangle of limbs, you heard the muffled crying of your young daughter.

Together you and Aemond sat up in bed, glancing at each other as he slid smoothly from the mattress, pulling on his clothing before striding with haste from your bedroom.

As you donned a satin robe, tying it securely about your waist, you heard Aemond’s soft voice several rooms away.

Minutes later he reentered the room, looking to you with a mixture of amusement and aggravation.

“Was it a nightmare?”  You asked, tilting your head in question of his prolonged silence.

Aemond shook his head slowly, a small smirk pulling his curved lips. “She is worried for you my dear.”

“Whatever for?”

“She says she heard you screaming and is scared for your well-being.”  You could see he was fighting to keep a stoic composure.

“Was I screaming?”  You ran a distracted hand through your tousled hair.

Aemond hesitated, glancing away from you, his mouth twitching. “I…uh, yes.”  His violet eye crinkled with mirth. “Perhaps you should go assure her you are unharmed.”

You nodded, brushing a kiss on his lips as you passed him into the darkened hallway.

“My darling, are you alright?”  You cooed, finding your silver-haired daughter curled upon her bed, still sniffling with widened eyes.

She reached her arms out to you, evident relief upon her cherub face. “I thought you were hurt!  Your door was closed and you wouldn’t answer me!”

You held you tight against your chest, rocking upon the small bed. “No, no.  I’m alright. I had a bad dream and your father was helping me.”

“O-oh.”  She hiccupped, still holding tight to your robe as you pulled back to look at her face.

“You don’t have to worry about me, my dove.”  You wiped the tears off her cheeks, helping her back under the covers and tucking her in. “When I’m with kepa, I am safe from harm.”

“He helps with your nightmares.”  She nodded, understanding.

You kissed her forehead tenderly. “Yes.  All better?”

“All better.”  Her eyelids were already beginning to close.

You waited for her breathing to deepen before exiting her room, closing the door softly behind you.

Aemond was waiting for you when you returned to your own chamber, he looked over at you with a quirked brow. “And?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I thought she was asleep.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if half the castle were awake by now.” He caught your wrist as you tried to hit his shoulder, pulling you in for a kiss. “Not that I’m complaining.”  He nuzzled your nose laughing as you scrunched it and giggled.

“In a little over a decade she is going to realize the truth and be traumatized.”  

“She is going to know how deeply in love her parents are.”  Aemond captured your mouth once more, smiling against your lips as you sighed with pleasure. “Besides, we have plenty of time to work on your volume control.”  

You giggled madly as Aemond rolled you beneath him, undoing the ties of your robe and spreading it open.  His eye glinted in the dim firelight as he straddled you, looking upon your form. “Now, my love, where were we?”

[hellhoundmaggie]

Do you ever think about what Tech The Bad Batch might have been like as a kid?

Do you think his interest in recording animal sounds and translating other languages came from childhood communication struggles?

Do you think he only learned to speak Basic fluently sometime after the rest of Clone Force 99?

Do you think he kept failing to follow his trainers' directions because he didn't understand them?

Or maybe that he did understand, but simply ignored them because he didn't get why following directions was important?

Or that he understood, wanted to obey, but couldn't figure out how to make his body and mind do what was asked of him?

Do you think Kamino was a sensory nightmare for him sometimes?

Did the bright lights hurt his eyes?

Did their buzzing distract and distress him?

Did the antics of three rambunctious brothers only aggravate the distress?

Do you think he'd run away and hide just to get away from the noise and the light?

Do you think he couldn't even manage that sometimes?

Do you think he'd go into meltdowns?

Do you think he'd cry and scream and break things and kick and bite and scratch at his handlers?

Do you think he'd do it to his own brothers, because for all that he loved them he didn't know how else to tell them they had to leave him alone?

Do you think his handlers couldn't figure out why he was in distress?

Do you think they couldn't see the warning signs of a coming meltdown?

Do you think they even knew there were warning signs to notice?

Do you think they discussed decommissioning him for his defects?

Do you think his brothers overheard the discussions?

Do you think they -- for all that they were vulnerable children themselves -- knew they had to protect him?

Do you think they covered for him?

Do you think they cheated to conceal his shortcomings?

Do you think they acted out in front of the handlers just to take their attention away from their brother?

Do you think they bore their punishments gladly because they knew they were saving him from a worse fate?

Or do you think that he heard the discussions?

Do you think he realized being loud and needy and a burden to his squad wasn't going to get him the help he needed most?

Do you think he knew he'd never get that help? That the only way to save himself was to stuff his greatest vulnerabilities down?

Do you think he always is calm and effective in a crisis because he doesn’t have a choice?

Do you think do you think do you ever think

[medra-gonbites]

Beyond the Bridge

Lae'zel is horrified by Faerun's life forms and their disgusting snouts. In particular one person in camp who seems to have an especially large one.

Pairing: Lae'zel x Gale

SFW - Pining, Fluff,

Words: 710

Lae’zel was Gith. Just because of that she was close to perfection.

She had come to realize quickly that the life forms in Faerun were far inferior to her people in many ways. They lacked discipline, strength, loyalty, drive, ruthlessness.

But there was a detail in particular that made them so much different from the Githyanki; a much more superficial feature, yet one that never failed to utterly disgust her and that all of the plane dwellers shared: their noses.

Shapes and sizes varied from one individual to another, of course. But they were always there nonetheless. Ugly, intrusive, unavoidable. Quite literally in their faces. Could they even smell the mighty Neogi coming with these trunks? Could they sense the meteor showers before they would fall from the scent in the atmosphere? She doubted it, but even if they could, it did not make them any less upsetting.

The sight alone made Lae’zel’s skin crawl and caused her blood to run cold. She had to look at them, always, wherever they would go, no matter whoever they met. There was always a revolting knob of flesh to dangle offensively from any already aggravating grimace.

Even in the comfort of her own tent, the distressing palls of her allies were never far enough; for she was bound to withstand companions who were cursed of not being Gith. Forced to endure the nightmare of their appalling proboscis. Some nights the memory of them kept her awake. Sharp, small, red, pale.

None managed to repel her as much as the wizard’s. It was a human nose.

It was the biggest in camp. The longest. Possibly the largest. His profile was a constant distraction that rendered her almost nauseous. Lae’zel could not fathom how he could even see past it without suffering an obstructed vision. How could his spells not misfire, from such an obvious obstacle to sway his aim.

It was a human nose and it was right in the middle of his face: A disgraceful cage of flesh around his nostrils, for no reasons other than nature's sick endeavor.

One day, she had seen him sneeze from the pollen of ragweeds circling their camp and had found it pathetic. To have such an appendage, so much skin and cartilage and yet remaining at the mercy of the vegetation, weakened by sheer seedlings blossoming from the earth.

Another day, she had heard him sniff from the other side of camp and had been outraged by the sound. Wet and windy at the same time, a sickening suction that aimed to engulf every particle, every speck of dust, every atom around him in the void of his nares.

One dreadful night, he had blown the horror in a cotton square he kept as a tissue and she had almost gotten sick from the mere sight of it. His hand, wrapping the monstrosity in the white fabric like a shroud, to siphon its most repugnant discharge in a perturbing puff.

But since then something had changed. Something that had her questioning the allure of it all.

Today, he had cast a spell. His brow had creased in concentration and his finger had fluttered in the air to pull at the strand of weave as he had muttered the incantation in a booming voice. When the fireball had left his palm to burn his foes to ashes, his nostrils had flared in anger and she had felt something.

Tonight, he had cooked a mushroom and beef stew. He had stirred the dish, slowly simmering above the campfire, and had seasonned the preparation with pepper and cumin to add flavour to it. When he had smelled the fumes before tasting the first spoonful, the wing of his nose had slightly spread as he had taken in the spices and she had felt something.

Now, he was kissing her neck. He was tasting her skin in the intimacy of his tent, after having fought under the sky of stars above their camp. As he nuzzled within the crook of her shoulder, he inhaled her scent as he rubbed his nose against the skin of her collarbone and she was feeling something.

It was a human nose. And it was the first nose she had ever come to love.

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 9: [DRAGON AU] lucifer / bonding

ao3 link

note: quick note/clarification just in case: ik has nicknamed lucifer and mammon "boss" and "goldie" respectively, so those are the dragons she's referring to in her narration!

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

“I’m not having any part in this,” Lucifer had said. “This is to be your responsibility only,” He’d said.

He’s… not entirely sure how this happened in the first place. At some point over the last few weeks, he’s gone from disapproving overseer of Mammon’s inexplicable adoption of a human child, to that same child’s primary caretaker.

Mammon is usually in charge of finding her a spot to sleep, but it’s Lucifer who makes sure she eats at the same times as them, or escorts her to the stream every morning so she can wash her face. Occasionally, he brings her strangely-shaped rocks, or sticks and flowers from the forest, so that she has something to play with.

He’s not sure why he feels the need to intervene. He’ll blame Mammon’s incompetence - and the child’s rather unhappy habit of walking straight into mortal danger.

The latest in her series of mishaps involves fish, a river, and a very panicked Levi. Lucifer is - as usual - surveying the territory when his brother comes racing up the hill, and dumps the human in a soggy heap at his feet.

“What now?” He asks, mildly aggravated, then pauses. This isn’t the first time she’s taken a tumble, but this is the sorriest state he’s seen her in so far.

“It’s not moving!” wails Levi, bounding in distressed circles and getting water all over the rocks. “I think— I think I killed it, Lucifer!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He replies, a little distracted by his running. “What hap— will you stop that?!”

Levi skids to a stop. His barbels twitch anxiously.

Lucifer ducks down and nudges the child with his snout. When she doesn’t respond, he puffs a cloud of smoke into her face, then tries again. This time, she makes a bubbly sound.

“Is it alive?” Levi asks anxiously.

“Stop calling her an it, Levi,” He grumbles, then straightens up. “She’s fine.”

“Oh. Okay.” Levi relaxes. He regards the little human for a moment - nose twitching - then flicks his tail and bounds off again.

Lucifer watches him go and heaves a silent sigh. He’s been seeing a new, fickle side to his younger brothers as of late. They can’t seem to decide whether or not they enjoy their new ward’s company.

Well, except Mammon. Perhaps this is the upside of being simple-minded - he doesn’t seem to care about everything that comes attached to the word ‘human’ for dragons like them.

Lucifer isn’t so naive, but it’s hard to look at this half-drowned little creature and think ‘dangerous’. It’s even harder to think ‘cruel’, ‘murderer’, or anything else in between. Still - best not get too attached.

“Up you get.” He attempts to nudge her to her feet. She just coughs pitifully and slumps back onto the ground. “We can find you a sunny spot to dry off in.”

The child - predictably, considering she can’t understand him - doesn’t move. She looks rather ill, actually.

Lucifer thinks for a while. The child blinks up at him with far-too-large eyes as he clicks, ignites the fire in his chest, then settles down beside her.

“Don’t get used to this,” He warns her, which is completely futile, and he knows it. “It’ll be a hassle if you get sick.”

The human doesn’t respond, of course, but manages to prop herself up enough to huddle closer to his side. He finds himself blowing idle smoke rings as he waits for the heat to dry her off.

“Be more careful next time,” He says after a while. “Leave the fishing to Levi.”

The child looks up at him cluelessly, then makes a series of chirpy noises. This is, in particular, is something new to him - he’s used to hearing human language from a distance, in gruff shouts from steel-clad giants, or shrill shrieks from beige-clothed merchants.

The way the child talks is almost musical, lilting from one register to another. The strangest part is that, sometimes, he feels like he might understand.

He supposes he’s a little glad that she doesn’t seem frightened by the growls of dragon-speak. He’s found himself unconsciously making adjustments, anyway - speaking softer, trying not to make the sounds too harsh, as if trying to imitate a human register.

He’s almost dozed off by the time he remembers why he lay down in the first place. He looks down. The child’s gone and fallen asleep, still curled against his side. For some reason, the sight makes him think of baby ducks.

Lucifer contemplates this for a while. Well, he supposes there’s no helping it. Humans must get their rest, especially small ones - otherwise they won’t grow properly.

Which means he might as well stay here. If he’s needed for something, surely it can wait.

-

Boss definitely seems like the most frightening dragon of the lot, but he’s actually pretty easy to get along with - as long as you follow the rules. If he starts rumbling, proceed with caution. If he’s blowing smoke rings, you could start hitting him and he won’t even care.

At least, that’s the impression I have. My fists are of inconsequential force to a dragon with near-impenetrable scales, though, so he might not have even noticed.

Living with dragons is a lot more ordinary than I thought. I had images in my head of them smashing mountains and eating boulders for fun, but mostly they just hang around and play - just like people do.

Apart from Boss. He seems to spend most of his free time standing silently on the mountain peak, staring out into the horizon. Sometimes he goes out hunting, and sometimes he goes for a fly around the forest, but mostly he just… watches.

He’s much more considerate than he looks at first glance. Less brutal killer, more affable-but-irritated caretaker. I knew all the dragon horror stories couldn’t possibly be true, but it’s nice to be vindicated.

I want to try returning the favour, but I’m not sure there’s anything I have - or can get - that a dragon would want. So I pay a little extra attention to what he gets up to the next day, and I note something useful.

Sometimes, while he’s land-watching, the wind whistles through the mountain ridges in just the right way to produce a little song. When that happens, he closes his eyes, and puffs out contented little smoke rings until he notices someone looking. So…

Goldie has a lot of shiny things in his cave. I don’t quite dare touch his main hoard, but he leaves a lot of the less precious-looking things unorganised by the walls - which means there might be something I can use there.

He’s clinking happily through his coin collection when I slip into his cave. He grunts in greeting, then goes back to organising them by colour.

“Hi, Goldie.” I stoop and squint at something small and bony-looking. “Do you think you have a flute or something around here?”

He tilts his head to the side. “Rhh?”

“It’s— ah, don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.” I set aside something that looks like a watch face. “...oh!”

A pan-flute - it’s a little dusty, but not damp at all. I try blowing an experimental little melody. I’m no maestro, but I still think it sounds lovely.

Goldie makes a chittering sound. His spines flatten back as I test just how high the pipes can go.

“Oh— sorry!” He makes a show of ducking down and covering his head with his wings. “Did I hurt your ears?”

He peeks a single blue eye out and trills. It’s funny - neither of us really know what the other’s saying, but we always seem to get the message across anyway.

The next day, as soon as I notice him flapping off to find a vantage point as usual, I scramble after him. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I feel like his spot today is a lot easier to navigate up to than usual - less vertical rock faces, less jagged edges.

I sit down on the ledge beside him. He’s radiating heat, as always - his crimson eyes flick down to me, and stay there.

“I’ve got something to show you,” I announce, then pull out the pan-flute. “Listen.”

His tail flicks cautiously. I bring the flute to my mouth - slowly, so as not to alarm him - and play him a little tune.

Just as he does when the mountains whistle, he closes his eyes and relaxes. The smoke rings come soon after that.

I play through all the tunes I can think of, then improvise a few new ones. Some time after I lapse into silence, Boss opens his eyes again.

Something about him seems to have shifted. A little nervously, I give his dark scales a pat. He snorts (there’s another puff of smoke), but doesn’t look irritated at all.

“Do dragons have names?” I ask him. He just looks at me.

I tilt my head to the side, as if listening to something, then point up at him. He stares for a little while longer, then makes a rough, crackling sound, and looks off into the distance again.

Then he looks at me. Then to the sky. It takes several more tries before I realise he’s trying to draw my attention to something.

“Sun?” I muse. “Is that your name?”

He doesn’t react. I try again. “Sunny?”

Nothing again. What else do you call the sun that’d make a good name for a dragon? “Hmm… Morning-star?”

Or something that means the same thing?

“Lu…cifer?” I try.

He blinks. Then his wings flick up, and he exhales - blowing what I can only assume is a pleased puff of smoke into my face.

I beam up at him. “Do you wanna hear another song?”

I don’t know how much of the question he understands, but his eyes light up when I pick up the pan-flute again. He settles down in that way that so reminds me of a cat, and lifts a wing to shield the bright morning sun from my face.

Lucifer likes music. That’s good to know.

[animeloverskylarmoon]

Byakuya Kuchiki (Bleach)- Oneshot

“Did you see him, it’s Kuchiki-taicho!”

The squeals were the only indication you needed. Whenever new reapers came in this is typically how it went. They’d gush over the captains.

Especially him.

At this point you should expect it. Standing at attention, you watch as the captains walk pass. Truthfully you admire their strength. Your ultimate goal was to someday obtain such a position. It was far-fetched, but you couldn’t help it.

There’s a powerful aura that seems to emit from simply their presence. Your eyes follow every movement. When they connect with a pair of steel gray hues, your body froze. It’s just a glance, nothing more, but it holds much more than you expected. You break eye contact hurriedly, looking down at your feet, flustered.

“What the hell am I doing..”

Why the hell would you look directly at him?

It felt quite the same as declaring a love confession. You huff, agitated and you keep your eyes planted down for the rest of the time that they are there. Once it’s finally over, you feel as though you can finally breathe easy. The lieutenants begin ushering the reapers to their designated squads and you follow as people begin to divide up.

The rest of the week is preparation and training. You’re grateful that you’re a member of the thirteenth squad. Being as far away from Byakuya was ideal. He’s too much of a distraction. You know it’s wrong to harbor any feelings for him. He’s emotionally detached. His views are of duty and protection of the integrity of the Soul Society. Even though that’s the case, you can’t help it. You’d seen him in battle one time and you haven’t been able to get over how effortlessly extraordinary he is.

“This is aggravating.”

Jushiro chuckles and you straighten, flushing. You hadn’t realized that you’d been talking to yourself. You’ve been doing that a lot.

“Is there a reason you are aggravated (Y/N)-san?”

You scratch your head with a laugh.

“I-I was just rambling, it’s nothing really.”

You hope that’s enough for him to drop the topic. There’s a part of you that wonders why you couldn’t have fallen for someone like him. Even if he had rejected you, he probably would have done it so nicely you would end up apologizing. You laugh internally at your thoughts and Jushiro gives you a curious look.

“Ukitake-taicho, is Rukia-san back yet?”

“Ah, no she hasn’t returned. If I remember correctly she should be coming in a few weeks. The head captain has asked that she stay close to Ichigo for the time being to ensure his powers have fully returned.”

“That sounds so cool! Rukia-san always gets the cool missions.” You mumble.

“Given her relationship with Ichigo, I believe the head captain was just trying to avoid the inevitable. Abarai-san has a bad habit of getting into fights when he’s there. He wanted to avoid damage to the town.” You giggle.

“I suppose you are right.”

It’s funny to watch the way they bicker, you’ll admit that. Renji would never say it, but he respects Ichigo. You would too if you’d survived the things he’d been through.

“Do you think that-”

The fluttering of black and crimson wings startles you.

“Ukitake-taicho, there is hollow activity in the tenth squad.”

The alert makes you clench your teeth. It’s not a shock that hollow activity is increasing. With the recent shift in energy, the head captain has accounted for just about everything.

You both take off without so much as another word. There’s a part of you that expects chaos when you land. But Jushiro is wearing the same comical expression at the sight before you.

“We got them Taicho!!”

“Take that stupid hollows!!

“Leave some for me!” Kenpachi calls.

There was obviously no need for cavalry, because members of squad eleven are handling the distress call.

If anything you feel a bit sorry for the hollows. A few of them appear to be running for their lives. One is grabbed by the leg, and you sweatdrop when Kenpachi grins down at the very large beast.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

It’s sweating profusely. All he does is swing his hand. It’s flying into the air. You know he intends to go after it. At least you think he does. There’s nothing but a glowing light in the distance like a star of its descent into another world.

“Kenny you threw it too far, he’s gone.” Yachiru comments.

“Damn.” He looks unaffected and you just sigh.

“I don’t think our services are needed.” Jushiro sheaths his blade and you do the same.

“We should do a sweep of the squads around to ensure no others have breached.”

You nod.

Jushiro goes left and you go right.

With your eyes fixed ahead, you’re ready for anything. You’re jumping from building to building, but you don’t see a thing. You’re a bit relieved that there isn’t any damage. At least none that the hollows made. Kenpachi is definitely going to leave a mess wherever he goes.

By the time you make it to the sixth squad you realize that the area is clear. You intend to keep going straight up to the first, but the pink petal drifts into your line of vision and you turn your head. Your eyes widen when you spot him. He’s standing next to a tree and the entire atmosphere feels as though it has changed. Your arms drop slowly and your feet touch the ground quietly.

All he’s doing is standing there. You’re possibly fifty feet away at best, but you can’t stop staring.

He just looks so..

“Beautiful..”

Apparently you said that aloud. His head turns and once again you’re completely frozen. That harsh gaze is fixed on you. You should say something, inform him that you’re only doing a patrol. Words refuse to form and when he steps away from the blossom tree, your heart is going much faster than it has ever gone.

Even in battle.

His steps seem to echo, and you want to swallow, but you can’t. None of your usual body functions are working.

He’s right before you and he stops.

“Were you referring to me.”

He’s talking to you, he must be. But you can’t formulate a sentence, much less respond.

“I asked you a question.”

You flinch and bow fully. It’s an instinct.

“G-Gomen!!”

Why are you even apologizing, it’s not like you’ve done anything wrong. You just feel like you have.

“I-I was just doing a sweep for hollow activity. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You’re almost afraid to lift your head.

“You said that I was beautiful.”

The statement made your eyes widen. You feel absolutely embarrassed.

“Gomen!!”

That’s all you can get yourself to say at this point.

“Are you so superior that you refuse to meet my gaze.”

Just the insinuation makes you panic.

You jolt upright.

“O-Of course not Kuchiki-taicho I-”

Your words come to a stop, because you expect his eyes to hold irritation, or at the very least anger for saying what you did. Yet, his expression looks almost…soft..

How could such a stoic person look so effortlessly attractive?

“I was right, you are beautiful..”

The slight change in his eyes alerts you that you’ve once again opened your big mouth and blurted out something that should never leave your lips. Your face heats up immediately as you begin to stutter.

This is mortifying.

“G-G-Gomen!!”

He says nothing. He just watches you as if trying to make an assessment. Without so much as another word, he turns.

“Let’s go.”

“G-Go? G-Go where?”

He just glances back at you, and a pleasant shiver rushes up your spine.

“Y-Yes Kuchiki-taicho!”

You prepare to follow and he takes off. You’re so consumed in your rushing thoughts that you don’t take notice of the small smile that briefly crosses his lips. 

[eksvaized]

[ 𝖕𝖔𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝖔𝖇𝖘𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓 ] — 12

>> Ghost x Reader, alternative ending

>> 18+

>> this was inspired by the tv show 'you'

THREE HOURS EARLIER

The instant Simon saw you, he knew something was awry. He observed you fumbling with your phone, the uneasy shift in your body as he approached you. Your excuse almost worked; he almost believed that the abrupt change in your behaviour was due to a long day at work. After all, he didn’t have time to take care of your boss because before leaving he was preoccupied with making sure that your friends, mainly Mindy, got the message to stay away from you.

He was headed to the bathroom when his gaze wandered to the office door and he noticed that it was... open. He quietly walked in and immediately he knew.

His was pulled to the note on the table, which you had forgotten to throw away as you ran back to the kitchen. He picked it up before walking over to the shelf. He didn’t need to look inside the box to know that you had peered inside.

For a brief while, his mind was overwhelmed with thoughts. His emotions swung like a pendulum between anger and distress, blending together in a confusing mix.

When he heard you yelling, telling him you were going to the shop, he knew that he couldn’t let you leave this house.

PRESENT

Simon stood in the dark corner of the basement, watching you. You were curled into a ball on the floor, confined in a cell, your face obscured. He could hear your muted whimpers and sobs, and he knew you were crying. He wanted to step inside, to embrace you and help you calm down, but every time he got close to the bars, you would leap up and beg him to stay away from you.

You were fuming when you initially regained consciousness. You were enraged and kept shaking the bars, demanding that he let you free and explain what he had done. Even though you knew the truth deep inside, you needed to hear him say it out loud, to hear him confess, because there was still a part of you that wanted to believe this was just a nightmare from which you would awaken soon.

Simon left you alone in the shed. The cell was frigid, dark, and confined, making you feel as if you were suffocating from a lack of oxygen.

He returned after what appeared to be an eternity.

He didn’t open the cell door, but as he got near, he kneeled and placed a blanket, a pillow, a water bottle, and a book on the floor.

“I have to leave again... I promise I will come back, I won’t abandon you here.” He tried to speak softly, not to startle you, but as his voice reached your ears, your body wanted to coil even tighter into a ball and you refused to raise your head. “I need to do something, but… but when you see me again, I’ll explain everything to you, I will answer all your questions. You’ll realise that everything that happened.. and all I did was for you.”

TWO DAYS LATER

Simon took longer than he had promised to return. And by the time he showed up you were convinced you were going insane.

You attempted to distract yourself by tearing out the pages of the book and folding little flowers out of them because you had nothing better to do.

Then when your fingertips started to ache, and your eyelids started getting heavier, you tried to sleep, too.

But every time you closed your eyes, you couldn’t sleep because all you could think about was that fucking box and how Simon was responsible for ruining your life. You condemned yourself for your ignorance. How could you ever trust him? How could you allow him to touch you with the same hands that killed Matt?

“Do you want me to just explain it all or should I answer your questions first?” He asked, but you remained silent.

You didn’t want to talk because you knew you’d say something you’d later regret, something that would enrage him, and the last thing you wanted to do was aggravate him. Your only hope of getting out of here was to persuade him that nothing had changed after what you found in his office - you were still in love with him.

“Yes, I killed Matt, but only because I had no other option. If you had heard how he talked about you... He saw you as a dumb girl, whom he could manipulate and who, he knew, never rejected him because she was starving for attention. And I knew it wasn’t true; you are more than that, and if he couldn’t see it, he had to be erased from the picture.”

It pained you to hear that, but it didn't justify Simon ending someone's life.

“Your friends… I didn’t do anything to them. I just dug up some old pictures that Mandy tried to hide and used them to make her stay away from you... so that’s why your friends began avoiding you.. I know you believe I had no right to do that, but Y/N, they held you down, and you were only there for their amusement.”

Also, he told you about how he broke into your house, which made you want to throw up, thinking about how many times he might have been there, watching you, going through your stuff while you were completely unaware of his presence inside your home.

Simon described how he fell in love with you the moment he saw you. He knew you were special, and he knew he had to have you no matter how long it took or what he had to do.

A WEEK LATER

You were still in a cell, but after the initial shock, you could gather your thoughts and create an escape plan.

You started talking more; you stopped ignoring Simon, and you could see that he was still distrustful, but the relief and joy in his eyes whenever you opened your mouth, even if it was to ask for water or tell him you were hungry, was palpable.

You stopped begging him to let you out. You knew it was pointless because you needed to earn his trust first, to convince him that you wouldn’t tell anybody about what had occurred and that you still loved him.

“I know you don’t want to let me go home yet.” You said while folding a flower. At this point, you were running out of pages, but this helped you to stay calm and keep your voice from trembling. “But maybe.. we could.. you could take me outside? I’m not going to flee, I’m not going to leave your side, I’m not even going to move, but I just need to get some fresh air because I feel like I’m suffocating in here.”

That night he denied your request, but the next morning you awoke to find him unlocking the cell. He tied your hands, telling you how he doesn’t want to do this, but he has to, just in case.

“This place is in the middle of nowhere.” He said as you climbed out of the basement. It felt like he was giving you a warning, telling you not to act stupid because he could sense that your thoughts were racing at a thousand miles per hour as your eyes darted around.

“I’m not going to run.” You promised and even forced yourself to step closer and kiss him on the cheek.

You were outside for an hour.

He made you sit down on the ground, cross your legs and put your tied-up hands in your lap, while he towered over you, not letting his eyes wander. You could see nothing except a curtain of thick trees and a dusty road that seemed to lead nowhere as you looked around.

Running would be foolish, but you thought it was your only option. You refused to die in that cell, and you refused to return and allow him to lock you up again.

So, when Simon turned his head for a split second, you stumbled to your feet. Your hands were tied in front of you, and you didn’t have time to loosen the ropes, so you just ran.

With every ounce of speed you could muster, the chilling wind sent shivers down your spine as you raced ahead, your senses heightened and your body in constant motion. You could hear him shouting at you to stop but even though your legs hurt and your entire body ached, you refused to let him catch you.

But Simon was faster. He was tenacious, and after what felt like an eternity, two arms wrapped around you and a body collided with you. You struggled, kicking your feet, attempting to bite him and scream, but a hand clasped over your mouth.

He dragged you back. You could see the wrath in his eyes and feel his taut body against yours as you looked over your shoulder.

You kept attempting to get free, but it wasn’t because you were trying to flee anymore; it was because you were running out of air.

His one arm was tightly wrapped around your neck, pinching your throat. You tried screaming and yelling for him to release you since you couldn’t breathe, but he couldn’t comprehend what you were saying because his palm was still clamped to your lips.

Simon couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, and the sole thought going through his head was how dumb he was for trusting you.

You weren’t prepared to confront the facts just yet. You couldn’t tell he wanted to make your life simpler. But he still loved you, and he was ready to keep you imprisoned in the basement for as long as it took you to realise that everything he did was for you.

You stopped resisting, but he didn’t loosen his grip until you were back in the cell.

He forced you to sit on the floor, but as his arms unwound, your body collapsed. He knelt to look at you, his eyes widening as he observed your pale face.

You weren’t breathing.

He checked your pulse before his fingers curled around your shoulders, and he began shaking you violently.

“Wake up, wake up..!” Words spilt out of him like a desperate prayer. “Stop playing! Stop pretending, Y/N!” His rage had given way to remorse. He refused to acknowledge that you weren’t moving.

Simon didn’t dare to admit that he killed you.

He eventually took a step back, allowing your body to tumble to the ground once more. He stood up and saw your head fall into a mound of neatly folded paper flowers.

He was at a loss for what to do. A sense of emptiness washed over his body, leaving him feeling numb, while his mind remained devoid of any coherent thoughts.

But the quiet voice in his head, the blackness that encompassed his body, wrapping around him like a warm blanket, kept whispering into his ear that this was always going to end this way.

You were never meant to be his.

In accepting Simon into your life, you unknowingly sealed your fate as another victim of his, unable to withstand the darkness that lurked within him.

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

How would the Ganondorfs (Wind Waker, Ocarina of Time, Twilight Princess, Hyrule Warriors, and Tears of the Kingdom) & Demise react to their SO losing their voice?

It happens once a year once the cold weather comes in, and their SO is… very aggravated/distressed about it every time.

Wind Waker Ganondorf: The Stoic Overlord

Reaction: Wind Waker Ganondorf, being more reflective and somewhat melancholic, would approach the situation with calm concern. He’d notice his SO’s distress and frustration, and although he isn’t the type to openly show excessive affection, he’d offer quiet support. He’d try to ease their frustration with logic, perhaps offering herbal remedies from his Gerudo upbringing to try and help with their symptoms.

He would remind them that this is a temporary ailment and attempt to distract them by engaging in quiet activities like reading or meditation. Even though his solutions might seem pragmatic and detached, there would be a subtle gentleness in how he cares for his SO.

Scene: Ganondorf watches as his SO gestures angrily, trying to express their frustration at losing their voice again. He stands beside them, placing a hand on their shoulder. “You’ve endured this before. This, too, shall pass,” he says, his voice deep and soothing.

His SO glares at him, clearly still upset. Without a word, they flop down onto a couch, crossing their arms. Ganondorf sighs, sitting beside them. “I’ll prepare you something. There are herbs that can ease this condition.”

Though his SO can’t speak, they nod, grateful for his help, even if the frustration remains.

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf: The Arrogant Conqueror

Reaction: Ocarina of Time Ganondorf, with his immense pride, would be irritated at the idea of his SO being distressed by something so seemingly trivial, but his arrogance wouldn’t stop him from being protective. He’d dislike seeing his partner in a vulnerable state, especially because their loss of voice means he can’t hear their thoughts, opinions, or praises.

Despite his initial impatience, he would offer support in his own way. He’d likely command his minions to find a cure or a solution, and he might grow frustrated if none of them work. However, seeing his SO so upset would make him more determined to "fix" the situation, though his approach would be more forceful.

Scene: His SO gestures angrily, unable to speak, and Ganondorf frowns, his arms crossed. “This is a trivial matter, yet it bothers you greatly,” he muses, pacing the room. "I will not allow something so small to defeat you."

With a wave of his hand, he summons one of his servants. “Find a remedy for this affliction,” he orders. When his SO gives him an exasperated look, Ganondorf moves closer, his expression softening slightly. "I do not enjoy seeing you like this. Rest assured, we will find a solution."

Twilight Princess Ganondorf: The Calculating Warrior

Reaction: Twilight Princess Ganondorf is calculating and strategic. When his SO loses their voice, he would immediately start analyzing the situation, trying to find a cause and a solution. Seeing them distressed would bother him, but not outwardly; instead, he’d take it upon himself to find remedies and figure out why this happens yearly.

He’d comfort them with a promise to solve the problem, though he might offer less emotional comfort than others. His SO’s frustration would not go unnoticed, and Ganondorf would likely create a plan to help them cope with their temporary silence, perhaps through non-verbal communication.

Scene: Ganondorf notices his SO's distress, their hands moving in angry, frantic gestures. He steps forward, his voice calm and deliberate. “This happens every year. Yet there is no permanent solution. You are troubled because of the silence.”

His SO slams their hands on the table, clearly fed up with their condition. Ganondorf takes their hand in his, a rare gesture of comfort. “I will find a way to prevent this from recurring. Until then, communicate with me in other ways.”

His SO looks at him, surprised by the softness in his tone, and nods reluctantly.

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf: The Boastful Warlord

Reaction: Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf is proud and larger than life, and he wouldn’t take kindly to anything that incapacitates or distresses his SO. The idea of them being upset, especially over something that happens every year, would likely ignite his anger—not at them, but at the situation. He’d see it as a challenge to overcome.

He might grow restless trying to fix the problem, though he’d do it in a way that fits his warlord persona: commanding the forces of magic, summoning powerful artifacts, or seeking a magical cure. However, when his SO’s aggravation gets the better of them, Ganondorf might sit them down and remind them of their strength.

Scene: His SO slams a book down in frustration, their inability to speak driving them to the edge. Ganondorf stands tall, watching them for a moment before speaking. “You are not defeated by this.” His voice booms with authority. “This is a minor affliction.”

His SO raises their hands in frustration, gesturing wildly. Ganondorf steps forward, cupping their chin with surprising gentleness. “You have endured worse. This is nothing. I will find a way to restore your voice—until then, do not allow this to consume you.”

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf: The Dark Demon King

Reaction: Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf, who has embraced the darker side of power, might initially seem indifferent to his SO’s distress. However, beneath his dark exterior, he would deeply care for their well-being. The loss of their voice, and their subsequent frustration, would touch something in him—after all, he knows what it’s like to be silenced in his own way, shut out by destiny.

He might not immediately offer comfort, instead observing them in silence as they battle their own frustration. Eventually, he’d step in with a firm reminder of their strength, his way of showing that he cares. Though his demeanor may seem cold, he’d do whatever it takes to make them feel better.

Scene: His SO sits by the window, fuming silently as the snow falls outside. Ganondorf watches from the shadows, his expression unreadable. “You despise this, don’t you?” he finally says, his voice low.

His SO nods, their hands clenched in anger. Ganondorf steps closer, placing a hand on their shoulder. “You are stronger than this silence. It cannot hold you.”

When his SO looks up at him with tear-filled eyes, he kneels beside them. “I will not let this condition defeat you. You are mine. Together, we will find a way.”

Demise: The God of Destruction

Reaction: Demise, being the embodiment of destruction, is not used to comforting others. However, seeing his SO distressed and silent might provoke a strange reaction in him. At first, he would find it annoying, not fully understanding why they’re so upset about something as temporary as losing their voice. But over time, their frustration and sadness would start to affect him.

Demise might initially offer blunt, harsh words, urging them to be strong and endure it. But beneath that, he would genuinely want to help them feel better, even if he doesn’t quite know how to express it. He might go to extreme lengths to find a cure or solution, using his powers of destruction to “obliterate” the problem, if possible.

Scene: His SO sits in the cold, their shoulders tense with frustration. Demise watches them from afar, his arms crossed. “You’re upset,” he says gruffly, his deep voice cutting through the silence.

They nod, their gestures sharp and angry. Demise frowns. “Why let something so small affect you? You are stronger than this.”

When his SO looks at him, their eyes pleading, Demise grits his teeth. “Fine. I’ll find a way to fix this. But remember—you are mine. You don’t need to speak to show your strength.”

Summary:

Wind Waker Ganondorf offers calm and quiet support, focusing on finding herbal remedies.

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf is initially impatient but quickly becomes determined to "fix" the problem.

Twilight Princess Ganondorf approaches the situation analytically, offering practical solutions.

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf takes it as a challenge, promising to fix it while reminding his SO of their inner strength.

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf offers quiet, firm support, reminding his SO of their resilience.

Demise is blunt and harsh but ultimately determined to obliterate the problem.

[your-favourite-plague]

✵ The Mother ✵

✵ The Thoughts ✵

[Kalluto & Kikyo, before the mission in Yorknew]

Word count: 1,060

✵✵✵

The scissors blade sliced through the paper with a quiet snip. Another set of little pieces fell on the desk, each perfectly even. The small, agile hands gathered them and carefully hid in the slits of the long sleeves.

Kalluto looked in the mirror, ensuring his hairstyle kept the intact shape and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles on his obi decorated with a geometrical pattern, matching the one on the bottom of his furisode. All preparations were done, and he was ready to go on a mission; technically not his own, as he only assisted his older brother, yet he wanted to polish everything all the same. In a long time he didn't leave his home and he couldn't hide from himself the anticipation of seeing the outside world again.

Obviously, he loved his home and his family. There was no doubt about it, and no reason for him to want to leave. But lately, sometimes, just sometimes, he found it difficult to breathe.

Everything changed when Killua ran away. His abrupt and impudent breaking the rules left everyone distressed. Outwardly, the Zoldycks still worked flawlessly like the harmonized organism, yet the home atmosphere drowned in tension. The wound seemed to heal for the moment, but then these people came and aggravated it once again. They called themselves 'Killua's friends', invaded their property and took him away, ruining the family peace. The butlers crept in foreboding, Illumi began to disappear even without missions, Mother cried more often. And the Thoughts — the ones Kalluto so desperately tried to quell or at least seal somewhere deep inside him; the ones that made him glad all Illumi's attention was always dedicated to the heir, so these awful taints on his mind could slip unnoticed — now they got excruciatingly harder to bear. In this situation, he should especially increase his efforts to be a good child to ease Mother's pain at least a little, but everything he did seemed to make the matter worse.

If only Killua was here.

He couldn't tell what he sensed first — the stately aura, the flowery scent of perfumes or a click of the heel. He quickly neatened already perfectly adjusted clothes and bowed to greet his Mother, coming into his room.

Maybe at heart he actually wanted to leave home, even briefly, but he definitely didn't want to leave Her. Recent disarray visibly worsened Her state and agitated Her already fragile emotions. He feared She could have a breakdown at any time, and he desperately didn't want it to happen. Even though going on missions was his official responsibility, the one much more important for him was to ensure Mother's peace of mind. He always tried to be near Her, as Her companion, support, confidant. Making sure no one, and especially himself, would do anything what could upset Her, and if She was screaming or crying even then, do everything to distract Her, talk about art, about nature, about assassinations.

He was also painfully aware he was being irrational. The outbursts, no matter how terrifying, always passed without the repercussions, and She regained serenity as if they were just Kalluto's delusion. Moreover, She was surrounded by skilled butlers who knew how to comfort Her. There was nothing in which he would be irreplaceable.

"Oh, I see you are ready. Very well." The praise felt warm in his chest. "You really remind me of Illumi, dear, you've matured so fast! When you come back, I will have to implement more trainings he underwent into your routine, and soon enough, you will be just like him!" While She chattered, this warmth was slowly succumbing to the cold stinging.

"Yes, Mother," he said habitually, not sure if She even needed the affirmation.

"However, I have to say, it was not necessary to take you as his assistant. This is not what is best for your current situation. If only he consulted me, I would have opted for something more quiet and clean for you." The red iris on Her visor shrunk minimally, Her voice momentarily shrill. "And quick." He understood the reprimand.

"Yes, Mother."

"I should be the one to always choose your missions, I know what you need." His heart tightened when Her tone hit the mournful string. "It is regrettable that your father pretends not to understand this. But we will work hard nonetheless and correct these little defects, right? Don't worry, dear, mama will take care of everything."

Yes, Mother, he wanted to say, but something heavy choked his throat.

"I don't want—" the Thoughts blurted weakly, taking control over him. His eyes widened, when sudden silence made him realize what he had done. He was insubordinate and he just saddened Her again. Maybe he should leave home after all.

Silk taffeta rustled when She came closer and fondly caressed his cheek, the pressure of Her fingers painful against his skin.

"Kalluto, is everything okay?" Her voice needled him with guilt.

"Yes, Mother," he said with difficulty, through the mouth stitched by Her presence. "I'm sorry."

He shouldn't forget.

He might still not be the completely finished product, but the course was set. His path was decided in advance, the role that was assigned to him from birth and the sole reason he was created — to serve the head of the family, first his father, then Killua, then Killua's child if he would live long enough to see them. The desire to change was not only unnecessary, but could be harmful.

Unconsciously, his fists clenched.

"I have no doubt that you will do well, dear, just remember to look after each other." She returned to Her previous tone as if nothing had happened, and began adjusting the collar of his kimono and evening his musubi. "You will be a good helper for your big brother whenever he needs you, won't you?"

"Yes, Mother." He couldn't look Her in the face.

With the last stroke on the cheek, She left him, standing in the middle of his room. And he stood, maybe for hours or seconds, his head uncomfortably heavy, yet deprived of any thought. His mind disobeyed again. He just had to concentrate on steady breathing, inhale through nose, hold, exhale through mouth, hold, and on executing the mission. Still with splinters of hollowness in his head, he glanced at the mirror and, straightening up, went out into the corridor.

✵✵✵

It's a part of my longer fic, but I kinda like this excerpt on its own too.

[and-then-there-were-n0ne]

Eric Hoffer was a longshoreman-turned-philosopher.

In 1941, he wrote “My writing is done in railroad yards while waiting for a freight, in the fields while waiting for a truck, and at noon after lunch. Towns are too distracting.”

Ten years later, Hoffer’s masterpiece The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements was published when he was in his late forties. Its unexpected success led him to later be appointed as an adjunct professor at University of California, Berkeley.

A slim volume, The True Believer was a favorite of President Dwight Eisenhower, who regularly gifted copies to friends. The British philosopher Bertrand Russell was also an enthusiast of Hoffer’s book. The author and conservative commentator William F. Buckley Jr. described The True Believer as “deeply provocative.”

It’s one of my favorite nonfiction books.

Hoffer’s unusual background as a manual laborer and member of the working class helped to fuel his unique psychological and sociological insights which people continue to mine to this day.

Today, political polarization is at its peak. Out-party hate is now more powerful than in-party love as a predictor of voting behavior in the United States.

Eric Hoffer's ideas are more relevant than ever.

Eric Hoffer made the case that if you peel back the layers of any mass movement, you will find that frustration is their driving force.

Frustration, though, doesn’t arise solely from bleak material conditions. The dockyard philosopher argued that “Our frustration is greater when we have much and want more than when we have nothing and want some. We are less dissatisfied when we lack many things than when we seem to lack but one thing.”

He points out in the years leading up to both the French and Russian Revolutions, life had in fact been gradually improving for the masses. He concludes, “It is not actual suffering but the taste of better things which excites people to revolt” and that “The intensity of discontent seems to be in inverse proportion to the distance from the object fervently desired.”

Personally, I saw this when I first arrived at Yale. I recall being stunned at how status anxiety pervaded elite college campuses. Internally, I thought, “You’ve already made it, what are you so stressed out about?” Hoffer, though, would say these students believed they had almost made it. That is why they were so aggravated. The closer they got to realizing their ambitions, the more frustrated they became about not already achieving them.

Hoffer’s conceptions of frustration highlight how if your conditions improve, but not as much or as quickly as you’d like, you will be vulnerable to recruitment by mass movements that promise to make your dreams come true.  

In Democracy in America, Alexis de Tocqueville wrote, “When inequality is the general law of society, the most blatant inequalities escape notice. When everything is virtually on a level, the slightest variations cause distress. That is why the desire for equality becomes more insatiable as equality extends to all.” For Hoffer, this insatiability cultivates frustration—a nebulous, simmering emotional state that can be harnessed by any ideology.

He describes what has now become known as the “Tocqueville effect”: A revolution is most likely to occur after an improvement in social conditions. As circumstances improve, people raise their expectations. Societal reforms raise reference points to a level that is usually not matched, eliciting rage and frustration.

In addition to the fact that reality seldom matches expectations, frustration also originates in a deep sense of dissatisfaction within oneself. We see this in the rise of social movements across the U.S., where individuals across the political spectrum feel disillusioned by their current situation, leading to a strong desire for dramatic change.

Hoffer argued that mass movements consciously attempt to cultivate and exploit frustration among their members. This helps to fuel their existence. The promotion of frustration is not incidental but is in fact the result of competition: movements that effectively nurture frustration outperform others by attracting and retaining the most fervent members.

In a passage that is reminiscent of today’s idea of the “horseshoe theory” (political extremes have more in common with one another than with moderates), Hoffer wrote that, “When people are ripe for a mass movement, they are usually ripe for any movement...In pre-Hitlerian Germany, it was often a toss up whether a restless youth would join the Communists or the Nazis.” Indeed, the official figure from the original paramilitary wing of the Nazi Party was that fifty-five percent of their members were former communists. According to Rudolf Diels, head of the Gestapo in 1933-1934, the actual figure was seventy percent.

According to The True Believer, the shared factor among extreme mass movements is not ideology or practice but a shared hatred for the present and a yearning for a (subjectively defined) utopian future.

In the marketplace of ideologies, the dogma that is most effective at harvesting emotional discontent often prevails. The danger of mass movements lies in their ability to manipulate these frustrations. Hoffer argues that these movements purposely foster frustration and dissatisfaction, pushing their members further into their cause. This, in turn, deepens their commitment, keeping them in a state of perpetual discontent and thus, devotion to the movement that promises to liberate them.

The formula goes something like this. Mass movements that are good at what they do make previously content individuals frustrated and further frustrate their adherents while pretending to advance the movement. This means that the strongest mass movements are inevitably going to be the ones that are the best at not delivering the goods. Any movement that actually advances the interests of its frustrated supporters will make them less frustrated. Hence, they’ll stop being members.

A core aspect of Hoffer's argument is that the root of frustration lies not just in external circumstances or “the system,” but fundamentally in the burdens of being an individual. Outsourcing decisions about your life to the movement comes as a relief. While practical organizations (e.g., an employer) cater to self-interest and offer opportunities for self-advancement, a mass movement appeals to those who wish to escape or camouflage an unsatisfactory self. Mass movements hold the implicit promise of fulfilling the desire for self-renunciation. [...] One sentence in the book summarizes the idea: “Faith in a holy cause is to a considerable extent a substitute for the lost faith in ourselves.”

The book goes on, “A man is likely to mind his own business when it is worth minding. When it is not, he takes his mind off his own meaningless affairs by minding other people’s business.” [...]

In one of the book’s most famous passages, Hoffer wrote “Hatred is the most accessible and comprehensive of all unifying agents...Mass movements can rise and spread without belief in a God, but never without a belief in a devil.”

For mass movements, hatred serves a useful purpose. It’s the glue that binds the disgruntled members together, turning them into a focused, potent force. The collective enemy helps maintain an atmosphere of constant alertness. It does not only keep the followers united, but it also attracts new members who share similar fears. Hatred fosters an atmosphere of persistent threat that can never be entirely overcome.

Hoffer writes that “in a mass movement, the air is heavy-laden with suspicion…the faithful strive to escape suspicion by adhering zealously to prescribed behavior and opinion…strict orthodoxy is as much the result of mutual suspicion as of ardent faith.” [...]

In a notable historical illustration of a mass movement using a “belief in a devil” as a limitless source of ideological fuel, consider the case of the “Recalling Bitterness” campaign in Maoist China. In the 1960s, the communist dictator Mao Zedong grew worried that ordinary Chinese citizens were developing lukewarm attitudes about the socialist revolution. In response, the regime forced people into rituals in which they publicly announced how bad life was before they had been liberated. Mao ordered writers and artists to rewrite history through the lens of class struggle to suit the needs of his political agenda. Regime officials held meetings encouraging peasants to describe how much better life was now compared to pre-liberation, hoping to convince them that the revolution’s successes outnumbered its failures. The “devils” here were reactionaries, landlords, rich farmers, and counterrevolutionaries. Documenting the rituals of the Recalling Bitterness campaign, the historian Guo Wu has written, “Only poor peasants were allowed to speak; former landlords and rich peasants were silenced.”

Rewriting history to demonize selected groups is an effective way to promote unity within a mass movement.

For Hoffer, the deliberate cultivation of fear and hatred serves to justify increasingly terrifying levels of cruelty and violence. The individual, convinced of his or her guiltlessness, relinquishes agency to the movement. This is yet another example of escaping the burden of the self.

These activities, Hoffer proposes, often manifest as futile tasks that seem to address problems but in fact accomplish little of substance. Rather than confronting the system they oppose, mass movements often end up targeting irrelevant figures or groups, engaging in meaningless protests, or turning on each other. Ironically, because the movement accomplishes so little, they ultimately give rise to increased fanaticism. This leads to further persecution in the quest to find a scapegoat to hold accountable for the failures of the movement.

A strong community can counter the attraction of mass movements. When people feel a sense of belonging, this can guide them away from falling into the trap of large collectives that dissolve individual identities. In our modern world, where traditional forms of community are fraying, and many feel unfulfilled by their work, the appeal of mass movements is amplified. Such movements thrive on shared frustrations.

Mass movements are not exclusive to the modern age. The True Believer, written in the mid-twentieth century, suggests that modernizing forces provide a fertile ground for their proliferation due to the lack of meaningful work, a sense of community, and an overarching sense of meaning in life.

Community is a safeguard against frustration. Hoffer suggests that those who see themselves as part of a close-knit group are less likely to be attracted to mass movements. The sense of accountability that comes from being part of a community and the reciprocal actions required to sustain membership counters the urge to lose oneself in a larger collective identity. The book points out that although mass movements can be seen as a kind of community, they differ in that they require only belief and identity, rather than reciprocal obligations and accountability.

In addition to membership in a cohesive community, engaging in meaningful work provides a buffer against radicalization. This is one reason why mass movements attempt to undermine the value of work, or claim that anyone who earnestly and unironically participates in the system is a victim of false consciousness or propaganda or has somehow been duped. The aim is to position the members of the mass movement as those who are truly “in the know,” and to undermine their targets’ confidence and turn them into potential recruits. 

The True Believer advises against supporting organizations without clear, attainable objectives. The dockyard philosopher reminds us that we should be skeptical of mass movements without clearly defined goals. Often, the ostensible aim of large movements is some nebulous idea of improvement. But the practical, concrete outcome is frequently more frustration, more anger, and more agitation, which benefits the organization rather than those they purport to help.

[kittyoncescribbled]

“I can teach you if you’d like”.

Summary: After teaching you how to kiss, Sanji keeps his distance and that makes you quite upset;

Word count: 1.6K;

Rating/Content Warnings: MDNI, AFAB reader;

Author's note: Can you tell I was scared to write full on smut?

Tagging: @gingernut1314

Kissing Sanji was a mistake.

Ever since that night, you just couldn’t stop thinking about him; sometimes, you would find yourself daydreaming about it, wishing to drag Sanji by the collar to a secluded area and have another lesson with him. It was embarrassing, really; Zeff would scold you on a daily now, as you were frequently seen in the kitchen holding a knife in the air or burning the very expensive cut of meat a client had ordered just because you couldn’t forget the feeling of Sanji’s lips on yours.

One time, Sanji was preparing a dish right next to you and the way his perfume seemed to envelop you got you so distracted you ended up with a cut on your left thumb and an earful from Zeff on not being an airhead. But was it really your fault if the combination of expensive cologne and cigarettes was so enthralling? 

And to add insult to injury, Sanji seemed to be ignoring you — not exactly ignoring you, but more pretending like nothing happened between the both of you. He had even turned down on the flirting and was treating you like one of the guys. You had to admit that it hurt, thinking that Sanji seemed unaffected by the whole thing while you couldn't get it off your mind; you wanted it to mean as much to him as it did to you, but honestly: giving that Sanji had his way with so many women before and this was merely a kiss, you couldn’t expect it to be so important to him as it was to you.

But still, it was enough to keep you awake in your cabin at night, pacing back and forth like an entrapped lioness, fighting the urge to stomp your feet like a little child. You had been all set up to bed: in your most comfy pajamas, hair tied up in a bun and skincare routine done, teeth were brushed and you had a pair of soft socks on, but you were so aggravated by the situation you just couldn’t sleep. Eventually, you had enough and before you could realize what you were doing, you found yourself at Sanji's door, knocking at a very fast pace.

Sanji opened the door already in his pajamas, clearly confused as you passed by him and planted yourself in the middle of the room, tapping your feet furiously and with your arms crossed tightly. The blond looked at you with confusion printed all over his features and opened his arms as if to ask what was going on, letting the door close softly behind him. His cozy night, involving curling up in bed with a book under the dim light he had set up and some scented candles, was clearly canceled. You were distressed, and he would know about it whether he wanted to or not.

“Was I really that bad?” you asked, with a mix of hurt, indignation, and shame tinging your voice. Sanji tilted his head and furrowed his brows, even more confused. “Sorry sweets, but I’m not following. What are you talking about?”.

Almost involuntarily, you were pouting and Sanji could see a shift in your demeanor; not confrontational anymore, you seemed embarrassed and Sanji could see your cheeks getting flushed. “You know… was I that bad? I know you were my first, but I couldn’t have been that bad… right?”.

The vision of you all flustered, mindlessly tugging at the hem of your shirt and chewing on your bottom lip had his heart aching. He never wanted to see you feeling bad, let alone be the cause of it. “I’m very sorry if I made you feel that way, Y/N”, he said, approaching you very carefully. “I just thought that’s what you’d want… you’ve never wanted to get involved with any of us, so I just concluded you wouldn’t want me to be all over you”.

Sanji was now less than a couple inches away from you, his voice barely audible; his fingertips ghosting over the few strands of hair that had escaped from your scrunchie, and his eyes locked into yours, the blue irises slowly disappearing as his pupils grew wider. Your lips parted, feeling your heart beating faster and a rush of adrenaline running through your veins; too shy to look up at Sanji directly, you peeked at him through your eyelashes, taking in the look of hunger in his expression. “Just give me the order, sweetheart, and we can continue with your lesson because trust me… I haven't been able to get it out of my mind”. 

You felt a whole swarm of butterflies in your stomach, your heart felt like it was going to explode. Not able to bring yourself to verbalize exactly what was in your mind, you simply nodded while shyly grabbing at Sanji’s sleeve. Slowly, Sanji’s hands made their way to your waist, pressing his body against yours; he was very aware that you were still finding out your boundaries and he didn’t want to scare you or impose himself. “But we need to have some ground rules… and the first one is that if you’re not comfortable, you need to tell me, ok? If you don’t feel like doing something, or if you want me to stop, I want you to say it to me”. You nodded, eagerly, feeling your heartbeat so fast it seemed like it was going to jump out of your chest.

Sanji cupped your face in his hands, studying your eyes and making sure you were still on board. “Sorry sweetie, just a nod won’t do. Be a good girl and use your words”. You parted your lips, mustering up the courage and pretending to ignore the flush of blood that went straight to your cheeks. “Please, Sanji… I need you to kiss me”.

Even though he wanted to grab your face and finally let out the pent-up desire he had been fostering for so long, Sanji managed to compose himself; slowly, he lowered his face until your lips were touching and a low moan left your parted lips. You had your fingers clutching harder onto his sleeve, trying to pull him as close as you could and Sanji couldn't contain a smirk when realizing your eagerness. After all, you made yourself as unavailable as possible for so long that it felt like a hazy dream to have you there, in his bedroom, timidly exploring his torso over his pajamas and producing little soft moans that were enough to make his nose bleed.

Slowly, Sanji guided you to his bed; you felt the mattress at the back of your knees and timidly crawled making your way to the pillows. You looked up at Sanji chewing on your bottom lip, silently asking for guidance. The cook’s smile softened while he positioned himself on top of you, wavy blond strands of hair tickling your face. “It’s okay, princess. You just relax and I’ll take care of everything” he said in a low voice, peppering light kisses all over your face. Your eyes fluttered shut while a smile tugged at the corner of your lips, overwhelmed by Sandi's presence; the perfume that lingered on his sheets, his lips all over your face and neck, and his strong hands grabbing at your waist, leaving a fiery trail where his fingers dragged into the patches of skin where your shirt had rode up had your brain in a haze, allowing yourself for once to trust someone else and letting them take the reigns.

Working in a male-dominated restaurant made you distrustful and unable to display anything that could be mistaken for weakness, even remotely; you knew that if you gave any of the guys an inch they’d take a mile so you made a conscious decision to make yourself as distant and unavailable as possible. Sometimes the guys would make fun of you for being a Strong Independent Woman as you never let any of them take the lead; letting go so someone else could take control was scary, but at the same time… freeing.

Sanji pressed his body on yours and you could feel his cock against your thigh and you blushed, your fingers interlocked in his hair pulling him incredibly closer. Sanji’s hand made its way under your shirt, finding the doughy flash of your tits and expertly rolling your nipples between his fingers. You gasped, giving him the chance to attack your neck and collarbones with kisses and love bites; you felt like your brain had turned into cotton, an overload of sensations taking over you in a delirious way.

In one swift movement, Sanji managed to remove your shirt, exposing himself to his hungry eyes and wandering hands. Sanji captured your left nipple between his lips, his hot tongue making you whimper; the cook couldn't stop the cocky smile that twisted his lips as he rejoiced in knowing he was the only one who was able to hear those sweet little noises.

Without thinking, Sanji's fingers went to your pant’s waistband and he was startled by your hand grabbing his wrist. When Sanji redirected his gaze to your face, his blood went cold: your eyes were big, not hooded or glassy anymore, and you had an almost scared look on your face.

“Can we… Can we stop for now?”

The blond stopped, immediately looking for your shirt; Sanji helped you get dressed and planted a kiss on your brow. He pulled you under the covers and allowed you time to get comfortable - you were cuddled up against his side, you first balled up with the blanket pulled against your cheek.

There was no need to rush. There would be plenty of time for him to show you new things.

[csa-survivor-confessions]

Five Trauma Responses

Trauma responses are neurophysiological; they are not bad or good. They happen without us choosing what to do. These responses help us survive. Healthy activation of these stress response systems is predictable, moderate and controllable. (Gobbel, 2023). When it’s not it dysregulates us and can cause trauma.

Break Down of Responses:

Flight:

Flight is our bodies attempting to escape a threat.  It can often be the first option our bodies try. The flight response is from the parasympathetic hyperaroused system. This makes the heart rate rise, blood pressure rise, blood surge to limbs, ears and eyes orient for threat, sweat, pain is dampened, pupils dilate, faster respiration and muscle tension.

Flight is physically draining due to the body working overtime to try and escape. Memory gaps have been mentioned during the running, sometimes we might describe not knowing how we got away.

There is nothing cowardly about running away. If it keeps us alive, then it is as strong as anything else.

Chronic states of flight can look like black-and-white thinking, avoidance, distraction, dropping communication, obsessive thoughts, and anxiety. Distractions can be overworking, over-exercising, obsessive use of social media, or other activities that require mental or physical activity driven by the need to flee

Fight

Fight becomes activated when we attempt to protect ourselves by pushing the other person away or frightening them. Often includes physical and verbal aggression. This doesn’t always get activated by direct physical threats but can come from emotional distress. If we were unable to fight back this can become triggered easily later on. The trauma was never metabolised and this leaves us in a chronic state of distress.

This is an active response; it is a hyperaoursed sympathetic response and has many of the same physiological responses as flight. Except the energy is motivated towards fighting and subduing a threat instead. Acute activation includes: insulting, yelling, spitting, kicking, pushing, punching and more. 

It tends to be most common, and effective, during one-off events. It tends to be less common in those of us who are child victims of assault, especially repeated as we can’t often fight our way out.   

A chronic state of fight can show up in us having a short fuse, controlling other people, passive-aggression, and perfectionism. This can transfer into us acting in ways that hurt other people. 

Freeze:

The freeze response is the body staying alert to the environment while the body stops moving. It allows us to not lose track of the situation and protects us by not hurting ourselves further. Fighting and/or fleeing may have been attempted and did not help or further aggravated the person causing the harm. For some of us freezing might be a primary response if we feel helplessness.   

The sympathetic nervous system that drives hyperarousal fight-or-flight response is still in the body, so we are on alert and able to act if we can escape the threat. But at the same time the parasympathetic nervous system is online and freezes the body. (Nunez, 2020) Breathing can become shallow and muscles become more rigid. This immobility is not a choice, it is our body’s way of trying to prepare for the next step and is unable to release the energy until the threat passes. (Smith, 2021)

Freezing is in no way weak. It is a natural response and is never something to be ashamed of doing and does not mean we are responsible for our victimisation. 

Chronic freeze response looks like hiding, lack of energy, difficulty engaging in life, anxiety, spacing out, chronic pain, migraines, and isolation.

Collapse:

The collapse response is the body fully shutting down and not being able to protect itself actively. Collapse is a state of hypo-arousal. When we begin to experience this response, we may not be able to speak, and they feel dissociated. Our heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature drop. If you are with someone in this state, you may notice they have a “blank stare” aswe become less aware of their internal and external world. There is a decrease in muscle tone, as the body is no longer attempting to fight or flee from the response that can lead to us fainting.

“Perhaps the most severe response in the defence cascade continuum, collapse immobility could emerge in the ongoing life and development of the trauma survivor in response to the re-exposure to the traumatic experience or exposure to experiences reminiscent of past trauma. Individuals can experience partial or full loss of consciousness, trembling, weakness, and may or may not retain memory for the fainting episodes.” (Staff, 2023)

Both freeze and collapse states staying activated can influence the development of severe C-PTSD due to it’s link to traumatization.

Fawn:

When we are in the fawn response we look for ways to please and appease people viewed as a threat. The ability to fully connect with other people is shutdown.

When we are in the fawn space we act like we are connecting and being social but we are not fully present. We are attempting to control others, without being fully conscious of it. We are trying to “people please” our way through stressful situations.

Fawn often develops when we feel we are losing control and autonomy but still believe we can get through the situation. It’s a chameleon way of living It’s done when it feels unsafe to be ourselves. Fawn can feel like we are drained or empty. Dissociation can leave us with fuzzy thoughts or feel like we are not fully embodying ourselves.

Generally, this response becomes ingrained via unstable caregivers. These unstable caregivers can cause attachment trauma. This attachment trauma can promote the development of a fawn response.

Chronic fawn responses can look like; struggling to stand up for yourself, giving in to others, easily influenced, loss of self, people pleasing, perfectionism, & over apologising.

Citations:

Cordell, L. (2021a, December 7). Trauma Responses: Fight (No. S2E9) [Podcast]. Becoming Trauma-Informed. https://becomingtraumainformed.buzzsprout.com/1522051/9641910-s2e9-trauma-responses-fight

Cordell, L. (2021b, December 21). Trauma Responses: Fawn (No. S2E11) [Podcast]. Becoming Trauma-Informed. https://becomingtraumainformed.buzzsprout.com/1522051/9721156-s2e11-trauma-responses-fawn

Cordell, L. (2022a, January 11). Trauma Responses: Flight (No. S2E13) [Podcast]. Becoming Trauma-Informed. https://becomingtraumainformed.buzzsprout.com/1522051/9837755-s2e13-trauma-responses-flight

Cordell, L. (2022b, January 25). Trauma Responses: Freeze (No. S2E15) [Podcast]. Becoming Trauma-Informed. https://becomingtraumainformed.buzzsprout.com/1522051/9922078-s2e15-trauma-responses-freeze

Gobbel, R. (2023). Raising Kids with Big, Baffling Behaviors. Jessica Kingsley Publishers.

Nunez, K. (2020, February 21). Fight, Flight, or Freeze: How We Respond to Threats. Healthline. https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/fight-flight-freeze

Smith, V. (2021, January 21). Understanding our Freeze & Collapse Trauma Responses. Victoria Smith. https://www.vsmiththerapy.com/new-blog/2021/1/29/what-is-our-fightflight-system-really

Staff. (2023). Collapse Immobility. Complex Trauma Resources. https://www.complextrauma.org/glossary/collapse-immobility/

Walker, P. (2013). Complex PTSD : from surviving to thriving : a guide and map for recovering from childhood trauma. Azure Coyote.

Windegger, T. (2022). Knowing the difference: freeze or shutdown with CPTSD [Video]. In YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fu81mHFqXyc