#not even when your trauma is untreated

[blatantlyhidden]

.

[nexus-nebulae]

i love that my physical therapist has told me exactly Why I'm getting so much pain and how to fix it (nerves getting trapped in too tight muscles) but man i hate that fixing the problem (stretches and massaging around the trapped nerve) takes So Long and so much patience

[bi-writes]

you get into big trouble, and you must pay the price. but bunnies should be terrified, and you are not.

mercenary!ghost x fem!reader (part 3/?)

notes about reader: she's curvy !!!! and she knows it.

cw: this is not a healthy relationship (you're both fucking insane), mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, mean!ghost, toxic!ghost, possessive + protective!ghost, kissing through the mask, mentions/depictions of violence + gore, innocence kink, corruption kink, size kink (reader is described as much smaller than ghost, can be easily manhandled by him), ghost is bIG, mentions of ghost's canon trauma, mw3 spoilers, fem!receiving touching + a little oral (18+), unprotected piv

his phone pings. he turns it over, narrowing his eyes at the text on the screen.

🐰: made some cookies. come over?

he runs his tongue over his teeth, clicking it lowly before leaning back in his chair. his ass hurts; he's been sitting here for hours, watching a dark window do nothing for hours.

💀: Working.

🐰: i have a surprise for you !!!

💀: Later.

for a moment, he thinks he should be nicer. give his puppy a bone. tell her he misses the taste of her pretty pussy, that he can still smell her on the mask he hasn't washed. and this is true, he knows it; he aches to go back to where she lives. he wants to see her again. put his dirty, gloved fingers into her mouth and watch her cry, soak her soft panties again, steal them, watch her cry harder when he finally gives her what she wants.

the most horrifying part is that he wants it. he wants to feel the warmth of her body. he wants to see her wide hips stutter, her pretty thighs open. he thinks about bending her over and kneeling down behind her, spreading the meat of her ass so he can watch her come undone against the velvet cushions of her couch.

you're so fucking pretty. and you're everywhere. when he grips the metal of his rifle, he thinks about how hard he was when he ate your cunt--fucking solid, balls so heavy and tight that he thinks he came for a full minute when he finally touched himself that night. when the sight of that rifle finds its target, he thinks about the way your pupils dilated when you came, the way your eyes rolled back into your head and the little sounds you made when he drank up the essence of you. when he swings his knife and plunges it into a soft neck, he thinks about your smile, the teeth you bared, the ones he wants to slide his tongue over when he kisses you again.

he had kissed you. kissed someone. the thought alone would normally make him vomit. to think of another person seeing his face, it bothered him, would usually make him feel sick--disgusted. his face wasn't meant for anyone to see, not even just half of it, and yet--he let you touch him.

and it didn't burn.

he remembers when he had taken a hand once for it. feeling someone's touch on his face, feeling scarred all over again by it, and taking flesh as their penance.

it was only fair.

there is something wrong with him. he should've killed you for it. your hand on his jaw, your lips on his, he should've killed you for touching him--and yet here he is, in another lonely room, staring at his target, thinking about how he can get your hands on him again. how he might coax you into kissing him just one more time.

he doesn't want to make it a habit. but he does want it to happen again. and it is enough that he knows he shouldn't see you again, but he will, because he's selfish. because he's hungry. because there is place inside of him, one that he thought was hollow and untreatable, that is just that much satiated whenever he is with you.

when he closes his eyes, he sees what haunts him. it isn't the memories of torture. he doesn't feel the wood of a coffin he once laid in. he doesn't feel the sting of pain when they carved layers into his face, he doesn't feel the holes they left along his chest when they rooted out pieces of him. he doesn't feel what he felt when they popped his fingernails off one by one.

no, he feels the ghost of someone's touch. he feels the rough callouses of skilled hands. he thinks of the bruised knuckles that used to scrape over the ridges of his uneven skin, and he thinks of the eyes that used to look at him as if he wasn't this mangled, forgotten thing.

he thinks of those eyes, and how blue they used to be. he thinks of what they looked like with that brightness in them, how they used to move, so fluid and easy. and he thinks of what they looked like with nothing in them. he thinks of them when they reflected nothing but the dull light over his head, and he thinks of the scream he let out when he was alone, when he still had his blood on his gloves.

ghost never begs. he doesn't beg, he never has, but he thinks he did that night. he thinks he begged, to who, to no one maybe, but he begged anyway, but it doesn't matter.

no one answered, and he knows there is a place inside of him so fucking hollow, that nothing will fill it again. a hole that only seems to be dug deeper and deeper with each thing he loses.

he never looked back when he left. he didn't say a word. he didn't even take his belongings, he just left. and the only thing he still carries with him from his past life is how good he is at killing and the extra dog tags that hang around his neck.

ghost isn't real. there is nothing about him that is redeemable, nothing about him that is good enough to love, and that is why he just doesn't care. and when he stopped caring, the nightmares went away. when he stopped wondering where they were, what they were seeing, if they would be disappointed in him, he no longer saw their faces in his dreams, watching them fade to black as the soft images turned into violent ones.

when he stopped being human, they left him, and he is so grateful for it. and that is why you were going to be a problem.

because he wants. he desires. he tastes, and he hungers, and you are sweet, and he wants to have you, and it isn't right. he knows this. he knows what it is he needs to do, but he won't do it--and there is a voice in his head that begs, from a far away place, for him to let you go.

but while he might not be human any longer, he is still a man, and men are weak.

as a man, he cannot close his eyes and forget your pretty face. he cannot stop thinking about your warm thighs, the softness of you, the unscarred skin that you wear. you wear your body as it is yours, and not like it holds you back, not like his does. your belly is full, and your heart is good, and you are warm. you aren't made of something else, you are real, and his blood runs so cold, he can't help but itch to feel you again.

there is something about you that makes that place inside of him feel like it isn't there, even for just a moment. and those moments remind him of someone else, of something else, something he once had that made him sick to think about having again.

the last time he had this, it killed him. the last time he found himself here, he didn't realize it had happened until it was too late--he was buried, deep, and there was no escaping a shallow grave this time because he thinks he loved the one that put him there. the last time he thought this way, he felt not himself, not enough, but it had been everything his life had been without, so he stayed, and he let it happen, and he didn't push him away, and now look at me--look at what I've done, look at what I've become--

men are weak. and men are lonely. and it was only a matter of time before ghost found himself there again, on his knees for something else. something soft and sweet and real, something that loves unconditionally and begs for attention and is never satiated until he looks at them and gives them what they need.

he doesn't know what he will become after you. he doesn't know what it will make of him. he knows you will go before him--he knows you will die before he does, because he isn't capable of dying, and even though he knows this as a fact, he wants to die again. but he won't try, because it won't work, even if he takes the blade strapped to his side and shoves it right through his heart.

he doesn't have one. he doesn't know what such a wound would even do. and he doesn't wish to see what color his blood will run if he does it, anyways.

you don't like the distance he keeps you at. it isn't fair. you do everything he asks--you go where he goes, you let him come and go whenever he wants, you spread your legs for him and let him have his fill, and you don't complain when he leaves even though your mouth waters thinking about getting your mouth on him and hearing him bask in his own pleasure for even a moment.

he gives and he takes, but he lets you do neither, and you want more. you know he isn't capable of more, you know he doesn't want more, but you want it, and he needs it. he needs you, despite what he says, despite how he acts, and you will give him what he needs.

you see it in his eyes. the things that aren't there, the things you think he once had but doesn't have anymore. sometimes he talks like you aren't there, and he mentions someone else.

another person. someone he used to know. someone he used to love, you think, but he isn't capable of love anymore, so you often wonder what they did to him to make him this way.

aloof. detached. so entirely fucked, he cannot make connections or hold the ones he has or let himself have what he needs. they have done something to him, and he wears the aftermath of it so clearly.

"he woulda liked you," he says sometimes.

"woulda loved the taste of y'r cunt," he murmurs once.

but they are gone. and you are not. and you know that there is something here. otherwise, he would never come back. he would not want to see you again. maybe he would have even killed you, but he hasn't, and he eats pussy like he loves you, so you decide you won't leave him alone. you won't let him go. this isn't fair, and you will get what it is you want--and give him what it is he needs.

you see him in the pub that you met in. he sits at the far corner of the bar, tucked in the dark against the wall, and he swirls a glass of bourbon in front of him. he wears a rain jacket over his dark hoodie, and you light up when you catch sight of him.

you wear something nice for him. a short skirt, a cotton shirt tucked into it, a cropped jacket over top, and your boots make you feel tall, but you know it won't matter--you'll never be taller or bigger than that large, hulking man you have your eyes fixated on.

but when he sees you, he doesn't react the way you expect. he doesn't sit up, doesn't get off his seat to come get you, he doesn't move at all. his eyes run over you, and then they move back down to his drink.

like he doesn't know what you taste like between your legs. like he doesn't know you at all.

your smile fades. you clutch your purse now in clammy hands, and you walk shakily to the bar and sit, swallowing hard as you try and hold in the shaky breath in your throat. your chest hurts a little; your heart has fallen into your stomach, and you shift on the bar stool, fidgety and uncertain.

you had been so happy to see him. you had been so excited to come here. you hadn't seen him in weeks--but the sparse texts he had sent you were enough to keep you hanging onto your phone whenever it made a sound, as if one of those notifications might be him, throwing you just enough attention to keep you on your toes, desperate.

your lip trembles a little as the bartender comes to take your order. you ask for a shot and a chaser, and you tell him to make it a double. you want to be drunk, and you want to be drunk quickly.

you tip the drink back, swallowing it down. it burns, holds a fire in your chest, and you chase it with a seltzer, swallowing down the contents of both until you slam the can back on the counter, hiccuping.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and when you realize ghost is still not looking at you, you're drunk enough to test his limits.

there's a group of boys down on the other side of the counter. they're playing darts, and they're drinking, and you slip off the barstool with a little step before making your way over cautiously. you pull your shirt down, show off the swell of your tits, and you ask them if they'll teach you to throw darts.

they practically cheer with delight. you hear one of them drool over your ass in that skirt, you hear another whine about looking down your shirt and at the peek of the lace bra you wear, and you shiver when you realize all you ever wanted was attention.

someone to tell you that you're pretty. that you make them hungry. but it isn't all you want, and they can't give you what you want.

they won't die for you. they won't live for you. and certainly, you know, they won't kill for you. but there's a man on the other side of the room that you want doing those things for you, that has the fucking balls to do those things for you, that possesses no good bone in his body that would do those things easily for you.

you see him in your dreams, breaking necks and popping kneecaps and slicing soft skin just to please you, and it makes you ache inside. you know what he does. he's never lied to you, but he doesn't always tell you the whole truth, but you fill in the blanks of the spaces he leaves behind, and you know what it is he does.

there's blood on his boots and money in his pocket, and you should be so afraid, but you never could be. not with the way he touches you. not with the way he talks to you. not with the way he puts his tongue inside of you and holds your thighs apart, and not with the way he grunts when he disappears into your bathroom to fuck himself to the image of you on your couch, half-naked as you wait for a fucking that never comes.

why won't he touch me? why won't he fuck me? why doesn't he rip the rest of my clothes off and have his way with me? he doesn't seem like the kind of man to ask for permission, but he eats me, and then he leaves me, and i can't take it anymore, please, please, please--

you're dizzy. the room spins, and the boys laugh, and your darts are hitting the wall now, clattering to the floor as they all boo and snicker at the way you're stumbling in your heels.

they're too close. you can smell the vodka and beer too much, and it's too warm because they're too close to you. someone's hand is on your thigh, another holds you upright with a grabby grip on your back, and there's someone else playing with your hair. they hum and they talk, and when they say they want to take you home, all you can do is hiccup and smile.

but as soon as you turn and leave, there's a large shadow waiting outside the door, leaning against the wall. you giggle knowingly, because you knew he would be here, and when the boys notice him, they try to take you in the other direction.

"if y'blokes knew wot was good for ya, y'd let 'er go and be on y'r way." he isn't in a good mood. he clicks his teeth as he comes off the wall, stepping under the streetlight. it makes the shadows of his hoodie darker, but his eyes are clearer now, bright under the mask as he breathes hard. he's angry, and he doesn't seem like his patience will linger tonight.

"oi, mate, relax," one of them laughs, and you giggle again when you see ghost tilt his head to the side. fuck, he's deadly, and you're wet. you squeeze your legs together looking at him, and you want him to put one big hand on your waist and tilt your head back--you want him to push his mask up and kiss you, all sloppy and soft like he did all those weeks ago. you want him to put his hands up your skirt and fuck you with his fingers right in the street, the same hands he squeezed the life out of someone with, the same hands he was going to kill these boys with.

ghost steps closer, and he goes for the nearest. brings a hand up, smacking one big hand against their cheek until their head hit the side of the building, and he crumpled to the floor in a pool of his own blood.

they scatter like bugs. stumbling drunk over their feet, tripping, and they disappear into the dark as ghost tilts his head to the other side now, looking at you.

you smile. giddy, hitting your toes together, and when you step to the side, you don't notice you've stepped in that man's blood.

"y'think this is fuckin' funny, eh? hangin' about with lot like that, y'think it's fuckin' funny?" he spits, and you put your hands behind your back, biting your lip.

"you...you ignored me," you hiccup. "why did you ignore me?"

"that wot this is about?" ghost snarls. "me not givin' you a proper look?"

you bite your lip harder, nearly drawing blood.

"i missed you," you whisper, your lip trembling slightly. "m-missed you so much..."

"fuck off with that," he mutters, but you step closer anyways. when he doesn't step back, you step forward again, until you're flush against his chest, tilting your head back to look up at him. you go languid when his arm falls, slipping up the back of your skirt just like you imagined. he squeezes the flesh of your ass before he leans down, and you whine when he presses the front of his mask against your lips. you kiss, your soft mouth kissing him through the fabric.

"is he dead?" you ask when he pulls away. ghost says nothing at first, just smooths his hand over the lace of your panties. he grunts when he slides his fingers between the seam, satisfied when he hears the squelch of your wet pussy as he pets you there. you squirm a little.

"dunno," ghost murmurs, and you get wetter you think, at how nonchalant he behaves as he touches you shamelessly where anyone might see. "fuck, bunny, y'r soakin' my fuckin' gloves."

"why don't you like me?" you whimper. you reach up and put both hands on his chest, and you dig your nails there, but you meet resistance. the muscle and fat there barely give way, and he hums when you drag your nails down, anchoring yourself to him. when you meet his eyes, they are dull, and you know he doesn't care. "i-i like you...i-i like you so much..." he huffs in annoyance, but you keep going, "you like someone else," you whisper. "there's someone else..."

someone else. as if there is some kind of competition, and maybe there is, but it isn't what you think. there is someone in his head, someone that screams for him to leave, someone that begs him--simon, please, yer goin' to hurt 'er, please, she's so pretty, please--but it isn't because he loves someone else, it's because he did love someone else, and he doesn't think there's room for more.

but he also cannot explain what swelled in his chest when he watched you with those boys. the searing heat of emotion that bubbled in his throat, and how the only relief he feels is the satisfaction that the boy at your feet bleeds because he put his hands on you, that is good, make them suffer, touching what fuckin' belongs to me.

there's a breaking point. it's the law of physics. something as rigid as ghost could only bend so far back before it reaches the elastic limit, and then it is deformed, and then it snaps, and then it is two pieces instead of one that cannot be put back together--and he feels it. he knows this is it. the fine line between what was and what is, this is it, it's too late--shut the fuck up, johnny, it's too late, i have her, she's mine, get out of my head, get out of my fucking head, i'm going to have her, have her, have her sweet fucking cunt--

you are bliss. you are the air that allows him to breathe. you are the threads in the fabric, the water in the soil, the heat that warms the house and breaks the soul and drives the machine.

you are in his bed, on your back, and when he slides your skirt off, there it is. the soft place between your pretty thighs, glistening and so wet, puckering and pulsing as you spread your knees for him and slip your shirt off.

he doesn't remember taking his mask off. he doesn't know where it went, but it is gone, and your lips are on his, and your tits are bouncing as he grinds his cock into your soft, squishy folds. the tip catches sometimes, and it makes you cry, and you whine when he breaks the kiss to lick your tears and taste the salt of your pleasure. the tears are heady and desperate, and he knows this flavor, and he wants more of it.

he commits this to memory. when he sits up and feeds you his cock, he memorizes the way you moan. the twitch of your pussy, the leaking of your wetness, the way you clench and tighten and grip so he cannot do anything but force himself deeper inside of you.

what is it that he loves? what is it that he loves so much that he cannot look you right in the eyes? whose body did he have underneath him all that time ago that steals him away so much he cannot fuck you the way you deserve? the way you need, the way he wants?

you reach up and grip his dog tags. they jangle against his chest as he grips your hips and fucks you, and you use them to anchor yourself, tugging on the metal necklace as you focus on the way he thrusts. powerful, smooth, with ease--he's so big, but he fills you so well, and you can't help but wonder if he's losing himself because it's so familiar. to be inside. to be gripped and squeezed and milked for all that you are, the brute of a man so misunderstood that fucks like a goddamn pornstar.

he's so good at this. when he finds the gooey spot in your cunt, he knows how to get you there. hitting it just enough to bring you to the edge, and then slowing down to savor the wet mess your cunt has become, and then doing it again. he listens to the cries you make, the crescendo of moans that you sob out that come back down when he goes softer. he thinks about this, and he makes music out of you. the pretty bunny, so fucking dumb inside, but the thing he cannot be without.

when he fucks you, he sees in blue, and he knows this isn't a coincidence. the blue in your eyes, it doens't lie--he knows what this feeling is, and he prays to no one that he can fuck this feeling right out of himself.

you come so messy. you soak his thighs, creaming on his cock as you beg him to fill you, and he cages you between his arms as he fucks harder, faster, losing momentum as he nears the same glorious high. he's been so good, but this he cannot help--not the way this feels, so familiar, so easy, so freeing.

there are no thoughts when he is inside of you, and this is bliss.

he kisses you when he comes. cups both puffy cheeks of yours as he spurts hot cum inside of you, sliding his big hands down to grip your thighs as he nestles his hips against yours. you reach down with two hands and squeeze his lower back, keeping him inside. this feeling, the feeling of being so full and warm and enjoyed, it isn't natural to you, and it isn't one you feel often, and you chase after it. you lick into his mouth and whine, and he hushes you.

"easy, rabbit," he pants, licking over your jaw, and you close your eyes. if he is predator and you are prey, then so be it. you want him to have his fill--you want him to trap you, steal you away, tuck you into this den he keeps and never let you leave.

you don't mind the blood on his boots, stained on his clothes, under his fingernails. in fact, you think about it often. you think about taking a rag and cleaning the leather of his shoes. you think about teaching him the cold water and peroxide trick to getting the blood out of fabric. you think about taking the gloves off, letting his fingers wander into the warmth of your mouth so you can suck his skin clean, all while your eyes never left his.

you think about the thing that you are. the bunny you are, the prey you've manifested yourself into, and you think about the thing that he is. you think about the dark, dense places that must exist inside of his head, and you think about how you can't see them in his eyes.

you think about being the bunny in a cage and how he holds the key. and you wonder if you would even leave if he ever let you go.

ghost loves someone else. you don't know who they are or where they've gone, but he loves someone else. but that's okay. that's temporary. that's just for now. they didn't love him enough to stay.

they didn't love him enough not to die. you don't intend to die. you're going to carve him up, right along the scars that he wears, and you're going to slip inside of him and live there forever, nestled between the organs and the black of his blood and the heart you know he doesn't have.

ghost is a thing. but he's still a man.

and men are fucking weak.

[ashiemochi]

hey bestie <3

I’d like to request a birthday smut with death island! Leon please and thank you 💕

wrote this on phone bc im on a trip and my phone is actually starting to drop dead so </3 time for a new phone ig. But!! here's something 💕 (don't point out mistakes or weird formatting, my phone is ASS)

Leon never liked being late in any way.

Traffic was his arch nemesis because it always resulted to him getting late to work – which also resulted in numerous lectures from his higher-ups.

Another thing he hated; alarms.

Those fuckers either don't do their jobs or are just for show – or maybe he should be getting a new phone or an actual rooster to cock-a-doodle-doo at the glimpse of the sunrise.

Late to events were even worse than mundane things. The amount of times the President would give him a look that simply said "you're late and I'm not impressed" were endless. It wasn't like he had much of a choice when he'd be fresh out of a mission or an assignment that he'd wear the wrong colour of suit, or mismatch his socks in a hurry.

Not to mention. Fucking. Traffic.

However, there was one thing Leon for sure hated the most, absolutely revolted at the idea.

Missing your birthday.

Much to his shitty worse line of luck, he was ordered to rush to the Alcatraz Island for an assignment. To his luck, some deranged guy with a bucket load of issues and untreated trauma decided on a random Sunday at church that he was going to be playing God and start an outbreak via mosquitoes.

Leon was never going to catch a break. All the time at the island, the agent couldn't stop thinking about how to make it up to you. Even when he was infected with the virus and minutes away from losing his last bits of humanity, you were on his mind all the time.

When he returned home, you had opened the door to a bruised and bandaged up Leon with a bouquet of roses in hand. A tired but apologetic tilted grin was on his face, his side leaning against the doorframe.

"Happy... Late birthday, sweetheart..."

While he didn't expect you to be mad at him, a tiny nagging something within him relaxed when you were nowhere near upset. Your worry and glee that he was back in one piece made you forget about your birthday, your arms residing around his neck into a tight embrace where his arms went for your waist – where they belonged.

But the flowers weren't his only way of apologizing – because what started as a simple reunion kiss turned into something more and hotter.

"Oh, fuck..."

His voice was breathy right next to your ear, nearly over clouding the creaking sounds of the bed. His skin was searingly hot against yours, your body painted with hickies and lovebites. Galaxies and nebulas in all the right spots, painless and painful.

Yet they were tomorrow's problem.

His hand was pinning your wrist to the mattress, the other gripping the back of your knee to push it back against your chest. His fingers were digging into your flesh, his hips moving in a perfectly powerful rhythm that had your mind reeling.

"Oh, god... Ah, Leon–nhh~" Your moans were his favourite sound. A sex playlist would usually be on, but on nights like these, it'd be just you and him.

His cock was diving into your pussy, emitting that moist gushing noise the harder he moved. Your clit was throbbing with how intense the pleasure was for you, bringing you a lot closer to yet another orgasm. You really tried to keep track of how many times Leon had made you cum, but after four, everything just became a mixed haze of lust and longingness.

Leon grunted lowly, his blueblue eyes observing your expressions sharply. His lips were parted for your own favourite sounds, his groans and growly moans sending shivers to your core; red and swollen from the countless hickies on your body and kissing you.

Those lips of yours were absolutely intoxicating.

The blunt tip of his bigbig cock was slamming into your walls, going almost rogue as your arousal and previous orgasms dripped and dropped to the drenched sheets.

You never knew you could squirt, but Leon was confident in his skills. It took time, and god was it worth it.

Your face was flushed, your free hand on his back with your nails digging into him. You could feel his toned muscles flexing and shifting right beneath his skin. Your gaze trailed up to him, your moans and soft whines escaping nonstop.

"L–Le– f–fuck, you're too," You keened, your other leg wrapping around his waist, whimpering as your walls squeezed hard on his thick dick, "deep!"

"Oh, yeah?" Leon muttered, the corner of his lips irking upwards into an amused smirk.

That was the last thing you heard before he released your wrist only to switch his grip to your other leg. He hooked both legs into either of his elbows, pushing them onto his shoulders and easily tugging you close to him his figure towering over you completely. His cock hit that spot in you, bringing stars to your eyes with a hitched squeak.

His whole length was inside, especially when he leaned over you, causing his pelvis to brush against your needy pearl. His hands returned to your waist to keep you pinned in place, his hips relentless as he pounded into you.

"Mmh, that's deeper, isn't it, honey?" Leon hummed, his thrusts growing ruthless as he fucked you with vigour, pushing a moan from him, "Oh, fuck... You're just so fucking wet and tight for me..."

"Nnh! Oh, g–god! Leon!" You cried out, your body starting to tremble and your arm joined the other around his back, your nails forming angry red crescent moons, "S–shit!"

The pleasure was looming once again, the knot within you tightening more and more. Leon's hips were out of his control, revealing he was just as close to his peak as you were.

Leon groaned, his eyes screwing shut for a second as he felt your walls starting to clasp around his cock as if trying to feel every ridge and bulging vein on it. His toes curled up on the bed sheets, his thighs tensing.

"Oh, fuck, fuck..." Leon let out a choked sound, his desperation to release causing his voice to break and hitch into a lower octave.

"Leon, I–" Your moans cut you off, whining as your legs trembled over his shoulders, "'m gonna, ah!"

Leon's lustful eyes found yours, for a second his love for you spilling through the thick dirty haze and he couldn't help but feel every so grateful for having someone to return home to.

Someone to fight for when the world's going to shit.

His lips met yours hard in a searing heated kiss, your breathless moans making it a bit difficult but it all felt just right. It ticked you off first when he dove his cock to the hilt, pistoning into your squelching cunt and pressing up against your clit.

A loud moan went muffled, swallowed by him as he groaned against your lips. The white-hot pleasure rattled your bones, coiling around your muscles at the intensity that your back arched off the bed. Your gushy walls clamped tight around his cock, consequently pushing him straight to the peak he craved.

His lips parted from yours to push his face into the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering to a stop flush against yours as if trying to keep his twitching cock as deep he could. His groan was, if not, just as loud even when he obviously tried to stay quiet. His cum spurted out thickly, filling you up so good and so warm. You could almost feel it in your tummy at this point.

A shaky exhale escaped from him, his hips moving again but at a slower pace, gently riding you both down from your cloud nine. He panted heavily as he moved his face away from your neck, his eyes shut as his lips peppered kisses from your jaw, cheek, inching closer to the corner of your lips before sealing them with his.

You faint hum merged with his, your hands kneeding and massaging against the angry scratches on his back. His hips retreated slowly, slipping his cock out that was still visibly twitching and his cum seaping and dripping from the red tip. A string of his climax connected between him and your abused cunt.

Leon parted from the kiss, his sweaty fringes dangling with the tips brushing against your forehead. One of his hands reached up to the side of your face, his gaze doing their usual scan to make sure you were okay and that he didn't go too far.

"I'm okay..." You whispered softly, your voice just as breathy as you brushing away his bangs which only dangled wetly about so your hand rested on his neck, your thumb tracing the stubble across his jawline, and with a faint giggle, "And I forgive you."

Leon chuckled, his eyes growing gentle as he caressed your sides gingerly, "Good, maybe I should start missing your birthdays a bit more, yeah?"

You huffed, lightly smacking his shoulder, "Don't push it."

"Yeah, yeah," He smiled before carefully setting your legs back onto the bed which they only fell limply, still shaking and he squeezed your thighs, "Okay, I'll get us water and something to drink, then we'll continue."

That made you blink, confused as you tilted your head to the side, watching him as he sat at the edge of the bed with his eyes trying to locate his boxers at least. With a soft groan, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, giving him a puzzled look when he stood up and slipped on his undergarment.

"Continue?" You repeated, your heart starting to pound once again, "We're not done?"

Leon gave you a look as if you had grown another head and he approached you, his hand pressing into the pillow next to your head and the other tilting your chin up with just his index and thumb.

"Of course we're not done, birthday girl." Leon grinned, his nose brushing against yours, "Still gotta make up for our anniversary."

Way to go for Leon asking you to be his on your birthday.

[caputvulpinum]

this might seem dumb and i promise im being genuine here. im just kind of fucking stupid and i would appreciate a little reassurance if you have the time

am i a bad person for not being able to reclaim queer?

i have a lot of trauma with the word and people using it for me without my consent is really triggering. my abusers used it and other words as slurs while they were hurting me. ive been trying really hard to get over it, i promise, but when it's used against me i still like... have panic attacks and flashbacks. other people using it for themselves doesn't do that to me, it's just when it's used toward me.

does not being comfortable with it being used on me make me a TERF? in the past people have taken "please don't call me queer" as "nobody should ever use that word" and even though im trans, theyve told me it's TERFy not to use it? i absolutely support other people reclaiming it and i really am trying to get over myself, but the panic attacks keep happening and now i'm paranoid that im a bad person for not being able to use it

I think the biggest frustration I have with this whole thing is that a narrative has been created where people would tell you yes, Anon, that you are a TERF and so on. And that's just not the case.

Even beyond the fact that words mean things and TERF doesn't just mean "transphobia on tumblr", the fact is that there are always going to be people whose experiences with a word will never be able to be reconciled. I've said throughout this whole thing: Every word we have ever had for ourselves is a slur, because they have all, always, been used as slurs against us.

And what I mean with that is not just "So fighting against queer as a term is therefore transphobic for this and other reasons".

What I also mean is "We need to be aware that there will never be a perfect word. There will never be a word which has been harmless. There is no point in trying to invent new terminologies to escape ongoing oppression, because those terminologies will just be used against us in the same way all others are."

Anon, you aren't a bad person for having traumatic experiences with being called a slur. The idea of that is ridiculous, and I'm as sorry you've been made to feel that way as I am angry at the people who said that to you. Barely better than your traumatizers if at all, all of them.

But I want you to also hear what I am telling you. You have faced experiences which were traumatic for you. This word is one which is a weapon that can always be used against you, right now, and it will never miss its mark. Traumas do not exist in a vacuum: you can't let it keep festering in you.

Because it's like I kept saying as well...if you allow your oppressors to have the language that can harm you, they will use it. Queer is a word you can't use for yourself right now. That's okay. You are not a bad person for that. But traumas can't go untreated. I'd recommend looking into mental health resources for LGBTQ+ people in your area. Therapy works. At its most basic level, therapy would give you the vocabulary you need to express how this is a trauma of yours, and might even be vocabulary which better helps you understand why it remains so harmful for you. I hope for your sake that you can one day make a decision for yourself on this word that isn't being controlled on a traumatic level for you, even if the decision you make is "I still don't like it for me". Hell, especially if that's the decision you make. What matters, Anon, is that you decide what words you want for yourself, and not the people who traumatized you deciding for you.

[faerygrant]

Ultraviolence - Carmy x Reader

Summary : An interaction between Claire and Carmen leaves you questioning his loyalty to your relationship.

Carmy was a complicated man, that went without saying. He was a man riddled with untreated trauma that stemmed from an absent father and an alcoholic and unstable mother. Not to mention the complicated and for a very long time, codependent relationship between he and his brother. The only constant and non-toxic person Carmen Berzatto had in his life was his sister Natalie, well that was before he met you at-least.

While he had become a changed man and confronted his demons from the past, there was no denying that Carmen still had lots of issues he still hadn’t addressed in therapy. The sleep walking had stopped almost a year ago, which you were thankful for, especially after a night in which he accidentally woke up and nearly lit the house aflame. The anger issues however still persisted, as well as the avoidant personality and constant feelings of angst.

You could tell Carmen was happier, he now kissed you goodbye in the mornings and goodnight before bed, he smiled more, he cooled off on the self deprecating remarks and most of all, he let you in. The old Carmen was hard as rock, made of brick wall, refusing to allowing anyone into those walls he’d spent all those years building up in self defence. Yet now he was willing to talk things through, slowly but surely.

Like most winter nights when the city got dark by 5, you’d walk over to the bear from work so Carmy could drive the two of you back to your place. It made the both of you feel safer and you weren’t opposed to any extra time you could spend with you partner. It also didn’t hurt to see his coworkers, who you’d come to see as friends of your own.

Tonight however when you’d come into the restaurant it seemed the only people here were Natalie and Sydney who were out back doing stock count. They both greeted you, however their odd attitudes weren’t lost on you. The two of them were usually so happy to see you, friendly. Yet upon your entry into the restaurant they had both gone frigid.

“Where’s Carm?” You’d asked, pulling the slipping straps of your tote back onto your shoulder.

“T-the office.” Sydney motions awkwardly to the office and your brows furrow. Why were they both acting so off?

“You probably should wait-“ Natalie tries to say but you’re already bursting into the office, curious as to why they were being strange.

-

“You know I just missed you Bear.”

You’re not prepared for the site of what you walk into, Carmy’s “ex” who’s not his “ex” but is his “ex” stood with her arms wrapped around his neck trying to kiss him. Your heart all but sinks into your ass as you watch her lips meet his.

“What the fuck” you scream, and immediately the brunette is clambering away from your man. She innocently tucks a piece of hair behind her ears and then looks at Carmen before she pushed past you. Not even an ounce of guilt on her face.

“It’s not what it looked like, I promise.” Carmen says walking over to you, trying to grab hold of your hand.

“Then what the fuck was that, she kissed you Carmen!” You yell at him and both Sydney and Natalie are now stood in the doorway watching everything go down.

“It was nothing, she just…” He holds his hands in his hair as he paces back and forth between the office. Refusing to complete his sentence.

“Are you going to finish the sentence Carmen, man up and tell me why the fuck your ex girlfriend was in here just now, kissing you” Your shouting has Carmen exasperated, he wants to tell you but can’t even figure out how to start the conversation.

“Carmy just talk to her.” Natalie tries intervening but is met with Carmen throwing a staple gun against the wall.

“Sugar get the fuck out of here and give us some privacy”

“Carm!” You yell at him all at once Sydney screams “Carmy what the fuck” Both of you appalled at his childish display of violence.

“Can I have five fuckin minutes alone with my girl now?” They both roll their eyes and walk out of the office. “Asshole” Natalie mumbles before slamming the office door shut.

“So she calls you Bear, is there something you’re hiding?” You question as you walk closer to him, tears falling from your eyes.

“No baby, she just came here trynna sweet talk me about all this fuckin shut but I didn’t wanna hear it.” He tries taking you into his arms but you push him away, not fully ready to give into him.

“Don’t fuckin pull away from me baby, you know it drives me insane” he sighs defeatedly, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Carmen just tell me why that girl was here, why she was kissing you.” The head from his head against yours somewhat calms you down, so does his smell and gentle touch.

“I told you, she wanted to talk and because of all that shit Dr. Murphy said in therapy about confronting your past not running from it, I thought I’d give her a chance to say her piece but she just took it as a chance to make a move.” He looks into your eyes, searching, no- hoping you’d believe him, he hated the feeling of losing your trust especially when he’d never lie to you.

“I just hated seeing that, her hands all over you and her mouth on yours, it hurt me Carm.” You finally allow yourself to fully give into his touch and he pressed a kiss to your lips, your manicured hand cupping his face, relishing in it.

“I know and I’m sorry, I only want you okay, you’re the only girl for me.” He whispers, causing you to whimper.

“Promise?”

“Hand on the fucking bible, I promise”

[ravenromanova]

Under the stars

Pairings: Tfws Bucky x Female reader (reader is steve’s sister)

Warnings: Mentions of death, Minor violence, Smut 18+!!!!, Daddy kink, Breeding kink, Dom Bucky, Sub reader, Spanking. Angst, Fluff

Summary: It’s been 3 years since you and Bucky broke up and now you’re attending a party for Sam aka The man taking up your brothers mantle. Bucky attends the same party since he’s his partner and when he sees you he decides to say something. What happens when you see and talk to the man who broke your heart again.

Word count: 3.4k

Main masterlist - Send me requests!!!

~

You step out of the black S.U.V with the help of your driver and bodyguard Mason. He takes your hand as you step out in your black stilettos and strapless red dress. You look over at him as he shuts the door and he gives you a reassuring nod. Sucking in a deep breath and swallowing your nerves you take his hand and walk into the party.

The bright lights and loud crowd are enough to make you wanna throw up. In all reality the only reason you’re here is because Sam begged you to come. And you also felt obligated to come since he is taking up your late brothers mantle as Captain America. You look around the room in attempt to either find Sam or the bar. Luckily for you, you saw the bar first.

“I’m gonna head to the bar you stay here and I’ll find you if i need you okay?” You told Mason and let go of his hand ans he gives you a soft smile and nod.

You saunter over to the bar and as the very handsome bartender for a vodka cranberry. Only a few seconds later he’s handing it to you. Thanking the man and handing him $10 you take your drink and so stand at a high top table. You look around the room and take in the memorabilia of your brother.

You sigh as you see pictures of him and you in the war, smile at the pictures of him and the other avengers. Deciding that you wanna go look around you walk over to what looks like another exhibit. There’s pictures of Steve and you as children, There’s a statue of him that makes you tear up a little. About fifteen minutes go by and you see a collage of him and Bucky. The breath hitches in your throat you you decided that you needed some air.

You push past the sea of people before you finally get to the balcony. You go and hide in a corner where you know no one can see you. All the feelings you’ve pushed down for three years are starting to come up. Losing Your brother, Nat and Tony, You’re breakup with Bucky, Your trauma you’ve left untreated. It’s all too much for you and you sit against the wall.

Time feels like it goes by extremely slow as you look up at the stars. You mutter an ‘i miss you guys’ to the stars before standing up and making your way back inside.

~Inside from Buckys perspective~

Bucky sees you the moment you walk inside the party. Sam had told him that he had invited you tonight in the midst of conversation. Bucky had tried to not give away the face that he was excited to see you again. It had been a little over three years since he told you he needed a break and then left without another word.

He didn’t mean for it to happen like it did but the pain of losing three of his friends mixed with him still dealing with his demons from HYDRA, he no longer thought he was good enough for you. So he did what he does best and ran. Bucky quickly regretted that and was soon the most miserable man on the planet.

Him and Sam were fighting more since Bucky was being careless on mission and being a dick more too. He also developed a drinking habit even though he couldn’t get drunk. Sam had told him after a talk you two had that you didn’t wanna hear about or talk to Bucky. So he told Bucky not to contact you anymore after he had called you like ten times, his heart broke but he agreed.

He missed you like crazy and when Sam had told him you were coming he knew this was fate giving him one more chance. And he sure as hell wasnt gonna let it just slip by. So naturally when he saw you walk in with the red dress he loved so much he knew the stars her aligned for the night.

He watched as you walked in with some man and he immediately tensed up. When he saw you leave the man and go to the bar he was gonna make his move til he saw you walk over to the exhibit, He knew you should be alone so he waited. Bucky didn’t want to upset you further when he saw you walk out. He waited til you came back inside.

~Back inside your perspective~

You walked back inside and got another drink before trying to find either Sam or Mason. Unfortunately for you they were nowhere to be found. You huffed and tried to text Mason but got no response. You just decided to stand at a table and just people watch. Everyone around you was dressed to the nines and you felt a little out of place but you reminded yourself of why you were there.

The thoughts that plagued your mind were soon cut off when you smelt a very familiar cologne followed by an even more familiar voice. ”Hello Doll” He says from behind you. “It’s been a while” You hear as you turn to face him and your breath hitches.

It makes you a few moments to take him in before speaking. He’s wearing all all black suit, with his hair tied off into a low bun at the base of his neck. He has his metal hand out and showing it proudly and not covered with a glove and he looks damn good.

“Hi James” You finally say after an ungodly amount of time. He smiles and walks to the other side of the table across from you.

“You look good”He smiles softly “I didn’t expect to see you here” He lies as he takes a sip of his whiskey.

“Well i could say the same” Your reply is a little shorter sounding than you’d like but you cant help but feel a plethora of emotions as he’s in front of you.

“Well Sam and i are partners so i came to show my support as his partner and friend along with Steves old partner” Bucky replies and you wince at the mention of your brother but are happy that Bucky and Sam are getting along.

“Well im glad you’re doing something good for yourself and other people. I’m proud of you” Your response catches the both of you off guard and you try to play it off. “I came because Sam begged and i figured i should be here to honor steve a little” Out of instinct Bucky grabs your hand and rubs this thumb over your knuckles. You take comfort in the moment before your heart breaks all over again remembering your last conversation.

Bucky had just gotten home from a week long mission and he did not look okay. You tried to talk t him when he walked into your shared apartment but he ignored you. You huffed and followed him into your bedroom and sawn him packing.

“You have another mission so soon?” You asked as you titled your head and saw he was packing more than just stuff for a mission. Bucky ignored your question and continued packing.

“Bucky? i asked you a question” Concern was dripping off of your words as you reach for his arm. He rips his arm away from you and faces you.

“I need a break” Is all Bucky says before he takes the two duffel bags, Leaves his keys on the bed and walks out without another word. That night you waited for him to come home but he never did. Then a week later Sam tells you that Bucky is at his house.

And that was the last time either of you spoke to each other until now. You snap out of your thoughts and pull your hand away from his and go to walk away not being able to handle this.

Bucky follows you out when you walk to the balcony again. You press your back against a wall and run a hand through your hair as you try to holdback tears. He comes up to and places his left hand on your shoulder and you jump from the touch of the cool metal. You back away from him as tears start to fall.

“Go away James- i cant do this” The words come out softer than you expected.

He sighs and his heads hangs low. “i-im sorry y/n when i saw you walk in tonight and i just had to talk to you and tell you how sorry i am for how i left” Bucky doesn’t meet your gaze and just stares at his feet as he talks.

“Just don’t okay? because if you were actually sorry you would’ve have left me James” You say as you scoff in disbelief at him and just look up at the stars instead of at him. He comes closer to you and puts his hand on your back for comfort.

“I’m sorry y/n i fucked up big time. And i didn’t realize it til it was too late. But i wanna fix this. us” He point to the each of you with a pleading look in his eyes.

You sigh and grip the railing before looking at him. As you face him he lifts his head and meets your gaze. His eyes are filled with pain and regret and you can see that very clearly.

“James i- i dont know” Your voice faltered as you spoke. “You broke me. It took me months to be able to talk to anyone or just be a person again. Don’t get me wrong yes i miss you. But i cant trust you” Bucky just looks at you and takes your hand in his without saying anything.

“Please dol- y/n please let me make it up to you. Let me love you properly this time. I know i fucked up i was a coward, i convinced myself i wasnt good enough for you so i did what i thought was best and left- im so fucking sorry y/n please” Bucky pleads as he puts hi metal hand against your cheek. Almost immediately you lean into his cool touch and sigh.

“That wasnt your choice to make, If i didn’t think you were good enough or whatever i wouldn’t have been in love with you since the fucking 30’s i know you think that your past is to fucked up to deserve love, but what about mine? What about what the red room made me? You aren’t the only one who lost parts of yourself but when Steve went back you were the only thing i had left… and then you well left.” You lock eyes with him as you voice shakes when you speak.

He sighs and decides to take a leap of faith. Bucky walks closer to you and wraps his flesh hand around your waist and pull you close. You can feel his breath on your lips as you look at him. He doesn’t say anything as his metal hand moves to the back of your head, Bucky leaned down and connects your lips. And even though a part of you wants to you don’t pull away.

In fact you relish in the kiss and try to fight him for dominance but end letting him win. It’s a combination of teeth and tongues but neither of you care. You both has missed each other a lot more than anticipated. You don’t even know how much time has past when you two break the kiss and finally get some air.

“Take me home” Is all you whisper after a few seconds of looking at each other. Bucky wastes no time in grabbing your hand and leading you out the building. You shoot Mason a message telling you are going home with someone and you’ll see him tomorrow. Once you and Bucky get outside he throws you over his shoulder and walks over to his car.

“I can walk you know” You giggle as he smacks your ass and tells you to hush. He gets to the car and open the passenger door and puts you in along with buckling you in before getting in on his side.

Bucky starts the car and speeds off to his apartment which is luckily only a ten minute drive, but with how desperate he is to touch you he’s gonna cut it in half. You place your hand on his thigh and lean your head on his shoulder as he drives. Slowly you move your hand over his clothed cock and he groans.

“Behave” He turns and looks at you and you stick out your bottom lip and pout.

“But daddy i’ve missed you” Your hand moved up higher and gently palmed his cock through his pants. Unfortunately for you, you didn’t get very far in your teasing as he pulled in to the driveway.

“You’re fucked now Malyshka” His voice was rough and deep as he parked the car. And before you could even register what was happening your door was open. He threw you over his shoulder yet again. You squeal at him and playfully smack his back. He pays you no mind as he unlocks the front door and carries you up the stairs.

He opens his bedroom door and throws you on his king size bed. ‘strip’ He commands and you are quick to rid yourself of your heels first, Then you make a show of taking off the dress that clings to your body. Slowly and ever so painfully you unzip the dress and let it slowly fall down to your breasts.

“Oh fuck Kotenok” He groans as you are finally left in your dark red lingerie set that he actually bought for you years ago. “Come here” Before you know he’s at the end of the bed and your back is pressed against his chest. His hands roam your soft skin and you moan as he teases your clit a little.

“Please daddy no teasing tonight been too long.” The desperation evident in your voice. Bucky was quick to turn you around and toss you on your back.

“Fuck i’ve missed you” He admits as he crawls up to you and hovers his body over yours. His lips are quick to connect to the sweet spot on your neck and his hands find your breasts. Quicker than you can fathom he’s removing your bra and takes a nipple in his mouth.

“Fuck daddy” The words come out broken as you moan at the contact. He takes your nipple and brings it between his teeth and nips it slightly and your back arches.

“Please fuck me” He quickly obliged and removed your panties but not without kissing all over your plush thighs. He’s quick to open up your wet folds with his metal fingers. Bucky moans at the sight of your wet pussy in the moonlight that had shone through the window.

“So pretty Malysh” You dont have a chance to respond as he takes no time in devouring your pussy like he’s starved. Taking the sensitive bundle of nerves in between his lips he sucks until he pulls out a moan from you.

“S-So good” You incoherently mutter and he takes that has his sign to stick two of his metal fingers in you. Involuntarily you grind yourself onto his hand and his flesh hand holds your hips down and he speeds up.

“Fuck baby you’re so tight. Did you not let anyone touch this pretty pussy the whole time we were broken up? Did you save this pussy for daddy?” Not trusting your voice you just nod your head and he mutters a ‘good girl’ as he fucks you harder. He adds a third finger while sucking on your clit and in no time your hands are tangled in his hair and your cumming on his tongue.

“Ive missed how sweet you taste malysh. Now get on all fours and put that pretty ass in the air for me.” Bucky commands and you do what you’re told. You stick your ass in the air with a little wiggle and soon get a firm smack to the ass and you moan at the contact.

He comes up behind you and runs his hard cock over your pussy to collect your slick on it. You back your ass up on him as a sign for him to fuck you already. With a chuckle he takes the hint and one of his hands grasps your hips while the other lines his cock up with your hole. Both of you let out a pornographic moan when he bottoms out.

“Oh fuck daddy i’ve missed you so fucking much” You scream as he starts up a slow pace since he doesn’t wanna hurt you… yet. His pace stays slow for a few more minutes before he decides to ruin you. He grips your hips and pulls you back on his cock as he fucks you. You lose all upper body strength and fall face first into the pillows with a loud moan.

“You feel so fucking good malysh fuck im gonna fill you up so good and maybe even put a baby in you” He says and the idea of you having his kids drives you insane.

“Please please put a baby in me daddy. I want you to breed me” You plead with soft cry. His eyes blow out with lust as you speak and he thrusts into you harder and faster than you’ve ever had. You can feel the coil in your stomach about to snap again as he snaps his hips into yours.

“Yea? you’d like that wouldn’t you? being my little fucking breeding slut. Use you like the fucking slut you are” He asks but he already knows the answer. And honestly the idea of getting you pregnant makes him even hornier.

“FUCK DADDY PLEASE” You scream as you cum all over Buckys cock which in turn leads him to cum as well as he feels your walls clench down on him.

“Oh fuck” Bucky moans as his head falls back and he fucks his cum into you before slowly pulling out. When he pulls out you roll over to on your back panting. You move the hair that’s suck to your forehead in attempt to collect yourself. Bucky gets off the bed to go grab a towel from the bathroom so he can clean you. He makes his way over to your fucked out body and smiles softly at the sight of you back in his bed.

“Come here Malyshka let me clean you” You nod your head and open your legs. Wincing at the cold cloth you try to move away from it but he doesn’t let you. “its okay once i clean you we can go to sleep” He says quietly as he finishes and throws the towel on the floor.

Bucky lays next to you and lays you on his chest along with covering you both with the comforter. Neither of you say anything as you just revel in being with each other again. Even though a little part of you is still unsure about this, being with him again you decide your gonna give it a try anyway.

“I want to try again” You’re the first one to speak and break the silence. You can physically feel the deep breath Bucky let down and you look up to see him with tears in his eyes.

“Thank you Malysh. I promise i wont hurt you again.” As he speaks you can tell he means what he says and you send him a soft smile at his words.

“I love you Bucky” You say finally using his nickname again. He can’t help but smile like a fool and kiss you passionately.

“I love you too doll, Now get some sleep its been a day” You nod your head and cuddle into his chest before falling into a deep sleep.

Bucky smiles as he looks down at you asleep. He finally got his girl back. He turns his head and looks out the window at the stars and smiles.

“Thank you guys” He mutters before closing his eyes drifting off with you in his arms and a smile on his face.

~The end

I do not give permission for my work to be translated or posted on other sites

[amoscontorta]

Datura Tea, or how all you want is to get some sleep

You're suffering from insomnia due to untreated PTSD (probably, I don't know, I'm not a doctor or a therapist) from your family getting, well, exploded, and the longer this goes on, the sloppier you become in combat and just existing, and a bad idea is born (let's go to the club alone, drink enough to finally get drowsy and then go home and finaaaaally sleep it off). Zayne treats some of your injuries, Mephisto does Sylus's stalker bidding, and guess who appears at the club right before you're about to probably violate the Hunter's Association code of conduct on an idiot who has a hard time taking no for an answer? Spoiler alert: he can't sing but he can dance, even if he chooses to dance to the music he'd rather be hearing than the music actually being played.

Second person POV, gender neutral MC/reader second person POV, a teeny tiny bit of Sylus POV at the end CWs: insomnia, trauma, grievous bodily injury, hospital environment, shots/needles/stitches, self-destructive behavior, MC may have issues regarding self-worth, MC refuses to get proper treatment, poor life choices, stalking (by Sylus), unwelcome boundary pushing by a non-main character, dubiously welcome boundary pushing (by Sylus), (irresponsible) alcohol use, everyone's thirsty for MC and MC is oblivious because this is a self-insert gacha game and no I will not be taking any criticism on this point at this time.

ao3 link here

Just as you had hoped before agreeing to Sylus’s deal that allows him to make use of your flat as a safe house if necessary, things have returned to normal. Well, as normal as they can be ever since your world was blown apart. It has been weeks, and you haven’t heard from him at all. At first, in the days following Sylus's little... visit, you sometimes find yourself thinking that you see a larger than normal crow amidst the swaying trees on your way home at twilight. Or you'll catch the reflection of two uncannily similar looking men in the shop window you just passed, but when you turn around, all you see is the blur of a faceless crowd.

You tell yourself that you're imagining things.

But then you stumble into your flat one night, wounded, again, but not so badly that you need to go to Akso Hospital, and stop short. You stand very still, clutching the hilt of one of the blades strapped to your back, and listen. Something feels off. Did you line your various pairs of footwear in a neat little row along the wall of your foyer recently? You can't remember doing so, but you've been doing a lot of things on autopilot recently. You wait, but nothing stirs in the gloom of your place as the automatic light shuts off due to how still you're standing.

Nothing. Just silence, and an aching feeling of absence that you refuse to think about too hard.

Just as you had hoped before agreeing to Sylus’s deal that allows him to make use of your flat as a safe house if necessary, things have returned to normal. Well, as normal as they can be ever since your world was blown apart. It has been weeks, and you haven’t heard from him at all. At first, in the days following Sylus's little... visit, you sometimes find yourself thinking that you see a larger than normal crow amidst the swaying trees on your way home at twilight. Or you'll catch the reflection of two uncannily similar looking men in the shop window you just passed, but when you turn around, all you see is the blur of a faceless crowd.

You tell yourself that you're imagining things.

But then you stumble into your flat one night, wounded, again, but not so badly that you need to go to Akso Hospital, and stop short. You stand very still, clutching the hilt of one of the blades strapped to your back, and listen. Something feels off. Did you line your various pairs of footwear in a neat little row along the wall of your foyer recently? You can't remember doing so, but you've been doing a lot of things on autopilot recently. You wait, but nothing stirs in the gloom of your place as the automatic light shuts off due to how still you're standing.

Nothing. Just silence, and an aching feeling of absence that you refuse to think about too hard.

Just as you had hoped. Of course. Although you don’t know him well, you learned enough during the few days by his side to know that Sylus’s moods and interest were mercurial at best. You knew from the moment that Kieran and Luke offered you advice from a psychology book about how people who have everything often need constant challenges and the unobtainable dangled in front of them to keep their interest: Sylus would soon become bored with whatever game he thought he was playing with you, and your life would return to its peaceful… new-normal. And that’s good. That’s what you want. You are not equipped to handle a presence like him in your life. You’re a law-abiding, predictable, simple hunter, just trying not to leave the world worse than you found it, one day at a time. You shake your head, and hang your weapons on the wall rack, next to the coat hooks, and unlace your boots, relieve yourself of your blood-soaked pants and ripped shirt, and step into your flat wearing nothing but your underwear. Free, at last. You turn to head to your fridge for a pack of something frozen to place on the bruises that are only just beginning to bloom along the side of your face, only to freeze yourself, again. Your heart kicks wildly in your chest as you take in the looming mass in the middle of your kitchen, before you realize--

On your kitchen island stands a huge black and red pot, filled with a riot of white flowers, their edges ringed with a faint lavender color. You hesitantly reach out and run your finger along the deadly looking little points dotted along the petals' edges. You don't know shit about flowers, but these look threatening, somehow, in their savage beauty.

Maybe this is a prank. As your partner and closest neighbor, Xavier has access to your place. And Tara has your spare key, since Xavier is out of town so often on his little secretive, certainly not having anything to do with Lumiere escapades. Maybe this is their idea of cheering you up?

But you're not convinced. These flowers look like a warning. You quickly try to summon a list of people who might want to make you uncomfortable, or even frighten you, enemies you've made or hell, beaten at the claw machine? But no one comes to mind. Sylus had said that Sherman wasn't acting alone when... well. He wasn't acting alone, so maybe these flowers come from them, trying to tell you that they'll eventually finish the job. But if they knew where you were, and still wanted to take you out, they could have left a ... bomb instead of a pot of frighteningly gorgeous plants to accomplish their goal. You shudder.

There's no card. No message. Just the cryptic message of the flowers themselves. For fuck's sake, you're tired. Something about the flowers makes you paranoid, so you carefully run your hands through the leaves and stems to see if there is some sort of hidden surveillance equipment, but you fail to find anything. Giving up, you lift the heavy pot with a grunt and place it on your indoor balcony, shutting the door. Now if there is some sort of camera or audio recording device, all they'll see is your hazy outline through your glass balcony door. You can't help yourself: you make a rude gesture at the door, just in case there really is a hidden camera in there. You finish your trek to the freezer, slap a bag of something frozen past its due date onto your face, and spend the rest of the night tossing and turning in your bed before another dawn rises.

As the days turn into weeks, and another day has passed where you're wincing as you open your front door, worried that he'll be on the other side, only to find it empty, with none of your clutter undisturbed, you finally decide to put Sylus out of your mind for good. He helped you when you needed it the most, and you repaid his dubious generosity when you patched him up at your place. So you push the thought of him down deep, down with all of the other things you can’t bear to think about these days, and life goes on. You water the mystery flowers from time to time, at the same time you water the rest of your plants, and resign yourself to not figuring out who sent them anytime soon.

You can’t sleep, again.

You’ve been trying it all: running on the treadmill until you’re on the brink of vomiting, the harsh lights of the deserted Hunter’s Association fitness center making you squint. All you’ve gotten for your efforts is a headache threatening to add itself to your list of complaints at midnight, 2 AM, 3 AM, 4 AM, until you’re still awake and your morning alarm is sounding from your hunter’s watch.

Squeezing in extra full body supersets with the kettlebell, sweat pouring down your back, soaking through the hair at your temples and dripping onto the mats. Your muscles are not getting any stronger, and you’re sure as hell getting more fatigued,  but the sleep won’t come as you limp into your bedroom every night.

Camomile tea with honey, warm milk, cold milk, rooibos tea without honey, fennel tea (you gag a little, and decide that you’re absolutely done trusting Moments recommendations when it comes to tea that aids sleep) before slipping under your tangled duvet, only to have to get up to pee an hour later, with no drowsiness in sight.

Every time you try to meditate and take deep, calming breaths, the memories come. And you can’t. You can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Once, you even ask Zayne if he can prescribe you something to help.

"No."

"No? You haven't even asked what I'm asking for help with!"

"No."

You look down at your boots, wondering how far your pride will allow you to push him. You don't really want to tell him, exposing all of your messy insides and issues for him to clinically judge, to file away under this diagnosis or that and dismiss as he moves on to the next patient, for him to see you at your absolute lowest when you've never even seen him break a sweat. Something about that idea makes you want to cry.

"Ok." You smile brightly, or at least try. It probably comes across as more of a grimace, but you are trying. "I'll get going, sorry to bother you!" you chirp, and then cringe internally. Why did you apologize? He's your doctor, if you can't even handle asking him for help with this, even if he says no, you might as well switch physicians. It's fine. This is fine. You are fine.

You're about to turn the handle of his office door when his even voice stops you from behind. "What you need isn't pharmaceuticals. It's therapy. You need to talk to—"

But you can't. Talk. You can't imagine thinking the thoughts, let alone getting the words out. You can't, not yet.

"It's just sleep, Doctor Zayne. I'll just drink some fennel tea," you lie, give him a little salute, and escape.

So now you’re on the brink of doing something you’d previously rather have had your teeth pulled than experience: going to a crowded club, getting shit-faced, and hoping the dancing and alcohol will knock you out for a solid 24 hours. But Tara has already turned down your invitation, putting her hand on yours and saying with excruciating gentleness that she doesn’t think that’s what you need right now, which you can’t stand—the kindness, the knowing looks, the unspoken questions from everyone in your life who knows what happened, and are watching you like a ticking time—

Bomb.

You shake your head. You can’t.

And Xavier has been out of the office a lot lately, and from the mail piling up on his foyer floor whenever you nosily peek through his mail slot, probably out of town as well. So he’s not an option to invite after Tara turns you down.

You already know that Rafayel is out of the country on an exhibition tour, so you don’t even bother calling him. Talking to him usually does cheer you up, but you don’t need to be cheered up, dammit, you need to sleep.

You don’t even consider Zayne. First, he's your doctor and probably thinks spending time with you outside of the hospital would feel like a punishment for the sins of a past life. Also, imagining him, neon lights of a cheesy nightclub reflected off of his elegant glasses, indignantly pressed on all sides by unwashed, sweaty bodies, dancing—your brain short circuits even trying to imagine it.

There’s no one else you would trust being drunk around who you can ask to go with you. But the idea of getting drunk, alone, in your silent flat, makes you want to gag worse than the fennel tea.

As you slip on a comfortable pair of tights under a stretchy pair of shorts, and a soft, loose top—off the shoulder so that you look like you made some effort (you refuse to wear anything that can’t also double as athletic wear, because who the hell knows when you’ll get an alert on your watch), you tell yourself that you’ll be fine. You’ll drink enough to get tipsy, enough to make you drowsy, you’ll wear yourself out on the dance floor, and then you’ll go home again. And sleep. You don’t need anyone else for this. Of course it would be nice to be able to let off steam with a friend, but these same friends have been walking on eggshells around you for months, so it’s probably better this way. No awkwardness, no judgment, no gentle attempts to convince you that you need—

You’ve just slipped your boots on when you hunter’s watch goes off. A wanderer is within minutes of your flat’s location. You gaze at your weapon rack, which hangs next to your coat rack in your foyer, and hesitate. These days, you grit your teeth at the sound of gunshots at the practice range, loud in your ears even through your noise cancelling headset. Still too loud. Still too much like a bomb. You use your blades as much as you can, only unholstering your pistols when absolutely unavoidable. You grab two swords and your holsters, and sprint out the door.

You manage to avoid unholstering your pistols during the battle. However, blades require close quarter combat, which means you’re getting hurt more often. And the insomnia means that your reflexes are slower than they’ve ever been. So after you successfully defend a group of tourists from the wanderer, while unsuccessfully defending yourself against the death throes of a bladed tail that flays open your back, you find yourself back in Zayne’s office, again.

Lately, you feel like you see the inside of Akso Hospital more than the inside of your own flat.

You try desperately to avoid having to go, when at all possible. You take care of yourself, when the injuries are in places you can reach. Teeth sinking into your ever-dwindling supply of bandage rolls, the pain is sharp and demands your entire focus, so your thoughts are unable to drift elsewhere, to flit to the places you can’t go in your mind yet, not yet, you can’t—

But there are some wounds, like the one you just got, that you can’t reach, contorting yourself in front of the bathroom mirror, your heavy, tired arms unable to finagle some disinfectant and a bandage over the torn skin. So here you are, again. To put it mildly, Zayne is not happy. He delicately, efficiently, dabs disinfectant onto the latest laceration on your back in frigid silence. You can almost taste the disapproval wafting from him.

It stings, badly, but the pain is dull amongst the cacophony of other aches and healing wounds on your exhausted, battered body. You don’t even have the energy to wince with each point of contact between the cotton and your gaping flesh.

“You don’t have to fix me up yourself every time, you know,” you try to break the ice. “I’m sure you have other patients with urgent complaints more in line with your specialty. You only know about this time because Greyson ratted me out.”

“I am your primary care physician, as well a cardiac surgeon. I am responsible for signing your fitness for duty certificates. Greyson knows this, and acted accordingly,” Zayne clips out. His office falls silent again, and you focus on the flowers you gifted him sitting near one of his office windows, as he prepares to slip the needle containing the local anaesthetic under your skin in preparation of the stitches you need. You try, as you always do without success, to figure out why he keeps them in here. When you first saw them, they reminded you of the color of the little seals he had made you when you were children. That you had interpreted as a threat. So you gave them to him on a whim, and was shocked to find them in his office the next time you visited. You wonder if he waters them himself, or if he lets the hospital’s horticulturist do it. He’s probably too busy to keep track of such trivial things. You decide that you should thank the lady you’ve seen watering plants in Akso’s hallways with a fruit basket or something for her extra effort. Out of the corner of your eye, a couple black birds flap their wings as if startled, half hidden in the fluttering leaves of the trees in the courtyard that Zayne’s office overlooks. You’re about to look for what startled them when—

The shot is worse than the disinfectant, but the painful prick is quickly over. A welcome numbness spreads under your skin, and you desperately wish it came in pill form for—well, everything else that’s wrong with you.

All you feel is a distant tug and release, but your muscles are locked tight as you let the delicate petals fill your vision, as you try not to think about anything at all, as you’ve done for months now. You’re grateful for the silence, for Zayne’s steady hands and breath. You’re grateful for his care, even though you hate that you need it. You don’t want to be another burden to him, when he has so many heavy burdens already. In this too, you have failed, as you failed—

You can’t. You can’t—  

Almost as if he has just felt the way your body has stiffened even further under his competent hands, Zayne interrupts your spiral as he, light as a snowflake, finally lays the bandage over your neatly stitched wound and secures the adhesive sides. He sits back with a sigh and just gazes at your bare back in silence.

You can’t bring yourself to move yet. You’re just so tired. But you know you have to. You don’t want to worry him, you know he has other, more important matters to attend. You gingerly lean back and let your shirt, which had been scrunched up under your armpits and around your shoulders while Zayne worked, slide down your back as you heave yourself to your feet.

You don’t want to turn and see whatever non-expression Zayne has on his face—you want to get out of here, from under these too-bright lights and his tangible concern, but you owe him the courtesy of looking him in the eye as you express a gratitude that can never be fully conveyed in words. So you do turn, but find him leaning back on his desk, his hazel eyes fixed on the same flowers you had just been staring at.

You open your mouth to thank him, to say your goodbyes to get the hell out of here, when he cuts you off with a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him.

“You know that you cannot continue like this,” he murmurs, eyes still on the flowers.

You take in the sharp line of his nose, the severe set of his lips. The bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows draws your eyes down the contour of his throat, and it hurts you a little, what a beautiful man he has turned into. For a moment you are jerked back in time, the profile of a serious little boy with softer cheeks but the same hazel eyes overlaying itself atop the view in front of you. When he turns to look at you again the vision dissipates, and you suppress the pain—the only thing you’re good at these days. You steel yourself for whatever lecture he is about to lay into you, convinced that the gentleness in his voice is just his exhaustion at having to deal with you, again, when the shrill ring of his mobile rips apart the quiet in his office.

His frown deepens, but he doesn’t move to answer his phone. It continues to ring between the two of you.

“Better get that, Doctor Zayne,” you nod toward it, flooded with the relief that you might escape from his cold admonishment unscathed, this time.

His jaw clenches, and the knuckles of his hands are white where they clutch the desk, but after another ring he finally reaches into his white coat pocket and lifts the phone to his ear.

“This is Doctor Zayne,” he answers with his customary calm, despite the disappointment you’re pretty sure he’s feeling at the interruption of his flaying you open in ways that the wanderer failed.

You plaster the biggest smile on your face that you can muster, exploiting his inability to say anything as he listens to the other person on the line, and wiggle your fingers in a small wave. Before he can react, you’ve slipped through his office door, and you’re practically sprinting down the hallway to get the hell out of there before he can come after you.

Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose, glaring at his office door as if it’s the door’s fault for depriving him of the chance to tell you that he will refuse to sign any future medical certificates until you listen to him and get the help you so clearly, desperately need, that he needs you to get so that he can sleep at night without being afraid that his worst nightmares will manifest every time you enter his hospital. As he sighs, and prepares himself to handle the next emergency, he does not notice the fluttering birds outside his window, nor the jewel-eyed crow that disturbed them, taking flight from the trees in which they were perched.

***

It’s not too late. You’re exhausted, and hurt, but you’ve been patched up, and the idea of your empty, ineffectual bed fills you with anxiety. Your mission is still a go. So you stop briefly at home to dump your weapons, only retaining a small knife strapped under a black armband along your forearm, throw on a different loose, soft shirt since your other one was shredded and not in a way that looks cute for the club, and head out again. You know a place you’ve been to before with Tara and some other colleagues on an 'optional' but heavily implied as mandatory ‘team-building’ night that ended with a lot of vomit, an inter-office breakup, and a lot of stern glares from your captain the following week. You are deeply hoping that this place can give you what you need tonight.

You look up and cringe at the glaring neon sign: THE BOOM BOOM ROOM. Ok, so this place isn’t exactly classy. But you’re not looking for classy. You’re looking for affordable booze, overwhelming beats, and a late enough closing time not to get kicked out before you exhaust yourself to the extent required by this mission of yours. You’re relieved that the line moves swiftly, and the bouncer waves you in without a second look. Apparently you don’t look as horrifying as you feel, and the knife is discretely hidden under the band on your arm. And suddenly you’re inside.

You’re met with a wall of sound and smells, the bass vibrating in your chest, the floor sticky with what you hope is only spilled beer, and the crowd is surging. You close your eyes once and just soak it in for a moment, letting the mindless life that the place is bursting with wash over you. Then you slip through writhing bodies to reach the bar and order your first drink. You don’t actually want to get shit-faced, since you’re alone. But you do want to have enough to feel the pleasant numbness of alcohol burning its way through your veins, to get drowsy. You order a shot to start and a high-percentage beer to clutch while you dance so you don’t have to wait at the bar again.

It works, for awhile. You let the music fill you, you let the warmth of the shot spread through you limbs. The presence of other, anonymous people, who know nothing about you nor what you’ve been through, relieves some of the loneliness that you refuse to admit has been plaguing you ever since your grandmother and Caleb … Ever since you lost them.

And then you feel someone sidle a little closer to you than comfortable, and you open your eyes to find some guy looking intently at you with a hopeful smile on his face. He leans even closer to you to be heard over the beat as he shouts “Hey! Wanna dance?” into your ear, making you wince.

You shake your head, closing your eyes again, dismissing him. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint, because you feel a hand at your elbow, and hear his voice again: “Why not? You’re not with anyone, right?”

You open your eyes again, and gently, but firmly remove his hand from your elbow with your other hand. “Nah man, I’m just here to relax. I bet someone else would be happy to dance with you though.” You shoot him a tired thumbs up and try to shift away, but he somehow manages to keep pace in front of you, and he’s opening his mouth to say something else, and you’re repeating to yourself I’m a Hunter’s Association role model even when I’m off the clock, I will NOT remove his jaw from his skull, I will NOT remove his jaw from his skull… When suddenly you feel heat envelop your back and someone’s huge hands are gripping your hips—instinct kicks in, you’re convinced that this asshole isn’t alone and his buddy has managed to flank you, and the knife is out of your armband and at a big, warm throat before you realize you’ve spun in his grip, and a pair of bright red, amused eyes are looking down into your face.

“Come now, is that any way to greet your boyfriend, kitten?” Sylus smiles indulgently down at you, hands still on your hips.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you breathe, unable to move, your brain scrambled from trying to reconcile the club’s beat, the aching absence that you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, and the man finally filling it again, right in front of you for the first time since he left your flat’s foyer in a mess of blood and feathers.

Sylus lifts a hand from your hip and runs one long finger over the blunt edge of the knife, gently lowering it from where you are still holding it in shock against his throat. One droplet of blood, flashing like a jewel under the club’s lights, beads from where you pressed a little too hard, and begins to slip down the path of his carotid artery. You barely restrain yourself from launching yourself at his neck and running your tongue along his skin to counter the droplet’s descent—aaand at this highly intrusive thought, you want to punch yourself in the face, and tell yourself firmly that it’s the alcohol. You haven’t had alcohol in months. Your tolerance is basically non-existent at this point, you cannot be blamed for whatever the hell that urge just was.

“I see your professional greeting has not improved any since our last encounter, sweetheart,” he laughs, sounding genuinely pleased despite his complaint, thankfully oblivious to the insane thoughts inflicting themselves on your brain. His gaze flicks from you to the aggressive guy still gaping at the two of you. “I suggest you listen to what my partner has clearly communicated to you, if you would like to leave this... establishment, with all of the limbs with which you entered it,” he sniffs, clearly unimpressed with both the venue and the limbs in question. The guy’s eyes widen a little more, which you didn’t think possible, before he just nods his head so fast it looks like it will detach itself from his spine and pushes away from you through the crowd.

“I think you frightened him,” Sylus tsks, shaking his head. “Another poor service review for the Association’s feedback form, kitten. I’m worried about your performance review this year.”

“Perhaps I should bring them your head to compensate for my poor customer service. That would guarantee a raise instead of an admonishment,” you snap, still feeling violent from your inexplicable impulse to slobber all over this smug asshole’s throat.

Sylus’s eyes, impossibly, light up even more in response to your threat. “Oh, I would love to see you try to take my head,” he almost growls, smiling so wide you can see his crooked canines.

It’s the alcohol. It’s the alcohol. There is absolutely no innuendo to be found in what he has just said. You lift your hand to slap that thought right out of your head, but Sylus catches it in one of his own and tightens his other grip on your hip.

“You’ve already done quite enough damage to one of my favorite acquisitions tonight,” he says, running his thumb gently from your wrist to your palm. For a brief moment, all you can do is stare up into his face, ensnared by the softness in his usually sharp eyes, the slight crease between his eyebrows, the hair that you had told yourself for weeks could not possibly be as soft, as pretty, with the sheen and color of a pearl, as you remember it being.

Ok, someone must have spiked your drink. This is not happening. You cannot handle whatever game he is trying to play right now. “What are you even doing here?” you ask, in a desperate attempt to divert this conversation’s track before a trainwreck happens that leaves you in more pieces than you’re currently in. "And boyfriend? You're my boyfriend now?"

"Well, this is sudden, but how could I say no to such an elegantly worded proposition?" he gasps, eyes widening in mock surprise.

"Sylus," you warn.

"Yes, my better half?"

"Stop messing with me. Why did you tell that idiot that you're my boyfriend?" You need to know. You don't know why, but you need his answer almost as much as you need sleep right now.

"Unfortunately we live in a patriarchy where having a big, bad boyfriend apparently garners more respect than a clear 'no'," he shrugs. "I considered removing his hand from the rest of him and choking him with it, but thought that might make you mad." You roll your eyes, and he narrows his own. "I was trying to help you, but it appears my aid was unnecessary. I'm almost positive I saw him soil himself when you stabbed me." He smiles in a way that almost looks proud.

"I did not stab you," you insist, even though you can still see the thin line of blood disappearing under the color of his black shirt. You decide not to point it out. He'll discover it when he looks in a mirror later. Considering how self-satisfied he is, probably an activity he spends a lot of time doing. "Why are you here, again?" you repeat, shaking your head.

“A little birdie told me that a certain feral kitten had gotten injured again, and I am finally in a position to do something about it after business kept me away far longer than I had planned,” he answers. Still holding your hip and hand, he gently pulls you a little closer and begins to slowly sway with you, completely ignoring the fast paced, thumping beat of the current track the DJ is spinning.

“Mephisto?” Once again, you’re on the back foot. You are a highly skilled hunter, trained to have sharp senses and to be able to notice when you’re being surveilled.

He leans down, rounding his broad shoulders so he’s close enough to your ear for you to hear him hum his affirmation, leisurely sliding his hand from your hip to span the width of the small of your back to better guide you out of the path of other dancers, his large palm making you feel … safe.

“I haven’t seen him. At all,” you admit, suddenly feeling so tired and out of your depth. So terribly lacking, even at this, a most basic skill of your job.

“No surprise, considering how little you’ve been sleeping,” he says, and then grunts softly as you’re pushed closer into him by someone behind you making their way through the crowd. He’s so warm, so solid, and from this distance, he’s all you can see. Again, just like during the auction’s dance.  How are you even here again? You resist the urge to rest your head against his chest like you did that night, as he forestalled the growing panic, as he showed you more kindness than you’ve been shown, or shown yourself, in months. In the months since… you can’t. You can’t, you can’t you can’t—

“You were a little distracted at your doctor’s office, too,” Sylus’s voice cuts through the thunder in your head, and it takes a beat for you to realize what he’s saying.

“You had Mephisto spy on my doctor’s visit?” you almost bellow, or rather, actually bellow, as the people around you shift and give you sideways glances. You try to jerk out of his hold, but only succeed in dragging the two of you a little to the side on the dance floor.

“I instructed him to confirm that you were actually getting proper treatment this time,” Sylus says, unruffled by your continued squirming to escape his arms. “Cease, you’re going to pull your stitches.”

“The stitches you only know about because you’re a creepy stalker!”

“Creepy?” he laughs. “What a strange way of saying handsome, protective, and resourceful.”

“Now I’m worried about your hearing,” you seethe. “That appointment was private!”

“Not private enough for our good doctor’s tastes, I’d wager."

“What does that mean?”

He levels you look with a look that you cannot begin to decipher. After a moment, he shakes his head, the earrings you just notice that he’s wearing flashing under the spinning lights. Is this asshole actually wearing ruby earrings to bring out his eyes? “You cannot possibly be this naïve,” he scoffs, but without conviction. Like he’s talking to himself.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re not allowed to spy on me during private moments like that,” you insist, giving up trying to get away from him since he has the reach and agility of an octopus, apparently.

“Excellent, then I’m allowed to spy on you during other moments. I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” he declares solemnly. “Please pay Mephisto no mind if you happen to notice him in the future, and for heaven’s sake, do not feed him. He is not a pet—he is a subordinate and should be treated as such.”

You make the fastest decision of your life in compiling a list of possible crow snacks as Sylus resumes gently swaying your bodies, and it’s after pistachios as the 7th item on your Mephisto treat list that you realize he has danced the two of you to the edge of the dance floor, and that you have failed to object to him stalking you through his cantankerous mechanical crow.

“Silence is not consent, Sylus!” you try, only to be met with a pitying moue twisting his wide mouth.

“A deal’s a deal, sweetheart. Come, it’s getting late, and I know you are very tired. Let me take you home,” he commands. "You can show me how well you've been taking care of my little gift in my absence."

"Gift?" You're so lost. You stop, not taking another step until he starts making sense.

"The flowers I had Luke and Kieran deliver to your place."

"Flowers..." You wrack your foggy brain, startled at the scowl that is scrunching Sylus's beautiful face.

"Oh, you receive so many bouquets on a regular basis that they just blur together?" He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you again, but his hand slips away from yours until just your pinkies are linked. "I promise to redouble my efforts to make mine stand out from the crowd, then." Inexplicably, he lifts your linked pinkies to his lips for a kiss-the word tender drifts through your exhausted mind. His lips are unbearably soft.

You snort. "I never receive bouquets..." and then it hits you. The doom flowers.

"You sent me the pot of death threats?"

"Death threats?" he blinks, and it's the first time you think you've ever seen him at a loss for words. But he recovers quickly. "You mean the subtle and elegant form of self-defense to comfort and protect you in my absence?"

"Wut."

"I sent you a very generous supply of datura flowers. They're not only visually appealing, but also highly poisonous. You can use them to poison any unwanted guests you happen to find in your home if your more conventional weapons aren't practical for the occasion," he explains, eyes lighting up again.

"Sylus, you sent me a pot of deadly plants with no note or message. I thought someone was trying to convey a message, message. Like, a warning to watch my back."

His face does something complicated then: flickering from surprise to something like pride, but then he just stares at you, sanguine eyes drifting along your face and down to where his hand is linked with yours for a long moment. "It seems I underestimated your cynicism about other people," he says finally. "And while I always enjoy the proof of our kindred spirits, I would rather you didn't have to live a life where you have to be suspicious of something so banal as a gift of flowers." You are blindsided by the gentle sincerity in his words, and you're trying to hold back the tears that are burning your eyes out of nowhere, when he looks at your face again, brightening. "Now that I'm here, let me taking care of being the paranoid one." His gaze sharpens on your tear-filled eyes, and he cocks his head. Runs his middle finger from the corner of your mouth to just under your left eye, gathering the moisture there that is threatening to overflow. "Sweetheart, tears of gratitude are unnecessary. If you're really thankful, then let me take you home, and just try to refrain from offering me any datura tea when we get there, hmm?" He lifts his finger to his lips and flicks his tongue out to lick, and you are convinced you are hallucinating when his nostrils flair, as if he's savoring whatever he tastes in your tears.

As is becoming routine with Sylus, you feel like you're in a fever dream, watching him from a great distance: he's ahead of you somewhere, already at his next destination, pulling you along in his slipstream like a bird in flight, when you're not even sure you know how to fly. The only thing you are able to process at the moment is that if you don't say anything, you'll be right back where you started: staring at the streetlights spilling across your ceiling, exhausted in an empty bed, with no sleep in sight.

“No,” you blurt out. “I don’t want to go home. Please. You’re welcome to go, but I came here on a mission, and I am going to fucking complete it even if it kills me.”

He considers you for a moment, before asking, “And what mission is that?”

You look away, unwilling to meet his eyes now. You don’t want to admit that you’re so fucking tired you can hardly see straight, shoot straight, think straight, but every time you close your eyes, the memories come and you can’t you can’t you can’t and you haven’t slept properly in months.

“I see,” is all he says, and he pulls you along, your hand firmly wrapped in his, and you’re too tired to ask what, exactly, he sees. You let him lead you into the cool night, the bright night lights of Linkon City drowning out the stars above. He tosses you a helmet, and unlike the first time he put you on his motorcycle, he lifts you in his arms to plop you on the seat behind his.

“I’ll have Luke and Kieran pick up your bike and have it back to you before you need it tomorrow,” he says before you can even think to ask about it. “Hold on tight, and don’t go falling asleep on me. I won’t scrape you off the pavement if you fall off my ride.”

And just as he knew you would, you do the exact opposite of what he ordered, because you’re his contrary, ever wilful, feral kitten who refuses to do as its told. You wrap your arms around his solid waist, rest your helmeted head against his broad back, and fall promptly asleep. He relishes the feel of your arms still wrapped tightly around him, but the scarlet-ink tendrils of his evol keep you secured against his back in case your hold loosens as you sink deeper into sleep.

He snorts when you begin to snore through the helmet's comms.

He sighs, feeling content for the first time in weeks. It has taken much longer than he anticipated to clean up all the of messes that Sherman and his backers made while he was gone. Mephisto has been reporting to him daily regarding how you were doing, and Kieran and Luke have been on standby in case you needed them. But even sleep-deprived and determined to take care of your own problems by yourself to the point of self-destruction, you have handled what has come your way with competence, so their help has never been absolutely necessary. But Sylus can see just how close to the breaking point you are. Now that things have finally settled in the N109 zone, he intends to begin a new game, and it starts with him flourishing the trump card of his current hand: your invitation to let him use your place as a safe house whenever the ‘need’ arises.

He revs the engine, just for fun, smiles to himself, and rides through the rest of the night, until the sun comes up.

Later, when you wake up alone in your own bed, stretching lazily in the soft sunlight filtering through your gauzy curtains, you realize it’s the best night’s sleep you can ever remember having. You turn your head and find a black feather on the pillow next to you. You flick it gently, and try not to think too deeply about anything at all.

[yeyinde]

Question about Straw House, Straw Dog Johnny! OK so he obviously has some brain trauma due to taking a bullet to the head and all, and we can see him shifting between thoughts and emotions in a way one can describe as volatile, but I've been dying to know... Does Johnny have moments of clarity, moments where who he was before being shot break through? If so, how lucid is he? Is he able to take stock of his surroundings, does he know he's got a captive in his bed? Does he wonder about his team mates, until his mind splinters and he returns to being a shell of a man in the woods?

sorry this took me so long to answer!! it got super long so i had to find ways to cut it down, but since i couldn't write this in Johnny's pov, i rambled. a lot.

but—to answer your question: yes and no lmao

i don't think he's fully gone. definitely delusional, grasping at nothing, and struggling to adjust to this civilian world where no one needs him. not even his teammates.

but he's cognisant, and in many ways, he's still Johnny. still Soap. but he is a victim of circumstances. he has untreated TBI (which outside of physical recovery does need therapy as well, especially to offset the emotional trauma that underlines it all), and he decided to pick one of the loneliest places in Canada to hide out in. maybe not the loneliest, but there's definitely a sense of disconnect when you move outside of the big cluster of cities near the border to the US, and nowhere else captures that primordial, almost cosmic sense of crushing aloneness quite like NWT (for me, at least lmao)

it's the social isolation, the feeling of worthlessness (because i do see him as someone who'd never retire from this, ever), and the loss of agency and familiarity that really send him spiralling. he's grasping at straws and sinking deeper into his terrible mental state. listless, in a way. and very, very angry. everything was ripped away from him in seconds and now he's stuck inside a cabin with nothing but his thoughts for company. and while we don't really know how he came to be squirreled away in NWT (specifically a patch of unorganised land outside of Wrigley), we know that it was not choice.

he still thinks of his teammates, remembers (vividly) everything that happened, but had no choice but to leave. there's a lot of resentment, though. he feels robbed. broken. useless. feels like he should be there with them when they hunt down Makarov, rather than sidelined like he has been. it festers. builds.

but then you come along.

a task, a mission. someone he can save. and even if he were fully cognisant, woke up perfectly fine one day, he'd still find ways to rationalise it. he does not, nor will he ever, see you as a captive. he did you a favour. he saved you. by any means necessary. even if those means are morally reprehensible and outright illegal. Soap is patting himself on the back for doing what needed to be done, and nothing anyone says will change his mind.

and if he was ever caught, he'll pretend to feel some sense of remorse for his actions. let people lead the discussion of how tragic what happened is and how truly sorry he is for the pain caused, but the entire time, he's plotting on how to get his family back. you're his. he found you. he'll never feel guilt over what he sees as a good deed. but i think he can be convinced to feel remorse over sneaking into your bed.

[bolshefem]

if you think people are more empathetic to women than men you are straight up fucking delusional. men have proved themself almost INCAPABLE of empathy for women, and this is statistically and empirically supported. they are incapable of understanding that women have an internal life, do not see us as humans with emotions who exist external to them. look at the comments on a post of a man talking about self harm vs a woman. "men's mental health matters too🥺" "I'm proud of you" vs "attention whore" "sideways for attention downwards for results" "ugly bitch trying to get sympathy"

this is what happens for ANYTHING regarding sexual assault, mental health, suffering, trauma.

or an overweight man vs woman "keep your head up king👑" "you got this bro, I believe in you" "these women don't deserve you." (like totally unprompted not discussing relationships) Or often no comments on his weight at all if he's not talking about it. For a woman, no matter WHAT she is posting about "landwhale" "starve yourself" "put down the burger" "kys fat b*tch" and the most vile and insanely cruel comments The amount of threads and forums dedicated to eviscerating degrading and insulting overweight women on places like lolcow and kiwi farms and just social media in general and I genuinely have never seen one for a man. Same thing with things like facial deformities, the comments are unbelievably cruel to these women.

the level of vitriol is not even remotely comparable, and I don't even think it's mostly a double standard. I think they just lack the capacity to feel empathy towards women and perceive them as human and capable of feeling pain. Things are solely perceived in how they relate to them and thought to be performances for men. Women exist to serve them and if they don't give them a boner they don't deserve to be alive. If something, no matter how innocuous, pisses them off in the slightest they don't have a single qualm because they just don't view them as real people and full human beings with internal lives. women having emotions is inherently manipulative, anything they say or do is a performance for men. And like look at things such as the gender credibility gap https://www.tedxmilehigh.com/gender-credibility-gap/ Women are systematically less believed as witnesses in a courtroom, reporters, academic authorities, in claims of sexual assault, discrimination, or harassment.*

Women's reports of pain symptoms are less likely to be believed by doctors, and they are staggering more likely to not receive proper medication, go undiagnosed and untreated. Women are 32% more likely to die post-op if their surgeon is a man. "Womens' pain not taken as seriously as mens' pain. Researchers found that when male and female patients expressed the same amount of pain, observers viewed female patients' pain as less intense "(sciencedaily.com/releases/2021/04/210406164124.htm) "Nearly three-quarters of cases where a disease primarily affects one gender, the so-called “men's diseases” are overfunded, while the “women's diseases” are dramatically underfunded."

https://www.concernusa.org/story/gender-bias-in-healthcare/ https://www.washingtonpost.com/wellness/interactive/2022/women-pain-gender-bias-doctors/ https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/gender-bias-in-medical-diagnosis#how-does-it-affect-diagnosis https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/women-and-pain-disparities-in-experience-and-treatment-2017100912562 I could literally go on on this topic forever. The gender empathy gap is a form of epistemic violence against women.

* "Suicidal behaviour and self-harm in women can be viewed by family, health professionals and the community as attention-seeking, manipulative and non-serious, which can negatively influence how young women are treated." (Curtis, 2016) *Men with overweight tend to be perceived as wise or experienced, while women's credibility tends to decrease with excess weight... women seem to experience higher levels of weight stigmatization than men, even at lower levels of excess weight (Flint et al., 2016)

*Women are at greater risk for weight/height discrimination than men (Puhl et al, 2008)

*so many papers on this but "Across the board, women are perceived to be less credible than men. Especially women’s testimonies of rape and sexual harassment are widely trivialized and disregarded, even though reports of sexual abuse are not more likely to be false than reports of other crimes" (Schreurs, 2020) more like Mack, 1993

[the-night-writer1]

Ben being more child ben like in omniverse could very easily be explained as untreated or ignored regression by his loved ones all things considered. This boy has not just the world on his shoulders but the entire universe maybe multiverse on it.

Like let that set in for a minute, Ben has been through the mental ringer multiple times by the time omniverse is occurring. The last year and half alone has been horrible. Losing his grand father /mortal compass three fucking times, having to put the omnitrix back on, relearning to use it, the hybrids trying to kill everyone because they were dying, Vilgax returns, the ultrmatrix situation, ultimate Keivn making ben almost willing to murder his best friend for the sake of everyone else , the forever knights, him and Gwen's lil adventure where they found a dead fucking body in a animal clinic and the fact he was probably barely getting any sleep during all of it. Not to mention he was bluntly told by azimuth that oh the omnitrix is alien version of Noah's arc. It also glitched and now he has alien babies feeding on the sun.

Then there's the trauma from why Ben took it off. Azimuth is real shit for letting it even be possible for a user to be able to get addicted to an alien species. Yet , when it does happen with feedback they handled it poorly ben was 11. He found out an alien that came so naturally to him that he mastered feedback very quickly. Ben even years later said Feedback felt like part of him and neither max or azimuth the two adults who knew that, properly comforted Ben afterwards.

Max didn't talk to him about it and let it linger while azimuth just told him that he didn't learn anything by winning all the time. Great thing to tell a traumatized child who feels like part of them was ripped out by one of your fucktastic fuck ups.The guilt and trauma from the lose of feedback alone made Ben take off the omnitrix and give up being a hero for at least four years. From what is hinted it wasn't an easy thing to take off either. So it is completely understandable or down right certain Ben would regress in mental maturity, that said however there's also the thought he's masking his feelings even from himself because if he cant handle it the universe is fucked.

Because remember he had to recreate the entire universe and how much they down play it? That is probably weighting on Ben's psyche a lot subconsciously.

All things considered, Ben's maturity in omniverse could make complete sense being the boy doesn't go to therapy. Let him be immature and cocky he deserves it after all the shit he's gone through and continues to go through.

[lokilysolbitch]

DO WHAT YOU CAN AND DONT BE A DICK ON THE INTERNET

i was writing a post about how it's unhelpful to shame average people for not meeting your standards of activism and calling them evil and things like that bc shame is not a reliable motivator and you don't know these people blah blah blah. and then i ended up writing this so here u go:

like. let's imagine you're an average guy. you work a job under a shitty manager and you still can't pay rent and afford groceries at the same time. you have untreated physical and mental illness and/or trauma. you don't have energy to cook a full meal. one of the microwave foods you like is being recalled. lead or e. coli or something. you can't remember when you last had water. you are too tired to clean the mold and algae off the corners of your brita. and who knows what is in the tap water.

a new episode of your favorite show just came out. you post about it. someone comments or makes a video about you and several others who are not posting about [serious issue]. saying you are heartless and inhuman. and you've heard about [serious issue] on a site or from someone who is supposed to be the most trustworthy on this topic. this random person on the internet is telling you things that don't match up to that. they're telling you that you should've had researched more. that not knowing enough is not an excuse. there is mold in your brita filter.

the video about you has thousands of comments. they're saying they think you should know what it's like to experience [serious issue]. then maybe you would take it seriously. you have the privilege to post about your favorite show. you are being lazy. these people are like piranhas. your dinner has e. coli or something. you have to clean your brita.

you want to research [serious issue]. you care about people. you started to but you are hearing different stories. one of your sources is from the same internet the random person came from. you thought you weren't supposed to trust the internet? another source can't even stand up against itself. that one is supposed to be trustworthy.

you see someone getting torn apart for posting misinformation. comments say they should have done their research. these people are like piranhas.

now you're seeing it. raw footage. you need a break and your notifications are flooded. why haven't you posted about this yet??? it's the least you could do. are you lazy??? don't you care??? these people are like piranhas. you still need to clean the brita.

no more internet. you need to clean the brita. sponge, soap. tap water. thin green and black streaks coming off the corners of the pitcher. all done. well now the sponge has mold on it. new sponge. your brita filter is getting old. new filter. do you even deserve a new filter? do you deserve fresh water? whatever, just refill it. tap water. waiting. tap water. waiting. tap water, fridge. check your phone.

brita filters are getting recalled.

lead or e. coli or something.

[hero-next-door]

Defending Nathan Prescott

(From Every Accusation)

All fact proven & common sense theory

No bullshit.

I suck at grammar. Deal with it.

I've replayed the game far too many times to gather this. I read into everything and even read into and WATCHED people who have suffered the same mental illness and situations Nathan has been in.

What I'll be covering:

Illness, rib breaking, dead animals, bdsm, Chloes pic, Rachel, gun on campus, Kate, Pompidou, Jefferson, wealth and his father.

And dont even THINK about skipping ahead!

Everything here is tied into one another. Read from start to finish. You're on this post to understand, right? Or to argue? Im not here to argue so, bye.

Lets start from the top...

Nathans downfall was caused by society and all who failed him. He's driven by hatred of others who don't understand him, and the game purposly wrote him off that way. They want players to hate him from what sides of the stories we've experienced. They gave this character controversial hobbies and a cynical bully attitude to really keep you suspecting him and not guessing Jefferson. The game isn't about Nathan. It's about Max. We learn so much about Max and everyone close to her. The tears they shed, the pains they've endorsed. Same with Chloe and Rachel's story. My heart goes out to all of them. We don't get to see that with other characters. Therefore, we don't care for them...or that's the games' intentions. We don't know the ins and outs of Nathan. Only what the game shows us, which are all negative. So, of course, disliking Nathan is only reasonable.

Mental Illness

We start with mental illness. He has Psychosis. Lots of proof, but i'm assuming you've seen it all already. Like, do people know what Psychosis is? Do they REALLY know what it is? Because this ALONE changes everything. And not Psychopathy ..Psychosis. Two different things, pookie. Psychopathy is the one where part of the brain is missing or disturbed. THEY'RE the ones that don't have empathy. Psychosis is different. Anybody can get it. This illness can take your empathy and awareness away, then bring it all back after the harm is done, leaving you to process that. Schizo and Bipolar are also all quite a handful to deal with too. Loud Noises/downgrading voices in your head SO LOUD that people will do anything to calm them. (Dont be shy, youtube: "28- Psychotic Episode" by Collège d'Alma) The feeling of loosing your mind is something I notice a lot of haters dont empathize on especially if they killed or hurt sombody. The brain slips into a state so disconnected that interviews with recovering patients I've seen describe it as confusing and scary and dont recall saying the stories they told and actions they did others. Imagine not being able to remember the hurtful things you've said and done. Imagine being told you killed somebody... with your own hands? And you can hardly remember what happened. Like... how would you react? Think about it. Anybody can get psychosis with enough trauma or a kick in the noggin. Some people who were interviewed that had psychosis said that they found relief when getting high or drunk. Little did they know the symptoms could bounce back up to 5x during withdrawal. But they were so desperate to get rid of the voices that they abused the drugs. Like....wow the game really did their research to create such a complicated character. Anyway, moving on.

Edit: After further research, he certainly had bipolar disorder first. Then it went left untreated, therefore sunk him to worse mental state of many other illnesses. Drugs only made things much, much worse. Bipolar disorder can cause schizo and schizo to lead to psychosis. 🙄Jesus Nathan quit hogging all the illnesses.

Now, let's break down everything else...

Shooting Chloe

Just rewatch it. Aims gun, Chloe pushes him, it tightens grip, ACCIDENTLY shoots her, immediately drops gun and gets really scared of he's done, checking to see if she's alive! If you specifically rewatch the ending of Lis1 when Chloe gets shot, they extend his reaction. He goes back and forth, checking her body. If he wanted to kill her, you check pulse and then run. Not sticking around crying about it. There's your empathy you're all saying he doesn't have. Other times where he could have shown more empathy ties with his Psychosis. Some people with the illness said that the voices loudly in their head will convince them that everyone around you is your enemy. Everyone is after you. It can twist your brain to feel anger and fear towards others. Nathan is always hung up on how everyone is using him and trying to control him. Which people ..DO use him. So now he's convinced that everyone is. He's not choosing to feel this way. He just needs psychiatric help.

Breaking Ribs

In Before The Storm, his entire demeanor is completely different than the Lis 1. He's more cowardly and not loud and aggressive. We'll be mentioning his creepy "pervy" binder later. Nathan isn't violent until the end IF you let Nathan get bullied and push his life in a negative direction. Sure, it's not Chloe's responsibility, but this is the game's way of showing you his downfall. We need to remember the game hides scenes and expect you to make up what happened behind the scenes. He broke Samantha's ribs over ..what? She's always so desperate to defend Nathan and even gets upset with Chloe when she doesn't help. So, if you tell her the wrong option to pressure kindness into Nathan, it results in him breaking ribs. How, though? Haters immediately hop online to say cause he's a mean and abusive non-empathic nut head. Are you sure he didn't just push her away, and her clumsiness just fell over? This took place after the play...so he possibly...pushed her off... 😰 She did say she was clumsy. You don't think she would have tried to hug or touch him in any way. Ok ok...calm down... Let's take a step back.. You get this "breaking ribs," ending from letting Nathan get bullied and embarrass himself during the play that his father pressured him about! Adding a little "..fuck you.." to the audience. Showing his start to his villain career and the start of him hating everyone, and you tell Samantha to go hug him!? This is the start of his mental spiral if you let things play out this way. But hurting her with intention? No. Lets tie this in with the other endings to their relationship. You get the clumsy ending. She hurts herself differently, and Nathan is with her in the hospital. Saying how he feels bad that she got hurt. (empathy bell) And they continue yo talk about her photo or whatever. Tie this with the rib one, tie this with the Chloe getting shot incident, and tie this with his mental illness. Come on, do i gotta spell it out for you.. Hurting someone is not what he attends to do. Like he quotes in his voice mail. (Speaking of that voice mail, empathy bell.) He does get angry at Samantha and hurts her, and we as players dont know the full story. But what was playing in his head seconds before and the entirety of the game that led up to this IS the reason why he accidentally hurts her. His anger from the entire game was built up and, unfortunately, released on her. Whatever happened, breaking her ribs was not on his to-do list! And then we have.. The good ending. He sits beside her, smiling.

Oh, wait! He's a little psycho with no human emotion? Psychosis has all parts of the brain attached, pookie. For most cases, It can be cured and helped. I can get it. YOU can get it. He has human emotions when he is at his very rare peaceful moments like with this good ending, when with Victoria ig and other scenes we tend to forget. Because painting him as the villain was the games goal. Jefferson was the plot twist.

Daddy Issues, Smug Talk, and a Gun on campus

Simple guys. Simple. You represent this school. You represent our name. This is a legacy. You will not embarrass me. This isn't about you or your problems!

Sure, YOU wouldn't crumble under that pressure, but Nathan sure did. Sure, child abuse isn't an excuse to "kill" people. But is it the child's fault? Sean-beanbag prescott should be arrested for not taking his boy to the asylum. Instead, he argues with a doctor!? Goofy, bro. But so many people are fueled with anger towards Nathan instead. It's whatever. Prescott, literally being his name, was already a red flag to other characters and chose to hate and bully him over it. Drew hated for what his FATHER did. Nathan did ..what again? Notice how that "rich Malfoy talk" wasn't really present in Before The Storm. Sure he tried to burn Drew with a family financial situation insult but the "Im rich, my father owns everything, I got a lawyer, money this and that" wasn't in his character in the Before the Storm. I believe being a prescott wasn't really in his future goals, and he wasn't ever really passionate about it. It's all in the annoyance in his tone with his father before the play. Lis1 he uses it so often to show that he's the boss and in control. He is influenced by representation for his family/school, wealth, intimidation, and of course hatred and believing everyone hates him. In his mind, everyone is against him, after him, and wants to use him. Again, he doesn't choose to think this way. Let me explain my last sentence clearly, though. Imagine being surrounded by a ton of people. All their attention is on you. They hate who you are. They talk about you. You have a defensless stomach sinking feeling and scared because all these people surrounding you are looking at you and all your insecurities and laughing at you. Well, obviouslysome of that is not going on in reality. But to Nathan, that IS his reality, and he has no control over it. Anyways I shouldn't have to keep explaining mental illness and how it stresses the brain. The bottom line is that his status and waving a gun around is what he thinks keep others out of his head. He can barely throw a punch. He had to use his head on warren, and did you catch when Max hit him in that scene? The dude was literally holding onto his face like he'd been battered. Like she did NOT hit that hard lmao. He's weak. He's always been the same tiny Nathan from before the storm. Just now, he uses masks for intimidation to stop his bullies, and anyone he thinks is "after him." He never meant to use a gun on anybody, just a threat. During the second scene where warren reunited a head butt with Nathan.. If you pull off warren, he barely even aims the gun when he runs away towards his room. Cowardly. He feels that he has to, to protect himself. He also uses his father as a threat, but clearly, that never worked. Also, I noticed him crying when you let Warren get crazy on him? Dudes apologizing and sobing? Guess that's not his first rodeo, rip.

Dead Animals

There is no proof he hurt animals. That's not really like him. He does have a list of illnesses, but Psychopathy isn't one of them. Y'all can keep yappin, but it's not. Clearly NOT one of them. He could have hurt an animal during an unaware episode, but there will not be any awareness behind it. Anyways, there are plenty of artists that do the same thing. Nathan is very passionate about photography and protraying solitary but not in the same way Jefferson does. Jefferson certainly uses that manipulation, but we'll get to that later. There are artists that like to shine on death in a positive light and in sorrow. There's also beauty in anatomy. It's not my cup of tea, but someone close to me can name me all kinds of gross organs and would be down to disect any animal. Yuck. But to them.. its fascinating, and they are the greatest people in my life. In love and in empathy. (NOT comparing my pookie to Nathan, PAUSE.) In anatomy theres Education and surprise. Death is also a theme and style too. Skulls and gore, super "rad" fukin "knarly."

BDSM Skip to (●) next part if needed

Ok.. so he's a little frisky. Y'all need to remember this is a fictional game first, okay? Lol Anyway, I can't defend him much here, but I got something. Firstly, the game WANTS you to suspect Nathan. Can't keep his room pretty and pink. They have to make it freaky and spooky. They paint Nathan as the villian for you to only focus on him as a suspect. So that everyones jaws are dropped with Jefferson twirls in.

Anyway...defending BDSM? This can bring trauma to those who have experienced it negatively or view it negatively. So skip to the Frank defense or read more if you want.

Bdsm relationships are very controversial. Some people see it as unhealthy, abusive, and sick. But if you have talked to or listened to other people within these relationships, they state that its completely consensual, safe, harmless, a breach of deep trust with their partners, and simply a fetish or kink The goal is to have fun at your limit..not pass the limit. There are twisted people who have broken that barrier and made it not fun and abusive. That's where I can't argue. If you feel that way towards the topic, I completely empathize with you.

Nathan has shown in his other photos a black and white theme of solitary. And you can tell that he might have taken those bdsm photos himself. As the quality is almost like the Pompidou photo. Everyone blends him taking bdsm photos with his angry behavior and "non empathic" demeanor. But this is where I loop back to Before The Storm hugging-my-binder Nathan. It's shown that in one of his endings, he took photos of Samantha. Obviously, NOT bdsm photos. His binder was a school project. But Samantha obviously consented, and Nathan was passionate enough to show her. He sees them as art. Naked girls have been models for sculptures and paintings. Its beauty. That's IF she was naked in some way in those photos. Which I still doubt. School project. Im sure the photos were gentle and strange and misunderstood, and Drew was just in his bully era. His reaction would have been a lot more eye-opening if he had a face full of tits or straps. Nathan begged for his binder back and even nervously reacted, showing he had love for his work and 'took time with it' (as he quotes when Drew throws it). I bring this up here to show that the women in his photos were indeed given consent, and if hes passionate about depicting his art, hurting them wouldn't be on his agenda. As we all learned today that hurting people was never his intentions until drugs and illness met with pressure and intimidation clouds his brain.

I read up on other artists that painted things similar. In their paintings, they expressed dread, vulnerability, feeling traped, and ..feeling used. If Nathan did find the images he took arousing, then why would he hang them up like everything else in his room like art? I believe that they're depicted in an artful way and in its black and white shading brings a sad darkness. If it's anything like the painters I mentioned, maybe Nathan has a deep level of empathy we don't understand.

●Frank and Pompidou

I didn't even know he took a picture of Franks hurt dog in the road because you little freaks threw his treat in the street!? This will also tie in to chloes pic, but we'll get to that. Frank first, as it's pretty simple. Nathan runs some system with Frank. And it's pretty obvious it's the same thing Drew was doing in Before the Storm. Nathan clearly doesn't like it as he finds it controlling, but getting his hands on drugs is a great way to forget his flaws and calm his illness symptoms. Which only created a loop of his symptoms worsening, as talked about before. His illness is very active towards the end of Before the Storm. You can tell by his huge character difference that drugs only made it worse.

Pompidou is a good dog, but just remember he's not the one who hurt him. This ties in with what we explained in the dead animal phase. The Imagine is black and white. It's a strange art most people don't understand. Man, I don't even understand it. But these people aren't heartless, and they're simply expressing pain. Or.. he took it for the same reason he took Chloes pic. To feel that he's in control, thinking this will help his mental reality of thinking everyone can use him, as explained earlier. But i doubt it. One is in color, and Pompidou is not. One is misguided, and one is "art."

Jefferson, Rachel, Kate, Chloes pic

If i see one more person throw him in the same trash bin as Jefferson, im going to puke. Anyway, I've twisted my head around this story so many times, begging to see the bigger picture. No pun attended. Jefferson was pulling the strings all along ..you know that, right? If Nathan was never there, Jefferson would have still done his disgusting projects. He certainly brought Victoria over without Nathan's usage. He didn't need Nathan, Nathan just made it easier cause he can easily be manipulated. Making Nathan do it all so the consequences will fall on him. Jefferson is smart and knows the right words to say. Nathan is missing the kindness of a father figure. All he has to do is play with his feelings. Nathan falls too easily to kindness. He felt the kindness of Samantha during the good ending, and He felt the kindness from Victoria.. but Victoria toxic bully nature wasn't helping. The bottom line is Jefferson easily manipulates him and understands his mental reality and uses that against him. Adding thoughts into Nathans head. Jefferson learned to use Nathan's illness to his advantage. Nathan trusted Jefferson as did everyone in that school. Why on earth would Jefferson wrong him? He looked up to him, so when Jefferson slowly brought him into his plans of drugging girls, Nathan thought that it was all ..moral. In reality, you and I know obviously that's not okay, but to Nathan (and his severe illness), he trusted Jefferson was doing no wrong. We don't understand the mental strain he was under. Manipulation goes a long way. Heres how he did it. He probably said things like 'We are the same Nathan, this is art just like yours.' It starts small, Nathan gets him the drugs. Then he pulls him in, and Nathan starts drugging the girls for me. Start driving them here. Start helping me inside the dark room. Start helping me inject my victims. Jefferson had so much power over him. He was connected with his father. He can threaten his grade, his representation, and his future in art. He knew all the right things to say and do. He knew how his head worked. Clog him up with drugs, and keep him quiet. Heal his missing father needs and demand him for your needs. Does this not make Nathan a victim, too?

Then ...the Rachel incident happened. Nathan was NOT mentally aware of what he's done. The excited "Rachel!" When he saw Max at the diner clearly shows that he truly expected her to pull up. This mixes with the symptoms we've discussed. He only remembers bits and pieces as obviously it was beyond traumatizing. Sending him in an insane spiral and the infamous psychosis drawing. (Don't be afraid, google psychosis drawings. Damn. Just imagine you recovered from psychosis and laying eyes on that and not remembering you drew that..ugh...I'd cry.) Someone with Psychopathy wouldnt feel traumatized from such events, debunking the fact everyone thinks Nathan has Psychopathy. He doesn't have Psychopathy, he has psychosis. Moving on. Jefferson was certainly angry with him and drugged Nathan himself after the incident, which really helped Nathan to forget what he's done. But Jefferson's anger and not talking to him tore him apart. His emotional attachment clearly wasn't having it. The note he wrote Jefferson in desperate attempt to bring him back after ruining Jefferson plans goes to show just how much he wants that sense of being cared for. If only it was someone else that wasnt Jefferson ..or his dad can do is fucking job too.

Alcohol was certainly a great method of forgetting what he did. So then comes Chloes' interaction with him. We know the story. He did not SA her, I can say that right here and now. Nothing like that was behind this. You can tell by the way Chloe presented the story to Max. There wasn't an uncomfortable tone to her story. She didn't seem traumatized but more shocked, and "it was pretty crazy." She also wasn't drugged for that long. She woke up very soon, fully clothed. What obviously happened is that Nathan used this to feel in control like the mentioned way above. Drugs and Psychosis is no jokes. Who knows what hell is playing in his mind, but I unfortunately believe that this was to try to win back Jefferson. He had been angry at him and ignoring him, and even tho he hates drugging, his confusion and drunk state led him to this. He's cowardly, and his mind is slipping and tries to do what he thinks is right for him. He's misguided and leads down the wrong path.

Nathan did not SA Kate! Kate story breaks my heart into a million pieces, but if she was SA-ed, it wasn't Nathan. After everything I said above, you can tell that that isn't in his character. But here I want to bring up the voicemail. Nathan claims multiple times that he never wanted to hurt anybody, implying that he felt forced to do harm. Something he DID NOT want to do. Why on earth would anybody have felt forced to SA somebody!? I'm not saying Kate WASN'T SA-ed as I can only assume maybe the boys she was shown with in the video did something or Jefferson. Victoria was Kates bully!!! Nathan wanted to be liked by Victoria and was influenced by her nature. He's desperate for attention and kindness. Victoria did far more to hurt Kate and her reason as to why was shit. You go THAT FAR to one up your photography game. Girl, bye. She spread that video, and she still has empathy, too? Her regretting everything? Did she reallyy regret it? Or did she want to make herself look good for her representation? She showed regret via text message in Before The Storm, too? She doesn't have a mental illness, but the game gave her an act of forgiveness and used her as a victim so the audience would sympathize with her. Goes to show you the game controls what they want you to feel. If they were to do that with Nathan..would opinons be different? Taking us into his mind and how he sees the world around him. They could have..but didnt. Well.. We have the voicemail, but obviously, that didn't stop the haters. It's unfortunate. But the game gave me just enough little clues for me to shine light on in this post. They put so much into his character but never showed the audience the truth.

Conclusion

What we've learned today is that Nathan isn't the villain you think. He's been manipulated, used, and needs mental help, but im sure my old Nathan-defending friends have said this time and time again. Im here to add something....

It's been PROVEN that he's capable of all human emotions. You just refuse to believe it because you're mistaking his illness and claiming all of this was intentional. Psychosis can be temporary. It's like a hand that steals your common sense, feelings, empathy, and sympathy, and you're only left with acting on pure chaos and negative or fearful emotions. After long treatment, your sense of reality returns, your feelings, your empathy, your sympathy.. And all you have now is guilt and regret and self blame that you hurt somebody. If you let Nathan kill Chloe, he is arrested. He had doctors aware of his illness and would have been charged with illness in mind. Forcing the treatment he needed ages ago. By the time Lis 2 came out... I wonder how he's taking it all in? What he did to everyone, what he did to Rachel.

He was written off to die, be locked up, and blamed. Unfortunately, he was caught in the crossfires of the harm of our favorite characters. If he was born in a different family and away from Jeff, he would have never hurt anybody. Matter a fact, he would never have suffered with his listed mental illnesses.

This goes out to all real accidental murder cases. There will always be a great divide in opinions. I hate comparing fictional games with real life, but I find it crazy that we call others nonempathtic when they aren't empathic themselves. It's like the word "accidental" is worthless.

Its always a debate..

Do we feel bad for the lives lost and their families

or

Do we feel bad for the mental crumble of the one who never meant to kill and how their familes have to deal with that.

Are they worthy to walk this earth? Are they worthy to see the daylight again? Are they still human, too? Should they die, too? Is redemption possible?

Who knows. Peoples opinions won't change unless they themselves fall onto the opposing team. If they were to suffer the chaos of accidentally murdering someone or the grief of losing someone from an accidental murder.

Red Nathan, the first Nathan we all experienced from Lis1. Damaged and doomed. Used and mentally obstructed. It's unfortunate things ended this way.

Blue Nathan, Appears in Before the slStorm and Max's alternate timeline. He is clean and hasn't touched drugs. He had not been involved in crimes or violence yet. In this alternate timeline, he has been somehow saved and kept away from mental destruction and Jefferson. We will never really know what drove Nathan towards this peaceful path, but I assumed that it was the kindness of Max that led him in the right direction. (Max somehow changed Victoria, too. With her demeanor being so gentle. I really am curious about the whole back story of that timeline... I think about it alot)

[dk-ghostmachines]

I gotta talk about FourDogs (again)

It's barely about her, though. I think "he's so lucky his dad was brutally murdered" and "people with trauma need a second handicap because they're too motivated" are such absolute-the-fuck-ly bonkers takes, they're not even worth the time it took me to get mad about them, which was immediately. This time around, I have way more to say about audience reception. I'll try to keep it civil.

It feels like a lot of us are responding from increasingly personal places because these are characters with which a lot of us identify, or we see traits in them that remind us of people from our real lives. And hey! Another performance and storytelling slay on the part of one Brennan Lee Mulligan. Who else can invent 50+ characters every year and play them to the point where any one of them can evoke both an "omg that's literally me!" and an "omg that's literally Dani, the girl that bullied me all of freshmen year until I punched out her front tooth in the student parking lot and got in-school suspension for a month!". And whether Kipperlily reminds you of Dani, or reflects your own anxieties about potential, ability, and trauma, an important thing to remember is this: she is not real!

Brennan made her up! Brennan made her up to tell a story, and when he made her up, he made her annoying, petty, antagonistic, and he gave her not just opposing goals to the the protagonists we know and love, but the explicit goal of ruining The Bad Kids' lives, specifically.

Now, I'm not saying she's fictional to be a dick, or dismiss any deeper readings on her or any of the Rat Grinders. I'm bringing it up because the way I'm seeing people talk to each other about these characters is starting to get a little wild and it's in danger of waking up The Olde Gods™ (i.e. the special brand of Tumblr Self-Righteousness that lives inside us all).

It's important to remember Kipperlilly is a character in a fictive work so that different interpretations of her don't get treated as stone law. Each reading of her is personal and valid, but none are gospel. The "Kipperlilly is but a victim" take is not the only correct one, nor is radical empathy for her as a character the only correct reaction. Also, even if I consider her sympathetic that is not incompatible with an opinion like "Kipperlilly needs to get roundhouse'd in the head by a lesbian in a tracksuit and/or a wizard in a jean jacket, posthaste". Sure, you can say that anyone who doesn't feel a deep and eclipsing empathy for Kipperlilly above all other emotions is immature at best and sociopathic at worst, but then I can just say anyone who demands solely empathy for Kipperlilly and excuses her literal crimes and bass-ackwards world view because she's insecure and has anger issues, is probably also someone who has a history of weaponizing whatever minority status they may or may not occupy to talk over, silence, or harass people of color.

They're both just opinions. And also, like. Y'know. A bit much.

To engage in the long and rich tradition of measuring character trajectories against those in the Avatar: The Last Airbender cartoon, let's compare Kipperlilly to Azula. Azula had an incredibly sympathetic backstory and untreated mental health issues. Azula was also a danger to herself and others, as well as profoundly manipulative and abusive (although, it was a children's show so Azula never killed anybody for whatever that's worth). Do I wish that fourteen-year-old girl had an Iroh-type in her life? Literally one adult who loved her genuinely and advocated for her best interests? Of course I do. I saw the Ember Island episode, I watched that one video essay! Does that mean it was any less satisfying to watch Zuko and Katara kick her absolute ass? No! And it was non-lethal anyway, children's show, duh.

That brings me to my other thing; Kipperlilly is a character in a fictive work that is not finished. And I know that point will age poorly, but I'm thinking it won't be the only one (hey-o). Remember the people that were calling The Bad Kids bullies? And then we learned that Kipperlilly hated Riz because his fucking dad fucking died?? And that was a full academic year before getting reanimated by a rage god?? I'll do a tame one; remember when Gilear wasn't cursed?? He was "just a guy"?? The show is serialized, gang, the world is still building! Clerickiller is not done yet, y'all need to let her cook! I'm sure we'll tune in next week to see her graduate from "unhinged" to "unaffiliated with the door frame or any frame-like structure". Reprimanding people on Tumblr will not change the trajectory of this character who, by the way, has not expressed remorse or any desire for a path other than violence. You look me in my black face after your blorbo slits a kid's throat and say "help her"?? Kipperlilly doesn't want get better right now, she wants one thing and that's for Kristen Applebees to go fuck herself and die!! You were there, you heard it!! When the fictional behavior changes, as it often does in stories, so will my opinion. There is no fore-forgiveness. Without an actual redemption arc I will continue to see the villain as a villain.

Speaking of, I think what some people have an issue with is the level of hate Kipperlilly's getting and how aggressive it is. But like.... isn't that allowed?? Because of all the stuff I said but also because like, mama said that it was okay! And by "mama" I mean Siobhan Thompson who said Kipperlilly belongs under the jail. Sure, in the real world, adults don't tell kids they belong in the ground that's crazy fucked up, but all these kids are played by adults and Emily as Fig joked that she was gonna smite the sixteen-year-old girl played by the thirty-something man. You're telling me the antagonist antagonizes the protagonists, and the protagonists go "boo, hiss" and then I, the audience, go "boo, hiss as well" but I'm wrong? I'm wrong, somehow, cool checks out.

"They're XP Levelling*punches a locker*!!"

"That girl is worse than Kalvaxus."

"Littledoggy Girlcollar"

Am I not engaging with the narrative on it's own terms if I say "i'd tell Clerickiller to die mad, but she clearly already did, Jojo Siwa head-ass, in reference to that fuck-ass ponytail and your toxic yuri" Do I need to draw a little caitmay-style OC to say it for me, would that be better?

God-forbid, we have fun? Must we discourse, always? FourDogs is tragic, FourDogs is compelling, FourDogs is Dani from 9th grade. She is Azula from Avatar and Clare from Fleabag and Brennan Lee Mulligan from my dreams and that is something that can be so personal. But no one else has to participate in your parasocial relationship. What's crazy is, I actually like Kipperlilly! As a character. I mean, the "trauma is privilege" obviously hit a nerve with me because of real life stuff, but the image of her over the rogue teacher's grave?? With a backhoe and a "gotcha, bitch" expression??? Come on, that is fresh-off-the-vine Cunt™. Even more so than I imagined that moment to be when we first heard about it. Her ending up in a Ragh or Aelwyn place would be way more satisfying than a Goldenrod or Penelope Everpetal place, BUT IT WILL ALSO be satisfying to see whatever Kipperlilly's version of the locked-in-a-chokehold-and-being-gaslit-into-thinking-you-shit-the-coach's-pants-scene is. In addition to the non-lethal ass-kicking that proceeds it.

Y'all can chuck the insinuation that something so clearly subjective is actually objective and has moral implications that make me bad, directly in the garbage. What is this, religion, hey-o.

[kotton-kandy953]

Could you do headcannons of yandere Nagito with an Ultimate therapist (fem) reader? He could really use the therapy.

━ 𝚂𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙴

➛ yandere!male headcannons × fem/gn!reader

title page┆word count: 0.3k┆warnings: second-person pronouns, drug metaphors, mentions of mental illnesses/trauma, obsessive behavior, stalking, strong yandere themes┆a/n: I love writing abt nagito’s crazy ass sm

yandere ! nagito komaeda x fem ! shsl therapist ! reader hc’s

❝ I don’t know what I’d do without you ❞

Nagito already finds you the most perfect person he has ever laid eyes on. Like his beautiful goddess with the hopeful talent of giving therapy to your peers. An even greater reason to love and basically worship you so passionately.

Nagito, who has many untreated mental/physical illnesses and years worth of trauma from getting kidnapped to having his parents killed in a horrible plane crash, finds you as someone he confide in with his very concerning backstory.

Unlike everyone else on the island who believes he’s completely out of his mind, you’re willing to listen to him ramble on and on about how much he is obsessed with the concept of hope. It makes him so very happy when you’d listen to him. A little too happy…

Anyway, Nagito’s never directly expressed his unconditional feelings for you… at least not yet. He may hint at them here and there, but he’s dreadfully aware of the fact that you’ll never reciprocate feelings for someone as worthless like him. His useless talent is nothing compared to yours. Well, that’s just what he believes.

In Nagito’s deluded, lovesick mind, he firmly believes that without you around, he would probably go insane. Or maybe even end up doing something he’d definitely regret. It’s like your kindness and sympathy for him is his drug.

His strong love would quickly become an unhealthy obsession. Which would become so intense that he’d sometimes catch himself stalking you. Or even watching you sleep from an open window.

There aren’t many, but these are my hc’s for yan!nagito with a therapist y/n! I hope you like them and thank you for the ask!

back to title page

[seeminglydark]

1. since john tries to stay away from tech as much as possible, i think it would be funny to see what would happen if he got his hands on like a secondhand e-reader or laptop and what it would look like if he tried to use it. it would also be cool to see if or what kind of stickers he would use to decorate it.

2. i know it’s kind of a difficult topic. but since i’ve been reading your comic, I think the “Creaky” storyline is one of my favorites. Being able to escape a difficult upbringing and being able to find solace and comfort in found family. I’ve imagined that with the help of his newfound friends, John would go back to his father’s house and take back some of his most prized possessions because I think John would be the type of person that would value things and attach those objects to memories of people. I think it would be fun to see how John adapted to a new environment and being able to live freely (full-time) and thrift for clothes and other things. I think it would be interesting to see his thoughts of when he entered his first apartment and see how he decorated it and see how it has evolved into the glimpses that we’ve seen.

hahaha while i understand what you're asking here, he would of course one hundred percent fumble it, the last thing he had was a flip phone from the early 2000's when he was in highschool, so of course he wouldnt be good with laptops or anything. as far as an e-reader goes, john is severely dyslexic (undiagnosed, so untreated) and reading is already a huge struggle, which is why he uses the walkman and listens to audio books. the truth is, were he to get his hands on these things, he simply wouldnt use them. but its fun to imagine him like my 80 year old dad doing the ol' point and shoot typing style with two fingers! Caro and Maddie show him things on their phone and on the internet all the time anyway, so hes not missing the good memes ha! Creaky is also my fave storyline, I'm so glad you're enjoying it! To answer your first question, no, he wouldn't actually go to his dads at any point, and even if he did, none of his stuff would still exist sadly. on a brighter note, he DOES get to retrieve some of his old things, either after hooking back up with Caro (who has his battle jacket, fuck belt and a few other things) and because his Highschool pals Georgie and Dee would totally have a ton of his stuff in the back of Dee's van, so he'd get his walkman, some clothes, his cross earrings that belonged to his mom, and a few other precious things, and you are right, he does connect objects to people. His biggest problem is not remembering much about what some of those connections were. Another factor here is the fact that there is a protection order between he and his ad put in place by Maddie's stepdad Dr Parker, John's dad isnt allowed within a certain amount of distance to John so, going to his house wouldnt be allowed. Even with his friends (in Seemingly Dark, the Fenris chapter) facing down with his father is almost impossible because of his fear and trauma. There will be more about that in the future! on the second note, im actually in process of turning Creaky into a stand-alone book! Which is why I haven't drawn anything here in reply to Johns reactions to new places, new friends and new environments, its all things I want to explore more in depth in the new version of my fave story line. <3 Heres links to some of the progress on the New Creaky! and here!