#of what appear to be severe mental health issues????????

[navree]

can't believe i saw someone try to negate the idea that there wasn't real love between thomas and ellen nosferatu (especially on the part of thomas) by saying he was 'saying the conventional thing' it's the 1830s??????? it is the year 1838 in europe?????? no the convention husbandly response to his wife in hysterics saying she's unclean sure as shit wasn't to hold her and say he doesn't care?????? that's the exact OPPOSITE of the conventional thing????? hell even today it's not the conventional thing you people are insane!

[loveemagicpeace]

North node in houses🌠

🫧North node in 1st house-you can fight with your personality, appearance, courage and fear. You have the feeling that you never have enough courage to do something or you are afraid that you will embarrass yourself or that you will look stupid. The most important thing here is that u trust yourself. Maybe you can pay too much attention to what others think, but the mission here is to pay attention to yourself. The key lessons of the north node in first house are developing independence and learning to be brave and stand up for yourself. You also need to let go of the abandonment issues and clinginess. You have to find a way to find yourself (many times someone can help you), especially the person who have the first house placements can open you up a lot personally.

💗North node in 2nd house- many times you can have problems with your value. People with this placement often struggle between materialism and love. Many times you can feel that money shows your worth. Which means that without money you can feel worthless. You can see love through money or you can feel that this is why people love you. You can feel power through money, valuable things, cars & everything related to luxury. You may have problems with food or you may have an unhealthy relationship with food (this can be in several ways). Let's say you only eat once a day. Many times you can lose your appetite if you have too many worries (especially money-related). Also I don’t know why but I noticed that these people don't like music. In general, it's hard for you to find pleasure in life, but it's actually one of the most important things. U are worthy! Remember that.

💬North node in 3rd house- you may have a problem with speaking, expressing yourself. It is difficult for you to find the right words to describe how you feel or what you want to say. NN guides individuals along a path of mental and social growth. Communication and writing are very important with this placement. You can develop as a person a lot through writing and journaling. You can have close friends or you can be happily married, but you feel that you are a stranger in your local community.

🏖️North node in 4th house- you have a problem finding your safe place, people with whom you feel safe and at home. You want to have your own private space where it's just you. There is a tendency to want to control everything and everyone, what can cause you trouble in your family life. It is hard for you to cooperate with others. Maybe you felt like you never had anyone who was really there for you or with whom you felt completely safe. Your home can sometimes be an unsafe place for you. In this life u have to find your safe place and people.

🎠North node in 5th house- you may have trouble finding your joy. Maybe it's hard for you to be in the energy of a child or to give in to your inner child. I think a little prince book would be good for people with this north node-to remember what it's like to be a child and surrendered in your childish joy. You may have trouble showing your talents and being seen. You can also have a dating problem. You can also feel lonely, even though you are surrounded with people. Many people with this placement are afraid of standing up for themselves and prioritizing their own wishes. You have to learn to shine on your own. Find things that make you happy. Remeber the happy memories.

🌸North node in 6th house- you have problems finding your own routine. Maybe many times you have a problem with your health (in the sense that you worry too much about how things will turn out or not at all). Maybe it is difficult for you to find a suitable job or a job that would really interest you. This north node also suggests that you are prone to escapism. Maybe it's hard for you to stay in one routine. But since this house is also connected with animals, others, the physical body - this can also mean that you have a problem with getting along with animals or you have a more alienated attitude towards them (not necessarily), it can also mean that you often face the loss of animals.

🎨North node in 7th house- you can have relationship problems, stay in a relationship, or let go completely. You may always have the feeling that something is missing or that the person is not giving you as much as you thought. Many times you can be hurt by people. Maybe you never feel fully accepted in a relationship. You may face a lot of ups and downs in life, justice, maybe even a divorce, or maybe your marriage is more challenging. You want to do things your own way. This also suggests that you don’t like taking advice from others. Here you have to learn to accept the opinion of others and listen.

🌊North node in 8th house-you maybe have issues with your intimacy or being intimate with others. It’s similarly to Scorpio north node. You also have some trust issues and you do not easily trust people actually. It's very hard for you to trust someone and really believe them. You can carry a lot of secrets within you. Maybe since you being a child or from your very early age. It could be some secrets about your family and you don't want to tell anybody. You feel like nobody really gets you or understand you or that nobody will accept your dark side. Can also be some dark stuff about your family that you're ashamed to. You want someone who will be there for you forever. Somebody that will never die(vampire diaries thing),somebody that will never leave you ,somebody you can trust with all your heart. Ride or die kind of love.

🧁North node in 9th house-it is difficult for you to find faith, meaning and optimism. You may have lost your faith as a child and it is difficult for you to find something to believe in again. It can also mean that your faith has disappointed you and that the things you strongly believed in were not what you thought they were. Goals are to find meaning and live for it. You have to learn to live in the moment and enjoy the given moment, because you never know if you will be able to experience something twice. You have to grow through what you are. Another key life lesson with this placement is developing a sense of freedom.

☕️North node in 10th house-In this lifetime, you can experience tremendous growth in this life area if you are willing to face the challenges and lack of experience. Your soul wants to take responsibility for your life and become the master of your own ship. You may have trouble building a career or feeling worthy of it. Many times you are looking for your place in this life and among the audience. You want to be seen and noticed. You want to make an impression. You may have a problem with your father or your relationship with him may be a bit distant. It can also be that it is difficult for you to be around people who are older than you and that you feel uncomfortable.

🐚North node in 11th house- you can have problems with friends. Maybe it's hard for you to find a friend who would really understand you and see you for who you are. Many times you feel like you don't belong in the group and that you are the outsider in the group. Even though you craved friendships, the north node in 11th house suggests that in the past, you didn’t fit in well in any circle of friends. Many north node in 11th house people are lonely as children and young adults. You may have a problem keeping friends and people around you, and quickly people don't suit you.

❄️North node in 12th house- you have a problem with staying hidden. You have the feeling that people don't see and understand you the way you would like them to. People with this placement tend to be hard on themselves. It can be harder for you to forget and forgive things. People with this placement are strongly attached to reality. It is actually hard for you to be dreamy. In your lifetime you can meet a lot of people who are spiritual. The north node in the twelfth house indicates that you have to let go sometimes. Immersing yourself in the world of fantasy and the divine helps you find balance in your life.

-Rebekah🍸📀❄️

[8thhousekat]

struggles of having a 8h dominant chart

From an 8th houser ✌️

Tw: SA, abuse, neglect

🕷️we have resting bitch faces and look mad all of the time

🕷️we had to raise ourselves and it caused us to have unhealthy coping mechanisms

🕷️we don’t trust easily

🕷️the paranormal is drawn to us (a little too much)

🕷️we experience losing the people we love most way to often

🕷️people come into our lives as lessons or vice versa

🕷️we have a sexual aura about us when we aren’t even sexual at all

🕷️again the sexualization 😐

🕷️people randomly tell us their deepest darkest secrets 😭

🕷️we are always find out if people are lying to us

🕷️personally I really struggle with letting items go??

🕷️grudge holding and vengeance until I die✌️

🕷️we will read you like a book

🕷️experiencing a lot of near death experiences

🕷️attracting animals they just feel safe with us

🕷️being treated like an adult way to young

🕷️our mothers are very cold towards us or older woman in general

🕷️Scorpio placements 😭 are attracted to me like flies ( I love them tho they make me feel safe)

🕷️ the emotional repression for 5 yrs comes out on a random Tuesday

🕷️loving people on the line of hate

🕷️as a child seeing spirits everywhere

🕷️we are really loyal people especially in relationships/friendships ❤️

🕷️random haters out of nowhere

🕷️people make up rumors about us really easily (this one time I moved schools suddenly and people started saying I died?? Like wtf)

🕷️we have intense stares we deadpan people

🕷️a lot of us were neglected really bad growing up and abused 😔

🕷️being hard to get to know🕷️

🕷️issues sleeping

🕷️intense anger 😭

🕷️the BETRAYAL really gets outta hand people gotta do better

🕷️experiencing awful jealousy from others

🕷️being hard to manipulate ❤️

🕷️no one really knows us but they know us if that makes sense

🕷️we are paranoid 100%

🕷️we have horrible intrusive thoughts

🕷️We love scary stuff

🕷️there’s stuff that has happened to us that if we said it out loud no one would understand the severity

🕷️mental health is either amazing or horrible no in between

🕷️randomly wanting to change your appearance? We always have urges to go through transformations because we constantly are 😭

I hope you guys liked this it’s just from my experience and what I’ve noticed 🙏

[menhera-info-archieve]

in case you haven't seen it yet, here's the menhera 101 article by HoshiCandy from Kei Club Issue 3. not sure if i'll post the other menhera related articles from this issue or not, so consider checking the link in source if you're interested.

i'm also leaving a text transcription under the cut for anyone that may benefit from that

Menhera 101

Menhera fashion has quickly been gaining popularity worldwide! This fast growth has come with its fair share of misunderstandings about the community and style. Menhera artist and designer HoshiCandy is here with a lesson on menhera’s origins, history, and basics. Find more of her work on the pages before and after this article!

What is Menhera? 

“Menhera” can be thought of as “a person who seeks mental wellbeing”. 

The word “Menhera” was born in Japan in 2001, on the “Mental Health” board of anonymous forum 2ch, where users discussed their wellbeing. The users of this board were named “Mental Healthers” which was shortened to “Menhera”. 

The Menhera community covers anything that might cause one mental suffering, such as: physical illness or disability, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, bullying, hyper-sexuality, sexism, homophobia, etc. Importantly, there is no need for a formal diagnosis, as the focus is on how you feel, and that you want to feel better. 

It is difficult to talk about these topics in Japanese society without being heavily stigmatized. Menhera is a community to speak safely without that stigma. Of course, this stigma and need for community when it comes to one’s mental wellbeing is not limited to Japan, and that is why menhera has grown in the west as well. 

Since the creation of the word in 2001, there have been several manga published with “Menhera” in the title, many Visual Kei songs about it, Menhera idol groups, and several menhera fashion brands. 

However, an unfortunate addition to all this has been the discovery of the word in mainstream media...

Just as the topic of illness is heavily stigmatized in Japanese society, the word “Menhera” itself became quickly stigmatized and stereotyped as “an attention seeking, troublesome person” or “an overly attached girlfriend” (aka “yandere”). If you were to speak to a Japanese person about “Menhera”, this would most likely be what they would think you meant. This stereotype tends to be referred to as “Menhera Kei” in Japanese which is why we avoid the use of “kei” for Menhera in particular. 

Despite all this, the true menhera community has continued to grow. 

Menhera Motifs

Artists in the Menhera community created many works of “Vent Art” art that expresses their feelings and suffering. When this art was printed onto clothing, Menhera fashion was born. 

These are some themes you will commonly see in Menhera: 

Medication

Suicide 

Self-harm 

Hospitals

Sex and BDSM

Social Media Addiction

Heartbreak 

Wearing Menhera art printed on clothing serves as a way of literally wearing one’s feelings on one’s sleeves. It turns invisible suffering visible, and fights against the stigma driven silence. This means that Menhera fashion is highly confrontational, with graphic depictions of illness symptoms. Although the onlooker may feel discomfort, the Menhera style says “this is my true reality, don’t pretend it doesn’t exist!”

Depending on the feelings of the wearer, Menhera fashion also says “although I am sick, I can still be ‘kawaii’” or “although I appear ‘kawaii’, on the inside I am suffering”. 

Turning the invisible visible, forcing the silence to be broken, and challenging kawaii culture, these are the goals of Menhera fashion.

The Menhera Silhouette

Carefully avoiding a highly theatrical or OTT (over-the-top) look is important for maintaining the integrity of the goals of menhera. Menhera is a very casual style, with few accessories and light makeup. The key is for a coord to centre on Menhera imagery, whether vent art or text-focused designs, printed onto clothing. 

Be careful not to dress up as the characters depicted in vent art, who are often costumey, gory, and OTT. 

Menhera Coord checklist: 

Printed Menhera art

Byojaku/Minimal makeup

Not OTT/Few accessories

Flat Shoes 

[optional] Oversized top

[optional] Hime bangs 

[optional] twintails

Colors can vary: a pastel yume look, or a gothic yami look, both are fine!

The makeup style is called “Byojaku” meaning “sickly/weak”. Reddish colors are applied to areas around the eyes to give the impression of crying or illness. The rest of the face is kept plain without much color. 

A Note of Caution

The Menhera community is about healing, and seeking recovery and wellbeing. It advocates getting help, medication, therapy, and receiving support through your recovery journey. 

True Menhera never encourages or enables harmful behaviors, and never glorifies them. Menhera fashion is an alternative way of expressing your suffering without self-harm. Menhera fashion empowers the individual through their recovery, but does not empower harmful behaviors. 

There are some, sometimes labeled by the community as “Wannabe Menhera”, who mistook the meaning of “menhera” after seeing its rise in popularity, as it being trendy to fake mental illness. They engage in behaviors such as posting self-harm photos (real or faked) to social media with the tag #menhera, and other attention-seeking behaviors. 

While this is the opposite of what the Menhera community stands for, is harmful to the unfortunate viewers of these photos, and creates further stigma against the community...it cannot be ignored that these “Wannabe Menhera”, too, need help and healing. 

The Menhera fashion movement is to help you feel comfortable, unashamed, and kawaii in your skin, scars and all. It is NOT for encouraging people to create new scars “for the aesthetic”. 

If you are struggling with mental or physical suffering, thoughts, or behaviors that cause harm to yourself or others, please seek help. If you do not believe you deserve help, you do, please seek help. If you believe you are faking it, you likely are not, your feelings are valid, please seek help.

Don’t have access to therapy? 

We found a comprehensive list of suicide prevention hotlines at https://ibpf.org/resource/list-international-suicide-hotlines [link no longer working]

There are also free and affordable counseling services online like Better Help and Pride Counseling! Look online to find what option could work for you! 

Alternatives to Menhera

After reading all this you may be thinking “the Menhera community sounds good but all the fashion is too restrictive for me” and if so, you’re not alone! But the good news is that you don’t have to wear Menhera fashion to be in the Menhera community. 

Look up any of these alternative styles online for examples and more information:

Yamikawaii (“Sickly-cute”) is essentially the aesthetic of Menhera without the activism, a corrupted dark kawaii. Unfortunately the word was trademarked and now suffers from copyright takedowns. 

Yumekawaii (“Dreamy-cute”) an aesthetic evolved from Fairy kei to describe everything pastel and kawaii, but with a slight edge, described as “fairytales with poison”. 

Marekawaii (“Nightmare-cute”) created as an alternative to Yamikawaii to avoid the copyright issues, and as a counterpart to Yumekawaii. Marekawaii is specifically defined as being open to your own interpretation and style. 

Medikawaii (“Medical-cute”) a pastel kawaii aesthetic focusing only on medical motifs, such as medicine and hospitals. 

Gurokawaii (“Grotesque-cute”) mixes frightening and disturbing imagery with kawaii. Kyary Pamyu Pamyu helped popularize it. 

Iryouu Kei (“Medical Kei”) a Visual Kei substyle with lots of gore and hospital theming, very OTT and theatrical, such as dressing like a nightmare nurse. 

Living Doll artists see themselves and their bodies as a canvas to create art and express themselves, often with intricate makeup and body painting. This is a good one to look at if you’re into heavy artistic makeup.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Dean Obediallah at The Dean's Report:

No one can deny that Donald Trump has shown a significant level of cognitive decline since he first ran for President in 2015 at the age of 69 years old to where he is today at 78. But what we’ve seen with Trump is far more than normal aging. Trump—as countless mental health experts have stated—is showing symptoms of dementia.  While people can debate if Trump is in the early or mid-stages of severe cognitive decline, what can’t be debated is that this poses a very serious national security issue for our nation. Consequently, this issue demands far more media coverage. On Monday night, I interviewed, psychologist Dr. John Gartner--the founder of “Duty to Warn” –who was first on my show back in April when he was waving red flags about Trump’s mental decline. In April, Gartner noted that Trump “can't get through a rally without committing one of these” tell-tale signs of dementia, such as saying the incorrect word or “combining or mixing up people and generations.”  

He also directed my attention to a petition signed by more than 500 licensed mental health professions—including best-selling authors and well-respected psychologists—warning that Trump was exhibiting signs of dementia. Gartner noted in April that “we're noticing deterioration almost every day” with Trump. Here we are six months later.  After discussing what Dr. Gartner has observed with Trump over the past few months, I asked this simple question: “Does Donald Trump have some form of dementia?” In response, Gartner answered succinctly, “There's absolutely no doubt.” Gartner explained that on his podcast, “Shrinking Trump,” he has welcomed mental health professionals who specialize in dementia—such as from “Duty to Inform”-- and they reached the same conclusion. “We've had neuropsychologists, neuropsychiatrists on the show who have gone through their analysis” and confirmed what they are observing is dementia, Gartner noted. He added, “When you really talk to the experts and the super experts, it's even more apparent,” that Trump’s exhibiting symptoms consistent with this condition.

Dementia is not a term that should be thrown around whimsically to score political points. Dementia—as Dr. Gartner explained—is “brain damage.” He continued that it’s “a deteriorating organic process in the brain where the cognitive processes start to break down.” He added alarmingly that with people like Trump, “they only go in one direction. They keep sliding downhill.” Adding to the credibility of this diagnosis is that dementia runs in the Trump family. As Donald’s own nephew, Fred Trump III, explained on my show recently, Donald’s father, Donald’s older sister, Maryanne and Donald’s cousin, John Walters all had dementia. And as the NY Times reported ten days ago in an article on Trump’s cognitive decline, “Trump has seemed confused, forgetful, incoherent or disconnected from reality lately.”  They added, “He rambles, he repeats himself, he roams from thought to thought — some of them hard to understand, some of them unfinished, some of them factually fantastical.”

Just look at Trump’s conduct in the past week that provides more jarring examples. At an event at the Detroit Economic Club when he was supposed to address economic issues, he literally began to speak of Elon Musk’s missiles landing, “Biden circles” that were “beautiful” but Biden “couldn’t fill them up” to “we’ve been abused by other countries, we’ve been abused by our own politicians”–all in the same incoherent answer.  I played that clip for Dr. Gartner who commented that it makes “you realize how completely lost Trump is.” In addition, Trump while appearing on a podcast last week literally delivered a 12 minute (yes, 12 minute) meandering answer that was so incoherent it caused the hosts to joke that Trump was not rambling, he was “weaving.” One host added that they “don’t even want to know the answer anymore,” they just want more “weaving.” They were humoring Trump who was not making sense.

And at a rally in Pennsylvania on Monday, Trump told the crowd to vote on “January 5”—not November. That of course could simply be a minor mental flub, but what came next was truly bizarre. Trump told the audience that it was time to end the questions and just listen to music. I’m not kidding. The context was that two people had passed out from heat at the event, to which Trump asked, would “anybody else would like to faint?” Trump then declared, “Let’s not do any more questions. Let’s just listen to music. Let’s make it into a music. Who the hell wants to hear questions, right?”  Then—as the Washington Post reported—"For 39 minutes, Trump swayed, bopped — sometimes stopping to speak — as he turned the event into almost a living-room listening session of his favorite songs from his self-curated rally playlist.”

Yes, Trump stood on stage for nearly 40 minutes at a packed Town Hall where instead of answering questions, he danced. I know it sounds like a Saturday Night Live sketch, but it was real life. If President Biden had done that when he was the nominee, we would’ve seen non-stop coverage exploring his mental state. All of this is why this is truly a national security issue. As Dr. Gartner explained, a person with dementia like Trump could be easily manipulated by “corrupt businessman or any hostile foreign power.” He cited the examples of how devious people have taken advantage of those with dementia to get them to sign a will that makes the person the sole beneficiary. But in the case with Trump, we are potentially talking about Trump agreeing to allow wealthy backers like Elon Musk to financially benefit at our expense. Or worse, allow our enemies to take advantage of him—more than they even did in the past.

Dean Obeidallah succinctly explains that Donald Trump’s dementia is not only a political issue but also a national security issue.

[arinzu]

Rin Itoshi x f!reader with the trope

"he probably hates me" x "i love you so much"

AHHHH OMG IM SO SO SORRY FOR POSTING THIS LATE, MY SCHOOL STARTED AT JULY 22, AND MY EXAMS OMG D:

The only sun i'll ever need...

Summary : "I love you Reader... i don't know what to do without you" said rin You paused for a moment then answering "I thought you were gonna break up with me, didn't you Hate me...?"

Did i take inspo from tiktok and a few mental breakdowns i got? yes.

Reader is has a lot of insecurities, Rin x reader, popular x normal, this is for my insecure girlies out there (just so ya'k you are perfect<3)

Credits to the owners of the dividers and pictures! this fanfic style is from @chateaaa

HEY IT'S ME THE CREATOR I JUST GOT DONE AND FOUND OUT THAT MY MOOT ALSO HAS THE SAME REQUEST SO THAT'S INTERESTING <3

Everyday it seems like the media is out to get you ever since yours and rin's romantic relationship got exposed by the paparazzi's. You see your comments from posts you made years ago flooding with hate from his crazy fan-girls.

You were too terrified to communicate this massive issue with rin, and before you could process it. Time and time again it had already escalated, you dig a hole so deep that not even you who created the pit was able to get out.

it seems like every single day of your life hate keeps appearing. You can't even looks yourself in the mirror without breaking down from the comments.

your acne...

your body hair...

your looks...

even your figure was severely criticise...

It doesn't help that influences seems to catch up of the topic and starts also joining in. The more you scroll, the less you loved yourself you even notice rin getting quite distance in these couple weeks.

He doesn't start conversations anymore, doesn't stay long for cuddles, and is always on his phone... every time he does that it feels like a knife pierce your heart.

Overall your mental health is slowly deteriorating, you did try to stay strong even going as far as to publicly telling them to stop harassing you... but it just stopped for a couple days then it continued.

"(reader)?"

"(reader) (reader)!?"

You woke up in a cold sweat, frantically looking side to side just to find your lover sleeping right next to you facing the other direction. These vivid dreams keeps appearing of you committing suicide and rin's exact reaction.

It has changed... at every end of the dream might as well call it nightmare, rin calls out your name before you've committed it but this time it doesn't even show up.

You couldn't grasp the situation you dug yourself in, staring blankly at the white wall you can't sleep at this point too scared to face that nightmare.

You wanted to cuddle rin and tell him your problem, you quickly dropped that since rin was probably too busy...

With this you suffered alone, the sadness eating you so painfully and so slowly that you just wanted to end it.

...

"Oh, (reader)...?" rin called out to you, he was just woken up and was clearly very concern for you.

You haven't noticed this, but you were just blankly staring at a wall moving motionless.

"(Reader), are you okay...? you know you can talk to me" rin said trying to comfort you in the best way he can.

Feeling quite ashamed, you gave a small nod and assured him that you were okay.

TO. BE. CONTINUED

[just-a-ghost00]

The aesthetic of your next lover

Warning : 18+ themes are mentioned in group 3

Group 1

Physical traits - XX Judgement, Nature Personality - Ace of swords, Power Job - Queen of pentacles, Speak truth Interests - 3 of pentacles, Patience

Your next lover definitely has a good sense of fashion! They dress to impress and are the type of person that stands out of the crowd. They look intimidating, their eyes especially could be a key feature of their looks as well as their lips, regardless of their gender. For instance they could wear graphic eyeliner or their stare is quite intense either because of the shape of their eyes or their color. Their appearance feels very natural so it is unlikely they went through aesthetical surgery or that they use a lot of products to cover up for their complexes. They have a natural beautiful smile, good skin condition, good body proportions. They feel like the more tall and slender type. They are naturally striking which is one thing people would notice about them right from the get go. They look like they come straight out of an ad. In terms of personality, this person is clever and witty. They tend to use their brain more than their heart. They are driven and ambitious, strong willed and opinionated. They're stubborn in many ways but in their case it serves them good. They know how to push through when needed. They could have a tendency to overthink. As for their career, I'm picking up on influencer and artists vibes. This person definitely has an important status and they use their voice to express their truth, whether it's in person or through social media. The queen of pentacles in this deck looks like she is super confident about her impact on people and is expected to be worshiped. So this could represent singers, musicians, models, actors. Their work could involve the body. So maybe gym instructor or nutritionist. When it comes to their hobbies, I'm picking up on : learning new things, working out, gardening, working on their spirituality / increasing their faith, any creative activity that would get them to meet people. This person likes to share knowledge and spend quality time with people.

₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊

Group 2

Physical traits - XIX The Sun, Play Personality - 4 of cups, Strength Job - XXI The World, Trust Interests - Black Numen, The Observer

This person looks very jovial and young, bright, funny, approachable. They tend to wear casual outfits, rather baggy and practical clothes. They look confident and friendly. Their could be all types of bodies and ethnicities here but what I'm picking up on is that they look sunkissed. So they could have a lot of freckles and moles, a beautiful tanned skin. Wavy hair. If they identify as a woman, I can picture them wearing flowy dresses/skirts. They're always smiling and giggling. They give me beach boy / beach girl vibes. When it comes to their personality though, it's the complete opposite. They are rather guarded and shy, kind of pessimistic. They can be super resilient and strong willed but I feel like this person has struggled or is struggling with mental health issues. Their mind is less bright than their appearance, let's put it that way. They give me Joker vibes, minus the psycopathic tendencies. As for their job, I have several possibilities. For some, this person could be jobless at the moment because they are taking a break from work and travelling instead. I have a feeling like this person took a leap of faith and left everything behind. For others, their job involves travelling. It could be because they're a flight attendant or a tourist guide. I also pick up on people that do several jobs at a time or that are always changing jobs. Like they could work for short periods of time as a bartender and next they babysit and so on. They kinda give me student vibes. When it comes to their interests though, it's pretty clear : tarot and divination, watching horror movies and dramas, researching about the occult, watching documentaries or reports about past eras and mysterious deaths / unsolved crimes, stories about ghosts and supernatural beings, mythology.

₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊✧✩₊˚.☾⁺₊

Group 3

Physical traits - 8 of pentacles, Trust Personality - XII Hanged man, Surrender Job - 10 of swords, Movement Interests - XV The Devil, Destruction

This person looks trustworthy and mature. They have a bulky body or at least they look strong and wise. They tend to hide their face. I'm picking up on bikers specifically. Also people that have that tech wear or gangsta aesthetic. They wear masks in public transports. They look friendly but also intimidating in some way, because of their posture or their looks. They could have tattoos. As for their personality, they're pretty chill. They like to go with the flow and enjoy life at it's fullest. They're rather open minded and curious. They are empathetic. They have no problem adopting other people's perspective and finding a common ground with others. They're more of the observer type. They're quiet but they always pay attention. This feels more like the introverted types of the MBTI profiles. When it comes to jobs, I'm picking up on physical therapists, psychologists, kinesitherapists, chiropractors, people that practice movement medicine. Also firefighters and police officers for some reason. They help people move on, especially mentally, from traumatic experiences. As for their interests, I don't get the best of vibes from this section lmao but I was picking up on getting drunk, getting high, seeking for adrenaline by adopting risky attitudes. Like racing on the highway or doing extreme sports. Watching porn, having sex. They tend to have self destructive tendencies. I was also picking up on fighting, boxing, street fights. Like MMA and stuff like that. On a more "softer" note they just enjoy wrecking havoc. So let's say they go to a party or a concert they're the type to tear the place down. I'm also picking up on festivals like Hellfest.

[billyrussoapologist]

Reflections: What exactly is “the darkness” in Nosferatu (2024)?

A theory as to why individual characters seem to experience Orlok’s presence differently

TRIGGER WARNING! Descriptions of SA are mentioned in this text. If you’d like to skip past the descriptions, skip over paragraph 2, centered around Thomas. There are other mentions of SA in here, but they’re only mentions. I also talk about depression, grief, guilt, and trauma, as general experiences. All of these things are personal interpretations of the meaning of this movie.

SPOILER ALERT!

I don’t see many people really unpacking Nosferatu, so I’d like to take a swing at it. I’ve been wondering why Orlok’s influence has a different impact on each of the movie’s central living victims. Thomas (Nicholas Hoult), Ellen (Lily Rose Depp), and Friedrich (Aaron Taylor Johnson). The movie’s tagline is “succumb to the darkness,” and I think each character is meant to represent different “darknesses.”

Thomas’s storyline is a heavy-handed, arguably-not-even-veiled allegory for SA. When he first arrives at Orlok’s castle, Orlok encourages him to drink. After Thomas cuts his finger, Orlok tells him to sit by the fire. Orlok approaches Thomas and he is horrified. He wakes up the next morning lying face down on the floor with his clothes on but disheveled. He has marks on his chest (bite marks) and appears disturbed, confused, in extreme distress. There is later a scene of Orlok pinning Thomas down on a bed, and sucking his blood. Thomas attempts to kill Orlok in his sleep, but Orlok stands, naked, and Thomas runs away in horror. There is then a scene where Orlok, naked, lays on top of Thomas, moving rhythmically as he sucks his blood. Later, when he’s back home, Ellen lays her head on Thomas’s chest, and he pushes her away, Orlok flashing before his eyes. When trying to talk about what Orlok did, Thomas says he can’t even say it. Considering all of these events, I would argue the SA isn’t even supposed to be implied, it’s flat out SA in addition to the vampire aspect.

Ellen’s storyline can be interpreted multiple ways and also contains several heavy allusions to SA, but that’s not the one that jumped out to me, personally. She mentions being shunned by her father at a young age. The opening scene is her praying for help. She cries often, has extreme anxiety being separated from her husband, is constantly fighting an internal battle. Her actions/reactions feel out of her control, to the point where she can’t even feel pain. She believes Frederick hates her, she thanks Anna for being her friend, she asks if evil comes from within. Admittedly, I could be projecting, but Ellen’s storyline feels reminiscent of depression. Again, Ellen’s storyline has clear implications of SA, and I don’t mean to undermine that. But for the sake of explaining why Orlok’s influence affected characters differently, I am limiting characters to individual allusions. And, of course, there are many different ways depression can manifest. But Ellen is clearly a character struggling with mental health issues. She displays feelings of unreasonable guilt and works hard at trying to “be happy.”

Friedrich represents grief. This one is mostly self explanatory, I think. Grief can drive someone mad, especially when it’s born out of a traumatic event. “If I just did this differently, or that…” The would’ve, could’ve, should’ve’s can drive someone crazy. Like Ellen, Friedrich feels unreasonable guilt. Even though he was under a sleeping spell and couldn’t have done much to help, guilt isn’t an easy feeling to ration away. Ultimately, (I believe, though it’s unclear) he takes his life.

So, Thomas is trauma, Ellen is depression, Friedrich is grief. Orlok gives them unique horrific experiences that they must battle with, which is why his influence affects each character differently. Each person has a different idea of what so-called “darkness” is. Ellen wrestles with feelings of being seduced and also repulsed by Orlok. Someone suffering depression could feel it’s a “part” of them (even though that’s untrue!), while simultaneously recognizing it’s hurting them. Orlok’s presence hits Friedrich like a train. It’s sudden, and horrific. It’s consuming, ruthless. Much like grief. Thomas shuts down. He struggles severely to even say out loud what happened to him. He feels great shame (even though he shouldn’t, it’s never ever the victim’s fault!), and he’s confused and disoriented, feelings common with survivors of SA.

If you read any of this, thank you for listening! I fully acknowledge that this is an imperfect theory, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it and I think it could at least somewhat explain these differences. If you have any explanations/interpretations, please share, I’d love to hear!

[tealottie]

What are your headcanons about Della?

I have so many, but tbh my favorite headcanons have to do with her having PTSD - so i can't promise this will be a fun post

MASTERLIST OF DELLA HEADCANONS BELOW:

Appearance:

Scars from the Moon

One across her beak on left side

Scars on her arms and legs

Other markings

Stretch marks especially on her tummy and butt

A few stretch marks on her chest and thighs

Freckles on her beak (because she had triplets and ducks IRL sometimes get freckles after pregnancy)

Other

Chubby pear shape

DD cup size

Squishy belly

Big eyes

Fluffy unkempt feathers (she's bad at preening)

Thin hair (also bad at taking care of it)

Short beak

Queer Headcanons:

Homoromantic

Bisexual

Prefers to just call herself a lesbian

Ciswoman (doesn't mind they/them pronouns and probably finds it entertaining if she's referred to as he/him)

Supports all of her queer babies

She also does not actively seek out romance, but she isn't offput by the idea entirely

Mental Health and Neurodiverse Headcanons:

PTSD

Hates being alone at any given moment and had to ask Donald if she could room with him in the houseboat for a few months

Genuinely cannot look at her reflection and will be needing exposure therapy

Does not like the feeling of movement underwater because it reminds her of the moon's gravity

Terrified that she'll never be fully capable of being a mom because of the 10 years she missed

Cringes at any moon or space themed items now - sometimes triggers her on a bad day or if she looks at them for too long

Her hair being too long is a trigger for her, so she always keeps it shoulder length or above

She ALWAYS feels cold even if her body temperature is normal and sometimes it drives her crazy

Lots of nightmares about what-ifs - what if it was my kids instead of me, what if it was my brother instead of me, what if i didnt have oxychew, what if i never met the Moonlanders, etc etc etc

The taste of black licorice will genuinely send her spiraling, and because it lingers - it wrecks her for days (she hates similar flavors such as rootbeer)

Finds a lot of joy in warm places so she now loves to be out in the sun

Had a period of time where she wasn't really talking with Penumbra because of the severity of her triggers/ptsd

Both finds peace in dead silence, but it also brings her back to the moon as well - she has a very complex relationship with isolation

Prefers silver over gold (even though she doesn't wear jewelry, she likes silver on others and silver on things such as zippers and buttons)

Spent quite a few years terrified of flying after the horror of her own trauma set in, but it threw her into a big depression since piloting is her passion

Hates taking care of her stump because she doesn't like taking her prosthetic leg off - she sees it as her own, so she hates taking it off even though she knows she needs to when sleeping or showering

She has a hard time looking at her stump and scars because on one hand; sick as hell battle wounds, but on the other; damn was that the worst time in my entire life

Depression and Anxiety

Even before crashlanding on the moon, she dealt with depression and social anxiety

She has a bit of a hard time keeping her room tidy and taking care of herself, but she's phenomenal at putting other people first

Feels as though she's not attractive enough

Wants to be a ray of sunshine in other peoples' lives

She's very scared that she won't be enough for people and therefore she must put 110% into everything she does for others

ADHD and Autism

Her sensory issues tend to directly conflict with her PTSD issues - like she hates silence because of the moon, but sometimes she gets overstimulated by noise and needs the silence or alone time

She does not sleep until her body physically passes out because the change in activity is hard for her to deal with

Goes insane if she feels understimulated because her brain begins to shut down and she dissociates

Many, many stims (sometimes doubles as grounding with PTSD): bouncing her leg, various hand motions, feeling the fabric of her clothes, physical affection with her loved ones, playing with the tightness of her prosthetic (loosening and then tightening it over and over), shaking her head to feel her hair around her shoulders (and solidifying that what she's feeling is earth gravity)

Really hard time understanding social cues that makes her come across as rather ditzy

Special interest in aircraft technology and was a top student at her flight school

Love/Hate relationship with reading because if she enjoys what she's reading she gets invested, but if she's understimulated, the words jumble together in her mind

Not good at math for a similar reason

Fish are a huge sensory nightmare for her; the scales, the smell, the taste, etc

Is generally pretty sensory-seeking, but has a few Hard Nos on textures (such as slimy scales)

Other:

I headcanon Della having compulsive sexual behavior disorder, and her libido especially spiked after being on the moon for 10 years, and it makes her feel really gross at times

Due to said hypersexuality, she gets intrusive thoughts that piss her off

Because of the moon not really having a clear indicator of night and day, Della lost her circadian rhythm and struggles with a Hell combination of non-24 and ADHD insomnia

The lack of general sleep makes it hard for her to lose weight and so she's insecure about that

Physical Disabilities:

Because she was on the moon for so long, the zero gravity and lack of proper breathable oxygen took a huge toll on her, physically

She developed really bad asthma and will likely be recovering from it for the rest of her life

Her lungs can only intake so much oxygen at a time, so she also struggles with shortness of breath

Upon returning to earth, her body was really broken down from the cold atmosphere - causing her to not be able to regulate her body temperature properly

Her bones were weakened upon arrival, so she has to spend years recovering physically from it

Her stump is irritated a lot because she doesn't like taking care of it properly

She owns crutches for when she needs to take breaks from her prosthetic just because of the discomfort when wearing it

She is not afraid to hit Donald with a crutch BTW

IF THERE ARE ANY OTHER SPECIFIC HEADCANONS THAT YOU ARE CURIOUS ABOUT, SHOOT ME AN ASK! <3

[richardsgraysons]

lazy sundays

prompt — your fiancé, dick grayson, is the love of your life. was. you think he’s dead, but in reality, he’s out there as a spyral agent. meanwhile, you start appreciating the little things more.

tags — reader got out of an ED, mental health issues. angst and comfort, dick grayson x fem!reader. sfw

jason todd was the one who was attracted to you first. he saw you at a wayne gala and thought you were the love of his life. he asked you out, and you immediately said yes, intimidated by the fact that a wayne was the one who noticed you.

dick didn’t even notice you, which you didn’t mind too much. jason was all that you needed. he was kind and funny but he had this really annoying behavior where he would scream at you in fights. like, scream. one night, things got heated and he left into the night, leaving you behind to go outside, no doubt to clear his mind.

you decided to take care of yourself and make it up to him, so, you had finished his laundry. when putting his clothes away, you noticed a very red helmet with another suit with keys in them. you would’ve thought that it was a cute cosplay prop if the keys didn’t open up a drawer with all sorts of guns in the bottom drawer.

you would’ve freaked out if the radio next to his guns didn’t just go static with —“fuck—nightwing here—wounded on fifth—.” and your blood went cold. jason todd? knew who nightwing was?

you didn’t even think about it, think if it was a trap. you took the radio and drove where nightwing said he was injured. nobody responded and you were praying that he was alive.

and that was when dick grayson, really, really saw you. saw your perseverance, your stubborn nature and how you always looked to the brighter sides of things even when he was stabbed in several places with a split rib and a gash to his head.

you were not a doctor, god no, you were in the beginning of your master’s degree, but with strength that rivaled a mother whose child was underneath a car, you managed to pick him up and put him in your car.

“so jason told you who I am? the little shit. he was supposed to talk to bruce before he revealed our identities. that’s what I get for having a love struck brother, huh?”

you stopped halfway and then looked at him in shock, your mouth open in a slight ‘o’. and he realized that you didn’t know, that your boyfriend of seven months was hiding things from you.

“just take me to bruce’s. say you know, and say I need help.” you let out a groan at it and press on the gas.

jason wasn’t to be found for the next few days. dick was though.

when he recovered and appeared at your doorstep with flowers and a sheepish smile, a cast and a boyish smile that felt like infidelity, your face flushed and you took them happily.

“thanks for saving me,” he said, and leaned against the doorway. unlike jason, his mannerisms and way of acting came easy, smoother, a better flow. and you fell so bad just thinking that. “may I come in?”

and against your better judgment, you stepped side. “mi casa es tu casa.”

his eyes twinkled at that. “tu casa es muy hermosa,” he said. “como el tuyo.”

“you know spanish?”

“I know mandarin, spanish, french, romansh, german, portuguese, hindi, japanese, and arabic. well, learning. dami’s teaching me that one.”

your jaw drops. “I just know english, my mother tongue, and high school spanish.”

“still better than 90% of america.”

that was how it started—he met you every so often, taking coffee out, mini golfing, kayaking, while jason grew ever so distant in the corner. you couldn’t blame jason for it, either. it wasn’t like you were making much of an effort to revive the relationship.

but everything changed that one night when jason asked you to go to a wayne gala with him. out of all his siblings, he had chosen the short straw this time. you said no—you didn’t want to go to another one of them and get hounded by paparazzi at this point.

and jason was fine with that. it wasn’t like he particularly liked going to galas anyways, so he understood your denial. until an hour later when on instagram in one of the more popular news sites, a viral photo of you and dick hugging in the rain together and staring at each other after getting a hole in one in a really hard mini golfing course started circling around.

“what the fuck is wrong with you? are you fucking him? don’t even answer that, I can tell. and even if you aren’t, I know you want to.”

“no, jason, what the fuck is wrong with you? I haven’t done anything with dick, nor do I want to. we’re friends.”

“you don’t underhand, y/n. I’m gonna be the guy that the papers make fun of once you leave me for him. so I’ll do what you don’t have the guts to. we’re done.”

your world didn’t shatter because of that, surprisingly. he moved out of your apartment. you watched gilmore girls reruns. you ate a lot of food. some cried tears, but nothing much. until one day, dick appeared at your door out of the blue.

"dick?" you raised an eyebrow, looking at him with an unsure look in your eye. "what are you doing here?" you were wearing your sweats with a dumbed down look in your eye that clearly stated you didn't know what the hell was happening.

"i'm in love with you. i'm sorry—but i can't stop thinking about you. your laugh is infectious and when you smile it's like a cloudy sky just turns back to sunshine—"

you stepped forward and kissed him. you thought the tabloids were full of shit, but you knew that they were right about this one thing.

after two years of dating, he had done a vigilante trip to india to track down some passages. while he was there, he went and bought a shiny ring. you'd marry him with paper rings. he planned a view of a skyline and it went perfectly, thank god.

but he died. he died and now you're sitting here in the apartment, staring at a photo of the two of you. you miss everything about him. the way he'd subtly add more food to your plate when you were having your ED. when he held you throughout the night after a panic attack even though he had patrol that day. when. he defended you from the paparazzi, when he screamed at jason right back when jason found out that you and dick were dating.

don't tell me you're staring at that damned photo. - tim

you look at your phone and sigh before closing down your phone. tim wouldn't understand. he wouldn't get it. how could he? it wasn't like he lost the love of his life. he was a robin. he knew loss. you didn't. he also lost his brother, you remind yourself, and that just makes it all worse.

you grab the photo and curl up in a ball in fetal position. you miss lazy sunday afternoons when you've eaten too much and that food is resting in your stomach. your head would be in your fiancé's lap and his hands would be in your hair and the minute he would move his hands from your hair or your back, you'd wake up, your body discomforted by the lack of touch. that's my superpower, you'd joke.

no, he'd respond. your superpower is being the most amazing and talented woman i have ever had the pleasure of meeting. i would do anything for you. your beauty rivals the stars in the night sky. i love you like how the moon loves the earth.

at the single thought of it, you curl up and sob, the tears racking down as you clench the photos to your heart. five months and thirteen days and you are not a single second away from properly healing. you'll never love again. you know that for a fact.

it's ten in the night when you wake up, and the couch is stained with tears. haley is right beside you, looking sad and sullen. she misses her best friend too, but she always hates it when her other best friend is crying.

"i haven't fed you? fuck," you swear before standing up. everything hurts. your heart feels too heavy. there's cuts on your wrists. you stare at them, the red from the blood dried up.

he also stares at them too. he vows that he's coming back no matter what.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Mary Harrington

Published: Feb 19, 2024

A new study challenges the common assertion that gender-dysphoric youth are at elevated risk of suicide if not treated with “gender affirming” medical interventions. If it’s true, it ought to have a seismic impact on the accepted medical approach to gender-confused youth.

Reported in the BMJ, the study examines data on a Finnish cohort of gender-referred adolescents between 1996 and 2019, and compares their rates of all-cause and suicide mortality against a control group. While suicide rates in the gender-referred group studied were higher than in the control group, the difference was not large: 0.3% versus 0.1%. And — importantly — this difference disappeared when the two groups were controlled for mental health issues severe enough to require specialist psychiatric help.

In other words: while transgender identity does seem to be associated with elevated suicide risk, the link is not very strong. What’s more, the causality may not work the way activists claim.

The association between gender dysphoria and mental illness is well-documented by both providers of “gender-affirming care” and trans advocacy groups and clinical psychology research. But one less well-evidenced claim, based on this association, is that these difficulties are caused not by being transgender, but by the political and social stigma associated with it. Gender dysphoria, we are to understand, is not in itself a mental health issue. What causes mental health issues in transgender youth — up to and including suicide — is the wider world’s rejection of their identity, and of the metaphysical frame of “gender identity” as such.

This is the root of the oft-repeated social media assertion that anyone who demurs about trans identity, however mildly, is complicit in “trans genocide”. The same assertion that invalidating trans youth makes them kill themselves is also behind the rhetorical question routinely used to browbeat parents into consenting to social and medical transition for their gender-confused offspring: “Would you rather have a live daughter or a dead son?”

It’s behind the prohibition on “trans conversion therapy” already in force in several countries, and promised by the Labour Party in England too. Such measures forbid therapists from exploring with their clients whether there is any link between their gender dysphoria and — for example — life trauma or other mental health issues. For logically, if the cause of distress and suicidality in trans people is not being accepted for who they are, any therapist who seeks to explore links between gender dysphoria and other biographic or psychiatric issues is complicit in just this kind of non-acceptance, and is thus not helping but harming their client.

But as the study puts it: “Clinical gender dysphoria does not appear to be predictive of all-cause nor suicide mortality when psychiatric treatment history is accounted for.” Rather, what predicts risk in this population is “psychiatric morbidity”. And contra��the activists, transitioning does nothing to reduce it: “medical gender reassignment does not have an impact on suicide risk.”

Every suicide is a tragedy, and leaves grieving loved ones behind. No one wants to be complicit in pushing a young person down that path. So the suggestion that questioning someone’s gender beliefs may have this effect serves as a powerful emotional cudgel. But if the Finnish study is correct, this whole rhetorical, legislative, and medical edifice may be built on sand. If the elevated risk of suicidality in trans youth disappears when you control for other psychiatric difficulties, this suggests strongly that trans youth are not more at risk due to transphobia or invalidation, but due to the well-documented fact that gender dysphoria tends to occur in people who are disturbed and unhappy more generally.

It ought to follow from this that the way to manage suicide risk in trans-identified young people is not to affirm their gender identity and whisk them off for medical interventions, but to watch for and treat psychiatric comorbidities. Ultimately, though, the claims of gender ideology are less scientific than metaphysical. So don’t expect scientific evidence that contradicts its prescriptions to have much impact on trans advocates. Even if “following the science” would make a real difference to suicide risk in gender-dysphoric youth.

==

History will view "gender affirming care" advocates the same way we view lobotomy advocates.

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

Can you make a story where reader protected Donna from danger that almost cost her life. Donna manage to save her but reader hs been unconscious for a weeks. While she's taking of her, Donna couldn't forget what almost happened to her lover. This became worst because of the severe mental illness that Donna has, but this time she's actually losing her sanity at this point but still clinging to the reader because she's the only one can make her sane. Miraculously the reader woke up, still injured but alive. Donna felt a sense of peace in her soul.

Note: Reader almost died because a soldier tried to kill Donna but she save her. The soldier is possibly a BSAA agent.

It's in Donna's POV, I want to see things her perspective especially when she starts breaking down.

Donna is also shy and weak not like most of her siblings so she struggled with this to.

Yesss!!!! Thank you for your request!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!! :))))

Come back

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff, Donna's POV, mental health issues, Donna being Donna

Word count: 5,650

Summary: Please, let you light come back to my darkness...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!! :))

“Come on, Donna, it's just a walk,” you said in a tender voice, with those eyes you knew perfectly well I couldn't resist.

I sighed, shook my head and fought the gentle tugs you gave to my hand.

“We, we're better off at home,” I murmured, looking away and causing you to sigh tiredly.

Your pleading look didn't change.

“Come on, today is a too great day to be locked up in this horri… I mean, wonderful, dark house,” you said jokingly, swinging my hand with yours. “Please…”

“(Y/N),” I said a bit nervous, shaking my head again but, surprisingly, starting to think about your offer, as always.

You always did with me what you wanted, and I let you. I would do anything for you, always, (Y/N), always.

“Is that a yes?” you asked with a sufficient smile, completely ignoring my protests. I wish, (Y/N), I wish for once, you hadn't insisted.

“I didn't say yes,” I said, frowning, gently pulling you along, with an amused sigh.

“Now you did,” you joked in my ear.

How could I refuse?

“W, well, okay, okay...” I whispered defeated, unable to make you see how comfortable I was at home. I don’t liked going outside. Of course, you were always there to make those fears, which you said were irrational, disappear.

You jumped for joy and stole a kiss from me, one that relaxed my nerves even more. Your kisses had that effect on me, a wonderful effect. I returned it, unable to do anything but look at your eyes, your smile. You were my only addiction.

With a brief triumphant smile, you walked towards the door and I followed you, reaching out for my black veil, the one I never left off if I had to go out for some reason. I already knew I was a monster, you did too, but you denied it, you always denied it.

“Hey, no, leave it there,” you said, giving me a gentle slap to get me to let the veil go before I cover my face.

“But, but, (Y/N)… I have, I have to…” I stammered, trying to make you understand that I needed that veil, that the sunlight was a privilege that someone like me didn't deserve.

No, the world didn't need to see my deformed face.

I couldn't stop you from seeing it, but I could stop nature from being disturbed by my horrible appearance.

“It’s just a walk through the grounds. There's no one around here, you don't need it,” you said in a soft, comforting tone, definitely moving the cloth out of my reach.

I, in my perpetual madness, tried to snatch it from you, without success.

“Donna, stay still,” you said, this time with a firm voice, forcing me to remain paralyzed and nod defeated once again. “That's it... Good girl,” you whispered, pleased by my answer, by my shoulders falling helplessly and my slightly angry look.

“You like to make me suffer,” I hissed, unable, again, to face your decisions.

Deep down I knew you did it for me, you always did it for me.

“Yes, yes, I like to make you suffer...” you repeated rolling your eyes, without letting the smile disappear from your face. “Stop complaining and come here,” you ordered softly, gesturing with your hand. “Come on, come here.”

A bit reluctant, but motivated by that look, by that smile, I obeyed, grabbing your hand again as we left the estate. It was the first time in a long time that I could see the sun clearly, and it was blinding.

“If you feel sick, you get nervous or want to go back, just tell me, okay?” you said as we walked.

“I want to go back,” I whispered, in an embarrassingly childish tone. You laughed amused, arching your eyebrows and squeezing my hand tighter.

“You’ll see how good the fresh air is for you,” you said, ignoring my protest and kissing me on the cheek. “Besides, I’m here with you, holding your hand very tightly, see?”

I looked down, distrustful, looking at our intertwined fingers, my hand next to yours, fused into one. I don't know how you did it, but your advice always worked, relaxing my spirit.

Before I met you, I thought my life had only one purpose, one that I even doubted: to exist, to attend to the requests of my savior, Mother Miranda. Being named Lord was not a relevant change in my life.

I spent all those years alone, as if the world itself had forgotten me. I cannot be surprised by that. I, Donna Beneviento, never knew the meaning of appreciation, affection, love...

My misfortunes haunted me. I was unable to escape from my demons, from the illness that damaged my mind. Feeling powerful, with control over people should have been enough to give meaning to my life, but it wasn't.

The hours, the days, the weeks... Not even the passage of time had meaning in my old estate, I wonder if it ever did. No, nothing in my life could keep me away from the darkness, nothing could silence the voices in my head, my cries in front of the mirror, the nightmares…

Angie was a good support, but it wasn't enough. I guess my father thought the same when he gave her to me. It's a shame that she didn't serve any purpose. It was just to increase my problems.

People, conversations, human contact… All this stuff always sounded like something impossible in my head. I was aware that there couldn't be anyone, that no one would be able to understand me.

Solitude became my name. Isolation was my home. A horrendous monster, was my appearance.

I had already assumed my sentence, my sentence for existing, for being born in that cursed place, in that cursed family. There would be no remedy for my soul, or so I thought.

Then you came.

(Y/N), a girl from the village who dedicated herself to weaving, to selling her fabrics. What a curious coincidence. I needed those fabrics, you made them. Always, even before I met you, you had something I needed, something I craved.

Love was a dream for me. I could only get close to it in my books, in my dreams where a female hand held mine.

Was it your hand from the beginning? I have no doubt.

But, thanks to you, I knew what it meant to have someone by your side, someone who… loved you. Maybe it wasn't hard for me to fall in love with someone like you, a beautiful, smiling, cheerful girl… However, I still wonder what you could see in someone like me, (Y/N).

 I was, I’m a monster.

Your lips silenced my doubts with a kiss, one you gave me under my black veil. You said you never cared about what was underneath, you only cared about knowing if I was as crazy about you as you were about me.

I was, really, I was.

Loving you was easy, the fear of losing you wasn't. You should have abandoned me when my demons forced me to yell at you, to hurt myself. You didn't, you never left.

Like an angel I never had, your presence illuminated me. It revealed to me the little light left in my soul. Your hand, the one I dreamed of before I met you, held mine tightly to calm me down, to return to being that good monster you wanted to kiss.

The little sanity left in my tormented soul was like a thin thread that your perfect hands held. There came a point where I couldn't, I didn't want to live without you.

“Are you okay?” you asked, taking me out of my thoughts, entering that dark forest, walking slowly, in silence.

I nodded, smiling as I remembered you, as I thought about that first kiss, about all the ones that came after, about all the things you showed me. You showed me to love, and to be loved, just thinking about it could make my deformed face smile.

“I was just thinking,” I said, clearing my throat.

You nodded slowly, leaning towards me, resting your head on my shoulder, sighing in conjunction with the calm of that forest.

“Nice things, I hope,” you joked with a purr.

“Of course, tesoro, I was thinking about you,” I said whispering, making your cheeks blush while your gaze became shy.

Silence was our company again. That walk was certainly not a bad idea. Nothing could be bad if it was with you.

“You are very sweet, Donna,” you sighed, stopping and turning my head to give me one of your kisses, a gift much more divine than the Black Gods themselves.

“I try,” I said amused, moving your hair out of your face. I hated it. I hated seeing how the locks got in the way of your beauty.

Did you also feel the same when I put on the veil? No, impossible, you were an angel, I was the devil, a monster.

“Look, let's sit down, the sun is about to set,” you said, changing that sweetness into enthusiasm, pulling my hand towards the edge of a cliff, where an old tree seemed to catch your attention. “Come, sit down.”

I looked at you strangely, but I nodded, obeying you. I would always be faithful to you, (Y/N), I would do everything you asked me to do.

You let yourself fall in front of me, leaning against my body, completely relaxed.

“Are you comfortable, tesoro?” I asked, trying not to disturb the romantic atmosphere of that place with my husky voice. You laughed, looked at me, and shook your head.

“No,” you said abruptly, searching for something with your gaze. You located my arms, grabbing them and passing them around your waist, snuggling among them. “Now I am.”

You were right, it was a beautiful sunset. Maybe it was because you were beautiful. Gods, I love you so much…

“Donna,” you said, interrupting that relaxing calm, playing with my hands with a playful expression.

“Mm?” I murmured, resting my head on your shoulder, kissing you slowly on your soft cheek along with shy laughs.

“Come on, do it,” you said, moving away and looking at me expectantly. I frowned, confused.

“What?” I asked amused. Your cheeks blushed even more.

“You know…” you said with a soft voice, with shining eyes. “Speak to me in Italian, you know I love it,” you asked me, biting your lip.

I opened my mouth to fulfill your wishes once again, but some unpleasant cawing prevented me from doing so. The crows that used to rest in the trees of the forest flew away. It didn't take a genius to know that this was a bad omen.

“Wow…” you said, looking at the birds, curious like me. “What's wrong with those birds?”

“I, I don't know,” I said with a different look, worried.

My hands were starting to shake. It was time to go home.

“There are no lycans around here, right?” you asked, getting up scared by the strange behavior of the forest animals.

“No,” I said, standing up as well, looking around for the source of that horrible feeling that was starting to run through my body. It was like someone was watching us.

“I have a bad feeling,” you whispered, as if you too were focused on a danger you couldn’t see.

“Me too, let’s go home,” I said, grabbing your hand, almost pulling you along, heading back to the path that led us back to the safety of my darkness.

“Donna, wait,” you said, planting your feet on the ground, stopping abruptly. “Have you heard that?”

I shook my head nervously, grabbing your hand again. The chills were getting more intense. You, horrified by something, stopped again with your eyes wide open.

“Don’t, don't shoot,” you said with your hands up, looking towards a corner, where an armed man was crouching, with what looked like a rifle pointed at us.

“Get away, civilian,” that masked man said, focusing his attention on me.

I was paralyzed. I didn't know how to react to that strange threat.

“Donna, watch out!” you screamed, lunging at me just as a thunderous shot echoed in the forest, followed by a flash of light. There was no doubt, that man had come to kill me.

“Back, stay back (Y/N),” I said, pushing you away from my body and dodging another shot. I should have noticed you, I should have.

“Shit,” the man whispered, trying to reload his gun. It was too late for that poor bastard.

I walked slowly, keeping my monstrous gaze on that strange mask. He was going to pay for what he had done, no doubt. With a strange calm, which I needed to use my powers, I extended my hand towards him. He couldn't see my face, but I knew that I terrified him.

“Wait, wait,” the poor man begged, crawling on the ground, throwing away his gun and trying to flee.

Soon my powers began to take effect, forcing him to writhe in pain for things that didn't exist, to grab his gun, point it at his head, and pull the trigger, ending his existence forever.

“Bastardo…” I hissed, kicking the lifeless body of what was, without a doubt, a soldier.

“Donna…” you said, in low voice, crouched on the ground, hunched over yourself.

I looked at you, still filled with the adrenaline that came from using my gift. I ran towards you, I bent down to help you up, but when I looked at my hands, there was only blood on them.

On your belly there was a wound, a wound caused by that weapon, by that stupid act of throwing yourself at me.

 Once again, I was paralyzed, horrified, I only saw blood, your blood.

“(Y/N), (Y/N),” I said nervously, checking your condition.

Your eyes danced, your skin paled dangerously. My hand pressed your wound to stop the red flow that stained it. No, it couldn't be possible, it was a nightmare.

“Donna…” you sighed, letting yourself fall into my arms, losing strength. I didn't know what to do. I was just trying to keep the light that wanted to leave your gaze. “I saved you…” you whispered with a smile, before fainting completely.

“No, no, no, no…” I repeated furiously, holding your head up high and my hand on your wound, looking for help with my eye, a help that wasn't going to come. “(Y/N)!” I screamed furiously, passing my hand over my forehead, bathing it in your blood.

Do something, stupida…

The voices in my head rebuked me for my frustration, forcing me to take your unconscious body in my arms, running you back to the home we should never have left.

“Resisti, (Y/N), per favore…”

I couldn't say how I got home. All I saw was blood, your blood desecrating your beauty. All because of me, all, because, of, me.

“In… In… In a coma?” I asked when Mother Miranda, in her eternal mercy, came to my call for help. The priestess looked at me after bandaging your unconscious body.

“The bullet has pierced part of her spleen, be thankful she's not dead,” she whispered, closing a briefcase and looking at me with hatred, with the hatred of not being able to save you, surely.

I, still nervous, soaked in your blood, couldn't stop shaking, I couldn't think of seeing you like that, almost lifeless in bed, with your beautiful eyes closed, would I ever be able to see them again?

“Did you kill him?”  Miranda asked, distracting me from the task of squeezing your hand, like you taught me, like you told me all problems passed. “Donna!”

“Yes, yes,” I answered without looking at her. I should have been grateful to her, but I couldn't, I could only hate myself.

“Fine...” the blonde sighed, with that golden glow blinding my eye. “That rat has been causing problems for a while now. I guess it finally got what it deserved.”

I suddenly let your hand go and got out of bed, furious at what those words implied.

“Did you know? Did you know that bastardo was lurking around?” I asked furiously, feeling my temples throbbing as if, without your hand squeezing mine, I would lose control of my actions.

“Shh, calm down,” Miranda said, with a grimace of disgust, without moving, without blinking. Stoic, all-mighty  as always. “Of course I knew. The BSAA never gets tired, right? I assumed it wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“Not for me…” I whispered, squinting, clenching my red fists tightly. “And for her?!”

“Stop, yelling, Donna,” the witch said, pressing her eyes shut with her fingers, again, not even slightly fazed by my behavior. “I couldn't possibly know that your girl was going to play heroes.”

I growled furiously, pacing erratically around the room, thinking of a thousand ways to kill my adoptive mother, to end it all, to make everything go up in the air. I couldn't stand it, I couldn't stand that you had risked your pure life to save a monster's. Anything but that.

“I'll come back next week to check on her,” the blonde said, disinterested. Of course, you were a mortal, she didn't care about you.

I cursed all her ancestors. I really wished that her body and her golden robes would fall down the waterfall where my family died.

“Take care of her in the meantime, or kill her, I don't care,” she whispered, making me growl in horror. “But I don't want you to give me any trouble, is that clear?”

When Miranda disappeared, everything collapsed around me, my body collapsing against one of the bedroom walls. There was no more laughter, no more gasps, no more moans of passion in the dark bedroom. Only my agonized crying echoed off the walls while my hands pulled at my hair, hitting the floor in rage. A pathetic scene that I couldn't avoid.

When I managed to calm down, I saw that Angie was next to me, as always.

“Is she dead?” the doll asked unpleasantly pointing at your inert body. I shook my head, realizing that I had hurt myself, that the blood dripping from my head was mixing with yours on my hands.

“No!” I shouted, angrily pushing the puppet away. “She's not…” I said, this time sobbing, burying my head in my hands, sinking into my knees the shame of not being able to save you.

“Bad Donna, stupid Donna!” Angie protested, damaging my ears.

I was about to, about to deactivate her, but I needed her, I needed someone to speak for me, someone to keep reason in my head, to keep madness away from my sick mind.

“I'm sorry,” I said, getting up from the floor coldly. Angie nodded without resentment and climbed into bed next to you.

I approached slowly, taking your hand in mine, squeezing it again like you taught me.

“She's asleep, huh?” Angie said, getting too close. I controlled my impulse to mistreat her again, with an absurd idea in my head.

If you were asleep, that meant I could wake you up, right?

“Wake up, wake up…” I whispered, caressing your cheeks, your soft, addictive skin. There was no response and I took a breath again, resting my hands on your shoulders. “Come on, tesoro, wake up…”

“Wake up, you fool, wake up!” the doll shrieked, moving you too. Yes, it was true that Angie was jealous because you had captured all my attention, but she appreciated you, really. It was impossible for her not to, she was part of me.

“Per favore…” I begged, sobbing again, seeing that your body still didn’t react to my gentle movements.

My breathing became agitated and my hands trembled as they moved you more and more roughly. My heart was about to explode.

“Svegliati, (Y/N), svegliati!” I shrieked, moving you roughly, desperately. I knew it was a good idea not to deactivate Angie, she stopped me.

“Hey, hey, Donna, stop, stop, you'll hurt her!” the puppet shouted, uselessly placing itself between your body and mine, clinging to my unhinged arms.

I finally left you alone, sinking beside you, crying on your chest, pathetically settling next to you, wrapping my arms around you, just the way you liked it.

“Don't do this to me, tesoro, please... Don't leave me alone...”  I sobbed, staining your skin with my tears, crying until at some point, my monstrous body gave in to exhaustion.

A day passed, two, you didn't wake up.

My desperation seemed calmer, but it wasn't. I took care of you, I looked after you, but in my head there was only a flash, a horrible sound: the light of the shot, the sound of the bullet that pierced your skin.

That bullet must have pierced me, not you.

You had saved my life, what for? Why would I want to live in a world without you?

It was absurd, (Y/N) I should be dead, not you, you should wake up, smile, light up the world with your smile. It was too unfair.

Little by little I forgot to eat, to drink, to live…

I tried to stay sane while I read you your favorite books, hoping that the words that made you feel those emotions would revive your soul and I could see your beautiful eyes again.

But I was never well, I was always sick. Without you, without the thin thread that kept my sanity, I began to take small steps into the darkness.

“I sat with them at the table, next to Queequeg, and mentally prepared myself to listen to some stories about whale hunting…” I read calmly, next to you, my disastrous body didn’t separate from yours for a second, my hand always held yours.

Donna…

A dark voice interrupted me, a voice I knew, that I knew where it came from. Shaking my head, I tried to ignore it, but it wasn't possible. In that old book the words danced, making me dizzy, that dark voice sounded louder and louder.

She's dead…

That voice spoke to me again. I dropped the book, pulled my hair as I bent over myself, preventing it from continuing to speak in any way.

“No… No…” I said nervously, kicking the floor hard.

Yes, of course she is… Because of you…

“No! (Y/N) is alive!”  I screamed neurotically, to respond to someone who didn't exist, who only lived inside my crazy head. “Stai zitto!”

Really? Check her pulse…

Knowing that they were just trying to undermine my morale, that those voices weren't there, just as you always told me when they appeared so I would stop listening to them, I ignored your own words and brought my trembling hand to your neck.

You were cold, frozen, there was no sign of your heartbeat on your neck and, in front of me, your body began to crack, to calcify.

“No… No!” I screamed with my hands on my head, falling to my knees on the floor, crying, pulling my hair, unhinged again.

Yes, Donna, you killed her…

“Basta! Basta!” I yelled crying, covering my ears to uselessly silence the voice of my demons.

It's your fault! It's your fault!

“Donna, Donna!” a squeaky voice interrupted that horrible spectacle. It sounded like Angie, but I couldn't be sure. In my mind, I only saw your body falling apart, breaking into a thousand pieces. “What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t answer, I just pointed at your body with my finger. The doll climbed onto the bed, the bed I didn’t want to look at.

“What? What’s wrong with her?” the doll asked, with a confused voice.

Dead, dead, dead…

“Angie, (Y/N) is…” I murmured, swallowing my own tears, hitting the floor helplessly, furiously. I had to fall apart into a thousand pieces, not you.

“She’s what? She’s still asleep,” the doll said, getting off the bed to stand in front of me, tilting her head curiously.

“She, her body is…” I said in a low voice, making an effort to get up and dare to look at your broken body. It wasn't, you were still intact.

Your chest rose and fell calmly. Your expression wasn't cracked, but serene.

Confused and scared, I ran my hand over my sweaty forehead as I sat next to you, relieved to see that it had only been my imagination.

You will kill her, Donna… She saved your life, and you will kill her…

“Gods… (Y/N),” I said, resting my forehead against yours, keeping my face very close to yours.

“Are you okay?” Angie asked, suspecting what was the cause of my attitude.

“Yes, I…” I lied, moving away to let you breathe. “It, it was nothing.”

“Why don't you cut her throat and end her suffering?” Angie asked, with an amused tone. I stood up in surprise, grabbing the puppet by the neck.

“What did you just say?” I hissed as the doll struggled against my grip.

“Hey, let me go! I said why you don’t keep reading,” the puppet protested.

I let go, shaking my head, confused, overwhelmed by the situation.

I was losing my mind, and I knew it.

“Ugh, you need a break,” the doll said, comically shaking her dress. “And a shower, you stink.”

I closed my eye, breathing slowly, like my gardener, Josef, had taught me. It was true that I was a monster. That man was good, and I killed him.

“What I need is for her to come back…” I said sobbing, succumbing to crying again, squeezing your hand tightly, trying to beg you to come back to me.

“I miss her too,” Angie said, tenderly stroking your hair. Not even the fact that Angie acknowledged that she appreciated you was enough to reassure me.

“Please, (Y/N)… Please… Come back to me… Don’t, don't leave me alone, I need your light to get me out of this darkness…” I begged, squeezing your hand perhaps too tightly. The voices returned.

She will never come back to you, she never loved you. You will never feel her lips again. You will be left alone, with us, Donna, in the darkness where you belong.

Three, four days passed, or so I thought.

I lost track of time as well as I lost my mind. The voices were already a constant sound in my mind, the panic attacks, the hallucinations began to put you in danger. I decided not to get too close. My hands could turn against to you.

I kept repeating how much I needed you, how bad I felt without your comforting presence. You were my light, (Y/N), and you were fading away.

The weakness that my mind felt soon entered into harmony with that of my body. I was hungry, I knew it, I had to eat, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to leave you alone. I wanted to be with you, to cling to your unconscious body to feel that I wasn't lost, that there was still hope for me, and for you.

Exhausted, sitting on the floor against a wall, I closed my eyes tightly so as not to hear the voices that now asked me to leave everything, to abandon you, to abandon the life that was granted to me by the grace of Mother Miranda, that second chance that I didn't deserve.

She is like this because of you, you should die, Donna...

But no, I couldn't succumb to those requests. You needed me. You needed my care, for me to be by your side. You had saved my life, I couldn't abandon you, but neither could you.

“Don't you dare to leave me,” I sighed, my voice broken by crying, my weak body struggling to stay awake, in pain from the blows caused by the wounds caused by the crises.

My madness worsened as the hours passed. Reality, my own existence became something inexact. I didn't know when it was night, when it was day. There were no windows in that bedroom, you were always sleeping.

“Hey, hey, Donna,” a strange voice, which didn't come from my head, scared me, waking me from my exhaustion with some soft slaps on my face.

Cagna... She's coming to fuck her.

Ignoring the warning from my subconscious, I managed to make out my sister Alcina leaning over me.

“What...? What are you doing here?” I said, leaning on the wall so I could get up, ready to fight for you until the end. I didn't care if she was really there or it was another vision.

I was always jealous of my sister.

“You didn't come to the meeting. Miranda is asking for you,” the tall woman commented, walking sensually towards the bed. I couldn't move as fast as I wanted, and weakness made me stumble against the lady in white, who held me with her raised eyebrows.

“Vaffanculo…” I whispered, letting my sister guide me until I sat on the bed. “Get out.”

“You're a mess…” she murmured with disinterest, fixing my dress, almost torn by my own attacks. “How long has it been since you ate, dear? Not to mention how you stink…”

“I told you… to get lost…” I said furiously, pushing her with pathetic force. She just laughed, was she really there? “Porca puttana…”

“How vulgar…” Alcina laughed, holding me by the shoulder, dodging my furious attacks. “Aren't you supposed to take care of her?”

“I take care of her,” I said furiously, crossing my arms in a childish manner.

“Do you? I doubt you can take care of yourself, dear,” the lady in white mocked.

I growled again, guiding my gaze towards you, searching for your hand and grabbing it with the little strength I had left.

“Alcina… I'm…” I said calmer, relaxed by the softness of your skin. Maybe you were right and your hands were magic. “I'm losing my mind.”

“Oh, that's not new,” the vampire said, with a mocking expression.

 I ignored the comment, suppressing a sob.

“I feel, I feel that without her I…” I said with a broken voice, letting Alcina lay me down on the bed, next to you, sighing with pity.

“That's it, draga…” the big woman whispered, making sure I was comfortable. “You must stay strong, it's the best for (Y/N).”

“I don't, I don't know if I can do it… Alcina… I, I don't want to be alone, I want, I want her to come back,” I said, noticing how sleep attacked me again. At least when I was about to sleep, the voices didn't attack me.

“You must come back first, Donna,” my sister whispered, caressing my messy hair while covering me with a blanket. “(Y/N) needs you… Sleep, my sweet Donna…”

Those were the last words I heard before the darkness of my nightmares invaded me again.

Even today I still don't know if my sister's visit was real or if it was just a last breath of my sanity demanding me to come back, to force my demons to stay in a cage.

Three more days passed.

The voices continued to harass me, but something changed after that unexpected visit. My desire to fight my madness, to get you back, was much stronger. I even dared to accept the fruit that Angie brought me. Eating gave me strength, the softness of your hands kept the flame of hope alive.

“Actually I had always felt that way...” I read, like every day, another one of your favorite novels.

Miraculously, the voices that whispered horrible things to me no longer interrupted my words. I felt strong, or so I tried to show. With each passing day, the vision of the light of your smile became more blurred.

“…Without being able to explain why. I had never wanted to accept that life was so grey and indifferent, so without secrets or wonders as people pretended when they said…”

“That’s life…”

I read the end of that paragraph and nodded with a sigh. I soon realized something strange. No, it wasn't a horrible voice in my head. It wasn't Angie's voice that continued my reading.´

I dropped the book, let it fall loudly on the wood when I noticed something warm in my hand, yours, squeezing it tightly. Afraid that my mind would play tricks on me again, I closed my eye, opened it again and looked at your hand in mine, moving.

“Hello, darling…” a hoarse voice, broken by tiredness reached my ears, your voice, your angelic voice, your voice that came back to illuminate my dark path.

“(Y/N)…” I whispered, looking slowly into your bright eyes, half-closed but shining. “(Y/N)!”

I threw myself into your arms, burying my body in yours while my hand squeezed yours, to confirm that it hadn't been a dream. Not wanting to waste a second, I captured your lips in a kiss, crying with joy, crying for having you back, and scared in case it was just a dream.

“Hi… Hi…” you repeated, fighting against my gestures of affection, laughing weakly.

“Let her breathe, silly Donna!” Angie shrieked, pushing me away from you, jumping with joy on the bed. “You're back, you're back!”

“Yes, yes, it seems so…” you said coughing, in pain from the wound in your abdomen, trying to sit up, something I prevented.

“Don’t, don't move, you could... You could hurt yourself,” I said, playing nervously with your hair, with your hands, with everything that was within my reach.

“Hey...”

“Tell me, tesoro,” I said nervously, hoping to hear a request for water or food.

“I'm glad to see you again, Donna...”

“What are you talking about?” I asked confused, shaking my head. “(Y/N)... I'm, I'm the one who...”

“I told you a long time ago...” you sighed, exhausted, exhausted but awake. “That I would never abandon you...”

[deceptive-daydreams]

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 |

Smoke Signals

Chapter Fourteen - A Merry Little Christmas

W/C: 7.5K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

Have yourself a merry little Christmas…

(Cover) Phoebe Bridgers

Warnings: mentions of bad childhood, mentions of parent’s death, issues with mental health, allusion to a suicide attempt, self harm but not, just appears to be, blood, let me know if I missed anything. In all fairness this is a heavy chapter in the beginning. Oh and also, smut 👀

A/N: this took literally forever to write…only because I couldn’t write for like months lmao. But I spent all day basically fleshing most of this all out and there’s a lot of emotion put into it and not too much editing cause I already overthought everything I wrote as I wrote it, dare I say I put my whole fuckin pussy into this chapter. Next chapter will be the final one in the series 😭

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Christmas Eve was supposed to be different this year.  

A senseless daydream.  

It was dad’s last kick to his gut, he knows it.  Eddie finally had a good thing going for him but alas the Munson’s were cursed and he could never escape.  This was some kind of final revenge for not hanging around like a lost puppy though it wasn’t even his choice to leave Hawkins in the first place.  It didn’t matter, life never spared Eddie a precious moment.  

So he sat there, salty tears still somehow leaking out of him despite how tired he was, despite how wrong it felt.  Last week his dad was the most hated man in his life.  And last week he was suddenly dead.  It didn’t make sense, the devastation that consumed Eddie.  All he knew was that sunlight began leaking through the blinds and dotting the floor.  Birds were chirping annoyingly outside and his skin started to feel like cold cuts and despite how uncomfortable it made him, he couldn’t find it in himself to get off his ass and at least put a sweatshirt on.  

He had promised you breakfast, down the road at that little diner called Reggie’s.  Promised to get you the biggest stack of pancakes covered in whipped cream and all kinds of sprinkles along with the best, artery clogging bacon you would ever taste.  Maybe some scrambled eggs and hashbrowns.  

Whatever you wanted. 

He hadn’t seen you in days, not since the recent news broke.  His excuse of harboring the flu was not how he wanted to start daily phone calls with you.  He knew you would then mistake the stuffiness in his voice for phlegm and not his inner sorrows burrowing their way out of him.  He refused your offer to bring him homemade soup and hot tea, rejected the kindness he hadn’t deserved in the first place.  Told you that he just wanted to get healthy quickly and it wouldn’t do either of you any good to both be sick.  He left you in charge of the bar, much to Jett’s disdain, Eddie didn’t need you to confirm that for him he just knew.

Now just standing up seemed impossible.  Shifting his position on the couch to at least relieve the pressure against his tail bone wasn’t plausible.  And for what?  For a man that never gave an inch when Eddie gave him miles upon miles, practically handed over his life on several occasions.  Pathetic, he knew.  But the pain didn’t cease and he couldn’t even find it in himself to turn his head to check the time.

This was it.  

This was how you were going to come face to face with the fact that Eddie was no man.  Not a real one anyway, a facade if anything.  He could just picture it: you would await his knock at the door and it wouldn't come.  A giddy smile would spread across your face as you thought about your plans of going sledding together–he sees it so vividly in his mind.  And then you would be massively disappointed when he couldn’t deliver.  The creases at your eyes when you got overly excited would cease to exist at the mere idea of him.  He had it coming, he just didn’t think it would be so soon.

Eddie told you he was feeling better.  It was a lie.  He never had the flu.  He didn’t feel better.  He wanted to die.  And the man responsible for it wouldn’t even give a shit had he still been alive.  Now he was dead and Eddie was the one suffering.

And so his neglected stomach grumbled, his incoming stubble itched though he couldn’t find a fuck to give even in his discomfort, and the whiskey bottle ran dry far too soon.  His brain had been clogged with wishes and what he could’ve done, then declarations of it never being enough, a constant tug-of-war that migraines were made of.

He never stood a chance, his DNA had always been coded like a mutant, at least that’s how it felt deep in his bones.  There was always something off, he never resonated with life in general how everyone else did.  A flaw in the system.  And he built his entire being off of it, afterall he never had any control over the way he was perceived so what option did he have?  

Several.

He thought to himself.  

You could have gone to school, shown up.  

Could have stayed out of detention.

Gotten arrested less.

Not get arrested at all.

Could have said no.  So.  Many.  Times.

In all honesty he wanted to blame his old man but he couldn’t stop taking the hits for him even in death.  He couldn’t stop making excuses.  Any normal person would feel relief but he felt nothing but remorse.  For what, he couldn’t exactly piece it together.  Maybe it was a hidden desire to fix him, a glimmer of hope that he could make him turn his life around like Eddie had.  It would never happen, he was well aware, but a certain childish hope clung onto him, tugging on his sleeve, begging himself for reasons.

Until familiar curls similar to his own and an aura of the gentlest kind clouded his vision.  He could nearly hear her voice, smooth as butter and warm as the summer sun when he was a freckled kid.  Rosy cheeks and beautiful chocolatey brown button eyes to match his.

What’s the matter darlin’?

And he just sobbed.  And remembered.

Morning pancakes and the blues.  Muddy clothes and bubble baths laced with melodies.  Kitchen table haircuts, the softest voice humming in his ears, half inch curls littering the linoleum.  Dancing in the living room.  Refusing to eat his broccoli until she told him they were tiny trees.  Walking hand in hand to the corner store for milk and eggs, the promise of a sucker waiting for him at the cash register widening his innocent grin.  Late night cereal bowls when sleep wasn’t an option and nothing did the trick except some off brand Lucky Charms and tales of dragons and fantasy lands he wished they could run away to.

Then he remembered.

Him.

Stumbling into the kitchen on those nights more often than not, spewing nonsense.  Breaking the refrigerator door as he tripped while seeking another beer.  That door forever being duct taped and never properly fixed as promised.  Mama coaxing dad to bed before she slipped into Eddie’s tiny twin bed for the night, most nights.  Dad waking up just to shut the music off in the morning so he could sleep in.  Disappearing for days.

Mama unexpectedly passing and Eddie being so devastated that he didn’t eat for days and willingly waited at the door every day for pops to get home.  Only he rarely did.  Wayne checking in each and every day only to be on the receiving end of a temper tantrum each time.  Years and years of push back.  A clueless kid defending Indiana’s worst dad in the name of seeking some kind of normalcy.  

“My dad has a ton of jobs.”  He would beam, bright eyes and missing teeth.  

The kids would snicker.  Their mocking smiles would be mistaken for a token of friendliness.  And Eddie would once again be disappointed come the end of the day.  Because he’d realized it wasn’t normal to crawl under fences where dad couldn’t fit, to steal expensive things from “higher class pricks” as dad deemed them.  Take your kid to work day had a very different definition in his book.

So Eddie steered away from telling everyone about his dad’s work antics, opted to tell them about how he got to go to the bar with his old man every Wednesday, thinking he’d surely get praise for being considered so mature.  At least that’s how dad described it.  It wasn’t any better and the reactions were only worse.  They called his dad a drunk.  They weren’t wrong but that didn’t make him feel any less enraged.  “Spawn of Satan”, they called Eddie.  Because in truth that’s what his dad was, he just couldn’t comprehend it at the time.  Then came the christening of his formal title, a word so small but so…derogatory with the way it was spat at him.

Freak.

Spawn of Satan sounded so much worse on paper but Freak made his insides hurt.  And as he recounts the events of his life up until now, he tallies everything up.  Closure in some kind of fucked up way.  Childish thoughts of “he was still my dad” try to take over but are quickly replaced by images of their burning house, the records going up and flames and ash coating everything he had left, everything she had left.

Suddenly there’s broken glass scattered across the floor and warm blood trickling down his arm, not by any fault of his own, just pure rage and unknown strength annihilating the poor glass he attempted to drink water with.  Heartbeat in his ear, he swallows thickly and resumes his position against the kitchen cabinet–they’re going to send me back to the asylum.

All over again, even in the afterlife, dad plays his sick jokes.  Gets Eddie into trouble he never sought out–he was just getting water, it was just water and now he looks like the picture perfect case for mental instability.  No one’s seen him for days and–there’s knocking at the door.  He swears it’s not like last time- it can’t be like last time, he didn’t mean it.  This isn’t like back in Hawkins, when he was healing and the courts were making their decisions.  He thought he was a goner, decided to pull the plug to save everyone the trouble, Wayne was at work, Steve was getting him groceries, everyone else was dealing with the end of the world.  They shouldn’t have to worry about me.  With a bottle of prescribed pills in hand.

The knocking turning urgent, conclusions are drawn up in a scattered, tormented mind–surely they’d rip up his contract, the agreement in which he had been assured a promising life anywhere but Indiana.  A life he’d always longed for anyway.  

Be careful what you wish for.  

That goddamn voice taunts him.

The door shakes, manhandled from the other side and he’s forced to confront the final moments before he’s permanently put away.  “One slip up…”  They had said.  It didn’t matter if he told them it was an accident, nothing mattered if it was anyone else’s word against him.  Literally anyone.  As long as it appeared that he was a danger to himself, he was a danger to society. They were probably waiting for this moment: lock up the problem child and throw away the key.  

Cause he was nothing if not a problem.  First and foremost.

Heart beating out of his chest, breath caught in his throat, he could practically hear the sirens whether they be from an ambulance or police car or both, they were coming–

“Eddie?”

It all stopped.  

“Eddie?!”  

There was no accurate way to describe the sob that clawed its way out of his throat, a tortured cry.  The scene before you had been pulled straight out of a horror movie: your beloved Eddie covered in blood, palms pressed into his eyes, stuttered breathing in between sobs.

Upon approaching him he attempted to scoot himself away, glass shards sinking into his hands, a gasp filling the room and you were certain you needed to find someone else to–

“Please don’t make me go back!”

You couldn’t form words.

“I-it was an accident, I-I promise.”  His eyes brimmed with a fear you never could have imagined coming close to witnessing in this lifetime.  “Just–I just got some water-I didn’t mean to break it, I s-swear.  Please d-don’t let them take me.”

Glass crunched under your boots, a slow approach as you crouch in front of the shattered man with the saddest eyes you’d ever seen.  With a shaky breath and careful movements, a silent request to assess his arm and hands is made.  You’re sure your wide eyes can’t be comforting in the slightest though the shock still pulses through you.  

“I’m sorry.” 

“Shh.”  You soothe. 

Forehead pressed to his in a moment of solace, you offer a nudge, nose to nose.  A wordless commitment.  Softness he didn’t know he needed, tender touches of your fingertips to his wet cheek as if to promise a remedy for his aching heart, that you weren’t planning on going anywhere.  You weren’t leaving him like he convinced himself you would or god forbid turn him over to the authorities like he feared.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

–

Glass has been carefully swept three times over, though you were considering a fourth for good measure.  Shards had been plucked from Eddie’s poor hands, your tweezers doing the job just fine after being doused in some cheap vodka he had.  Gauze from a first aid kit you thankfully had in the car had been wrapped around the largest gash in his forearm, not large enough for stitches but large enough to wince at.  He sat there the whole time, staring at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but your face.  

The silence was heavy, a dense fog that hung low throughout his house.  Someone had to break it but both parties were finding difficulties in voicing the reality of what just occurred.  If either spoke it would make it real.  Right now it was hazy, a question of “are we dreaming or did I just walk in on a suicide attempt?” hung in the air.

He said it was an accident, and you believed him.  There was just so much unanswered and it’s the only thing that came to mind.  Anxious fingers tapped against his own thigh, occasionally twisting his rings round and round while gnawing on his lower lip.  It then dawned on you that he was the most human out of anyone you’d ever met.  

He felt on a deeper level than most.

At the touch of your gentle hand against his, his surprised eyes, parted lips, and hesitance to reciprocate hint that he hadn’t anticipated you sticking around this long after you’d found him.  In the standard of fight or flight, he froze.  Realistically he may have been sitting on his tattered couch while you tended to his wounds, both physical and emotional whether he cares to admit or not, but mentally he checked out the second he found himself surrounded by glass and tears.

“Bambi–”

“You don’t need to say anything.”

You were trying to keep it together.  His croaking voice made that hard.  But in all seriousness it wasn’t fair to throw yourself a pity party in light of Eddie’s current stability.  And you’d reject the idea of throwing him a pity party, wouldn’t even touch the idea, but you would offer him all the empathy your soul had collected in a lifetime.  Even not knowing the culprit of his now dried up tears and stinging hands, you’d go to war for him.  Maybe that was dare you even think it, love.  But that’s a crisis for another time.

“Dad died.”

Somehow the silence became even greater, a gigantic void of confusing thoughts and complicated quick conclusions.  Conclusions you backtracked on immediately.  It wasn’t your decision to declare how he should feel about a man who in your eyes and through his words put him through hell no matter how strong your sense of justice grew.      

“Oh, Eddie, I’m so–”  A soft beginning to a sympathetic apology short lived.

“It’s fucked.”  His voice cracked, stoic face crumbling no matter how hard he tried to rebuild the tough exterior.  “I shouldn’t–”  There’s a pause, an intake of shaky breath.  “I shouldn’t feel bad.”

“You’re allowed to.”

“No, no he ruined fucking–everything.”

“And you’re still allowed to mourn.  Even for as shitty of a person as he was, you were still his son and that meant something to you.”

You wished you could erase the flash of pain that glazed over his eyes; something that tells you he knew every word you spoke to be true but couldn’t quite bring himself to be at peace with it yet.  Dust collected on the coffee table in his eternity of reflection, a melancholy aura blanketing the dark cabin as wind whistled through the chimney like spirits demanding attention.  

“How’d you know?”  He finally asked, timid.

“Hm?”

“I left everyone hanging, they all think I’m out with the flu, how did you pick the exact moment I…”

“Needed someone?”

Eddie nodded, hesitantly, like those weren’t the exact words he would pick himself but they seemed to convey what was necessary.  

“Wayne called me.”  You sigh.  “Said he got my number from Steve.  Everyone wanted to jump on the first plane over y’know?”  At this a trace of a fraction of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth but he did his best to contain it.  “But it’s Christmas, flights are booked, and even then there’s a storm coming in.  Wayne said he couldn’t get a hold of you.”

“So you knew?”

“No.”  You assure, taking care to relax your features.  “Just sounded really worried, didn’t want to air everything out.  He wanted me to check in.  I guess he has some kind of godly intuition.”  You chuckle.

Eddie retracts his hand, and you know you’ve lost him to his inner battle again.  You can only imagine the bloodshed happening within, after all, you were no stranger to deconstructing your own self worth brick by brick.  The traumas he had been faced with were not anything therapy could simply remove like a tumor.  There were no treatments afterward to ensure everything would get better.  You knew this first hand, that you could try and try to get to the root but there was never any way to truly remove it to keep it from ever festering again.  It would appear, it would be when you least expected, at your worst, and it would look you in the eye and test you.

“I’ll be fine.”

Famous last words.  When the host convinces themselves but could never actually believe it to be true in their lifetime.

“But right now you’re not.”

Sabotage.  In his eyes.

“But I will be.  Don’t let me ruin your holiday just because–”

Excuses.  Deterring from the targeted enemy: grief, in the name of saving others the trouble.  A tactic you’d perfected in your years of people pleasing and feeding your tendencies to deflect your sorrows with the intent to appear invisible and self destruct.

“Stop it.”  You demand.

“No, Bambi.  Go to Donnie’s, I’m sure they’ll understand you coming early–”

“Stop.”

Rational thoughts were shoved into a neat little box somewhere else in his mind and you only hoped you could aid in retrieving it before he threw away the key.  Before he decided not even he was worthy of hearing them from himself.  And as he crossed his arms, a stubborn gesture, you braced for impact against his defenses.  His cruel inner monologue and haunted house of a brain.

Big eyes adorned with every brown hue under the sun dissipated into pure darkness.  Cold and black, lacking any of the warmth you’d previously basked in.  He was lost in an underworld he’d been promised to since birth.

“Would you listen to me?!”  Eddie’s jaw clenched in utter frustration and you swear a bead of sweat trickles into his eyebrow.  “I’m not–I don’t wanna be the guy to drag you down.  I’m not gonna be that guy, I won’t do it.  My shit is my shit.”

You weren’t going to become complicit in the reality he’d settled for, the reality in which he felt he deserved scraps and just enough attention to deter himself from going insane.

“And I’m not gonna be the one to leave you while you’re hurting.”  Finally catching his avoidant eye contact, you offer his forearm a squeeze.  A plea.  “Throw me out in the snow, I don’t care but I’m still gonna sit on your porch until you let me in.  I don’t care what holiday it is.”

“Go.”

You try not to take it personal.  It’s not personal.

“Fine.”

The last thing he hears is a slam of the door, refusing to even glance at where you previously sat adjacent to him.  The room turned colder, more vacant.  Even your energy had left with you, none spared for him of course, because why would he be spared anything from your healthy heart?  His was black and blue, barely pumping, and he’d be damned if he was going to let you perform CPR on what he considered an already lost cause.

Do not resuscitate.

As quickly as he’d accepted the death of a budding relationship, the door swung open with aggression to interrupt his mourning, smacking the wall and no doubt breaking through some drywall.  The least of his problems as he watched your determination in setting some stacked boxes on his kitchen counter before exiting again, this time leaving the door wide open.  

It was eerie, the way your second exit was so open ended.  Snow flurries entered and gusts of wind toyed with his curls, his cheeks already hurting a tad with the coldness.  Eddie wasn’t sure what to make of it, you’d dropped off a box of what appeared to be Christmas decorations and what?  Stormed off?  Somehow that hurt even more than the first time, though he’d anticipated the day you would figure out how fucked up he was and retreat.  He could prepare all he wanted but nothing stung more than the actual—

In you came, a box of ornaments under one arm and a small Christmas tree under the other.  And you got to work, setting up the three foot tree right on his coffee table, plugging it in to the nearest outlet and initiating a soft glow of white lights, instantly engulfing the room in a newfound safeness.  The tree needed fluffed and appeared to have bed head, though it still served its cheerful purpose regardless.

Eddie sat with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, on the edge of the couch, eyes shut.  An uphill battle.

“Bambi, what did I tell you–”

“You told me to go.”  You nod confidently, a frown betraying you, pulling at the corners of your mouth.   “And I did.  You didn’t say how long or—or where to go.  But I gave you time to cool off and now you’re gonna either sit and pretend Christmas isn’t a thing or you’re gonna watch the stupid little clay people on TV while I cook dinner and bake.  Either one is good with me but I’m gonna be here whether you like it or not and—“

Before you can look up amidst your rambling, a ringed finger hooks itself in one of your belt loops, tugging you into a warm chest.  

There he is.

Warmth restored in his irises and a semblance of a smirk threatened his lips.  Pale skin rosy in all the right places and endearing eyelashes framing his shy gaze down at you.  Your boy.  

Lips grazed lips, noses nudged into each other, and it all just…made sense.  Bambi and Eddie.  There is not one without the other, not anymore.  Not since you sauntered into his life, demanded a job, puked on him, made him go absolutely insane—

“I love you.”  

It just fell from his tongue.  A promise.

“I-are—are you s—“

“Am I serious?  Is that what you’re gonna ask?”  He nearly mocks your mouthful of syllables.

You nod, gulping.  Not because you’re afraid, no, never.  You’d just never seen such assurance in a single man.

“Bambi…” He tuts.  “You don’t see how bad I’ve got it for you?”

All you can manage is to dumbly bat your eyelashes up at him, mouth hung open like a fish and fists clutching the front of his shirt unknowingly, though he doesn’t mind in the slightest if you stretch out his collar.  

“Bad.”  He reiterates.  “So bad, that even if you don’t feel the same, even if you only like me out of pity—“

“I don’t—“

“I’m not finished.”  Your attempted interruption has him thumbing at your bottom lip.  “Even if you only like me out of pity, I’ll take it.  And I’ll run with it.  Far.  Because I’m pathetic—“

“You are not.” 

“I’m a pathetic man.  Who is deeply in love with you, Bambi.”  

“Stop saying you’re pathetic.”  You challenge quietly, a delicate hand tracing the stubble of his jaw.

“Oh, but I am.”  He breathes, leaving no room for argument when he presses his lips against yours as if it were his last chance.  

Did he believe it was his last chance?

And without thinking, tongues collided, teeth clashed, he had backed you into the wall and there was no telling how you found yourself palming him over rough denim, a whine escaping his throat before you’d barely touched him.

A pathetic whine dare you say.

“Sorry, sorry.”  You gasp, string of saliva connecting you like the invisible string you believed tied you to him all along.

���Don’t—ow!  Jesus fuck.”  Eddie winced, shaking his hand in the air after attempting to cup your blushing cheek.  “Forgot I had fucking…glass in my hand earlier.”

You giggle, a saccharine sound, a melody in his ears that he yearned to make more of.  Embarrassment traces your features, brows pulled into a worrisome look while you hold your hands close against your chest, afraid of further touch much to his dismay.  

“Can you…can you do that again?”  He whispers.  Terrified of the consequences but brave enough to face the rejection.

Nodding, your slow hand reaches for his cheek, thumb grazing over it before trailing down his neck.  His breath hitches, your hand traveling lower and lower, over his chest and down his stomach, exploring all that you’ve so desired only in your wildest  wet dreams.  

Lifting the hem of his shirt ever so slightly, just enough to let your fingers graze his soft skin, your main goal is to tug at that delicious happy trail.  And when you do, he can’t admit to you that he nearly cums in his jeans but you’re certain you’re on the same page when you see his eyes roll back into his skull.

 He can’t control himself when he ruts into you the second your palm meets him once again, beautiful, breathy sighs escaping his pouty, plump lips.  

“Like that, baby?”  You ask, trailing hot kisses down his throat.

“Please.”  A whisper that tells you everything.  “I-I never—no one’s ever—“  He tries to warn you.

“What?”  You encourage, tongue tracing his earlobe.  “No one’s ever taken care of you, huh?”  

“Just my hand.”  Eddie jokes, voice strained.

Guiding him to sit back on the couch, it protests beneath the weight of you both as you crawl into his lap.  Careful fingers toy with the curls at the nape of his neck, patient lips hovering over his.  Doe eyes look up at you, half in admiration, half in hesitation.  

“We can stop.”  You assure him, sweet kisses pressed to each corner of his lips.

“No, no.”  His voice shakes, chest heaving.  “I just—I don’t know exactly…what I’m doing.”  

There’s an undertone of humiliation, the opposite effect you wanted to have on him.  But you were confident that you could make him feel comfortable.  Feel sexy and wanted.

“Let me do the work.”  You whisper against his lips, slowly rolling your hips into him.  “Let me take care of you.”  

He nods, frantically moving to undo his zipper, only to be met with your delicate hands wrapping around his knuckles.  You’re so patient with him, so gentle, so unlike what he’s ever been faced with.

“I said, let me take care of you.”

Feather light kisses pressed to his knuckles, you continue rotating your hips against his, feeling his bulge in between your legs, the friction tightening the knot within you.  His eyebrows knit together, head falling back against the couch’s when you graze your fingertips just below his shirt again.  

Nails gently drag down his torso, eliciting the loudest moan you’ve pulled from him so far.  His injured hands only allow him to take their place in your belt loops again, assisting in setting the pace as you grind against him.

“Eddie.”  You whimper.

“M’ gonna cum.”  He halts your movements, only letting you hover above what was about to be sweet euphoria.  “Wanna be inside of you.”

You can only gaze at him with the utmost love, entranced by his flushed appearance and his damp curls framing his face.  

“Please, baby.  Please, I’ve got condoms—“

You have to stop his babbling by shoving your tongue in his mouth, nodding against him with a grin.  

“You bought condoms?  Boy, are you prepared—“

A playful pillow is tossed into your face, a deep groan coming from your boy.  

“Yes, I’m cautious, baby, please if you don’t sit on my dick right now, if I have to go one more minute not knowing what it’s like…”

“Shhh, okay, okay!!”  You squeal when he attempts to get up only to fail with you pushing back.  You knew damn well he was strong enough to fling you off of his lap should he choose, which only made your underwear more of a mess.

“You wanna go to the bedroom?”  You tease, nuzzling into his cheek.  

Without a second of hesitation, he launches you both off of the couch, palms against your ass only making you wonder how much his hands must hurt and how much adrenaline he must have not to care.  Playfully, Eddie tosses you onto his bed, a pile of unkempt sheets that only seemed that much more comfortable than your own bed.  You could die happily in the smell that engulfed you.  Purely Eddie.  Woodsy and minty.  A tad smoky.  And some hints of apple.

Just when you think he’s about to jump your bones, in every literal sense, you open your eyes to find him carefully adjusting the needle of his record player in the corner of the room.  And then it plays.  A rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love.  A folkier version, a woman singing with a twang to her voice.  

“Well alright, cowboy.”  You joke, an over seductive brow raising at him.  

“Shut up.”  He grins, crossing his arms to take his shirt off and toss it behind him.  

“C’mere.”  You reach over, tugging at his belt until he hovers over you.  “Wanna see you.” 

“You are seeing me, been here the whole time.”

Quickly, he gathers what you mean as you reverse positions, pushing him back on the bed to trail your lips along his stomach.  Perfectly pretty lips follow along the scars he’d been left with years ago.  The rough texture doesn’t deter you, doesn’t scare you off like he imagined.  While your lips explore his scarred side, your hand delicately traces the dragon tattooed along his ribs on the opposite side.  Inked skin that arose with goosebumps after each touch.

As if he hadn’t already died and gone to heaven, you stop your torment on his body to discard your own shirt, leaving you in only your bra before him.  Careful to grab his hand, you drag his fingers down your chest, in between the valley of your breasts, down, down, down until you let him dip into your pants.  Beneath your damp panties, collecting slick before he catches on your clit, a moan falling so desperately from your lips.  

“F-feel what you do to me?”

It aches.

His finger sits pressed against your throbbing clit, teasing in a way he has no idea about yet.  But he will and you’re not quite ready to relinquish that power to him…yet.  

You can’t handle the confines of clothing any longer, releasing your breasts as you unhook your bra and toss it to the side.  His eyes grow, lips parted in awe.  And when you go to shimmy your jeans off, the friction against his hand pulls a mewl from you, something so pretty and real.  

You’re completely bare, prey for him to claim although he doesn’t, he lets you have control.  And then you remove his hand, only to drag yourself over his denim covered thigh, slick coating the material without much effort.  

Catching his eyes, you watch as he brings his finger up to his lips, tongue wrapping around the digit with a moan of approval.  That’s when you decided you couldn’t drag it on any longer.

His belt buckle clinked against itself as you worked to yank his jeans down, practically drooling for his cock, drunk on the mere idea of even seeing it.  Plaid boxers ignored, you pay attention to the way it slaps against his stomach, already leaking and red.  Painfully aroused.

He barely survives when you decide to lower yourself and lick a long stripe up the underside, twitching against your tongue.

“B-baby, please.”  While grinding into nothing, poor boy.  “Wanna cum, wanna cum so bad.”

He’s been taunted enough, breaking a sweat as he lays there, fisting the sheets in his hands.  You’ve nearly brought him to tears and you’ve barely touched him.

Leaving open mouthed kisses along his reddening chest, you finally offer some relief, ripping open a condom he’d somehow grasped in his hand the entire time, rolling it onto him, and sinking down, swallowing him into your warmth.  Eddie makes the prettiest sounds, small almost hiccups and gasps.  Slowly, you work your hips against him, clit rolling just right against his pubic hair. 

He’s big, stretches you out and hits just the right spot.  Hips stuttering, he places his hands on your waist, cut hands be damned.  Eddie’s close, has been this entire time, but he can’t contain himself the second you lick up a bead of sweat from his chest to his collarbone.  The site is simply too pornoraphic for his inexperienced dick, hot cum filling the condom.  The moan he lets out as he finishes only encourages you, gets you going faster in the limited time you now have before he softens.  

Automatically you reach down to play with your clit, knowing it’ll push you over the edge though he realizes and beats you to it, a rough finger circling you in a pleasant rhythm.  Overstimulated whines fall from him but he doesn’t quit giving you what you need, what you so desperately desire.  

Then all at once, pleasure crashes down around you, pulsing around him, leaving you twitching and panting.  The record stopped playing however long ago, the silence pulling you back into the realm of Eddie’s bedroom.

 Nothing needs to be said, words aren’t on your minds.  Excuses for what just occurred are nonexistent because if you’re being honest, it was sewn into the timeline no matter what.  Forever embedded into the universe in every lifetime.  Heavy breaths carried a symphony during the cool down, sweaty chests pressed together, sticky and salty.

Absentmindedly your foot grazed against his hairy shin, fingers dancing along his chest and arm.  His bicep was toned, something you were never able to appreciate up close before but would now take all the time you wanted.  You wanted to memorize every detail of his body, every freckle, hair, and birthmark.  All of him.

His lazy hand let his fingers trail up and down your spine, writing letters unknown to you but etched into his brain for as long as he knew you.  He held a new appreciation for intimacy, something he sourly wrote off early on but now would cherish deeply.  

Girls never liked him but if he could go back in time and show younger Eddie the one girl who would ever matter to him, well he imagines younger Eddie would still be a naive dipshit about it but he could try nonetheless.  Supposes he would hit him with a “it gets better, kid” and all that sappy shit.  Something like “you’re gonna marry this girl”.  That would be okay to jump the gun on, right?

–

Cinnamon and chocolatey aromas couldn’t completely wash away the somber haze although it was fairly close.  Post sex air somewhat helped as well, though you weren’t banking on it, it wasn’t a solution, more like a deterrent that hadn’t been planned on either part.  

The little plastic tree on the coffee table decorated with years old ornaments wasn’t going to heal the bruising on an ever healing heart.  Christmas classics played on the TV but you knew Rudolph wasn’t going to erase a lifetime's worth of childhood trauma.  

It could help though.  And that’s all that mattered.  If watching Christmas classics only aided in healing a millionth of the wounds, then it was worth doing.  If decorating his once dark and depressing house with twinkling lights and garland only brought out a smidge of the inner child that needed help healing, then it was worth it.  

While Eddie slept in, you played Santa even if just with one gift, leaving it next to the coffee table, too large to fit under the small tree.  Though it didn’t start out perfect, Christmas was starting to look very familiar.  Baked goods sat out on top of the stove, cinnamon rolls, croissants, the works.  Eddie’s shitty little kitchen radio played Christmas tunes which you found yourself humming along to.  

You’d thrown together some maple bacon, drizzling actual maple syrup on the strips in hopes that they’d candy in the oven, which they did.  Hash browns sat in the skillet, slightly burned but at least there was ketchup in the fridge to cover up the burnt taste.  Snow blanketed the streets outside, snowing you in although you didn’t mind one bit.  

You’d called Donnie, heard the commotion over the line at her house, family members causing a ruckus in the background as she made pancakes.  While you were supposed to be with everyone this morning, she assured you all was well and you could hear the smirk in her voice.

Emerging from his room, Eddie’s bed head is the first thing you greet.  Curls sticking out every which way, bangs defying gravity.  Lines ran down his face, imprints from the sheets and his boxers hung low on his hips.  A dream.

“Merry Christmas to you too.”  You giggle at the way he squints in the early morning sunlight peeking through the window.  

Stretching his arms over his head, you’re forced to witness the way every muscle flexes, drool nearly falling from the corner of your mouth.  It doesn’t go unnoticed but he decides it can be addressed later.  

“Merry Christmas, did you get me some fucking curtains so I can actually see?”  He laughs, voice husky with sleep.  

“No but I can do you one better—“

“I was joking Bambi, I wasn’t actually expecting any—“

“Next to the table.”  

Your grin makes him want to run directly to you and spin you around, kiss you a few dozen times, and never leave this bubble you two have created.  Instead he hesitantly steps toward the previously mentioned gift, a large gift at that, wrapped thoughtfully in reindeer paper and complete with a large red bow.  He felt like an asshole.

“I—no I can’t—“

“Open it.”  

Eddie just stared. 

“Eddie, it’s Christmas, first thing you do is open gifts!”  You smile, approaching behind him.

Then he disappeared back into his room, the sound of him rummaging the only thing letting you know he hasn’t retreated just to hide from you.  When he walks back out, he’s hiding something behind his back, a nervous smile tugging at his face.  

“I swear—I was going to wrap it, I just—I don’t have an excuse.  I just didn’t.  I’m sorry.”  His large brown eyes plead with you, begging for forgiveness that he didn’t need to beg for in the first place.

As if defeated, he hands you a stack of records, several that probably cost a good paycheck.  And you can tell he feels it’s not even enough with the way he avoids your gaze.

“Um, it’s probably stupid, it’s just, they’re records that made me think of you.  I dunno, it’s dumb, music is just—“

“I love you.”  You interrupt.

Without another word you grab the records from him to momentarily set them on the table.  Before he knows it you're smashing your lips against his, passion being poured into every breath he takes against you.  Your hands cup his cheeks, still slightly stubbly but cute.  He wraps his large hands around your wrists, hissing at the slight sting but continuing. 

“You’re not just saying that—“

“I.  Love.  You.”  You enunciate each word with a peck.  “Point blank.  No exceptions.  You’re stuck with me old man.”

“Old man?  We’re like the same age—“

You’ll never forget the amusement on his face but what attracts your attention next are the records.  A huge stack of them.  All genres.  Some Elvis, ones that hadn’t made it in your collection yet, a few that seemed more his taste, metal.  It was a universal language and it was his preferred way of feeling.  That much you could gather.

“Um, yeah, if you don’t like them I can just…”

“Don’t like them?”  You scoff.  “I love them.”

You hold them close to your chest, as if they were books and you were in high school.  You suppose you could be what with the way butterflies erupted in your stomach.  He made you feel like you were in high school, gave you a sense of youth that had been skipped over previously.  

And he was blushing. 

“Well, uh, I just thought you know…music does a lot for me.  I picked some out that I knew you’d like.  Also put some that I like in there, I dunno why, you don’t have to listen to them.”

“Oh, we are listening to them.  Right after you open your gift.”

More blushing.

Eddie takes a few glances at the gift, as if it were there to test him.  Like Pandora’s box or something.  Then he crouches down beside it, hesitantly reaching out to peel back the paper.  A giddy grin rests on your face, records still clutched in your hold.  His face says it all once he’s torn through enough paper.  It’s a guitar case, that much he can tell, eyes nearly popping out of his head.  Then he opens the case, revealing a cherry red electric something that you couldn’t memorize the name of but all you knew was that he had his eyes on it for months before you even entered the picture.  At least that’s what the guy at the thrift shop said. 

“No fucking way.”  He smiles, half laughs.  Then repeats himself.  Over and over.

“Do you like it?”

Instead of receiving verbal confirmation, you’re nearly tackled, strong arms wrapping around you and swinging you around.  Laughter erupts from deep within you, Eddie setting you down just to kiss you deeply and with so much care you figure you’ll faint.  

“I love it, I love you.”

Later that morning, frosting coats his lips then transfers to yours in a quick kiss across his tiny dining table.  The bacon is devoured, mostly on his account, and those claymation Christmas classics elicit laughter like no other.  Deep belly laughs from the man whose legs you sit in between.  His shirt rests comfortably on your torso.

He calls Wayne, puts it on speaker, and effortless banter occurs between you three.  Wayne tells his boy to behave, wishes him a Merry Christmas, apologizes that times have been so shitty and that his flight had been canceled.  Thanks you for being there to ground his boy, tells you how much Eddie’s friends have gone on and on about you two, that he can’t wait to meet you.

Then you call up your family back home, more than likely all crammed in the same house, doing puzzles, arguing over stupid things, throwing wrapping paper everywhere.  You miss it.  But you wouldn’t trade your place right now for anything.  Eddie timidly and adorably chimes in, says hi.  Makes small talk with mom and grandma.  Grandma begs him to take a look at her station wagon when he makes his way over with you for a visit some day.  No question about it, he’s going and that’s final, according to her.  He doesn’t seem to mind though, a shy smile pulling at his lips.

Lastly you call up the gang.  Nancy answers, says everyone’s at their house as usual.  Shouting between Dustin, Steve, and Mike is heard in the background.  Something about a broken sled.  Robin takes the call hostage, telling you both about the juicy gossip amongst the group.

“And then Max—you haven’t met Max yet, Bambi, but Max left Lucas a—shit you haven’t met Lucas yet either.  This would all make so much more sense then.”

There’s talk of a summer trip, something fun everyone can join in on.  Kind of like summer camp except Nancy would of course be the ring leader by default.  She would more than likely assign the adults as camp counselors unofficially.  Eddie’s face lights up, tells her about the perfect campsite not far from his house.  Beautiful in the summertime.  Then looks at you, shares a dimpled grin and runs his thumb over your knee.

Loved ones called and bellies full, Eddie plays around with his new guitar, and softly in the background, Muddy Waters plays.  One of the records he’d gifted you.

~end~

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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645 @emxxblog @eddiesxangel @angietherose @lottie-90 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @pullingattheroots @avalon-wolf @vintagehellfire @cryingglightningg @foreveranexpatsposts @winchester-angel @mmunson86 @witchwolflea @kurdtbean @micheledawn1975 @tlclick73 @erinekc @hazydespair @whenshelanded @corrodedcoffincumslut @ms1oftheboys @lma1986 @uglypastels @aysheashea @dashingdeb16

[anika-ann]

Back and Forth - part 6.1

Part 6 - Back-Up 1/2

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 7500

Chapter summary:  In which the rescue party arrives for you and Steve... and Steve reflects back to the time in captivity. With you.

Series masterlist

Warnings: mentions of sensory overload, mentions of mental health issues, canon-typical violence, blood, violent thoughts, mentions of death, mentions of pain and unhealthy relationship to pain, mentions of chronic pan and chronic illness, questionable medical procedures, feels, language

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

A/N2: To the surprise of no one but me, we're getting anotehr two-part chapter. Ah well.... we get Steve's POV in return! Enjoy ✨

Being overwhelmed was far from a foreign state to Steve Rogers.

In fact, given his history, he would have thought he had seen it nearly all – and not only seen.

Earning enhanced senses, after having lived for over two decades with his sight and hearing impaired due to a long list of illnesses, equalled sudden sharp clarity and cacophony of overwhelming noise of all colours, tastes and smells. As welcomed as the change had been, since his body was finally widely regarded as useful enough, the transformation came as a package deal with an occasional sensory overload even after all the years he had had to adjust.

Enhanced memory, too, came with a price; with a crushing amount of detail laced into heart-warming memories as well the terrifying and painful ones, trapping him in his mind at times, during daylight as much as during night-time when he had less control over his own thoughts.

Assuming the title and mantle of Captain America, be in the past century or in the new millennium, was tied to a whole another source of overload, both mental and physical.

So truly, Steve was rather used to being overwhelmed in various senses of the word, handling it better at certain times and worse at others.

And yet – the past few hours were overwhelming in an entirely new sense, indescribable and as corporal as intangible.

Perhaps it was you.

Perhaps it was him being back to a regular human, even if not quite.

Perhaps it was becoming part Inhuman.

Perhaps it was everything hitting him at once on whole new scale he was not used to.

His brain was in a hazy overdrive by now; a strange fog and clarity, thoughts crawling in and dragging painfully and at lightning speed at once. Onslaught of emotions. Body drained from fighting a non-existent gunshot wound as well as a real one, still processing what he had experienced – and what he had learned.

Steve tried to push it all away and think hard how to help instead,despite your agonized scream still echoing in his ears pilling misery on top of his own – but spite could only get him so far.

The rollercoaster of the past hours was taking a true toll on him; and it was almost ironic that while his body had partially regressed to one of a regular human, it was the emotional and mental load that seemed to drain him hundred times more severely than the physical exertion – and overwhelmingly indeed.

Steve wasn’t one to cut himself some slack often, but perhaps he deserved it this time. And perhaps he would grant himself the luxury – once this endless, horrible experience only fool might call an adventure was over.

Seconds had felt like hours. Hours had felt like days. And every soul on Earth had better believe that Steve had been counting, trying to scramble for any resemblance of control, even as he had none.

Counting seconds, in thousands, hoping you hadn’t been taken too; then, that if you had been taken, that you were close to him somewhere. Then, praying that you were at least still alive, anywhere.

Yet, to have his second and third wish fulfilled brought no real joy and only a speckle of relief, because he had been taking stock; and while he knew you were nearby, he had no idea where you two actually were.

What he had known for quite a while was that something was wrong. He had known the moment when he first woken up, tied and chained – but that wasn’t exactly a new, let alone useful piece of information.

Helplessness and uncharacteristic weakness were everything but a good feeling too. Those didn’t look on anyone; but for a man of his past, feeling like having regressed to the weak body he used to own – and to have that happen in the least convenient moment possible, in the moment where he needed to be stronger than ever – forged the heaviest chain of all. One wrapped around his neck and tightening with every second ticking off.

And the crushing waves of emotion wouldn’t cease coming. Not to you; clearly, understandably.

And most definitely not to him.

Your panicked frustrated voice when you couldn’t project, cutting right through anger and frustration he himself felt but for entirely different reasons. A creeping suspicion he didn't dare to speak of, even as ‘impossible’ was a word Steve barely bothered to keep in his vernacular these days.

Then, your shared shock when the impossible turned out to be true; the briefest feeling of belonging and connection. He gripped onto that and used that to stomp on his doubts, anger and fears – because he had to. For your benefit. For the benefit of you both.

He slipped into the role of a leader because you deserved that.

You needed reassurance and guidance so you could rediscover that incredibly brave and capable person he knew; only to have the rug pulled right under your feet as soon as you found your footing, sending you literally to the ground – and sending Steve down a rapid spiral of chocking panic when he heard not one but two gunshots from your cell.

A heavy thud.

Complete, terrifying silence, interrupted only by his own deafeningly pounding heart before he managed to find his voice at least to defend you with words.

If there was anything to defend still.

The confident leader façade he had put on despite feeling lost cracked like an empty eggshell. A suffocating weight found seat on his chest instead, rage smouldering. His own thundering shouts contrasted starkly to the silent promise he made, to whoever was able to listen – that if Hydra had---  if you were-- he'd tear them apart with his bare fucking hands and it didn’t matter he couldn’t do that now, even if the fire in his veins burned all the hotter for that. He couldn’t do a single damn thing; trapped like a pathetic little human quivering and jerking his body in laughable attempt to free himself from bounds some cruel god had trapped him in.

He barely felt the jolt of sharp pain aside from the initial tug, as something in his shoulder snapped along with one of the many chains, but he did feel a stab of that pain with every other yank, exhausting and fuelling him at once.

You still made no sound; no scream, no whimper, nothing to latch his hopes onto. Had he had the capacity, he would blame the burning of tears in his eyes on the physical pain as not to let Hydra see he cared.

But he was beyond that. That was the damn least important of his problems at the moment. You were at the forefront and if he had thought seconds had felt like hours before, they felt like days at that moment.

And you were still silent.

Steve way beyond caring what information regarding his rather complicated relationship to you he’d give away. But he wasn’t above begging. Not when it was his responsibility to protect. To save. Not when it was you. Not when he hadn’t even had the chance to-

Please.

Please.

The suffocating relief at hearing your voice diluted his panic a fraction, but only accentuated the utter helplessness of his position; his hands literally tied, while you were stuck hanging with your life on a thread and having to help yourself, just so you wouldn’t bleed out in a cell right next to him.

God, the love and hate he had for your spite, for all the fight left in you, even if directed against him as you verbally snapped back. Fuck, so be it, he thought, even as his voice didn’t listen to him at all, barking orders he had wished he could have executed himself. So be it, just hold onto that fight in you.

And then, the most heartbreaking crack in your voice when you begged him.

Begged him not to make you do what you had to in order to survive.

You couldn’t have had the slightest clue about the firm grip you took on his heart that moment, how hard you squeezed and how violently you tugged – and it wasn't important. Nor was Steve’s acute need to grab you, hold you tight and somehow save you, sweep you away, to do the impossible task for you, to take away even the littlest fraction of your burden, somehow.

Projecting to you, as surreal as it was, was ironically the first thing that felt right in the past hours; even as the image of you, frail despite having just proven immense strength, was all kinds of wrong.

Steve hated fighting with you but seeing you there in a pool of blood, he would have taken hundreds of fights. It was almost funny that you hadn’t fought him about going to the gala, only protested in front of Tony – because Steve would love to take on that fight now, travel back in time and for all the sweet moments of holding you and talking to you, he'd let you win that fight and would have never gone to that damn place. Not if this was the outcome. The gorgeous image you had been only few hours prior kept flickering in Steve’s mind like a firefly teasing him to follow, to try to catch it, only for its light to die out and show dark crimson soaking the remnants of your dress instead.

The reason for trying his hardest to be soft when he treated you wasn’t guilt, even as he knew that this, all this wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for him and it laid heavy on his conscience.

He'd treat you with utmost care possible in the conditions anyway; but his conscience made for his shaky hands. His conscience and the sight of you so ashen, a ghost of the stunning woman he had shared a dance with, the stubborn brave woman he worked with. He hoped his damnest that you didn't notice the tremble: he couldn’t afford that. You needed his support. You needed a rock to lean your weight onto even as he felt like a pebble that would fall apart to sand if someone squeezed it in their palm.

And he was so damn proud of what you had accomplished – proud and relieved – his respect for you growing tenfold. Grateful when you brushed over the slip of his tongue, smiling even, showing your humour even when he had let the endearments slip from his lips.

The tug on his heart at that was gentler this time, but no less insistent. The sheer trust in your eyes, the careful nuzzle into his touch when he crossed ever boundary possible because he needed to touch you, was a balm to his soul and acid at once, because maybe this was the only moment he’d get to touch you like this. Maybe that effort was fruitless and you two wouldn’t make it out. Maybe you would, but you’d quit, rushing back to Coulson’s team. Maybe you’d stay, but the wall that seemed to always be between you, preventing you from understanding each other, from listening, from growing closer, would only grow higher.

And yet; Steve revelled at the brief sensations, because he viscerally needed to feel that you were still there, not slipping away.

And then you did.

And so did he, the gaping hole in his chest burning and suffocating even as his flesh seemed unharmed, even if within seconds, his arm wasn't.

Bewilderment. Pain. And then that goddamn hope that this was just him – this was him feeling the pain, a little extra revenge from the artifact that had switched your powers for the effects of his serum. The faint hope slowly cracking as his mind filled with images of you wincing, hunching, grimacing in moments when you had probably thought no one was looking, barely visible but always there after having been hurt in your spectral form.

Then, all worry and wondering briefly forgotten as he preened, bewildered all over again but no less pleased of how high you regarded him, much higher than he deserved and certainly higher than he had ever thought. The threads of connection to you he had felt before solidifying and hardening in a difficult moment.

Understanding, a warm one – and then another, ice cold, turning below freezing. Your barely audible voice responding to questions charged with emotions Steve could barely contain with a battle raging within him. Because you had kept a painful secret. More than one.

Not where I come from.

Determination.

Admiration.

Compassion and affectionate sense of belonging, born anew; the understanding of one achy heart of another.

A promise he wasn’t sure he'd be able to keep when they barged into his cell and yours – and made him slip back into desperation and rage and self-hatred for his inability to project again and protect at least if not save. Steve hated himself for the swirl of pride in his chest when you refused to give up, trying to stall, to make them talk... until you couldn’t be brave anymore. Until you were begging him to stop trying to help, scared for yourself no doubt; but the fear for him, the stubborn conviction that it was your duty to protect the paradigm of perfection and virtue with speckless of recklessness and stubbornness you apparently thought he was, dripped from your quiet breathy voice.

A breathless I'm sorry, Steve, tearing a fresh gaping hole of panic in Steve’s stomach at the resignation in your voice speaking so painstakingly clearly of how you thought these were your final words to him.

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

Fuck everything.

Not in this damn life, not on his damn watch.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to goddamn at least try to block the pulsing pain and project again, heedless of your request, not caring if it tempted the Hydra agents in his cell to shoot him again – because there no universe in which he'd just stare into Hydra’s face and listened to your end and did nothing.

And then, at least, overwhelming relief flooding his veins; faster than his actual thoughts, since he was at his wits end.

The realization that it wasabout to be over was dull and intense, sudden as much as unexpected.

He registered the ground shaking under his feet barely seconds before two Avengers blasted through the door of his cell, only having just connected the dots as to what a sudden earthquake could mean besides a movement of tectonic plates.

Agent Daisy Johnson. Quake. The Inhuman with ability to feel and control vibrations, natural frequency of particles in every living and non-living thing. It flashed through Steve mind like a lightning; he hoped she’d quake Hydra agents’ bones apart.

But she wasn’t the one to appear in front of him as the sounds of repulsors hit his ears instead, a deadly shadow of enraged Winter Soldier knocking the two Hydra agents down as they still clutched on their fresh wounds caused by the Ironman himself.

Steve had never been so relieved to see a man in a metallic suit to leisurely walk into the room, his mask clicking open as the dust settled, revealing a half-smile, half-smirk.

The pressure in Steve’s chest, however, barely eased. Sharp pain still radiated from his non-existent and yet very real gunshot wound, as well as the one on his arm, and from the shoulder he had likely dislocated during his most intense fight against the maddeningly unyielding chains; his ribcage felt all the tighter not only for all that, but for the lingering anger and feeling of utter helplessness as he had been stuck and stunned while you had been tortured in ways he didn’t want to imagine but would haunt his nightmares anyway.

It crashed into his mind anew even as it had never left, a wake-up call snapping his from his haze.

Steve was overwhelmed to death and tired just as much, but it was still nothing compared to how injured you were.

And that was why the first thing he choked out through the tightness in his chest and throat, gaze burning into Tony’s irritatingly calm face was:

“She needs immediate med evac!”

“Hello to you too,” Tony hummed with what almost seemed as amusement, eyeing the chains with raised brows, and made his way to him.

Series of cries and crashes sounded from behind the wall, making Steve wince, head snapping the direction just as the ground shook again, a thud and something that distinctly sounded like breaking of a bone amplified tenfold causing his heart to stumble in his chest in fear. He knew sounds of a fight when he heard it; and while he knew that was a good thing – the recue party being able to what you couldn’t at the moment, exactly what he had wished for barely five seconds ago – it didn’t mean his body wasn’t vibrating with need to move to join that very fight.

And Tony was still walking to him calmly, without care in the world but seemingly with all the time there was in it, as if you hadn’t been shot twice, bleeding out, the only thing disturbing Tony from his walk of fame being a stray bullet from a Hydra agent who got punched to his face for the trouble, and that was distinctly your voice whimpering and Tony was just-

Steve yanked at the cuffs stubbornly, gritting his teeth when the action made his shoulder throb, little spots dancing at the edge of his vision – fresh wave of dread and rage pooled in his gut and made his vision laser sharp, much like his voice.

“Goddammit Tony, I’m serious! She’s-”

“We know Steve,” Bucky said evenly, worried gaze trailing over Steve’s body as he himself was twisting one of the goon’s arm behind his back in what Steve knew was a very painful angle. Good, he thought fleetingly, these bastards deserved to suffer. “Johnson managed to hack the cameras with Friday’s help as soon as we located you. The emergency team is ready...”

Almost pointed brief silence followed Bucky’s words, the noise of battle dying out, followed by gentler sounds; shuffling, gasps, voices speaking quietly; worried and disturbed, but firm.

Bucky smiled a bit. “And I'm sure Spectre’s getting medical attention as we speak.”

Steve’s eyes slipped shut as he took a wavering, agonized breath as his own wound cried for attention – but the violence in him, having been brewing for hours now, didn’t subdue. Your screams still echoed in his skull, even with his momentary memory working as one of an almost ordinary human.

He’d never forget that sound – not when you screamed the first time when they had shot you.  Not when you screamed just a few moments ago when they had done god-only-knows-what to bring you more pain.

He felt the curse roll off his tongue, acute desire to swear on Bucky and Tony and others for having wasted time hacking secured feed and watching as the wicked voices from behind the wall hurt you more, instead of rushing to the rescue faster – but in the back of his mind, he knew all too well they had done their best. Because they always did – especiallywhen not one, but two of them had fallen into Hydra’s clutches.

Steve knew that; but a lot of good that had done, hadn’t it?

Couldn’t they have just— if they had only arrived at least a few moments earlier, flown in faster, infiltrated the base more effectively, if Steve had pulled harder, if he had been able to focus a little further and project again, shield you, because apparently, he wasn’t about to bleed out or suffocate upon being shot to his damn chest in the spectral form even if it felt that way-- and had he had set himself on the death road by catching another, very real bullet, it wouldn’t have mattered because at least he’d be able to do something, goddammit, instead of being a sitting goddamn duck.

“Didn’t anyone tell you sleeveless shirts got out of fashion and were never actually fashionable, Cap?” Tony noted, seemingly unbothered and completely blind and deaf to Steve’s inner turmoil.

As Steve snapped his eyes open and shot him a murderous glare, he saw a flash of worry and anger in his friend’s face.

Distantly, Steve remembered that this was how Tony coped when he was overwhelmed himself.

Responding would have been a waste of breath and would have blocked the precious noise from behind the wall, telling Steve that you were indeed being taken care of, probably having already carried away while others took care of Doctor Barret and other excuses for human beings that had been in the cell with you.

You were being treated. You had the serum – or some version of it anyway. You’d be fine.

Even as ‘fine’ was the last word he’d use to describe the utter shitshow that had taken place in this base. Nothing about what had happened here was fine, even as there were fractions of it that Steve would now always cherish; too bad they were overweighted by the ton of things he’d rather never think of again but stuck to his memories like molasses to his fingers.

The pain from your spectral wounds lingered? You had always felt like this, even if no one could see a scratch? Could you still feel the wound from two weeks ago when you had been retrieving the data Hydra had planted now, as you had two actual gunshot wounds to your thighs, so poorly taken care of, wrapped in the missing sleeves Tony was mocking? Was it like that? As if it wasn’t enough that blood was no doubt seeping through the fabric still, and maybe they had pushed against those, poking-

Jesus Christ.

“This might hurt a bit,” Tony warned him, kneeling next to him and frowning at the chains again, clearly wondering about the safest and fastest way to remove them.

Steve automatically sighed a thank you as Tony’s metal-clad hands moved to break the metal with sheer strength, before Steve turned his gaze to Bucky again, the question nudging insistently on his brain; a phantom image of you, dressed in what had been a breathtaking gown soaked in blood, torn and dusty, pristine white cloth coloured crimson around your thighs, face distorted in agony even when he had tried his best to work in the gentlest way possible. God, the undiluted innocent trust in your eyes-

“How long you’ve been watching? What did they— they hurt her further. How?”

Bucky met Steve’s intense gaze, his own disapproving and resigned at once – a silent conversation not longer than two second took place. Bucky clearly didn’t want Steve to know, aware it would only twist the figurative knife in his gut, the knowledge of whatever had happened in the other room torturing him, feeding his blame for simply having sat there while you had suffered.

He was right. But Bucky was just as well-aware of the fact Steve would find out anyway; hell, Bucky probably thought Steve would watch the footage just to learn.

And he was damn right.

So he came to the correct conclusion that it was better to just tell. And Steve was grateful, even as he braced himself for a figurative punch to his stomach.

“Long enough to know not to mess with the artifact. Johson cursed like a sailor when she saw it,” Bucky said slowly, pausing as he cuffed the other Hydra agent. Steve’s eyes kept burning a hole into his head as Bucky glanced at him again, no doubt hoping Steve would change his mind. Vainly – but he hadn’t expected as much. His weary sigh told Steve that. “They restrained her so she couldn’t escape the touch of the artifact, even though they never got to that part. They forced her on her knees. She had to put her weight on her legs-“

Steve gritted his teeth as inferno of pure fury exploded inside him, flooding his strained muscles with power; his hands curled into fists, his left hand, still trapped, breaking the last remaining string on metal on him with ease when he pushed his whole body into a single tug.

He was going to smash their faces.

He was going to break every little bone in the sleazy Hydra bastard who sounded like he was revelling in your cries and he was going to enjoy it-

“Cool it, Rambo,” Tony said flatly, the thinnest thread of satisfaction lacing his voice nevertheless. “We get it, you’re mad as hell, but we need to take care of you too. You can go all John Wick on them later. You don’t have your usual strength, you’ve been shot, have about a thousand cuts, those shoulders of yours don’t look as hot as usual either and you breathe like you have at least five broken ribs,” he listed, surprisingly accurate. Not that Steve cared. He didn’t need to be enhanced nor in full strength to release the violence he was now brimming with; he had seen ordinary humans commit unspeakable crimes with their bare hands. He could do the same if he pleased. And it would – please him, that was. They had hurt you; and then they hurt you further, just because they could, when you couldn’t even defend yourself, when he was right fucking there- “Come on, Cap. Let’s leave this shitshow behind.”

Two of Coulson’s agents whom Steve vaguely recalled by name – Agent Mackenzie and Agent May – strode in, taking the two Hydra agents off Bucky’s hands. Bucky was by Steve’s side in a blink of an eye, helping him up; it honestly surprised Steve how much he had to appreciate that, his legs wobbly, the world a little hazy at the edges of his vision causing him to grip on Bucky’s arm, the pressure transferring to the centre of Steve’s chest and causing him to wheeze silently at the fresh burst of pain.

Okay, shit, maybe giving Hydra hell could be postponed a bit-

“Easy, pal. You’ll be okay, but you really look like hell now,” Bucky said, Steve involuntarily proving his point when his left knee gave out momentarily, the only thing saving him from falling being Tony’s swift reaction as he supported him from other side. When had he got so light-headed? “Yeah okay, maybe walking isn’t the best idea-“

“I’m fine.”

He was. Definitely in an infinitely better state than you.

“Sure you are, pal, and I’m the President-“

“Stark, don’t, the situation is horror-like enough as it is,” Bucky huffed, helping Steve hobble. “You stumble again, I’m carrying you bridal style, punk. Then we figure out how to reverse the effect of that damn thing and-“

“No!” Steve cried out on instinct, energized at once – and earning glances shocked enough to elaborate. “I mean… there’s enough time for that. I’m… not fine, but I’m alright enough. We need to make sure the change is safe first. We… we don’t know how exactly it works. And trial and error is not an option.”  

It was not. There was no chance in hell Steve was going to test whether you’d be able to hold on without the serum with the injuries you had even in a controlled medical environment, and that was just one of his concerns. There were several others.

Where Tony was satisfied with his explanation, Bucky’s gaze lingered on him, a silent question he didn’t have to voice, because he already knew the answer; a fond and exasperated faint smile formed on his face.

You want the healing factor to do its work before you switch it again, don’t you?

Damn right Steve wanted that.

His feet might feel heavy, blood-flow restoring only now as he had moved the stiff muscle, but his brain was still working – and there was no way he’d touch that damn artifact with a ten-feet pole until he knew you were stabilized at least. Preferably later, because God knew Bucky was right; Steve might be aching all over, but you most definitely needed his healing factor a lot more at the moment.

And if there was the slightest chance that artifact might mess with either of you and your powers further, that was just more reason – one Steve would gladly share and point out at the reason – to wait.

The switch would be attempted – for sure.

The chance was probably never going to be a clean zero and the mere idea of staying this way – without an essential part of him, the part of him that enabled him to fight for what he believed in – was paralysing, no matter that he would have had a different and very useful power in return. He imagined that beside the healing factor which you could immensely benefit from, you might appreciate the other quirks too, but would prefer having your powers back still. Even as you were an excellent fighter and could hold your own more than well, with your true power, one that had nothing to do with mutations, being in your mind and heart. But your Inhuman power was a part of you as much as the serum was part of him.

The switch would be attempted – but in the right time.Steve was not going to take another risk, nor approve of anyone else taking it. But for sure - both of you would definitely welcome the return to the norm; at least where abilities were concerned.

If you’d revert to your old ways in your interaction as well remained to be seen – but unlike with the power switch, no amount of prior research or stalling would help Steve predict the outcome.

“Is Agent Campbell with you?” Steve panted, forcing himself to stay focused on the puzzle he could actually help solving. “He’s-“

“-not, he’s already diving into archives and all the retrieved records from the cute little cult-like community of Inhumans they had, researching the artifact,” Tony interjected, a brief smirk audible in his voice. “If anyone can make sense of Jiaying’s notes, it’s him. We know. We might not have not had our head strategist but we can do okay when it comes to it, Cap.”

A tired smile curled Steve’s lips upward.

“Thank you. I know you’re just fine without me,” Steve noted, smile slowly slipping when he remembered another piece of intel they needed to explore. “Can you-- we need to check up on Spectre’s mother.”

Bucky frowned at him in confusion. “They took her too? No other prisoner has been reported in this facility yet.”

Stev took a wavering breath as they exited the building, fresh air feeling like heaven despite the burning in his lungs – and the sight of multiple quinjets as well – and only then explained.

“Not sure. They just mentioned her in passing. Could be that she’s working with them. Could be they used her Inhumans research. Could be she’s in danger or hurt. I’m not sure, maybe they just mentioned her to get a rise out of Spectre. Either way, we need to know.”

“We’ll get right on that, pal,” Bucky assured him, grabbing his arm firmer to help him hop on the jet. “Now let’s get you home.”

A whole medical team was on Steve the second he stepped into the plane. However, as Tony started the quinjet, the ramp rising however, Steve was deaf to the questions asked; something much more important caught his attention.

One of Tony’s brilliant inventions, a modification of his suits, a stretcher designed for the field where wheels were a real inconvenience.

Two field medics; and you.

He only got a glimpse as the group headed towards the quinjet, but he had seen enough.

Unconscious. Ashen. Bloodied. Improvised bandages soaked through with crimson as you had been apparently forced to your knees. Remnants of your beautiful evening gown, one that made his heart beat its way out of his chest and sear, a precious sight to behold, a memory to cherish; the sight and all other senses full of you as you had smiled mildly, as you chuckled, as he held you in his arms, having moved almost effortlessly across the dancefloor.

And this was the price you paid; your punishment for Steve’s and others’ insistence that it would be fine to go to the auction.

God, he was such an idiot.

Arrogant idiot who had thought that if something had gone awry a bit, he’d handle it, especially with you by his side. He had seen the golden opportunity to apologize, to smoothen the rough relationship between you two at least a bit, to make a nice memory with you, so desperate to take a chance to show himself in a better light that for once he hadn’t minded Tony meddling.

This was Steve’s punishment for that arrogance and focusing on his own agenda; and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, because you were taking the brunt of the impact of the consequences of his actions – and the lack of it. You were paying the price for his irresponsibility, for his incompetence.

God, how he wished he could turn the clock back.

Like so many times before.

He was sure his lips were moving, automatically responding to the questions of the meticulous medical team eventually. But that image of you remained in his mind, even when he closed his eyes, hazy due to pain medication he didn’t remember receiving.

The fact that it had done nothing to relieve the pain from the wound he had suffered when in his spectral form only made his stomach turn further.

Your pain lingered. And unless his brain was more messed up than he had thought, not only that your pain lingered for days, weeks even, but you also had no relief for it.

Steve just wanted to scream and punch and tear something apart.

“You won’t believe me, but it needs to be said,” a mild voice sounded next to him, causing his eyes to snap open in fright; he hadn’t noticed people moving around. Hadn’t noticed another of his friends arriving. Did you have someone close nearby? They might be operating on you already, despite the risks, so probably not. “Steve, look at me.”

It was hard to resist Natasha’s gentle command, but Steve had been through a lot harder trials today. Yesterday? Both? It had been light outside…

He kept staring ahead, her face, the flash of red hair, appearing on his vision even as his gaze wouldn’t focus on her.

He knew what she was going to say. It was clear as day – and she was right about one thing. He wouldn’t believe her. He couldn’t.

“This isn’t your fault.”

If Steve’s chest didn’t hurt so much and if he wasn’t trying to pretend like he was listening, he’d scoff.

“Listen to the lady, punk,” Bucky added. “She knows her shit. We all… pushed you a little bit to go. No one could have known.”

“We should have.” I should have.

Both of his friends’ faces came into focus as Steve spoke up, uncannily similar concerned expression on their features.

“Maybe. But we can’t change that now – and you know I hate trying to look at the bright side of things just to cover up for the hard dark facts, but we did discover a large base of operations and eliminated it thanks to you two,” Natasha noted and Steve gritted his teeth as he inhaled sharply, his lungs crying out in consequence. “That might have not been the plan, but it still counts. What you two have been through there – and we don’t know half of it, I’m sure – wasn’t for nothing.”

Steve gulped, averting her gaze. He couldn’t say she didn’t have valid arguments; there were good things that came out it indeed, the truth about how your powers worked among them, because at least now Steve would be able to take that into account after you hopefully managed to switch powers back. But that didn’t mean the horrible experience was lessened for it.

It didn’t mean it had been worth it.

“And you did a damn good job patching her up in that situation,” Bucky argued further, only making Steve’s stomach churn. Because that wasn’t true. He hadn’t been fast enough. You did the hardest work. You- “We know enough to understand you managed to project? I mean-“

“She dug out the bullets herself,” Steve said dully, despite the images his mind had conjured about that flaring up inside his head again being impossibly vivid and nauseating.

Bucky’s voice fell silent and Steve took satisfaction – a sick one, one knew – in the horror casting shadows over both Natasha’s and Bucky faces. Good. He needed them to understand. He needed them to understand that despite the state they found you in – precisely for that, perhaps – you were a goddamn fighter.

And he had failed you. 

“She dug out the bullets herself while coaching me through projecting to the hallway so we could get out. Only when that didn’t work, I projected to her and found her barely conscious, but with two damn bullets out and her hands and legs soaking in her own blood. Don’t tell me-“

“She’s one tough agent, Steve, we get the message,” Natasha interrupted his sombre speech flatly, face strict when he snapped his gaze to her; but her voice still spoke of warmth. “We know that and my respect to her only grows with every mission, but that doesn’t diminish your merit. Controlling a power which you had an entirety of few hours – of which most you spent unconscious, I assume – enough to get to her, taking care of her after that, was still hard work. You were both without your usual powers. Clearly, you both pushed beyond your limits. And survived, thanks to each other. But you alone did a good job.”

Steve averted her gaze, his face and the burn of angry exhausted tears probably saying it all: Did I?

I did nothing.

I didn’t do enough.

When she said it like that, it sounded like he had managed quite the feat, but it still didn’t feel like enough. It still felt like a failure on his part; but God, was she right when she said you had outdone yourself, fighting tooth and nail and pushing yourself to do the unthinkable and succeeding.

Steve cleared his throat, hoping to swallow the lump having grown there.

“How did you find us?” he asked, aware his friends would recognize that as clear evasion of digging deeper into the topic.

And hopefully, they’d take it.

Even with that sigh on their part.

The corners of Steve’s lips twitched up a bit at the ridiculously coordinated sound of exasperation and exhaustion from Bucky and Natasha; they were good for each other. Absurdly so.

“Barret was on the shortlist of my suspects,” Natasha explained simply. “For all the sophisticated manipulations and tricks, trying to get our scientists do their dirty work, no one thought of the possibility of us tracking him once we knew he could be the mole.”

“Cocky bastards,” Bucky hummed. “Luckily.”

Steve couldn’t but agree; he might have been pissed at the universe for the team not having appeared earlier, but he didn’t want to imagine what they would have found had they come later.

“How did Coulson’s team get involved?”

Bucky’s sudden grin seemed out of place, but warmed Steve’s heart anyway.

“You’ll like this one. Johnson was keeping tabs on the mission – the gala, that is. She actually recovered a draft of Spectre’s message about the artifact as soon as she found out about the ambush, came barging into the Tower with a few friends at her heels. She still had a cut on her forehead from their own mission. Speaking of tough women…”

Natasha smirked; and Steve’s smile widened, the sign of joy feeling genuine for the first time.

You did have someone by your bedside, even as most of your current team fussed over him, maybe even for that exact reason. Coulson’s team – your friends – were in your corner. Likely in every sense of the world. Good.

His stomach dropped to his feet only when the idea occurred to him that it might be enough for you to draw you back to Coulson. Away from the Avengers. Him included.

Gritting his teeth, he forbade himself to worry about that now. Even if that was the case, he would have to accept it; he’d have to be happy for you. He’d have to. He wouldn’t have a word to say against that decision. He hadn’t exactly done the stellar job of making you feel welcome, and as for keeping you safe-

“That’s good,” Steve said weakly at least, stomping on the unpleasant thoughts, latching onto the bright side – if it wasn’t for Agent Johnson, the rescue party could have been smaller. And slower. He was beyond grateful for the friends you had. “She’s a good friend… and I hope she’s been treated by now?”

“She was. As much as was possible during the flight anyway. And she does seem like a good friend... one who drives Tony crazy.”

Steve couldn’t but grin at Natasha’s sidenote, especially since he heard someone approaching from behind, probably the man in question himself. “Even better.”

“I heard that, Cap! How’s he doing, doc?”

Doctor Shaw glanced at Steve briefly, waiting for his approval, before he secured another butterfly band-aid over the cut on his forearm. Steve just nodded.

“Well, I’ll be able to tell more once we’re at the Tower, but for now, I’m confident enough to say that the patient will eventually make a full recovery.”

“Especially after he gets his mojo back, right?” Tony added, earning a slightly amused raised brow from the man.

“If you are referring to regaining the effects of the serum, particularly the increased accelerated healing factor, then yes, Mr. Stark. I’m hopeful.”

“There’s no rush with that-“ Steve protested instinctively, only for Natasha to carefully wrap her fingers around his left wrist – the least injured non-intimate part of a body she could find.

“We’ll figure it out, Steve. Together.”

And she’ll be fine too, the look in her eyes said, causing Steve’s shoulders to slump and making him internally wince in pain.

“Alright, Captain Rogers. Are you comfortable with me reporting-“

“Yes, Doctor Shaw. Proceed,” Steve said before the doctor could finish asking about sharing his medical information with three other people present, causing the man to smile briefly.

“Right. Your dislocated shoulder is stabilized for now, as is the gunshot wound. I would advise rest, bedrest preferably, and I’d recommend you to respect it this time as the effects of the serum, particularly the healing factor, do not seem to be present.”

Steve pointedly ignored the two piercing gazes and one snort from his friends at the note about him respecting doctor’s orders. He did respect all medical personnel immensely, both as people and professionals – there were simply times at which he couldn’t entirely follow their recommendations.

Doctor Shaw cleared his throat before he continued.

“The cut on your forehead was minor, as the majority of the cuts on your arms, apart from three of them with about two stitches each, they should heal within a few days. We disinfected it thoroughly, but we will monitor the progress regularly, especially for signs of infection. Again, if you could limit straining your muscles by let’s say lifting heavy objects, it would certainly help. As for the injury under your eye and over your cheek, there is no fracture and the swelling is going to disperse within hours. Do expect a bruise, however. Again, my recommendation is to rest. And do not hesitate to report if you feel that you should receive a higher dose of pain medication – I admit we do have slight trouble calculating the dose as we are in the process of determining the metabolization of various medication in the current state of your body.”

He made another pause, frowning, first at his notes in the chart and then at Steve.

“Now, before I leave you to it, I detected no injuries to your ribs or sternum, no swelling or bruising or worse, yet you are clearly in pain, having difficulty breathing. We can talk about fresh higher dose of fentanyl once we get to the base to relieve you, but as of now, do you have any idea what could be the cause for-“

“I’m fine. It’s… my pain is about two on the scale-“ of three “of ten, the breathing it probably just the adrenalin still wearing off. That is possible, no?” Steve suggested, hoping his lie sounded at least a fraction more convincing to the doctor and his friends than to himself.

Now that the pain from other injuries subdued, it felt like someone was drilling a hole not his chest and then poked around once he broke through the bone to the insides; or as if someone shot him. But he couldn’t say that without casting suspicion on you. He couldn’t do that until he had a plan of approaching the issue, preferably with you even if he felt like benching you forever for the stunt you had been pulling at him and the whole team – and possibly you previous team. What were you even thinking?

The doctor eyed him curiously, but nodded at last, clearly satisfied for the moment.

“I’m simply going to take some rest and then I’ll be as good as new,” Steve added, an innocent – but honestly grateful to all the care the medical provided – smile on his lips.  

He would swear Bucky mumbled ‘little shit’ under his breath. Doctor Shaw dared to raise a questioning eyebrow, clearly seeing Steve was trying to butter him up, but didn’t protest and took his leave.

Steve felt three slightly suspicious glares remain, but no one asked. For now.

They were about to land anyway.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Sorry it took so long, loves, life - eh🥲

As always, any feedback and thoughts shared are insanely appreciated 💗

I hope April has been treating you well - and if not, it's about to change 💕

[hatredmadeofgold]

So, Raiden has DID, right. This is a fact.

What do you think about his system? I know you write fanfic about him, do you think there are any other elaborated parts other than Raiden and The Ripper? (I'm not a fan of "evil murder alter," but I feel like naming would be pretty ambiguous. :)

Hey anon, I am sorry in advance but this answer is 2263 words long lmao Go sit back with a beverage of your choice (I recommend water) and enjoy the ride.

[Not sure if you’ve read my little attempt at an essay from July 2022 about him having DID (it’s here), but I do consider it outdated now and would love to update it (same as the one on him having ASPD) at some point when I got the energy for that.]

This is a fact made me laugh a bit, ngl.

I am not a fan of the “evil murderer alter” thing either (I watched Split once and while I give my kudos to the actor’s portrayal of various alters, the story itself sucks ass and I also found it boring as hell to be honest) — if anything, Raiden’s entire system consists of “evil murderer alters”, or none of such at all. We’re speaking about a character who admits to enjoying murder, and that wasn’t The Ripper speaking back then in MGS2 either — Raiden isn’t left in the dark of his violent nature, but he’s left in the dark about the details.

I don’t want to give too many spoilers for my fanfiction series @mgsr-sing-to-me away, since the story goes in-depth about my concept of his DID system, how it was created and what each alter roughly represents, but I’ll try to give you a quick rundown:

Something I think most MGS fans can all agree on is that Raiden in all three games in which he appears feels somewhat different, to the point of ‘inconsistency’ even, and this has created my interpretation and headcanon for him to have DID in the first place, and Raiden having suffered from amnesia is a well-known canon fact.

To me, however, it’s not MGR Raiden who feels strongly different in terms of personality — it’s MGS4 Raiden who feels like an inconsistency.

I consider the Raiden we see in MGS4 actually a different alter being in control of the body than the one who is in control during MGS2. During MGR, it feels like a mix of both of those alters but let me get to that later.

‘Jack the Ripper’ is an obvious alter, not an ‘alter ego’, and when I played MGR in Japanese, the cutscene after the Monsoon boss battle in which Raiden touches the wound on his abdomen made me realise — hold on, he suffered amnesia right there.

Something that I strongly dislike about the English Dub of MGR is that Quinton Flynn isn’t really good at the portrayal of Jack. Throughout the Japanese dub, however, Ken’yuu Horiuchi uses his voice to show the literal switching between at least three alters present in Raiden throughout the game. Unfortunately, this isn’t evident in the English dub much at all, aside from the Jack the Ripper Awakens cutscene.

For easier understanding’s sake, I will give those alters some nicknames (also to prevent spoilers for my fanfiction):

The Raiden of Denial, as we see him both in the first half of MGR and MGS2

The Raiden of Dissociality, as we see in the later half of MGR and on and off during MGS2 (especially during {optional} Codecs with Rose)

Jack the Ripper

The Raiden of Sorrow, as we see him during MGS4

I took these 4 observed alters from the canon as my pillars to roughly create my concept for his DID system, which boils down to an approximate number of 16 or more alters in total.

I say ’16 or more’ because Raiden has never received adequate therapy for his mental health issues during canon, and it’s hard to determine an exact number of alters in general due to the covert nature of the disorder.

I decided to keep the exact number ambiguous but clear and simple enough to not get overwhelmed because technically someone with such severe trauma as his could result in poly-fragmented DID (aka 100 or more alters), but that’s not even set in stone.

Let me get into the specifics a bit.

—

Raiden of Denial alters are parts of him that are, what the (flawed) model of structural dissociation would probably call “apparently normal parts” (short: ANP). I take this model with a grain of salt because DID isn’t as neatly structured as this model suggests (in my experience), but to keep it simple, these alters are less aware of the full extent of their traumas and are therefore ‘functional’ in everyday life as well as interpersonal relationships, however, they feel less ‘fleshed out’ or ‘mask-like’ in his case sometimes.

All Raiden of Denial alters tend to run away from their past, hence I label them with the word “denial”. All of these alters are adults, and the apparent Host alter {at the time}, present in the first half of MGS2 until the nanomachines suppressing a part of his memory (aka suppressing the majority of the system) are deactivated by Solidus Snake, is one of such.

—

Throughout MGR, we can see two alters intruding on each other’s consciousness with thoughts, feelings and memories. One of them is like the one we see in MGS2 and the prologue of MGR, one in denial. Then there’s one we see sometimes in MGS2 and more and more prominently during MGR, a dissocial one.

We see an indirect switch right at the beginning of Chapter 1, where a dissocial type takes over. This shift is also picked up by Kevin, mentioning Raiden’s callousness that Raiden does not respond to.

These two alters are in so much conflict with each other throughout the game that Jack the Ripper decides that he’s had enough of that shit from the other two because neither of them is capable of handling being consistently confronted with triggers and reminders of “who they all really are on the inside”, and shoves them both out of the frame and takes on full control.

This comes with strong amnesia about what happens during his takeover. It’s not total blackout amnesia, but rather that it feels like watching himself act in the third person perspective, and the memory feels like Raiden is watching a YouTube video on a bad internet connection in 360p resolution.

—

Now Jack the Ripper is a persecutor-type of alter — an alter that has a protective role for the system, however, a persecutor’s methods are causing harm to the system overall.

I don’t want to give too much away from my fic as I said, but I’ll give you the hint that Jack the Ripper that we see during MGR is both an adult and a child at the same time.

A child who is trying to protect himself by lashing out at everyone and everything around him. It is obvious given the context of what we are told from the games that Jack the Ripper was born from the horrible things he was forced to witness and forced to do himself when he was a child soldier in Liberia, hence his age-ambiguity. And even The Ripper is split into several variants, making The Ripper his own category of alters.

The variants of The Ripper handle various parts of the horrible things that he had to endure as a child soldier, and they vary in ‘age’ and what triggers them out but they all behave roughly the same.

Despite being different alters of the same category, unlike the other alters within the same category, Ripper variants all consider themselves to be one and the same, perhaps unable to understand the barriers between them as well as gaps in memory.

Also one part of these alters is a child alter who has none of these violent and hostile traits at all, but is still a part of this category. This alter is protected by the rest of The Ripper, and contains all of these emotions that he was not allowed to openly show to guarantee his survival back in Liberia, like fear, sorrow, and pain but also empathy.

There are multiple of these child alters in the system, but they are hard to distinguish without giving them names, some have memories of their trauma, and some are completely oblivious.

—

The Sorrow type of alters are what we exclusively see in MGS4 and are what I associate with self-hatred, recklessness, suicidal ideation (internal homicide), self-harm and substance abuse.  

Sorrow types are either adults or teenagers. They exclusively have a detailed awareness of Raiden’s addiction issues, which is another headcanon I have and is also listed in the content warnings for Sing to Me (ARC 2: Parasite Eve will handle this topic the most; and it may or may not be rather graphic, it depends on what I decide in the end what I will decide to publish).

—

Now I have listed 4 types of alters but I did not say anywhere that each category of them equates a set amount of alters to get to the number of 16 known alters in the system.

Because there’s another category to throw into the mix: Introjects.

So far, I have 4 introjects in mind that are part of Raiden’s system, but due to Sing to Me spoilers I cannot share them all.

Introjects are alters based on another person, be that a person in the system’s life, a celebrity they look up to, or even a fictional character. They exist in all DID systems in real life (and some sources confirm fiction-based introjects aka fictives since the 1980s) and their existence has a link to the psychology of child development.

One introject Raiden possesses is based on Solidus Snake/George Sears. Said alter is also a persecutor type and could be overlapping somewhat with the Ripper category, but is not a direct part of them. This persecutor introject of Solidus causes the entire system a major hit to their self-esteem, as he enacts the very same punishment onto the system, as the real Solidus Snake did on Raiden when he was a child soldier under his control, and also sabotages a lot of Raiden’s relationships by ‘protecting’ him from perceived threats that he sees in others.

—

Another I have in mind is perhaps based on Solid Snake/David and could have formed way before they’ve actually met. This makes sense because Raiden had gone through 2 years of VR training for the Big Shell mission, which put him into Snake’s role when he was on a solo infiltration mission on Shadow Moses Island in Alaska. This David introject is very loosely based on the actual person and is more of a fragment of what Raiden had been made to believe during those times. After their meeting, this introject might take the role of a ‘caretaker’ type of protector. Caretaker in this context must not be understood as to be something like a mother or father figure! However, this alter is counteracting the Solidus introject as well as the Ripper variants, by trying to get himself back on track.

—

Then there’s a fictive I feel like I can share about, and it’s the only female alter in the system: Ripley. And with that one I mean the actual Ellen Ripley from the first 4 movies of the Alien franchise.

Given that MGS2 mentions Raiden and Rose having met over arguing over King Kong, I came to think of what other types of fiction Raiden would enjoy and wrote myself a (still unfinished) list of movies and books.

The Alien franchise started in 1979 with the first movie, so it even matches timeline-wise that Raiden possibly saw those movies in his late teens, perhaps on TV or borrowed them from a local video rental store. Kaijū movies seem to be his thing, and although the Alien franchise is not considered one, it does overlap in some aspects of the genre.

Ripley as an alter might have formed when Raiden was moved into a foster family’s home, and to cope with his terrible nightmares that felt far too real, his psyche latched onto the fictional character to dissociate himself further from his past.

What I imagine is that he saw his nightmares, the flashbacks, and what he went through as something as undefeatable and unkillable as the xenomorph as described in the first movie, “the perfect survivor, without a conscience, guilt or remorse, nor moral code”.

Now Ripley was able to survive the xenomorph, and also kill it — by shooting it into space. Something that Raiden always wished to do with his past, just to erase it, as we learn in MGS2. At the time this alter takes its shape, he was maybe 15 or 16 years old. Ripley is also a protector, to protect the child in him additionally from pain. This alter then also takes a motherly role for the system inside Raiden’s Inner World, something that cannot be seen by an outsider.

—

The last introject I cannot say anything about it, since that one would give a too-harsh spoiler for my story plans with Sing to Me. I’d LOVE to talk about this alter and the absolute mindfuck he will create once he surfaces and interacts with other characters in the story, but my hands are tied. It sadly takes me so much time to work on the story due to the lack of energy I have overall, but it’s on my mind every single day. Even writing this answer took me two nights T_T

And considering that I’ve written over 2200 words to answer this ask already, I will make a cut here. Because honestly, I could write an entire book about Raiden (and Sam).

Which… I am actually doing, sort of, with my fic, due to its sheer estimated length of around 100 chapters for just the main story.

[haitianempress]

Theory about the Garden of Eden Club

RANT INCOMING!!

So with this update we are finding out a lot about the club and I have several theories in mind surrounding it.

I feel like Mr. Kim is apart of making sure Idols get pressured into going to the club.

Examples:

He claims he's mad at everyone in the group and wants better for them, but he doesn't address the fact that the idols have personal issues. If he were really mad, he would fire the idols immediately, especially Lin, who has been given many chances! Something is up.

He literally hired Dong-hyun, the son of a famous person with no degree in psychology, to give therapy sessions to his idols lmao.

He also hired Castiel, whose father is a successful CEO. Do you think he doesn't know anyone at the club who could threaten the idols?

He probably makes more money from these poor idols whose mental health is declining so badly that they would do anything to succeed. He seems like the type to take advantage. He’s suspicious, sorry.

Every single artist under the company is popular due to outside forces coming into play to help boost the Idols popularity.

Examples:

Seo-yoon went to the club and got in contact with a benefactor who helped skyrocket the group's career. But with that came her failing health and eventual suicide.

After Seo-yoon's death, Mi-yeon suddenly surpasses the group in success and starts avoiding Luna. However, Mi-yeon was not feeling well in the days before her death, and she discovered the person who pushed Luna's sister into taking her life. She also commits suicide.

It's Castiel's father who is funding RK3, so he can get money back by helping cover up what happened to his son at the club. Without his support and money, they would have fallen off the charts and disbanded.

Dean literally admits that he's spying on everyone at the company for elite people. These people could include Mr. Kim or individuals associated with the Garden of Eden. He says he's a fox for a reason, and perhaps that helps him pay his bills and support X-EVO's success on the charts.

They are overworked so bad on purpose in order to make them vulnerable so they can get more Idols to go to the club and make deals.

Examples:

You heard it from Luna they HAD to be pushed to exhaustion when working hard for their debut cause it's a lot of money to prepare Idols for the beginning of their careers.

After they flopped post-debut, they needed to repay that money somehow. Seo-yoon, afraid of seeing her sister and group members hit rock bottom, sought out desperate measures.

After the idols in the club were used and then discarded, they were pushed to commit suicide so that the club wouldn't appear guilty and wouldn't have to pay them back.

Seong-hwa may have this sweet, hardworking leader vibe, but Luna has seen him exhausted and trying to hide the bags under his eyes multiple times. He is the only one in X-EVO who is like this, which is concerning. What could be causing this?

Additionally, he knew Seo-yoon was going to the club based on a picture he had of her leaving in his camera roll. Maybe he didn't speak up not just because he wanted to protect Luna, as he claims, but also because he's scared to say anything since someone is probably watching.

I think many of the idols, when they go to the club, end up selling their bodies, selling drugs, and becoming recruiters who lure other idols to the club.

Examples:

Castiel tried his hardest to save Seo-yoon from whatever was happening in the room she entered but was stopped by a man who literally tried to sexually assault him.

Idk if Dean or Castiel said this but one of them said something about watching your drinks so someone won't slip in something…

In notion, this implies that approaching strangers and drugging, groping, harassing, or even raping them is accepted there.

A lot of idols are roped in because they are caught in compromising situations where they could be exposed. The elites use this to their advantage and threaten to blackmail them if they don't go to the club.

Examples:

Poor Castiel was sexually assaulted by a man, and to prevent the story from getting out, his father paid the man and the club for their silence. But that protection didn’t extend to Seo-yoon. His father is making him work hard and physically abusing him because he can’t make much money off RK3.

Luna is heading down a dangerous path, getting involved in investigations with both her 'therapist' and the group's songwriter. They both know people who have been to the club.

They are using her to do things cause they know grief is tearing her apart and she wants answers. Not to mention Minhyuk caught her outside the club,

She shouldn’t trust anyone, even if they know people hurt by the club. Minhyuk’s full intentions aren’t clear! LUNA IS IN DANGER!!

Lin is on the verge of making the same mistakes as the other girls, but he’s acting irrationally and angrily. They are trying to keep him in line and imposing tighter restrictions on him, and his group’s poor performance is pushing him to desperate measures. Like Seo-yoon, he may seek outside help to save his group because he feels guilty.

Luna discovered that Mi-yeon might be gay or bisexual based on her crush on Castiel and her relationship with Seo-yoon, as seen from the photos and texts. But what if someone else knew this and threatened to blackmail her by releasing the photos if she didn’t comply with their demands?

That's all! What do you guys think?