#or at least how much of that was anxiety exacerbated by them?

[sleepynoons]

nanami x afab!f!reader, nsfw, 18+, not beta read cw: unprotected sex (and he cums inside you), fingering, nipple play if you squint, squirting

notes: a half-baked attempt at a nanami char study. also, not canon, this is post-jujutsu kaisen storyline, and nanami is alive and well – physically, at least. also x2, gege akutami, idgaf about you and your updated cute cyclops cat avatar, when i get you, it's fucking over for you.

NANAMI HAS a habit of falling into silence after arguments with you.

your first fight, you interpreted his silence as stonewalling, a way to prevent the conversation from continuing so that he wouldn’t have to take any more accountability or responsibility. so, you interrogated – demanded that he say something, anything.

but, in a fragile, almost meek voice, he hoarsely responded, “i’m sorry, my love. i just… i just need time to think.”

almost instinctively, you lurched forward to embrace him. you couldn’t bear to see him in such a state any longer – eyes downcast and watery, fists balled tightly, perspiration collecting on his temples.

“take all the time you need, kento,” you reassured.

the following morning, the two of you discussed and made amends over breakfast (which he got up early to make). and nanami revealed parts of himself you had never known before.

you see, nanami takes his roles as your partner for life and, more generally, as an adult very seriously. he’s given several subject matters and issues deep thought – the jujutsu world, global affairs, mentorship, parenting, and more –, yet he still finds himself in situations he hasn’t encountered before and is stumped. he doesn’t know how to proceed, how to navigate, unable to adapt because a critical, sneering voice in his head exacerbates his immobility. 

it screams: “why don’t you know what to do!”

he’s suffering from performance anxiety, disabled from acting like the adult he should be, reminded of the fact that he was forced to grow up when he was still only a teenager, still too underprepared and incapable to handle anything independently. he can’t even prevent his own relationship from falling apart, and that’s something within his control.

and you know these thoughts still poison your husband’s mind today. even though he’s no longer a sorcerer, and the both of you have moved to kauntan, malaysia, they will probably plague him for the rest of his life, fueled by his regrets and grief.

it’s obviously frustrating for you. but you’re also an adult, and you’re no stranger to regrets or grief yourself. unlike nanami, however, you’re more optimistic, even arguably whimsical and idealistic. just as there is so much pain and suffering in the world, there is also love and comfort. and you’d like to be a source of that support for nanami, standing right beside him as you both move forward, learning to seek and appreciate joy while living with sadness and mourning.

so after every heated conversation (because the two of you have resolved to never fight again), you stay true to your words and remind your husband just how far-reaching and unconditional your love is.

you’re seated on his lap and cupping his face in your palms.

“kento, look at me,” you whisper as you search for his eyes. nanami always gets so shy when you do this. you coax again, “kento, just let me say what i have to say, alright?”

“you don’t have to do this every time,” he mutters, though you know he doesn’t mean it.

“i’ll keep this up until you stop avoiding me.”

with that, he acquiesces. he peers at you, a little nervous and hesitant.

“kento, remember,” you begin, “when we argue, it doesn’t mean i want to break up with you.” kiss. “it doesn’t mean i hate you.” kiss. “it doesn’t mean you’re a horrible person.” you pepper a few more pecks, scattering them across his cheekbones, chin, and the spot right between his eyebrows. “it’s natural” – and you stress this – “for us to disagree and be annoyed at each other because we are not the same person. we both know what to do better on, and that’s that, yeah?”

nanami grunts in agreement, and you happily reward him with a longer smooch on his lips before you finish, “you’re the love of my life, kento, and nothing will change that. i hope you come to believe that.”

he blushes at your confession and mumbles a soft “i love you” in response.

content with your work, you start to sit up, preparing to slide off of nanami’s lap. however, nanami’s hands fly up to square your hips, preventing you from leaving.

“kento?” you ask. he doesn’t say anything, simply takes one of your hands and presses it against his growing bulge. you let out a soft sound of surprise.

“this is incredibly indecent of me,” he mumbles. “i just… need to show you how grateful i am for you.”

it’s your turn to melt at his words. heat floods your face, and you nod enthusiastically, earning a light giggle from your husband.

nanami leans forward to kiss you, gentle presses of his lips to yours. his left hand has bunched your nightgown to give his right access to the tops of your thighs and your core. his right hand caresses, almost tickles, the sensitive skin of your legs, palming and squeezing them as he feels you. he continues to travel upward, reaching to play with the fringes of your underwear. your whimper is swallowed by him as well, as he sneaks his tongue into your mouth, transitioning the kiss into a full-blown makeout.

he traces your folds and lines through your panties, his fingertips poking at the wet spot that is starting to dampen the lace and cotton. just his sheer touch is enough to make you keen, transform into a whimpering mess that only wants more, more, all of him. as a result, you pull away, translucent spit connecting and stretching out before it’s broken apart as you take off your nightgown and throw it behind you. nanami also strips himself of his shirt, before the two of you crash back together and resume kissing and mouthing and moaning.

nanami’s hands continue to work magic on your body – circling around and then tugging and twisting at your puffy nipples, shifting your panties to the side and inserting a thick finger into your squelching hole. throwing caution and embarrassment to the wind, he even becomes a little forceful and only gives you a brief moment to adjust before he shoves two more fingers in, forcing your pussy to take in three at once.

you can only throw your head back, whining his name, pressure and pleasure making you drool.

“sorry, dearest, i’m usually more careful than this,” he grunts through gritted teeth. his cock is still stuck in the confines of his pajama pants, and he knows he should give you more time. but, after a few more seconds, he has to pull his cock out, slip his fingers out of you, and align his tip with your entrance.

“i need it,” you sob, your hands gripping tightly onto his shoulders.

“are you sure?” you firmly nod your head, leaving him no choice but to stuff you full.

the stretch is delicious. honeyed. syrupy. your walls welcome him, and you feel your heart fill with so much warmth. the two of you are so clearly in love, heart eyes locked onto each other’s, even as nanami ruts into you and your nipples sing as they graze against his chest. you’re panting each other’s names, finding some way – any way – to get even closer, prove that physicality could never impede the joining of your souls. your thighs trap the sides of nanami’s legs, and your husband has lowered his hands to cup your ass to better bounce you up and down on his cock. every rock stretches you out even more, allowing him to sink even deeper into you.

you yelp, “kento! i – hah – love! you!” even though you’re short of breath, you try your best to say it over and over again, desperately hoping that nanami can get a glimpse of just how much you cherish him.

he gasps, “you just – never stop giving.” nanami knows he will never be able to string words together the way you do, intonate them with such profound adoration and admiration like you do. so the least he can do is show you.

he embraces you fully, arms moving up to wrap around your chest and torso, and hugs you closely as he thrusts up, punching air out of you so that you’re totally out of breath. he’s giving you everything he has because never has he felt so moved in his life. he just wants to give you everything, and if he can give you even a taste of ecstasy, he’ll be able to sleep soundly by your side tonight.

you’re fucked out, mouth lolling open, and because you’ve lost even the strength to hold your head up, you rest yourself in the crook of nanami’s neck.

“i’m close,” you whisper. dutifully, nanami nods, gives you a swift kiss on the cheek, and hammers even harder into you. each sheathe of his cock is a force to be reckoned, and in no time, you feel yourself squirting all over, losing yourself to the sensation of being enclosed by nanami’s body, heat, and devotion. nanami follows shortly thereafter, sucking heavily on your collarbone as he fills you up, up, up with his cum, a promise to remind you for day’s to come that he will always give you himself over to you, over and over again, everyday if you so pleased.

as the two of you rest, he looks down at you and waits for you to come back to him. and when you do, he musters his courage because, while words may always fail him, he will always try his best for you. “i love you more than you know,” he promises, voice laced with blissful exhaustion, and kisses you once again.

[anexperimentallife]

The US far right has been working on their plan since AT LEAST the 1960s, when I was a kid listening to evangelicals talking about their plan to take over the US, and eventually the world. It's called "Christian Dominionism," and it's a fascist ideology which goes hand in glove with the GOP's plans.

Although it was not expressed so much to the world at large, this plan was OPENLY and FREQUENTLY discussed in far right circles. We kids, if we asked about it, were told that it was "God's Will." Ask any exvangelical about it, and they'll confirm. (Part of why I know so much about these dangerous and deluded folks is I WAS ONE OF THEM in my youth.)

And where has that plan gotten them? Well, the GOP recently released a hundreds of pages long document filled with their intentions if they win--including a nationwide abortion ban and a repeal of anti-discrimination laws, among other things.

Trump has already signaled his intent to create a military dictatorship if elected, by repealing laws against using the military against US citizens on US soil sp he can deploy them against dissenters, etc., and if the GOP pick up a few more congressional seats, he can do it. The GOP has already pushed to repeal presidential term limits, and Trump has indicated he'd like to be president for life.

So I'm amazed at all the people who think withholding their vote and letting the GOP win is going to somehow fix things and "push the Dems left."

You wanna know how to push US politics leftward? You're not gonna like it, because it takes actual work beyond stomping your foot and pouting and performatively showing everyone how "pure" you are by refusing to vote.

You have to start the same way the far right did (and again, they've been OPENLY talking about and pursuing this plan since I was a kid in the 1960s, AT LEAST)--they started by getting the most extreme right wingers they possibly could into any position they could. Positions like school board member, police chief, sherrif, city prosecuter, city council member, municipal judge, mayor, governor, hell, fucking dog catcher.

They encouraged far right extremists to become police officers and military personnel and work their way up the ranks to the point at which even the famously-racist FBI reported that major city police departments across the nation were pretty much taken over by members of white supremacist organizations.

In formerly reasonable churches, right wingers pushed for the hiring and training of more and more right wing pastors and mire right-wing theology.

More affluent right-wingers bought local papers and broadcasters, and as their political power grew, they changed laws to make it easier for a single entity to control the news--until now a mere handful of entities own nearly every major media outlet in the US.

And then they used every victory as leverage for the next one, and worked their way up. I mean, there's more, like the capitalization on economic and social anxiety and their inentional exacerbation of same so they could take advantage of it, but that's intertwined with the rest.

Essentially, they got this far because they put the work in.

If the US left is going to turn things around (and if it's not already too late), we've got to do the same, but it takes RESEARCHING and PROMOTING your local and state candidates, attending city council and school board meetings, and shit like that. It's actual fucking work to fix a country.

And then, after you've done all that--and after you've shown up to primaries to try to get any non-authoritarian leftist candidate you can nominated--then you vote for the leftest folks you're able to in the general. If there are no remotely leftist candidates, you vote for the centrist or right winger who will do the least damage.

Again, that's what the US far right has been doing for decades. Taking action. Wherever possible, taking new ground, but when they couldn't do that, ceding as little ground as possible. If they couldn't win, they made damn sure to do everything in their power to try to keep actual decent human beings from winning.

Actually doing the work doesn't have the emotional satisfaction of a grand gesture, but it definitely shows who is serious about making a difference and who would rather let everything burn than sully their imagined purity by voting for anything less than perfection.

Listen, Trump is not going to end the genocide in Gaza--in fact he increased tensions between the Israeli occupation and Palestine. And the GOP will never be persuaded. Hell, they want to let Russia take Ukraine and declare open season on asylum seekers.

The Dems suck. But the GOP is far, far worse, and will do MORE damage, and kill FAR MORE innocents. And if allowed to do so, will make it even harder to change the system than it is now. They've already PUBLICLY ADMITTED that their only chance of victory is keeping people from voting. Don't play into their hands.

Under current circumstances, you know what the Dems are going to do if Biden and a bunch of other Dems lose for not being pure enough? You think they'll be all like, "Oh, no! The left sure taught us a lesson by handing the country to the GOP! We'd better shift to the left!"

No. They're going to sip champagne in their multi-million dollar mansions and have meetings about how they need to move FURTHER RIGHT to win elections, because the left doesn't vote.

And if the US becomes a military dictatorship, most of the high ranking ones will simply take their fortunes and leave.

Yup, it'd sure teach ol' Joe a lesson to force him to spend the rest of his days sipping cocktails on the Riviera.

Look beyond the single battle and think strategically. That's how the GOP keeps gaining power. And refusing to act strategically is why the left is losing. We cannot take the hill we want right now. But if we lose the hills we've already taken, we risk losing the entire goddamn war.

So fucking vote. Work to get every leftist you can in any office you can. And if you can't do that, support the one who will do the least harm.

And if it takes voting for that shitbag Biden to keep Trump and the GOP out, hold your fucking nose and pull the goddamn lever.

[springsmile]

over my shoulder || 03

18+ | h. shinso x f. reader

warnings: non-con, smut, pre-established trauma (r*pe), extreme anxiety/paranoia, victim blaming/shaming, abuse of prescriptions, self harm, suicidal ideation, disassociation, negativity around hospitalization, violent intrusive thoughts, kidnapping, murder, specific reader characterizations, manipulation, anorexia/bulimia behaviors

** reader's quirk is enhanced senses. upon activation, emotions and sensations are pretty much exacerbated. reader never learns how to channel or control it to its full potential, only to turn it on and off.

one time is a coincidence, twice is… an oddity?

your door is open again— well, you’d left it open, but it was acute angularly. you only leave it open a crack.

was there a draft? you raise your hand in the air, and unwittingly activate your quirk, heightening your sense of touch. the flow of air is ordinary, breezing around your hand slowly, and with a cheap low pressure.

there’s nothing, as such. it wasn’t as though you could afford a better ac system.

everything was in its right place. the knick-knacks cluttering your windowsill, your bedsheets creased in the corners, comforter balled in a misshapen lump in the center— everything was eerily correct… to your knowledge, at least. as if time had never raked across it. your stomach tightens, and you shift your gaze to the bathroom door, equally as ajar.

your scale is still slotted against the toilet, and while the occasional meeting of the porcelain and the glass did make you wince, it was more accessible in that position. upon further analysis, even the curtain was drawn back and the fabric ripples. it might’ve been a touch juvenile, but the ever-present fear of a form appearing shadowy from behind the polka-dots was stifling.

still having been equipped with your quirk, your gaze becomes more intent, hardening with each blink. it’s still bunched to the left, and is just that. still.

your quivering hand hovers in the air for a pregnant pause, suspended by uncertainty and fright. you inhale, which does nothing to quell your rampant heart, and seize the curtain—but when you pull it toward yourself, nothing is there. just the protective plastic and cheap design.

but when you drop your head on your pillow that night, your head encounters some light difficulty committing your habitual tossing. you lift your head, and peer down. bemused, your fingers ghost over your bare pillow.

there’s a new girl at work.

company policy, which you’ve been forced to commit to memory, states that hair must be a solid color, and a natural color at that. her hair is anything but. there's raccoon tails and pastels melting together, done indisputably by her hand, but adds to her charm and absent-minded character.

seniority rules, and so, it's decided she spends her first day with you. Initially, she begins her introduction by informing you the cheese danishes in the store's cafe were her drug, proceeded to mime snorting a line of coke. your laugh is ungodly at best, and your throat airily expands with the sound. clarity hit her seconds later, where she meekly asks you not to tell your superiors she said that.

"don't tell me you're an op, y/n." she murmurs to you with pressed palms.

"umm... i'm not?"

she proceeds to make small, correctable errors, and hits it off with the customers. you study her rapport with apt awe. every so often, she runs her fingers along the glossy spines of moby dick and war and peace whenever we pass them, and she remains there for a pregnant pause.

your breaks aligned, as she would be shadowing you for the day. the break room is desolate, save for her and you, and a shade of white that elicits a vague memory of TV static before your eyes. in your periphery is the equally disconcerting bright phone screen in yuka’s hands (nails a collection of color that don’t compliment the other in any particular way) that stains your side view. but you can make out the familiar formatting of the tumblr website. her phone ringer is on, so as her thumbs flit across the bottom of the bright glass, it goes something like ‘pcka-pcka-pcka’ but you’d have to produce a sound with your mouth that required you to press your lips together and suck them in, in order to replicate it correctly.

you like her.

you might’ve assumed kinship due to her appearance— it's anything but conventional. or maybe it's her manner. quick, blunt, but doused with sweet sincerity;

“so, it turns out that’s not how you pronounce it–I think that’s where the disconnect occurred.” she’d stated matter of factly, but there wasn’t a trace of animosity.

with darkened eyes, the customer’s mouth protrudes. his upper lip furls into a snarl.

“No. It’s accor-di-ance.” he insisted.

“accordance.” she said with a gentle smile. “but it’s alright–we found it! I hope you enjoy it.”

he left contentedly, despite his earlier erroneous insistence. flummoxed, you remained silent during the exchange. selfishly, you didn’t feel the need to interject. that, and you deduced that yuka capable enough to sort out the issue herself.

either way, it's difficult not to acquiesce her boba tea date request. you have some leftover money from making rent early, and it's not like you had anyone to call a friend.

it could be a safe change. hopefully. you’d take the leap. what could go wrong?

"if you were boba–with the pearls–you would be taro. just because I like the color. It's pretty. just like you." yuka says in the midst of alphabetizing and brain-racking. you’d been section detailing fiction. yanking out titles that didn't belong in the various shelves, or were in the wrong order. tedious, but it wasn't hard.

the warm flush that encompasses your cheeks is alarming— you hold them in your hands dazedly.

"oh." you utter stupidly. "thank you."

she giggles, and you’re instantly envious of its melodiousness.

“what section is this in?”

you pull out the device that displays inventory and genre, and twist the book around, where the scanner is particularly blinding, and survey the tiny print.

“social sciences.” you answer, watching the screen illuminate her gentle features.

she bites her bottom lip—it’s plump and full, swollen with color and life. “where’s that again, (y/n)?”

the shelves stood half way to the ceiling, and it was difficult to see around them. but you could navigate the labyrinth with ease. and so you weaved your way through the bays and yielded to a few elderly patrons, before halting upon the social sciences section.

“remember that the subsections aren’t labeled. you’ll figure it out by eyeballing the titles carefully.” you say. something about her charisma and unconventionality brought you solace, and a smidge of relaxedness.

she raises her wrist and inspected her watch.

“it’s time for our break now, isn’t it?” she asks fervently.

you crack a tentative grin at her. “it’s 5 already? then yeah, go on.”

“y/n!” a barista calls out with plum crescents under her eyes. you stand from your ornately ivory wired seat— you have angry red imprints on the backs of your thighs— and retrieve your sugary boba tea.

admittedly, you’d never really liked that herby-earthy taste. but something about the sparkling excitement in yuka’s eyes made you inclined to spend a minute amount.

she watches you earnestly, waiting for you to slurp up the pearls and taro. you do, and you unsuccessfully suppress a cringe.

“it’s not bad.” you lie, still working on chewing the onslaught of saccharine.

she studies your face for a few seconds, before leaning back in her chair with a pout. “you hate it.”

you nod solemnly. “i do.”

her chest heaves with a hearty laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners and mouth falling half open. her teeth are aligned perfectly. you wondered if she’d had braces.

“i appreciate you trying to spare my feelings, but don’t force yourself to drink it. i can give you the money back for it—“

“no.” you interject, pausing when you realize the harshness of your tone. “no.” you soften. “don’t even worry. i got it.”

she didn’t seem deterred by your insistence, but relinquished anyway with a sigh.

“alright, y/n.” she huffs. “you win this time. next time, i’ll treat you.”

you smile small. “okay.”

you fall into light conversation about your boss, who flirts with all the girls staffed.

“when i was taking out a book off of the bookseller favorites display, he told me he’d ‘fill my hole.’” you scowl. “fuckin’ weirdo. why would he say it that way?”

yuka giggles, hiding her smile behind a heavily ringed hand.

“i can’t believe there’s so much drama at my new workplace! you have to keep me updated, y/n. i’ll let you know if he says any pervy shit to me.”

you marvel at her words. this was an invitation. to friendship? you weren’t positive. but it was the start of something new. and for once, the potential of change didn’t frighten you.

words flowed with great ease past your tongue, much to your shock. her very character assuaged your nerves, briefly, and you’d spoken more than you had in months.

out of nowhere, your hair stands on the back of your unexpectedly. you throw your chin over your shoulder, attempting to glimpse the cause of your paranoia. but besides the bustle of patrons, there was nothing you could pick out.

“you okay?” yuka asks concernedly, eyebrows pinched at the middle.

“yup.” you answer unconvincingly. “just fine.”

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

I know you've touched on it in your Gamzee Essay/general alternative timeline post but may I hear some more about your ideas regarding GamTav (or only Tavros)? You get these two in a way the broader fandom doesn't (which is fine, I'll still reblog even the most vanilla ooc art of them) so I'd really love hearing more of your thoughts:3

Ok, I think this is going to be someeewhat controversial, but I think they're destined for pale together, despite Gamzee's initial flushed flirting. I did in fact reread ALL of Tavros's logs for this.

I think the first thing we need to establish is that Tavros actually feels really shitty about himself. It's obvious that his problem is "self-esteem," since he's constantly prattling on about it, but there's a bit he says as Tavrossprite that's pretty enlightening as to where his actions stem from:

TAVROSPRITE: i SYMPATHIZE ENTIRELY WITH YOUR SOCIAL IMPASSE, cAUSING NOT GOOD REFLECTIONS ABOUT YOURSELF, tHAT MAYBE ALSO DOUBLE AS LIBERATING STUFF ABOUT YOU THAT YOU RANDOMLY DECIDE IS FINE SUDDENLY, TAVROSPRITE: oLD ACQUAINTANCES, aND GUYS YOU ONCE CALLED FRIENDS, TAVROSPRITE: tHOSE ARE VERY HARD, TAVROSPRITE: bECAUSE OVER TIME THEY GET EXPOSED TOO MUCH, tO ALL MY FLAWS AND INSECURITIES, TAVROSPRITE: aND THEY START LIKING ME LESS BECAUSE OF THAT, TAVROSPRITE: aT LEAST, tHAT'S HOW THE TRUTH FEELS, iN MY BRAIN, TAVROSPRITE: sO i START THINKING, mAYBE THEY CAN'T BE THAT IMPORTANT TO ME, aFTER ALL, iF i'M GOING TO WANT TO FEEL NOT SAD ABOUT MYSELF ALL THE TIME,

He has a mixture of self-loathing and social anxiety, the latter of which exacerbates the former, as his mind tells him that his friends secretly hate him. However, his real problem is what he then does with those feelings - he avoids them and the situations that cause them. This causes two major knock-on effects: the first is that he actively ends up distancing himself from people who ARE nice to him and DO care about him, only adventuring with Vriska because he's a pushover and she's very pushy (he adventures completely alone up until that point, and winds up sleeping almost all the time afterwards); the second being that, because he refuses to actually sit with and address his negative feelings about himself (or anything else), he's never able to fix them, or remove himself from shitty situations.

Something consistent with Tavros is that every time he tries to make a decision before his death and Vriska-prototyping, it's by trying to rely on something external - whether that's his imaginary friend, his robot legs, or the story of Pupa Pan... or relying on advice from Kanaya, or seeking approval and forgiveness from Vriska, or earning flushed interest from Jade. He believes himself to be deeply flawed and untrustworthy, so he allows other people to make his decisions, and when relationships do get intimate enough that someone might get him vulnerable, he peaces out. Even his ill-fated attempt to kill Vriska is heavily encouraged by Vriska herself:

AT: aND THAT BEING THE CASE, AT: eVEN THOUGH i'M TERRIFIED OF YOU, AT: aND nOT AS STRONG, AT: oR REAL CONFIDENT, AT: oNLY MOSTLY FAKE CONFIDENT, AG: Yeeeeeeees? AG: Go on. AT: i THINK, AT: i AM GOING TO HAVE TO STOP YOU, AG: Yeah! That's the spirit. AG: Pretty weakslime threat there, 8ut it's a start. AG: Tell you what. AG: If you can find me in this la8, you can have at me. AG: I'll even give you a free shot! No funny 8usiness or anything. AT: oK, AT: tHEN, AT: hERE i COME, AG: I'll 8e w8ing. <3

As we see with Jade, whom he's attempting to flirt with flushed, he's actively trying to impress her using "self-esteems" explicitly gained from "fake" things he's acknowledging as fake - that is, refusing to be genuine and vulnerable with her, because he doesn't believe anyone would like him the way he actually is.

AT: bUT WHAT ABOUT, AT: mY ATTRACTIVE BRAVADO, AT: aND IGNORING MY INSTINCTUAL COWARDICE HARD ENOUGH TO SAY THAT i LIKE YOU, AT: iSN'T THAT, AT: sUPPOSED TO BE VERY ATTRACTIVE, aND ENCOURAGE THE MAJOR HAVING OF FLUSHED FEELINGS IN OTHERS, AT: i GUESS WHAT i MEAN IS, wHAT ABOUT ALL MY CONFIDENCE, AT: wHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THAT,

His "dating" Vriska in the dream bubbles is also dubious and one-sided at best, as John calls him out for faking it and Tavros isn't willing to bring up wanting the Ring of Life because he was planning to propose to Vriska. Thus, once more, he's attempting to use something disingenuous (in this case, a human proposal) to win another person's affection, which he believes would be a symbol of actualizing his "self-esteem".

We also literally see him do the "deciding someone wasn't actually important to you after all, so it hurts less when you cut them off before they can hurt you emotionally by noticing your flaws" thing with Nepeta - he actually quite likes Nepeta, and would certainly have enjoyed having her play the game with him, but he assures her that it's not a big deal basically immediately, and insists he'll just find someone else:

AC: :33 < tavros im sorry i cant be on your team :(( AC: :33 < im not allowed AT: oH, AT: tHAT'S OKAY, AT: tHEN i GUESS HE SAID NO, tHEN, ... AC: :33 < hmm purrhaps AC: :33 < but i still f33l bad AT: i'LL FIND ANOTHER PLAYER, iT'S NOT A BIG DEAL, AT: gOOD LUCK, bEING, AT: oN THE BLUE TEAM, AC: :33 < ok thanks :((

But, perhaps most strikingly, is the way he leaves his good friend Gamzee on read after Gamzee suggests... gasp... intimacy.

TC: WhEn wE Up aNd sTaRt tO KiCk aT ThIs rEd TeAm NoIsE, TC: YoU ShOuLd mAkE YoUr wAy tO GeT YoUr hAnG On aT My hIvE. AT: oH, yES, tOTALLY, TC: We cOuLd sPlIt a tIn oF ThE PiMpEsT SnEeZe i gOt oN HaNd, BaKeD Up aLl sPeCiAl fOr yOu. TC: AnD ThEn mAyBe mAkE OuT A LiTtLe. AT: uH, TC: ;o) AT: , AT: ,,

It freaks him out, and he's never seen hanging with Gamzee again. And this is a huge shame, because not only is Tavros one of the only people who is nice to Gamzee and appreciates his religious beliefs, but Gamzee is one of the only people who hears out Tavros's genuine insecurities and desires without making fun of him:

AT: tHE ONLY THING MORE FLY THAN THE RHYMES, AT: i'M SAYING TO EXPRESS ALL MY MALICES, AT: iS THE ABILITY HE HAD i WISH WAS MINE, AT: iNSTEAD OF i GUESS, THIS EXCESSIVE PARALYSIS, TC: (lOoK OuT FoR ThE HoOk bRo!!!) TC: GeT OfFa tHoSe wHeElS, gEt oFfA ThOsE WhEeLs. TC: If mIrAcLeS ArEn't fAkE He'lL GeT OfFa tHoSe wHeElS! AT: bUT HIGH, iN THIS CASE, hAS DOUBLE THE MEANING, AT: iT MEANS HE CAN FLY, pLUS DOES HIGH SELF ESTEEMING, AT: tHAT'S TWO THINGS HE HAS, tHAT i'D RATHER WERE MINE, AT: hIS TWO FLAPPY WINGS, aND hIS BIG HEALTHY SPINE, AT: oOPS, AT: tHAT'S THREE THINGS,,, TC: GeT OfFa tHoSe wHeElS, gEt oFfA ThOsE WhEeLs. TC: If mIrAcLeS ArEn't fAkE He'lL GeT OfFa tHoSe wHeElS!

(Compare:)

PAT: i'M SORT OF, lYING ON vRISKA'S FLOOR RIGHT NOW, PAT: lIKE, iN HER BLOCK, PAT: lYING DOWN, PAT: uHH, yOU KNOW, bECAUSE i CAN'T WALK, CCG: OH NO SHIT REALLY??? CCG: YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS, WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN.

He isn't able to do a REAL self-confidence at least until he gives Vriska the bird and flies away, for the first time asserting that he thinks she's an asshole and doesn't actually want or need her validation or approval. After that, he's able to convince a ghost army to follow him using friendship and asking and niceness. Breath powers! Also Page powers! Also actual self-esteems! Although I don't personally hold anything after Game Over as anything more than soft canon, I think we can still see a fairly straightforward character arc reach a natural conclusion there.

But as to why I specifically think him and Gamzee are destined for pale, despite what appears to be flushed leanings from Gamzee's end, and despite the fact that I usually believe what the comic tells me, is because what brief few interactions we see between them are very much pale in nature, and it would be kind of narratively bizarre if Gamzee were set up to have a failed moirallegiance - the quadrant described as "soul mates" - without managing to find his real soul mate after. And who's it going to be? Equius? Or the guy that Gamzee literally says he feels "at chill with" talking to?

Gamzee kissing Tavros's corpse is often used as evidence for his desire for flushed, but I disagree - however Gamzee feels about Tavros romantically, kissing a dead player is how you revive them, so it reads to me - especially given how sad Gamzee is about Tavros dying - more like a desperate act to bring him back. Lest we forget, Terezi also gives it a try, and Karkat kisses Kanaya for the same reason - the reality that their extra lives are gone hasn't sunk in yet for these 13 year old kids, so they must try revival even if they know it won't work.

Moreover, Gamzee indirectly describes Tavros as his "best friend," after having called Karkat that through most of the game, and having an implied pale crush on Karkat during that time.

TC: YOU MOTHER FUCKING KNOW, BROTHER. TC: its the fuckin puppet. TC: THE ONE THAT'S ALL GOT TO BE MY BEST FUCKING FRIEND I GOT NOW. TC: now that my other buddy managed to be having his head chopped off. :oC

Moreover moreover, what Karkat cites as being the cause of their moirallegiance's failure is Gamzee's religious beliefs:

KARKAT: HE STARTED GETTING SO UNBELIEVABLY SELF SATISFIED AND PIOUS, LIKE WAY MORE THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. KARKAT: LIKE HE'S JUST SO COMPLETELY CONVINCED HE'S FOUND HIS CALLING, THAT THIS SESSION IS THE GATEWAY TO THE PROMISED LAND WHERE HE'LL FULFILL HIS DESTINY. KARKAT: HE'S SO CAUGHT UP IN HIS IDIOTIC SCHEMES HE COULDN'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ME ANYMORE.

Which are explicitly what Tavros invites Gamzee to speak on, and appreciates:

AT: yEAHHH, yOU CAN TALK ABOUT THE CLOWN THINGS, wHICH, AT: i DON'T REALLY UNDERSTAND EVER, bUT THAT'S OKAY, AT: bECAUSE IT'S KIND OF FUNNY, AT: wHEREAS, i'LL ADDRESS SOME TOPICS PERTAINING TO MY INTERESTS, AT: aND i GUESS, pERSONAL MOTIFS, TC: YeAh! FuCk YeAh, ThAt Be HoW sHiT's AlL uSuAlLy Up AnD fUcKiN lOcKeD bRo. ... AT: dO YOU HAVE TIME FOR, mY MIRACLES, rELIGIOUS FRIEND, }:) TC: Do yOu gEt yOuR NoTiCe oN Of tHe mIrAcLeS AT: sO MANY, uH, gRATUITOUS EXPLETIVE, mIRACLES, tHE MAGIC MOTHER, aLSO eXPLETIVE, mIRACLES, TC: FuCk yEs, HeReS WhErE ThE SlAm tUrNs tO NoThIn bUt hOnKs... TC: HoNk hOnK HoNk hOnK HoNk hOnK HoNk TC: HoNk hOnK HoNk hOnK HoNk hOnK HoNk AT: HONK, TC: FuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuUuCk! AT: iT'S LESS APPROPRIATE FOR ME TO DO THE HONKS, tHAN YOU, bUT THAT WAS STILL GREAT, TC: YeAh, BrO. yEaH!!! AT: tHE SLAMS WERE TRULY PRIME, aND, AT: yOUR RELIGIOUS VIEWS, tHOUGH i DON'T SHARE THEM, aRE, AT: rEASONABLY INSPIRATIONAL, AT: i THINK i'M IN THE PROCESS OF RELEASING AT LEAST ONE TEAR,

But also in Tavros's single conversation with Gamzee, we see Tavros stand up to a highblood:

TC: :o) HoNkHoNkHoNkHoNkHoNk AT: }:o), hEH, TC: hAhAh FuUuUuCk, YoU sToLe My FuCkIn NoSe BrO! TC: WhAt GoT yOu EvEn Up ThE gUmPtIoN tO aLl FuCkIn Do ThE sHiT lIkE tHaT? AT: eRR, i DON'T KNOW, iT'S JUST, AT: kIND OF THE OBVIOUS THING TO DO, AT: sTICK THE CIRCLE IN FRONT OF THE DOTS, aND, bEHIND THE BENDY ONE, AT: pLUS, oH YEAH, mY HORNS, TC: hAhAhAhA. AT: mAYBE WE CAN SLAM ABOUT IT, ... TC: fUuUuCk, So FuCkIn FrEsH. TC: YoU nEeD tO bE sLaPpEd FuCkIn SiLlY wItH a MoUtH lIkE tHaT! hAhA. AT: aND, iF YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH IT, AT: tHEN i SUGGEST YOU GO AND RAP IT DUDE,

He feels safe with Gamzee, enough to take a bit of an attitude with him, enough to open up about his insecurities about his disability and how much he wishes he was like Pupa Pan, and Gamzee explicitly states he feels calm when he talks to Tavros, which is the stated function of a moirallegiance.

TC: Me tOo, BrO, yOu mOtHeR FuCkIn kNoW ThErE Be sOmE Of mY EyE's RoYaL JeLlY To gO WiTh yOuR EmOtIoNaL pEaNuT BuTtEr. AT: wHOA, aHA, hA, TC: ThIs iS BeAuTiFuL, dUdE, i fEeL So aT ChIlL WiTh yOu. AT: yEAH, fRIENDLINESS WITH YOU IS, pRETTY MUCH ALWAYS NICE, aND FUN TO HAVE,

And the thing is, trolls are constantly getting into moirallegiances when they want to be flushed (Eridan, Kanaya), having palecrushes when they want to be friends (Gamzee), and winding up flushed with their moirail (pale solfef is forshadowed in the same breath as pale erikar, and they don't seem to confirm a matespritship until after Sollux's actual flushed crush, Aradia, explodes). Especially for Gamzee, who was neglected by his lusus and struggles with social interaction to the point where he feels like he has to hide his real self (casteist beliefs, constant talk of religion and murder, which, by the way, come out when he talks to Tavros), it'd be easy for him to mistake the "instinctive attraction" of moirallegiance for the passions of matespritship.

These thoughts are all pretty disorganized - I'm really sorry, it's super late/early for me and I'm exhausted for other reasons - but I hope that that . was what you wanted? hahah

[wittlesissyb4by]

Chapter 3

~~Click HERE for Chapter 2~~

Max hasn’t said anything today. I was up when he was getting ready for work, which is weird because I’m usually never up this early. But I guess I…wanted something to happen. I’m not exactly sure what I wanted. Last night seemed like it was a dream. 

Did I dream that? 

No. It was definitely real. I remember the taste of his cock, the taste of his cum. No dream is that vivid. No dream can make me that turned on. So I don’t know what I expected when I got up this morning, but I guess I was just hopeful for …something. Words of affirmation, a hug, a chance to suck his cock again…

Honestly just an acknowledgment of my presence would have been nice. But he didn’t even do that, just sipped his coffee while scrolling through his phone at the table. 

“Can I get you anything?” I want to say, but bite my tongue, not wanting to sound like some sort of desperate housewife. I want to address the elephant in the room, to talk about yesterday, whether or not we’re square. Did the blowjob I gave him really justify a whole month’s rent? Does he want more? Do I want more? How weird will our relationship be if we were to start some sort of strange sexual dynamic? What if it stops? What if it continues?

“Well, I’m off to work.” he says, pushing back his chair, gathering up his things and heading out the door without so much as a glance my way. 

“Okay by–” but it doesn’t even get all the way out of my mouth before the door slams shut.

Maybe he’s mad. Maybe he regrets what happened. I mean, it was his doing. He initiated it all and I just…let it happen.

Helped it happen.

I wasn’t exactly a helpless victim. It was me that was bobbing up and down on his big juicy cock by my own accord. God it tasted good. It felt good. Something I've denied myself for so long. 

I’m not gay. At least, I don’t think I am. I’ve always had an affinity for women. They are majestic, beautiful creatures. I love seeing their eyes and smiles brighten up a room. The way they laugh and can have fun and dance like no one is watching. The curve of their hips, their breasts. Their supple movements, the way they casually tuck their hair behind their ear, and bat their eyelashes. There is no doubt that they are by far the more attractive sex.

But I've always been plagued with a feeling of inferiority. Not being the biggest in the penis department has left me with anxiety that I won’t be able to perform or please them the way ‘real’ men can. I have lingering visions of women standing around, laughing at me because I have a shy bladder and can’t pee in a toilet in a timely manner. Or I take off a beautiful woman’s clothes and she laughs at the size of my dick, or is disappointed when it's not able to get hard due to my underlying fear and shame.

The combination of these phobias has most likely caused my brain to warp them into a series of fetishes. It sexualized my short-comings. I get turned on by a woman insulting the size of my penis. I get hard to the idea of them laughing at me, degrading me, humiliating me. 

My timidity when it comes to peeing in a toilet must have spawned the retention of such. ‘Since you can’t even use the toilet properly, maybe your teeny wieny is better suited for diapers instead!’ I imagine those laughing girls saying. 

All of this culminates into this whirlpool of self-doubt, and leaves me feeling like less of a man than others. Thus, I guess, is where the sissy stuff came from. Perhaps it was society’s fault. In our culture, anyone not befitting of a masculine, alpha, macho-man persona is unabashedly called a ‘sissy’. I figured out pretty early that I belonged in that category, and must have accepted it from an early age. 

Years of watching and reading porn only exacerbated my ‘problems’. I quickly learned what kind of things I enjoyed, and even found things I didn’t know I would enjoy. I was always attracted to diapers, but I didn’t know they could be combo’d with skirts and dresses. That was new. Two of my favorite things merged together in a perfect amalgamation. Combo that with a superior woman speaking to me in a humiliating, patronizing manner? Gold. Solid gold.

Then one day I found a video of a woman calling me a ‘wittle sissy baby’ and telling me she had a bottle for me. But this wasn’t just any bottle. It was a special bottle. And that’s when she brought in the giant dick that was waiting off screen.

I’ve never been attracted to men. Honestly. I’ve never looked at a man and found myself sexually attracted to them. Well, other than Ryan Reynolds, but that doesn’t count. I’m comfortable enough to tell when a man is good-looking, and can acknowledge it, but that’s usually as far as it goes. The idea of kissing, dating, or being romantic with a man does nothing for me. But the cock? Well…that’s a different story. 

I guess the inferiority complex I have with women carried over to men as well. I’m not naive enough to think I’m anything above the bottom of the totem pole. I consider myself the bottom of the societal barrel. A subservient. A willing participant to what others desire. A submissive. To anyone, regardless of sex or gender. And so, I guess my brain can’t differentiate between who it is that I’m serving. But porn quickly told me that, if you’re a sissy, you’re going to spend a lot of time serving men.

I’m not sure if it’s a deep desire I’ve held all along, or if I unknowingly Pavlov’d myself into it, but eventually the idea of being dressed up like a little diaperslut and sucking some dick became a very big fantasy of mine.

And so we circle back to Max. We’ve lived together for almost 2 years, and in that time I’ve never imagined myself with him. He’s a big, burly, ‘alpha’ male, but not even once did I fantasize about being on my knees in front of him, sucking and worshiping his cock. 

So now I’m conflicted. Did I enjoy what happened? I don’t think there’s any denying that. But I’m still hesitant. Caught in this weird limbo of right and wrong. I just got a little carried away, that’s all. I only did it because he told me to. Because I needed a place to live. If I didn’t do it, I was going to have to live on the streets. I was doing it for survival. Right?

He doesn’t say anything when he gets back from work. Just sighs in that exasperated way one does when they come home after a long day. He grabs a beer from the fridge, plops down on the couch, and turns on SportsCenter. 

I sit in the chair several feet away and act like I'm interested. “So the Bruins had the best record in the regular season?” I ask, parroting what the news anchors are saying, “and the most points in franchise history? And they still lost in the first round of the playoffs?”

He just nods absentmindedly, lounging on the couch and putting his hat over his head.

Assuming he’s about to take a nap, I stand up to leave. Heading out of the living room.

“Where are you going?” he asks abruptly beneath his cap.

“I was going to go play some games.” I reply, a bit disconcerted. 

“No you’re not.” He says simply.

“I’m not?”

“No.”

I don’t say anything for a bit, just have my mouth hanging open in confusion, so he continues.

“You’re going to put on an outfit for me.” He says, “The schoolgirl outfit will do.” He doesn’t need to clarify, but he does anyway: “The slutty one.”

My stomach drops. From fear or excitement I'm not exactly sure. “I…wh-what do–”

“Get made up for me.” He says, still talking beneath his hat, “I want you to look your best.”

******

My hands shake as I apply the last bit of mascara to my lashes. I’m not sure if I'm giddy with excitement or fear. Is this really happening? 

I usually revel in the idea of dressing up like a little slut, but no one has actually seen the finished product. What is he going to do when he sees me like this? Will he humiliate me? Laugh at me? Tease me? Fuck me?

My mind swims with the possibilities. I stand up and check myself in the mirror. I definitely look passable, maybe even fuckable. After readjusting the ‘breasts’ of my stuffed shirt, I take a little turn, watching my mini-skirt lift as I twirl.  I feel…pretty. Desirable. I just hope he agrees. There’s butterflies in my stomach and I don’t even know what’s about to happen. Maybe it’s the thrill of the unknown, but I feel ready for any possibility. 

The only thing left is to figure out what to put beneath my skirt. Should I wear a diaper? It certainly would be my first choice, but would it be his? A pair of pampers doesn’t exactly scream ‘slutty’, and I don’t want to turn him off or scare him away from whatever might take place. So I decided on a pair of skimpy boy-shorts. It only just hits me how ironic that term is. I didn’t feel like much of a boy when I wrapped them around my parts. If anything, it was like putting the final nail in the coffin that made me feel like a girl. 

One last glimpse in the mirror before I saunter off into the unknown. I open my door with trepidation, it seems to creak louder than usual. I creep through the hall, the house is eerily quiet. At first I think he’s left, some kind of cruel joke. Or maybe he’s just napping. Should I wake him if he is? How awkward would that be? Hey Max, wake up, time to see your roommate dressed like a cheap whore. 

But when I turn the corner, he’s sitting on the couch, bolt upright, a big smile on his face. 

I scrunch up as I walk in front of him, suddenly very self-conscious. Does my hair look okay? What do I say? What do I do? Luckily, he helps me. 

“Turn around.” 

I do, legs quivering. 

“All the way.”

A complete twirl. My arms stiff at my sides. 

“Relax. Give me a little curtsy.”

I feel myself loosen a bit as I grab the hem of my tiny skirt, jut my leg out, and dip shakily. 

I can feel his eyes panning me over. I feel like an object, a painting on the wall for him to admire, and I don’t exactly hate the feeling. 

“Face away from me.” He growls. His voice is a little shaky, is he nervous too? Or is it…something else?

I tiptoe around, facing the TV. It’s off, so I can see my face reflecting in the black screen. I can see him too, he’s smiling, and his hand is rubbing over the front of his pants. 

“Bend over.”

I do, hinging at the waist. I can feel the breeze hit the bottom of my cheeks as my skirt lifts, exposing my panties. 

“You have such a nice ass.”

It’s such a strange comment. Not creepy, just…something he’s never said to me before. It makes me warm inside, to be complimented in such a way. 

“Th-thank you…” I squeak awkwardly. 

“Come here.” He says. 

I turn, moseying up to him, perhaps a little too eagerly. 

“Knees.”

I drop again, the same position I was in last night. 

He’s still rubbing his pants. I can see his bulge, I can see his cock in my mind, my mouth subconsciously starts to water. 

“I’m going to be honest.” He says. “I spent all weekend masturbating to the thought of you in this outfit.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, but it was oddly enticing. Someone imagining me? Using me as the object of their desires, and actually jerking off to it? I never knew that would be such a confidence boost. 

“But seeing you now, it’s even better.”

I can’t help but smile. 

“Do you like wearing it?” He asks, “Things like this?”

I look down at myself, covered from head to toe in feminine attire. The way it accentuates my curves and gives me this overwhelming feeling of joy is indescribable. But I only give a sheepish nod. “Mhmm”

“Good.” He smiles, “Because you will be dressed like this very often. If you want me to pay your rent, you are going to be my personal…what word would you like me to use? ‘Slave’? ‘Slut’? ‘Pet’? ‘Bitch’? ‘Whore’?”

“Yes.” I say, indicating I wanted to be all of them. Any word he used to describe me would suffice. 

He nods in understanding. “Every day you will do what I say, when I say. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes sir.” He corrects. 

“Yes sir.” I repeat. 

He reaches a gruff hand out, cupping my chin, rubbing a rough thumb over my cheek. It makes me feel small, subservient, obedient. Like a puppy getting patted. He slips his thumb between my glossy lips. Without even thinking, I start to suck on it. 

“How do you want to do this?” He asks, “do you want me to be gentle? Or do you prefer me to be rough and mean?”

It doesn’t take me long to think of the answer. “Rough.” I say around his thumb, then resume sucking. 

“You’re sure?” He says, eyebrows raised. “I can be quite harsh.”

I nod, bobbing my head over his thumb like it’s a cock, wishing it were a cock. “Yes sir.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, plopping his thumb from my mouth. “Our safe word will be ‘Roomie’. Use it whenever you feel I’ve gone too far.”

I nod, doubting I would ever need to do so .

He smiles, sitting back, then taps his leg. “Up.”

I’m a bit taken aback, not sure about the order, so he repeats.

“Up. Over my leg. Let’s go.”

Now I understand. I whimper as I crawl over his lap, I’m not sure if I’m just playing a part or am genuinely scared. Perhaps a bit of both. I can feel his cock pulsing in his pants as I put my own almost directly on top of it.

“Someone’s a little excited already.” He chuckles, reaching beneath my skirt to tickle my throbbing boner. He doesn’t pay it much mind though. I can feel him lifting my skirt so that my cheeks are exposed. “Look at your pretty panties.” He muses. I don’t even have time to thank him before I feel a sharp swat on my ass.

“Nnghh!” I yelp.

“You like that?” He asks sternly.

I bite my lip, ass still stinging, but nod. “Yes sir.” My voice is higher pitched, as if falling into submission has caused it to raise an octave. 

Five sharp swats, one on each cheek. I whimper with each one. I’ve never gotten a spanking before, I didn’t imagine it would hurt quite so bad. Max doesn’t seem to be holding back, but I trust him. I know this isn’t his first time. I’ve heard the same smacks and yelps coming from his room when he’s brought home a girl–or even a guy sometimes. He seems to be no stranger to a D/s relationship.

Twenty more smacks in quick succession. My ass is on fire now. Where I was embellishing a bit before, my cries of pain have become much more genuine. I grip the cushions of the couch as he shows no signs of stopping.

By 40…or is it 50? I’ve lost count. But I’m having to bite my bottom lip to keep from screaming. Finally, he stops. I can feel the heat radiating from my butt. But my reprieve is short lived, he just needed time to yank my panties down. I give some pitiful plea of “no no no, please!” as he raises his hand to begin the onslaught again.

At around 60 or 70, I’m in literal tears. 

“Do you remember your word?”

I nod, sniffling. 

“Do you want to use it?”

I clench my eyes closed at what I’m about to say, shaking my head “no sir…”

I can feel him smiling down at me. “Okay then…”

My arms are flailing and legs are kicking with every smack now. He grips the former with his non-spanking hand, and throws his leg over my floundering thighs. 

I regret every second of not using the safeword. I still consider using it, but I want to be strong. I want to impress him, as silly as it sounds. I bite my knuckle to keep myself from screaming loud enough to wake the neighbors.The leather of the couch is slick from my tears and snot. His blows aren’t as fast anymore, but they're stronger and more pronounced. Each one makes me squeal and sob pathetically. Whatever respect he had for me before has probably evaporated long ago.

After what seems like forever, the swats finally stop. I’m bawling into the cushions of the couch, and my ass feels like it’s black and blue. It’s a good thing I don’t have a job at the moment, because I doubt I would be able to sit at a desk tomorrow.

“You okay?” he asks softly. His voice has dropped that rough, hardness from before. I nod, not sure whether or not I’m lying. 

I feel him fumble for something in his pants. I hear the click of a cap, then a squirt. A cooling sensation coats my buttcheeks as he runs his hand over them with some type of lotion. Did he have that in his pocket this whole time?

Whatever it is, it feels good against my burning bum. He rubs it sensually, taking his time, being gentle despite the damage he inflicted before. 

“This is what will happen if you disobey me,” He says. I believe him, and it’s enough to make me not want to ever think about acting up. 

He squirts another dollop of lotion, but this time it’s between my cheeks. I can feel his fingers coaxing my crack open. Tracing, searching for my little button. 

“I like that you shave your pussy,” He says, “I want it to stay this way.”

I whimper, twitching as he pokes and prods at my hole. I can feel his dick stiffening in my lap as he presses his finger into me. The most pathetic moan escapes my lips before I can stop it. He plunges his finger deeper and deeper into me. I welcome every single knuckle, even press my hips backwards, hungry for more.

He chuckles again, “Such a little slut you are.”

I’m panting, like a bitch in heat. The combination of his finger and his words are driving me crazy. I’m humping backwards against his finger desperately as he presses down on my prostate. Mixed with the now dull throb of my blistered cheeks, it’s almost too much to handle. I’ve always enjoyed my pleasure spiked with pain.

He raises my hips up so that he can have access to my dangling dick underneath. “Such a teeny weeny clitty” he teases, wrapping two fingers around it. He works his hand up and down on my cock while driving his finger in me from behind. Before I know it, I feel that familiar tingle.

“Ask permission to cum.” he growls.

“Can I cum, sir?” I moan, not even bothering to try to make myself sound the least bit masculine. It’s pitchy and pathetic and desperate.

“Not yet.” He continues to work me with his masterful hands. I groan into the couch, grabbing at the cushions, his burly legs, a pillow, anything. 

“Please!” I shout, “Sir! Can I cum?! PLEASE!”

I can’t hold out any longer. It’s by some small miracle that he says “You may,” just before I explode all over his lap. A second later and it would have happened without his say-so. What would he have done if I were to cum without his permission? I loathe to find out. He shoves me down on the floor in a heap, gasping for breath. It takes me a couple minutes to collect myself. When I do, he’s still smiling down at me in a victorious sort of way.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks.

“Y-yes…sir…” I say between breaths.

“Good.” he says, “Because you have a mess to attend to.”

He points down at the gooey, white puddle I made on the crotch of his pants.

“Every load you make ends up in your mouth.” He growls, “Do you understand?”

“Yes sir…”

“Clean me up then.”

I don’t have the same eagerness as I did before. I’m a bit repulsed as I crawl between his legs and start lapping up my loser goo. But as my tongue runs over his pants I can feel the outlines of his hardening cock. I suck and slurp the mess off the hem of his pants, running my tongue through the flap of the zipper, making sure I get every last drop. He’s damp by the time I’m done, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He stands up. Again, it’s almost like nothing just happened. He goes to the cabinet, pulls out a glass, fills it up with water and takes a long swig. “Ahhh…” he exhales, looking off into the distance, then eventually back at me. “Go to my room.” He says, “I want you on my bed. Face down. Ass up.”

******

“This is my asshole now!” Max grunts, slapping my tender cheeks while he pumps his cock in and out of my rectum. “Tell me whose ass this is!”

The pillow is moist from me biting and drooling on it to keep from screaming. His dick feels amazing, but I’m not used to being pounded like this. There was only so much training I could do with my dildo…

“It’s your ass, sir!” I squeak louder than the springs of the mattress. 

“Daddy.” He growls. “Call me Daddy.”

“It’s your asshole, Daddy! It’s your asshole!”

“I own you,” he groans, “Do you understand??”

“Yes Daddy!” I really gotta get my voice under control. It gets so whiny and wimpy when I’m getting fucked.

I can feel his dick swelling, getting even stiffer than I thought possible. “I’m going to cum!” He tells me, “Where do you want me to cum?”

“In my asshole, Daddy!”

“Whose asshole?!”

“Your asshole!!” I correct. 

I can hear him laughing between the grunts, I wonder if we’ll joke about this later. It’s amazing what people say in the heat of the moment. 

“I’m gonna breed you like a little bitch!”

“Cum inside me Daddy!”

“You’re fucking miiiine!!” an exasperated groan, a warmth filling my insides, I can feel him convulse behind me as he deposits his load in my rectum. He removes his member and collapses on the bed shortly after.

I don’t know what to do at this point. What do you say to someone that just came inside of you? ‘Thanks’? I wait for him to come to, still in the doggy-style position.

He peeks an eye open. “Go to your room.” He says. “You’re not sleeping here.”

I wonder if, now that he’s lost his lust, he’s no longer interested in me. Is this how girls feel all the time? Constantly wondering whether or not they’re good enough? Worrying if they’ve done something wrong?

I climb off the bed and take the (luckily short) walk of shame back to my room, his cum leaking down my leg.

When I enter through my door, there’s a buzzing coming from my desk. Did I leave one of my vibrating toys on?

No…it’s just my phone, but it shows you where my head has been all day. The light stings my eyes as I look at it. My stomach drops a bit when I see who’s calling.

I tap the little green button.“Hello?”

“You know, Jake…” Zoey’s sweet voice says, “Part of having a girlfriend means you have to actually talk to her on the phone every once in a while!”

To Be Continued

If you're liking where this is going, and would like to read more, head on over to SubStar! My subscribers are currently reading Chapter 7!

[crappy-writings]

Keeper of Shadows

Wanda Maximoffxfem!Reader // Series

Series Summary: An odd series of fatal attacks in Upstate New York piques your interest, especially when they seem to be related to the strange powers you received when you were 10 years old. By some stroke of luck or misfortune, the Avengers too are investigating the case, and you are their number one suspect. In a temporary alliance, you work together to discover why people are dying, unraveling a line of love, secrets, and betrayal.

Chapter 3: The Portal-Jumper

(Chapter) Summary: You got away from the two Avengers, but for how long. Besides, you can’t escape the past.

Trigger Warning: Cursing, Injuries, Burns, Death, Anxiety

Word Count: 3,213

A/N: Exposition heavy chapter, sorry in advance. I promise I’ll get the plot moving soon, just bear with me for a bit.

<- Chapter 2 // Chapter 4 →

KoS Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Reblogged Fics

Dropping into the portals was a dumb idea. Actually, no, opening the portals in the first place was the dumb idea. But when you were staring into the eyes of two Avengers, there was nothing else that came to mind.

You tilt backwards, letting yourself fall into the open portal beside you. Time felt like it froze as you fell. You see the very top of the forest trees and fading blue of the sky before the first portal closes. The scene changed into a dark, barren land, tall structures of rock and stone set the background, only accented by a dark, gray sky. A creature like the one you fought moments ago spots you and bares its sharp teeth at you

But as quickly as it saw you, you were already falling into the second portal. 

The wind is knocked out of your lungs as your back makes an impact against something big and metal, a loud clang sounds off in the dirty alleyway as you fell against a dumpster. The portal in front of you closed with a bright flash the moment you were through. 

You cough and gasp for air, an intense cold settling into your bones despite the beads of sweat that rolled down your face and back. A sick feeling settled uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach, your hands were shaking intensely, and your body ached. For a few minutes, you could not move your body at all, the strain from the fight and the portal jumping leaving you completely and utterly exhausted. 

Stray beams of fading sunlight covered you in an orange glow, lighting up the rest of the alleyway you laid in. Mixed hues of blue, pink and orange dance between white clouds with purple-ish underbellies. The sounds of New York City were loud in your ears, cars zooming past the streets and honking incessantly, engines revving and screeching tires bouncing inside your skull. You lay your head against the filthy dumpster, closing your eyes in search of respite.

To your left, dark, wispy figures floated around within the darkness of the alley. The small figures lacked any particular shape or depth, their forms contorting differently every other second as they fluidly swam between the shadowed walls and ground. You had not noticed how they slowly began to merge, gathering at the very edge of the shadow to loom over you like a tower.

You clenched your jaw as you stared at them, forcing your body to move away from the alleyway’s shadow and remain in the fading sunlight. They stand tall in their intimidation attempt as you move away from them. They remain still, waiting. They wanted to leave, to travel away from the alleyway. 

A shudder rips through you as you continue to stare. You don’t want a Shadow hitching a ride with you, not now, not today. You rose on shaky legs, taking care to make sure your own shadow would not converge with the alleyway’s. 

Your hand raises to tip your hat forwards so as to hide your face, but your fingers grasped on to nothing. It was not there. You left your damn hat in the forest. 

‘Fuuuck.’ Frustration rises within you, exacerbated by your injury and exhaustion. At least the pain in your shoulder had dulled enough not to bother you too much. Instead, you duck your head, staring down at the ground as you leave the alleyway. Sparing one last glance at the tower of Shadows, you watch as they crash down backwards like a tidal wave, returning to their shifting dance. 

Making a right, you walk alongside the rushing cars and taxis of the city in an attempt to walk home. You took off the shitty FBI jacket you got from a joke and costume shop, taking care not to jostle your shoulder too much. Turning the jacket inside out, you brush off leaves and dirt before putting it back on. The small notebook you carried stuck out slightly from the inside pocket of the jacket. A gentle breeze blew past you, making you shiver more than you already were.

You were still testing this newfound portal jumping ability, but the limitations of it were incredibly taxing, not to mention dangerous. Having used it only a handful of times, it first manifested during a boring graveyard shift, where you were desperately wishing you could go home. 

A white flash at your side startled you, the barren lands of what you assume is a different dimension revealed itself. Further within, a second portal stood, revealing your dinky apartment. A few Shadows began spilling into the gas station you worked at, scurrying to find dark corners to hide in. Some of them did not find them in time, evaporating under the fluorescent lights of your workplace.

Within a minute though, both portals shut in the blink of an eye, and weakness had spread throughout your body, sending you to your knees with a sick feeling making its way through your entire body. 

Another time, you opened a singular portal and stepped into the other dimension. It was cold, black and gray rock formations were visible in the distance. Scattered throughout the landscape in front of you were smooth, glass-like stones, along with small, deep green grass patches. The sky was a gray-ish color, but not as dark as you had seen it before. It was empty, too, no Shadows nor Runners were in sight. You attempted opening a second portal in there, to no avail. The original portal also began to waver, and the weak and sick feeling began to haunt your body. You jumped out of the darkened dimension before you could lose your grip on the portal and potentially be sealed away in there forever.

A dark silhouette zoomed past you in the corner of your eye, snapping you out of your thoughts. It began slowing down its speed along with the rest of the cars as they stopped for the red light. As the silhouette stilled atop a yellow taxicab, you were able to take in its form. This particular figure had a human-esque appearance, lacking any particular defining features like a nose, lips, or hair, but its white eyes remained wide and attentive. Its iridescent skin appeared to be alive as it clashed and shifted around its figure like waves of the ocean. 

The creature, or a Runner as you had dubbed them when you were 10, stared down at a blue car that stopped at the red light, waiting. You look closer at the same car and make out the shape of a small child, staring out the window at the creature. When the traffic light finally switched to green and the blue car started riding away, the creature continued to run after it, jumping between the car roofs and streetlights in its path.

A soft sigh escapes you and for a moment, you were taken back to the fight that had happened not even fifteen minutes ago. 

That particular Runner was larger than any of the ones you had seen. It had a canine-like appearance but was larger than a bear. It had been stalking the crime scene, circling around the unaware agents as if they were prey. Odd vein-like lines protruded from its skin, shifting around with the rest of its outer shell. Curiously, it was out in the daylight. They usually were out at sunset or sundown, but the sun’s heat typically burned their skin if they were out during the day. This one was also abnormally aggressive and freakishly strong. It’s almost as if it had gotten a shot of whatever the Hulk got. 

Were it not for the fact that it was, somehow, already injured, you would not have been able to defeat it. Its oil-like skin had begun to melt, wrapping around your neck and shoulders and slowly but surely running down your arms. It dug its claws into one of your shoulders before gunshots distracted it from its attack. 

Had it not been for Natasha Romanoff’s distraction and Wanda Maximoff aiding you with your blade, you would very much be dead. You remembered accidentally making eye contact with Maximoff, an odd feeling of warmth running down your back both times you had done so. The same feeling had occurred when your blade had suddenly flown into your hand. The arrival of the two Avengers at the crime scene cannot be a coincidence. 

You had not noticed the pedestrian light had switched to the white, walking figure until a man dressed in casual clothes walked past you, prompting you to follow. Thoughts of the last 20 minutes bounced inside your skull, making sure to keep as many of the details at the forefront of your mind until you could document them.

It took about 10 more minutes for you to arrive at your apartment. As you walked, you saw a variety of Shadows scurrying between objects and people’s, well, shadows. Runners also jumped between buildings, cars or streetlights, some following cars, others making their way through the city.

A small, musty, dark studio waits for you as you step through the door. A cramped kitchen stood to the left at the very end of the apartment, an equally cramped bathroom right next to it. A tall lamp stood beside the bathroom door, its positioning being able to light the entire space. Beside you was a small twin bed with plain blue sheets, a drawer right beside it, stacked with a few notebooks and sketchbooks on the top, along with a desk lap overlooking the bed. A compact window hung above it, a dark gray curtain shielding the inside from the outside sun and fluorescent streetlights of the city. Directly in front of you was a wooden dining table with two plastic chairs, a wooden chest not so well-hidden right underneath it.

A groan escapes you as you lean against the door, renewed exhaustion settling in your bones again. Worst of all, you had a graveyard shift tonight at the local gas station. The only relief of the night was knowing you would not have to stare at Ethan’s dumb face. Ethan, a 25-year-old man who still made “Yo Mama” jokes and thought himself the last Coke in the goddamn dessert, despite being an asshole who only worked at a shitty New York City gas station. Maybe you would not be so annoyed by his presence were it not for that fact that man never fully completed his shift responsibilities.

You push yourself off the door, peeling off the dumb jacket and dropping it on top of the nearest kitchen chair. You also pull off your shirt, slowly so as to not aggravate your shoulder, as you turn on your lamp before entering the bathroom. Dropping the tattered shirt on the bathroom floor, you ducked to look for the first aid kit you knew you had somewhere in your cabinets, finding it at the very back alongside an elastic bandage and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. 

Placing the kit on top of your sink, you finally take a look at the damage left behind by the Runner you fought not that long ago. Three puncture wounds starting at your shoulder that extended into three downward gashes, stopping just above your chest. You wince as you feel the telltale stinging of first degree burns on the very edges of the puncture wounds. The ends of the wounds were still bleeding. You figured that it wasn’t too bad though, some water, alcohol prep pads, and gauze should be good enough, no stitches or invasive procedures required. 

You take a shower first, washing off all the dirt, blood, and Runner gunk off your body. After drying off, you dress your wound with some rubbing alcohol, disinfectant and gauze from the kit. Having changed into some warm, comfortable clothing, you sit at your kitchen table with your laptop, a large notebook with all your notes about the case, as well as the small notebook you had brought to the crime scene. 

You transcribed your recent notes into the larger notebook, detailing the victim’s wounds, or the ones you could see, as well as the location he was found in. There was one thing that had caught your eye. The man, Elijah Brown, had something in his hand, but you had not been able to get a good look at it before forensics took it away for evidence. Details of the Runner you encountered were also included, making sure to add in how its behavior was different from the ones you had encountered before.

Runners had never been particularly dangerous. Most of the time, they completely avoided adult humans, including you. They did seem to play with young children though. You weren’t quite sure why nor how, but some kids were able to see them, besides you. They eventually age out of it though and eventually cannot see them anymore. Regardless, the Runners seem to entertain the young ones, particularly during long car rides. Years of observation made you notice an odd game they played, which consisted of them following high-speed vehicles, jumping between cars, buildings, streetlights or whatever stood in the way, as if they were following some arbitrary rules that only they knew of. Other than that, you have not quite figured out exactly why they are around.

Shadows were a different story. Although they did not forwardly attack humans, they did feed on fear. Most people do see them without realizing it, catching them as something  moves in the corners of their eyes, only to turn around and see nothing and no one. The fear of being in the dark and odd feeling of being watched when nothing is there is often a Shadow hiding within murky corners. When they are particularly hungry, they’ll sneak into a victim’s rooms at odd hours of the night, waking them by paralyzing them and taking the shape of odd, unsettling figures to thoroughly terrify whoever was unfortunate enough to have crossed its path.

Any pertinent information you gathered from news stories had been marked with a yellow highlighter, drawing matches between what you knew about Runners and what details of the case had been revealed to the public. While researching, you managed to find some of the leaked S.H.I.E.L.D. reports from last year. The government had tried wiping those off the internet, but many people had managed to download the files and reproduce them everywhere. 

Within those documents, you found a copy of a partially blacked-out file detailing the death of a park ranger found within a National Park’s office in Pennsylvania, sporting similar injuries as the current victims. The death of that park ranger had been blamed on a coyote, despite the fact that there was no evidence of such an animal breaking into the park’s office. Whatever has been going on during the recent months is not new, but it only seems to be getting worse now. 

A frustrated groan escapes your throat as you shut off your computer. Your notes about the case felt lackluster at best. Despite going to the crime scene in search for answers, your notes were scarce, and you had no explanation for the trail of dead people or the altered behavior of the creatures only you could see.

What are you doing? Why are you trying to play vigilante when you don't even know where to start? You don’t know what you are doing, you don’t know what you’re looking for, and worst of all, you’re probably on the government and the Avengers’ radar. 

Your eyes slowly glide towards an old wooden chest, given to you after your grandmother unexpectedly… passed away. You press your lips tightly, a sigh escaping you as you stare at it for what felt like an eternity. You walk towards your dining table, sinking to your knees to pull out the chest from underneath. Fiddling with the old, somewhat rusty latch, you manage to open it without ruining the lock’s integrity. The smell of metal and wood hits you as you open the lid. You push away a family photograph of the entire family reunited at your grandparents’ house that sat at the very top, as well as old family movies and photo albums. An old porcelain doll that belonged to your grandmother stared at you with dead, glassy eyes, sending a chill down your back. You turned it over so it would not look at you.

At the very bottom, you find the object you are looking for, covered up with a piece of white cloth. Removing the cloth, you stare at the thick, dark leather-bound book, your heart sinking in your chest. You run your fingers along the edge, your hands shaking subtly, debating whether or not you should open it. For a moment, you felt like you were ten years old again. Your mind flashes with the old memory you had not thought of in a long time. The one you did not want to think of.

You swallowed heavily, a burning mixture of anger, guilt and anguish licking at your heart like a flame. Your breath had picked up without you noticing, and you wanted nothing more than to not see that book again. Covering the book once more with the white cloth, you dropped it into the bottom of the trunk once more, abandoning any thoughts of opening it and potentially finding answers there. There has to be another way for you to find more information. These odd deaths have been happening for years now. There has to be a way for you to find that information elsewhere. The key to the answers must be somewhere besides in that stupid, fucking book.

The book radiated malice, and it had already cursed you once. You don’t plan on making the same mistake twice. Not unless the situation becomes dire enough for it.

You will figure this out. You have to. This got started because of you. People died because of you. You had to figure out what was happening, you had to make things right.

Your mind momentarily drifted to the two Avengers that saw you in the forest. There was no doubt in your mind that they were hunting you down right now. A conflicting feeling sat heavily within you. On the one hand, you were completely out of your depth trying to solve this problem by yourself. Maybe aiding each other is the answer. 

On the other hand, you do not know how they will react to you and your powerset. They probably think you’re the one behind all this. They can very easily decide to throw you in a cell and hand you over to the government, deeming you too dangerous to be out in the world, unaccounted for. No, you cannot get found, you do not want to take the risk. 

It was nearly 8:30pm when you checked your phone. It was a few hours before your shift, and the bone deep exhaustion you had managed to stave off was coming back with force. You will figure things out tomorrow. 

You set up an alarm an hour before your shift, before dropping face down on your bed. You fell asleep within the minute.

<- Chapter 2 // Chapter 4 →

[bestfriend491]

Your shield of protection

- A drabble 🤍 (Imagine she's in a suit, though. I didn't mention it, but just do it. 🤭)

Ramonda

There's no doubt that Ramomda protects the people she loves, but it's always different depending on who it is she's protecting.

For her kids, she'd move heaven and earth to save them.

For her people, she'd defend the entire nation by herself if she had to.

For you, though, she'd never let a threat even approach you without interfering in some way.

From when you were younger, paving your way into your desired career even as you held the weight of the crown, she supported you greatly.

Years later, she's still as protective.

It's subtle, but a detail in your relationship that you never take for granted.

She'd never even let you trip and stumble without reaching out to save you.

She supports you unconditionally, no questions asked.

“Sthandwa sam…” Ramonda put out her hand for you to take as you got off of your hoverbike, smiling at her often overdramatic, but always appreciated way of greeting you.

“Ewe? (Yes?) ” you replied, smiling.

She helped you shuffle your way next to her, the royal drivers going off with the bike and making his way around the corner. Then, she got a good look at you.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight. Who picked that outfit?”

You laughed, “Oh, my wife did. You might know her, I think she's got to be around here somewhere.”

“Mh, well, wherever she is, she's got incredible taste.” She pulled you closer, holding your waist, before kissing you.

She always knew how to compliment someone, you found. Even as she twirled you around slowly to give her final decree of amazement, you could feel yourself getting flushed at her gaze.

“Are you ready for tonight?” She asked, leading you to the entrance of the long awaited ceremony that you'd been invited to receive an award at.

You'd never been more excited for something. You'd worked hard to gain even a small amount of recognition at what you did. But Ramonda also knew your nerves were probably shot, driving your anxiety to a higher level than usual. That's why she'd offered to escort you herself. In any other case, she wouldn't want to risk bringing too much attention to you both. You were already queen, having her come to your work events would only exacerbate the amount of people who came to disturb your peace, or worse, threaten your safety.

In many ways, you wanted to be in and out as fast as possible, but hearing her words made you less wary. You knew she had your back.

“Probably not. But, it's happening now. And I've got you, so I'm sure I'll be alright.”

She hummed at that, content with you knowing that whatever happened, she'd be right by your side.

You walked towards the entrance, seeing a flash directed at you once or twice as you proceeded. You assumed the first few were accidents, merely the photographers getting their mandatory pictures of whoever entered. It was only when your names were called that the flashes felt more intentional. An onslaught of white blinded you as the clicking sound filled your ears in an overwhelming sense. You felt yourself moving only slightly, trying to adjust to the new environment.

“Ramon-”

“I've got you, Sthandwa.” She reassured, her arm already around your waist, leading you to the less intense side of the building.

Her grip on you was firm, not one that any accidental pushing or nudging could lead you to separate. It was just what you needed; a message.

I'm never letting go, my love.

Your nerves settled, willing your vision to grow clearer even at the sight of farther away flashes. It led you to letting yourself smile for the first time since before you'd entered. There had to be at least some photos of you not looking horrified or on the verge of running away.

With Ramonda still wrapped around you, you found your way to your seats. With her on your left, her hand found the it's way to your knee, another act of reassurance. You let out a quiet sigh, breathing more regularly now.

The night went smoothly, with Ramonda never resisting the urge to share a quick glance with you. Her gaze was so mesmerising, so captivating, that you found yourself getting lost in it throughout the whole ceremony. You'd let yourself forget what you came here for if you could. Fortunately, your wife was less enchanted when it was important.

“Y/n, baby, they called your name.”

“What?” You asked, still in a daze.

“Your name, darling. They called it. It's time to go up.” Ramonda whispered tenderly.

The words finally registered, and you stood up with her support. Leading you towards the stage, she was sure to stay more vigilant of where you were stepping than you were.

Extending her arm to help you up the steps, but not going up them herself, you found yourself reaching for her instinctively. Plainly speaking, you were gonna get her on the stage with you.

“Come up.” You mouthed to her, keeping a smile on your face for the probing eyes.

She shook her head, not trying to make this a moment about the two of you. She wanted you to have your moment.

“Please?” You pleaded, holding her hand with all the poised firmness that you could manage. You knew that with enough force, she could easily get out of your grip, but you hoped that the former description would help your case. It was your grip. That always changed her level of resistance..

Unsurprisingly, but still bringing you much relief, she relented, stepping up and next to you. She left some distance just in case pictures of you needed to be taken, but you couldn't help but notice her stepping a pace in front of you, angling herself as a discreet shield.

The fact helped you through your speech, and back to your chairs. All through the night you felt her protective presence make you feel more at ease.

An ease that only she could bring.

[multiplicity-positivity]

hey. hi. could we have some advice? we've been struggling with dormancy(?) for the last 8 months. i am not completely sure how to describe it, but whenever we try to communicate, it feels like the others have been stuffed into the back, covered up and muffled by something else. we've been going through a lot lately (developed severe anxiety that makes it really hard to do anything, traumatic events), and this is just stressing us out more. like, the muffling has happened to the point that i cannot even feel the prescence of the others. is there anything we can do to...lift the veil, say?

Ah, hey… we’re not sure what kind of system you are, but as a DID system, it sounds to us like something that dissociative barriers could potentially be causing. Dissociative barriers work by blocking off certain alters from each other, effectively protecting one another from painful memories and/or trauma responses. If you suspect that your system may have some sort of dissociative disorder, it may very well be worth looking into dissociative barriers, how they function, and whether or not they may be the root of these dormancies that your system is experiencing.

We will say that, for our system at least, stress can exacerbate internal difficulties and make communication even more challenging. If we’re stressing out about not being able to hear each other, and expending a lot of energy trying to force communication, it usually just ends up with us being burnt out and still unable to hear each other at all.

Honestly I think the best way to deal with something like this is to focus on finding stability and meeting your system’s needs to the best of your ability. Maybe if you can reach a point in the future where you’re in a better place, you’ll find it much easier to actually hear from the other members of your system. We do have a post with some self care questions you can ask yourself, and I’ll include that here (<- hyperlink). And of course, if you have access to a therapist or loved one who you trust, it would be a good idea to try talking about this with them.

Okay and lastly I’ll leave you with this post we wrote on dormancy (<- hyperlink) just in case something we wrote there could be useful for you. But overall I must reinforce that, when a system is stressed or overwhelmed, communication and internal contact will likely become harder if not entirely nonexistent. If you spend a bit of time not thinking about your plurality and instead focus on other things in your life, you might find it easier to communicate with your headmates in the future.

[panicloser]

DDLC characters when they're drunk headcanons

as someone who has never gotten drunk I am obviously the right person to make headcanons on this ;D (some of this headcanons are more set for when they're older)

------------------------------------------

Yuri

-I think would handle it the best out of all them. She has the most experience drinking out of all them so she knows her limits

-She has a pretty high tolerance though

-One of the big reasons she likes drinking is because it lessens her social anxiety 

-Gets increasingly more social and talkative the more she drinks, she’s gets more open and relaxed and is more willing to try talking to others even if she still comes off weird

-Along with that she also gets increasingly more impulsive

-She can already be a bit impulsive at times when she’s sober but this fact skyrockets when she’s drunk since there’s no voice of reason holding her back

-When she gets really drunk, without fail she will always do or say something in the spur of the moment that she horrifically regrets the next day which she’ll then proceed to agonise over it for the rest of the week

-If she’s in a good mood when this happens it’s usually just something really embarrassing that her friends tease her for

-If she’s in a bad mood when this happens something more dangerous could happen 

-She learnt from experience how much to drink as to not get to that point but also feel the weight of social anxiety lighten a bit

-If she’s drunk she needs someone to babysit her and keep a close eye on her, when she’s tipsy she babysits her drunk friends

-Also if she’s around someone she’s interested in romantically while she’s drinking she can turn real flirty

-She’s got some banger pick up lines up her sleeve, Yuri rizz is real

-When texting, still tries to spell good when she’s drunk but it doesn’t work out so well

-Imagine her infodumping while drunk, imagine a drunken Yuri rant, 10/10 must have experience

Natsuki

-She’s got a short tolerance and she’s not afraid to use it

-Was scared to drink at first because it reminded her of her dad but it ended up working out okay

-To sum up her drunken self, whatever emotion she’s feeling when she drinks will be exacerbated when she’s drunk

-if she’s in a good happy mood, she’s the life of the party, she’ll be energetic, much friendlier, she’s loud, excited, might stand on a table or two

-if she’s angry, she’s willing to throw hands over a slice of pizza. Copious amounts of swearing and angry half baked rants, again she’s loud, she’s a scary little feral gremlin. Tries not to angry drink since she usually ends up regretting those the most

-if she’s sad, she’s a hundred percent gonna end up crying. Will be more willing to spill her feelings, she’ll complain to the nearest friend, she’s pretty quiet and soft-spoken in this state.

-You might even see a rare clingy Natsuki if she’s in a certain mood

-overall she’s a wild card, a mixed bag of a drinking buddy

-Really likes going to karaoke and singing really badly and loudly between drinks

-hates the fact that she ends up throwing up 90% of the time

-a lot of burps and hiccups, she chuckles at it everytime

-still has a pretty good sense of danger when drunk off her ass

-a drunk Natsuki gets flustered cripplingly easily and can’t hide it, she falls apart, keep that in mind if you flirt with her

-cannot fucking hear you if you talk to her in a reasonable tone at a slight distance, goddamn deaf woman

Sayori

-the least coherent drunk out of these four

-also doesn’t have a very high tolerance, it doesn’t take many drink for it to get to her

-doesn’t like drinking too often but every now and again is okay

-is just super duper out of it when she’s drunk

-she’ll be half zoned out the whole time, her brain is %100 just vibing

-surprisingly won’t say much, she’ll have mild reactions to what’s happening around her or she’ll say or ask something really random out of nowhere every few minutes

-if you ask her a question she’ll reply like ten minutes later, very slow processing, windows 98 brain

-is extra clumsy when drunk. She’ll drop and knock over so many things and probably fall at some point. The next morning she’ll wake up with a bruise with no memory of how she got it

-if she’s in a good mood when drunk she’ll be really calm and lightly bubbly

-but drinking is bad for her when she’s not in a good mood. Can turn into a sad drunk, her feelings become even heavier than usual and she can spiral really bad, she sometimes fears drinking due to experiencing this before

-tends to get sleepy and drowsy. She’ll always end up passing out by the end of a session

-on rare occasion, if there’s alcohol in the house she’ll drink a bit when she’s having problems insomnia problems

-also most likely gets extra cuddly and affectionate when she’s drunk or tipsy

Monika

-usually drinks the least out of the four of them

-has a medium sized tolerance

-the only reason she drinks the least amount is because of  the lack of control she has when she’s under the influence

-doesn’t mind being a little tipsy so much, will just be more relaxed at that point

-an existential drunk 

-starts questioning the meaning of life, her purpose, why things are the way they are and other deep questions, half of them end up not making sense

-can spiral too deep and either get depressed or turn into a conspiracy theorist

-either that or she’s a clingy affectionate drunk

-if there is anyone she cares about there, especially if it’s in a romantic way, she will cling to them the whole time and use every type of love language she can think of on them

-she also talks a lot, she talks about random stories or things she finds interesting or about her feelings, anything, she wants to shut up but she can’t stop

-and of course she’s more impulsive too and will go along with whatever idea someone comes up with

-she perceives her drunk self to be annoying and embarrassing which is why she now avoids it as much as she can

-protecc drunk Monika

--------------------------------------------

was gonna do some hcs on how the interact with each other but might do that another time im lazy now

(apologies if this whole thing is a terrible grasp on what being drunk is like I've just had these headcanons stuck in my head for a while now man)

[edbloves]

https://www.tumblr.com/edbloves/756325201665458176/is-it-rough-on-buck-and-bucky-when-grace-first

hi ok i was stalking u after reading the new chapter (literally SO good it made me so happy and emotional like ugh it was just so sweet) and after reading the linked ask, i’m curious as to how the buckies handle discipline, because they both seem to be such softies with her so i wonder if it takes them a while to work it out. when she first starts acting out is it all too new for them to do much other than panic? or do they try things like time outs? and then once it all settles down, if she ever does do something dangerous or that she isn’t supposed to do (more normal child behaviour as opposed to acting out due to trauma) how do they handle it? is there one of them that’s better at it or do they both struggle? because from some of ur responses to asks i get the sense that gale is the one who stays firm when things NEED to get done (such as the shots) but he also has the fear of being like his dad 🤨 so i’m curious!

Hiiii thanks for these excellent questions <3 (I love that you loved the new chapter thank you so much!!)

The short answer is that absolutely yes, they struggle and they struggle hard. Between their insecurities and newness to being parents and general anxiety over everything, they both worry that disciplining her will end terribly on all fronts. Particularly, for Gale, while John is in withdrawal and he has no choice but to constantly telling her no, he tends to worry that she's forming bad associations with him in her head, so once John is recovered, he has a hard time telling her no in the beginning.

John on the other hand, is straight up just ready to do anything she wants. His little girl wants something? He'll turn the earth around in orbit to get it for her. In theory, both of them understand that they have to give her boundaries and rules and let her test them, and that it's part of growing up and experiencing the way the world works, but the reality of practicing that is much harder. Both of them think of how awful and traumatic losing her mother was for her, and want to spare her any more suffering even though that is not how the world works.

Once they are more comfortable in their parental roles, they both can manage to be serious about handling situations where she knowingly acts out or crosses lines, but Gale is generally better at it. John can do it, his resolve just breaks faster, and sometimes he is the one getting into mischief with her. Gale does stay firmer than John, absolutely, and it takes him a while to reconcile that just because he is having to set boundaries with her, doesn't mean he will become his father. John (and even Marge) help him understand that sometimes, not doing so, does more of disservice to her in the long run. And it also differs based on how it's done - Gale's father and him have VERY different parenting styles to say the least.

I don't think they're too much into things like timeout's and the like, but rather trying to help her understand the consequences that follow poor actions. Putting her alone in a corner would exacerbate her fears of being alone and left behind, and they work diligently to assuage those fears, so they would be hesitant to try anything that might hinder that progress.

The whole process is extremely hard and exhausting for them, and for the first while they worry that they're not good enough or cut out to look after her. Eventually, they settle into their routine that works for them, though.

Thanks for the ask!! Ok, I'm off to bed ... look forward to replying to more tomorrow <3

[jpegcompressor]

like, just to add a finer point on it, i don't like that it's always the victim being a minority and everyone else is aiding and abetting it. usually it's a few douchebags and then just a lot of people who turn a blind eye and don't tell the proper authorities. and they always focus on the pain of it; i know that it hurts, i know being bullied sucks, but you aren't giving a message to people who were bullied or are being bullied, you're just telling them it sucks. i'd like more plots where a character is bullied that focuses on the good things the character has as well, to give the message to victims of bullying that like, sure! bullying is bad! but it doesn't have to be your tragic backstory if you don't want it to be. you can have a life past the trauma, and you can have good things with bad things, too.

in 2023 can we have less bullying/isolation plot lines please. thanks

[gothicprep]

two things I’ve been meaning to comment on: the redlettermedia video on the death of movie theaters, and The Usual Suspects of z-rate youtube movie critics blaming furiosa’s failure at the box office for being too girlboss. I promise i’ll tie these together in a way that makes sense.

there are a lot of reasons why theaters aren’t doing great right now. the biggest one is attendance, and how it hasn’t bounced back since lockdown. this has been exacerbated by a lack of product in the marketplace, driven by the wga and sag strikes. this isn’t anti-labor union sentiment on my part. I want to be extremely clear about that. it’s not a comment on the negotiations. just an objective statement about how two large guilds striking = less movies = less butts in seats. I’m surprised the rlm guys didn’t consider this.

but there are two salient other things to bring up with what’s going on with the box office rn specifically.

one of them is that movies are still performing in the way you’d expect them to in the box office rn, relative to other seasons. furiosa is a great example of this. fury road, commercially speaking, was not a big hit. furiosa had a higher budget. and mad max movies tend to stand on their own. no further proof of this exists than most americans thinking that the road warrior was the first mm movie, because WB really shat the bed on the distribution for the original. they’re highly tethered to the anxieties of when they came out. the pre-apocalyptic nature of mad max dials in on what kept people up in the 70s. the road warrior is evocative of OPEC and middle east/oil anxieties. thunderdome confronts our 90s fears of tina turner. fury road deals in environmental collapse, right down to how the manpower in the citadel is imagined. Furiosa breaks from this format in a few ways. max not being in it is the obvious one. the other is that it’s so reliant on fury road that its end credits contain a supercut of the movie. this is unusual for a prequel, at least in its extent.

this all to say, there’s no universe where this movie made a lot of money. it was never going to happen. contrary to what some may tell you, it was never a girls get it done thing. i know furiosa was great, but you need to remember that critic and general audience reception are very different things. if you’re someone who likes to talk and write about movies, you’re in a place that’s closer to critic brain than you are general audience brain.

If you had a normal release schedule for, say, may, this would be sort of a nothingburger. but remember – marvel movies have pretty much always dominated may. marvel is in sort of a weird position rn post infinity war, and there was no marvel movie to come out in may.

the second one is more related to the strikes. haulted production is a temporary hiccup. within a year, things should normalize a little. think of it like the recovery period after a surgery. something is wrong. you get it fixed. but there’s a time period after that where you can’t do much of anything. in the end, you come out healthy. your strength may be diminished, but you move on. we’re in the recovery period rn. perhaps theaters are a dying business, and this is one of those situations where you carry on but are a bit weaker. but it’s recovery. not death.

ah well, those are just my thoughts on it.

[violet-moonstone]

Heathers Part 2: Warrior Heather

Read Part 1 here

Option 1: Current Heather with a More Detailed Backstory

Before we discuss major alternatives, let’s go back to my question: Who was Heather’s mentor? I think it makes sense for them to be someone she met after her village was attacked, or who at least survived the attack. The combat skills and weapons/armour knowledge she exhibits in RTTE aren’t present in RoB, so they should be things this person taught her after the attack. Maybe in response to the trauma and danger she faced, she sought out a mentor who could teach her how to fend for herself and get revenge—or perhaps, this mentor found her and wanted to impart their knowledge to help her. And to explain why this mentor is no longer part of her life in RTTE, I’ve come up with 3 options.

1. Heather and her mentor mutually decided it was time to part ways once Heather was ready for her quest. This mentor was unable to join her due to some sort of illness or injury.

2. Her mentor taught her survival skills but didn’t do so in the hopes that she would enact vengeance and instead tried to dissuade her from going down that path. Their disagreement about revenge caused them to have a falling out, and Heather left the relative safety of living with/near them. The loss of the only stable/loving relationship she had since her adoptive parents died only worsened her abandonment issues.

3. Her mentor recently passed away, which prompted her to set out on her own. Again, really exacerbating that grief and anxiety.

If these changes to her backstory were made, I would be much happier with her new character direction in RTTE.

That being said, I have to say I’m still not a fan of the appearance of her design in general. I don’t like the brown and silvery blue colour combo. I would prefer something more desaturated so they don’t clash. Generally speaking, HTTYD characters designs are a great example of how to pair colours that don’t usually go together; by making their clothes earthy and desaturated, any clashing colours aren’t as glaring—plus, it makes the clothes look more lived in, which fits the vibe of the world these characters are in. The warmth and richness of the brown in Heather’s new outfit isn’t pairing well with the cold armour IMO. I want to see clothes that look well-made, but heavily worn. She’s not used to getting new clothes on a regular basis, so she’s going to make what she does have last.

I also think instead of forming what looks like a very hazardous skirt, the scales she’s wearing should be used as armour over her abdomen...you know...where all those very important organs are? I don’t get the leather vest thing for her when scale armour is an option. I think this is an example of another issue I have Heather’s design and how she functions in the show: she’s a warrior with a large, bulky weapon and a huge, armoured dragon..but she also has rogue/stealth elements (This is where the leather vest, hood, and occasional face covering comes in). It’s possible that I’m thinking too narrowly, but I think we should pick a lane—if not for believability, then at the very least to make her design more visually clear.

If we’re staying in the armoured warrior lane, then let’s ditch the vest and hood and go with armour over the abdomen, maybe with some chain mail too. Underneath, she can wear a tunic, anywhere from hip to knee length. The colour scheme of her tunic, leggings, and boots could range from dark/desaturated blues, greys, and black. These would work nicely with the colour of her armour. Maybe there could be some brown for variety, but in less rich hues than what’s in her design has now. I also think she should have a helmet (I’m thinking no horns though...and maybe it partially covers her face, so she can have a dramatic reveal when she takes it off) and coil her ponytail into a bun when she’s fighting. Finally, if she’s a warrior, she should have a bulkier, more muscular physique.

Here are some ideas for what I think her design could look like:

Imagine the armour over the woman’s chest and shoulders in the first image is made from Windshear’s scales instead.

Part 3 because my computer hates long posts

[springsmile]

over my shoulder || 01

18+ | h. shinso x f. reader

series masterlist

warnings: non-con, smut, pre-established trauma (r*pe), extreme anxiety/paranoia, victim blaming/shaming, abuse of prescriptions, self harm, suicidal ideation, disassociation, negativity around hospitalization, violent intrusive thoughts, kidnapping, murder, specific reader characterizations, manipulation, anorexia/bulimia allusions

** reader’s quirk is enhanced senses. upon activation, emotions and sensations are pretty much exacerbated. reader never learns how to channel or control it to its full potential, only to turn it on and off.

you would not walk out that door without a sense of pride toward your makeup application. you could decisively say the wings of your eyeliner were not up to par. if you paused now, the only thoughts your mind would be able to conjure would be ones of how one wing is pointing downward, the other seemingly kissing your brow, one bulky, and the other thin.

you’re late. so, so late. you know you won’t get in trouble, per se, but your pay would dip under what you’d estimated for the week, which was irritating in itself. you tell yourself it’s worth sparing yourself a smidge of the humiliation that accompanies leaving the walls of your apartment.

like every other day, it takes the realization that you have 10 minutes to get to your job that requires a 25 minute commute to narrow your eyes at the mirror on your desk, reflecting some unsightly black smudges framing your plain eyes. you had to admit that it was better than nothing, but nothing was just that— nothing. without the black you were disgusting, but with it… you guess that made you… palatable? nothing worth coveting, yet also not a sight which averted gazes. perfect for you.

beside you, your phone vibrates, and you feel the reverberations through the desk intensely. you jolt, silently cursing yourself and imagine a broken dam, water pouring from each crack and cranny. then, you imagine it all sealed up, halting the circulation… now, the lack thereof. that’s how you shut your quirk off; you’ve returned to your regular state of a hammering heart and sweaty palms.

your apartment complex is exactly what someone would envision upon estimating to them your pathetic salary. you worked at a bookstore, after all. it wasn’t exactly like you were some front-line worker, providing a necessary labor. you couldn’t complain. it was livable, nothing to sneeze at.

it’s cement—cold granite. the railings were once painted black and peeling, and your door had gaping orifices where its wooden fragments once laid. the apartment itself was dinky. you cleaned it consistently and decorated with a modest charm, but the odor of dampness was lingering in every corner. the complex was borderline ancient, built before the invention of the elevator, but it was at least a place you could pleasantly call home. ‘bad neighborhoods’ were hardly ever indicative of the tenants who lived inside the units.

you walk to work, having been fortunate enough to lease somewhere close enough to a place you liked working at. the other jobs were nothing short of disarray— inadequate managers hiring you on the spot during interviews out of desperation, and a disorienting lack of organization. needless to say, you were content at the bookstore.

currently, you’re conjuring scenarios that do nothing to soothe the thrumming of your heart, slamming against the cream cable sweater you’d thrown on in a haste to cover the largest of your insecurities—the vision of a car skidding off the street and plowing into your form, leaving fragments of your brain matter splattered into the pavement. next, you think of the thinnest, fresher piece of paper slicing your eye in two. now, you’re cringing. it’s replying in your mind over and over again. you swallow a wad of glue in your throat, eyes raking in your surroundings for a distraction.

a stray cat. it trills softly at you. you somehow manage a smile, and glance at your phone before deciding you could briefly pet the kitty.

its fur is a pure black, the kind that enveloped your eyes with a stark intensity when you shut the curtains, turned off the tv, and closed your bedroom door with the lights off. you’d always forget to turn on your fairy lights. it would making your eyes hum, an invisible pressure pushing downward, but it was pleasantly dissimilar this time.

its eyes are a gem-like amber, and they glisten in the waxing morning sun. you liked the shape of its pupils. almost a rhombus, softened at the edges, wide and dilated. you assumed it was happy, and that made you a little happy too.

you eventually pass a group of teenage girls, and you inadvertently shrink into yourself, chest seized with panic as they pass. you could’ve sworn they threw you a glance, eyes maliciously narrowed. your mouth goes dry when they crane their necks back and let out a shallow laugh.

you glance down at yourself once they’re out of your peripherals. your opaque tights were suddenly friction against your legs. itchy. you can’t even be upset at your fleeting elation.

with shaky fingers pinching the fabric, hoping for some surface-level relief, you realize you’ve reached the store. you pull on the dangling pieces of your backpack straps—the ones that tighten—and exhale as the padding presses to your armpits. tight and secure.

“morning, (y/n)!” you co-worker flashes you a radiant grin from behind the register, before you can will your lips to curve and feel that uncomfortable stretch in your cheeks, she’s back to bagging a customer’s purchases.

you sigh, locating one of the empty computers to punch your numbers in on.

“excuse me.” someone coughed at you. you raise your eyes ever so slightly, but zero in on the space beneath their eyes and though above the apples of your cheeks. they’re very tanned, and their skin is dry and rough.

“i need help finding a book, it’s called—“

“i’m sorry,” you interject timidly, interlocking your fingers with tight, white knuckles. it’s the only way you knew how to steady your composure. “i’m not clocked in yet, and i need to put my things away. i can grab someone to help you right now, though?”

he stares at you indignantly, with a pompous upward tilt of his chin. he’s looking down at you from his nose. your stomach does a 360 flip, and you’re bloating. absolutely sick.

“you work here, don’t you? you’re supposed to help a paying patron when they ask you for help.” he continues in disdain. you think of several quips, witty remarks that could maybe patch up your dignity that this man was so indelicately chipping away at. “i guess i can’t expect much from people like you. always so lazy. i see you all hanging around, talking. tch, whatever. thanks for nothing.”

he whips around and saunters away. you blink. the exchange hadn’t been fully registered and processed in your brain.

you know with utmost certainty that you’d soon be rendered to a hunched over, teary heap in the break room. and although the cancellation of your quirk hindered all emotions for an unspecified length of time, you could feel the onslaught of twinges racking your heart. and then, you find yourself trudging to break room in lethargy. you had nightmares again last night, having been jolted awake by your own tremors and cold beaded sweat dotting every conceivable part of your body. you’d had to shower. showering wasn’t fun for you.

you tried to relish in the knowledge that your lunch break was within the next two hours! whoopie! you wouldn’t let yourself eat, though. hoisting your achy feet onto those rigid metal chairs would be revitalizing enough.

when you find yourself on the sales floor again, you start for the customer service desk. as you had observed that there’s someone patiently waiting there, their fingers idly drumming on the worn wood. you half smile. maybe they wouldn’t give you an earful of all of their inconveniences that didn’t pertain to you. that’d be nice.

“hi! sorry to keep you waiting.” you flash your well practiced ‘how can i help you today, valued customer?’ smile.

it’s another man, and you instinctively lower your gaze to that spot on his face that quells the exacerbating effects of your quirk. if you’d been taking in the whole of his countenance, perhaps you would have noted the abrupt shift in his eyes, insisted that a manager was calling you on your earpiece. you’d seen that look a lot. and when you did catch sight of it, it reminded you of high school, and that alone was enough to make you bail out— potentially, clock out early.

“hi, i was just looking for books on renting trucks? i’m looking to make a business out if it.” he smiles crookedly.

you pause, lips pressed in a tight, thin line. renting trucks? how the fuck were you supposed to search for a book like that?

“i’ll try, but no promises.” you swallowed, fingers licking the key caps hastily. you wanted to close this exchange as quickly as you could. then you could busy yourself with a task that didn’t require your deteriorating social skills.

“it’s weird, i know.” he chuckled. it felt pernicious in nature to you, and you certainly didn’t appreciate his attempt to revive the conversation. your palms were growing balmier by the second.

“nah, not weird. i’m just not sure how to search for it on here.” you half-lied, furrowing your brows at the search results. there were a myriad of titles relating to trucks, but you couldn’t conceive why someone would write a how-to on renting them to people, let alone why this man would want to reference one, instead of an article online. needless to say, you were having trouble schooling your expression. if that face you spent hours on contorting to perfection in the mirror were to falter, everything would be shot straight to hell. you couldn’t handle a nasty disagreement breaking out at the unbridled twitch of your eye.

“ah, i get’cha. let me see.” and without leaving any room for dissent, or breathing, he’s leant over the counter. very much invading your personal space, and very much violating company policy.

your mouth quivers at the corners, attempting to form phantoms of phrases you should’ve had the spine to utter. the poignance of his cologne has long invaded your nose, a more mature scent, one reserved for a man of his age. perhaps three times that of yours. get away get away get away.

he straightens, offering you a complacent yellowed grin. “i don’t really get that program you use, but i’m guessing you don’t got what i’m looking for?”

“correct, sorry about that.” you tell him stiffly. you swear his breath was sticky, humid, and clinging to the skin of your neck. you suppress a shiver.

“no problem, darlin’. i was just lookin’ for a side hustle, ‘cause i work in law enforcement and i wanted to hop onto that business owner bandwagon.” he’s not rambling, he’s not making small talk—he wants your attention. he wants you to engage, and he wants you to be interested. this is all sickeningly apparent to you as you fumble to select your next words. you know you’d have to humor him only slightly; blatant indifference could be interpreted as aggression and get you a strike. you didn’t need any more of those.

“oh, that’s pretty cool. my dad works in law enforcement.” you reply softly, praying that your inauthentic interest would be apparent to him. though, men are either willingly or inherently stupid, you learned. the gentleman before you was no exception.

“aw, yeah? what city?”

fuck fuck fuck fuck!

you’re left scrambling, mouth gaping, dry and full of sand. you feel every artery in your body painfully pulsate and flush against your skin, pleading to be torn free and relieved, and remind you that you’re alive and you feel like you’re gonna die. you don’t even know if you have the capacity to deactivate your quirk right now—you felt like you deserved this; you practically instigated the conversation—stupid!

it doesn’t occur to you to lie—yet another vulgar display of your absentmindedness. you tell him the truth, and to add further insult to injury, you’re unable to distract yourself from his slippery gaze. they held little regard, and revealed each deplorable thought with the blink of his eye. it was dehumanizing. the way his cheeks were carved into this smile that failed to accentuate his duchenne markers. your next move is a grave error, one that, if your head was in its right place, you wouldn’t have contemplated. looking into his eyes—the skin is flat, his eyes are visible, unobstructed and—you know that much. he’s not really smiling.

“i’m sorry, i can’t stop looking at you. you’re so beautiful.”

twitching uselessly at your sides, your hands come to fist your sweater, now damp from the slickness encasing your hands. the wool catches your sweat and sucks it in. much like the breaths slipping in and out of your aching lungs. the balmy air clings to the walls, perhaps as terrified as you were, before being ripped from their sanctuary and nakedly thrust into the open.

“thank you.” you gushed? you attempted to. the keyboard before you was littered with varying puddles of sweat. you didn’t appreciate the dampened wool prickling your torso. it felt like tv static, the feeling when you’d hover your fingertips in front of, and this inconceivable force would kiss and lick your skin. you’re privy to each and every sensation that your being can house, the overload was almost too much, you’d had to search deeply within yourself and pull out what you could.

“here, take down my number.” he’s offering, that smile never leaves his lips nor meets his eyes, but you could center yourself again. it’s okay. he’s sweating exorbitantly, unabashedly clinging to his armpits. you would laugh in a normal circumstance.

stiffly, you reach for a sticky note and a pen. you’re pushing both toward him with your index finger, deliberately dodging the potential of contact—he’s grasping your hand tightly. you gasp and there’s bile searing your esophagus.

“it’s nice to meet you…” he references your name tag with a brisk glance as though his eyes hadn’t been raking in your entire figure for the duration of your exchange. “(y/n). your name is also beautiful.”

you’re only able to smile and nod.

“it’ll break my heart if you don’t text me, you know?” he chuckles lightly, but his tone is anything but. he anticipates your compliance, he thinks he’s subdued you into contacting him, or perhaps he’s genuinely convinced that he somehow charmed you into pursuing a relationship with him. he’s wrong.

as soon as his dubious eyes leave your vicinity, you take the sticky note into your hand, and with what remains of your strength, squeeze it. the edges are sharpened at the pressure, like thorny rose stems. they press into the joints of your fingers, but you don’t mind. by the time it’s released from your grasp, it’s like paper-mache.

lunch had trudged into your hour slot like an unyielding horse, unwittingly dragged along. your elation is muted, but palpable. it’s not like you were going to use it for its established purpose, anyway. you’d nap in the break room, preparing to flip-flop from position to position in those awful metal chairs, terrified that you’d reclined too deeply and slump onto the floor.

you can never sleep though. not really. it’s this hellish limbo. a plane where it could be argued that you were conscious, or that you were asleep. the sibling of sleep paralysis.

without a single breath between the back of your eyelids and the sudden shrill blaring, your nerves are electrified. and your body, with some newfound cognizance, snaps you upright. eyes blearily darting to and fro for danger, or the subject of your overstimulation, you find nothing but the alarm on your phone. the force of its vibrations have it circling with intense shutters. you hit stop.

your phone jerks to life again, screen flashing your generic wallpaper at you. there’s a notification lingering below the time display, a segment from some big shot newspaper. beneath the headline is some excruciatingly pretentious action shot of a hero; one with indigo tresses that were suspended in the hair, and bandages like tentacles unfurling from around his neck. the headline reads:

Villainous Quirk Saves the Day! 20 Lives Saved With a Single Word.

you can’t say your interest was piqued.

another day, another victim.

you hate leaving from the back exit. while it was designated for employees, some exclusive perk you should be immeasurably grateful for, it wasn’t afforded the same glare from the floodlights the adjacent parking lot was. comparatively, it was doused with light.

you’re one of the last to leave, the manager on duty singled you out and made you count the money in the registers. you’re horrible at keeping track at the tens and twenties, and not to mention your unwavering uneasiness. you hadn’t recovered from that unseemly encounter.

you’ve snugly positioned the various keys slid onto the ring between your fingers. they’re like claws—extracted kitty claws—and you’re prepared to drive it into some sicko’s chest at a moment’s notice.

ensuring the receiving room door had softly clicked shut behind you, you started off into the direction your quaint apartment complex resided. it takes less than a second for the hair on your arms and neck to flare up, and it’s even sooner your skin is forcibly aware of the sinister warmth of a hand—irrefutably larger than your own—locked onto your shoulder.

your instinct is to look over your shoulder. you suppress it, and instead tighten the grip on your the makeshift weapon, jutting out with an unparalleled menace.

you whirl around and swing, right for his sternum. you make contact, but its not hard enough. you’re not sure if it was the velocity that fell short, or if it was the puny strength that accompanied the strike that sealed your blunder. either way, he’s far from incapacitated. in fact, he’s enraged. you can feel the corona of his fury, it’s radiant and extending.

“i know that you had a long day, babe, but you couldn’t sneak a text in at all?”

his own clip is hard enough. it’s aimed straight at your gut, and it makes contact with more than the surface of your stomach. you think your intestines may have just been introduced to your kidneys. you splutter around that familiar acid.

you’re unable to cradle your belly as you’re plunged into another agonizing sensation. the uneven bricks—some ugly, stupid stylistic design—are cutting into the skin on your back.

“we can make this easy, or hard. i’m good either way, so the choice is yours, sweetheart.” this smile, wicked and conscienceless, begins in his eyes instead. they were more terrifying than the split of his lips. his hands, callous and aged, descend down your sides, pushing your panties and waistband of your jeans aside so he can clutch your bare hips. this terror, this terror you know all to well, the one that seized you when you awake from the most heinous dream, the same one almost every night when you’re transported back to high school, back to the shaming and the touching and the crying and—

this.

“please don’t do this.” you mutter, now your tongue is immobile. limp and numb in your mouth. some thick, wet deadweight that pulls you down to the soles of your feet. you wish your punch had been that heavy.

“man, i thought you’d be wrigglin’ by now. looks like you want it just as bad. i didn’t take you for a needy slut, (y/n).”

you flinch, flitting images and snippets of sound rush before you and climb into your muscles; ensuring your helplessness. you were very well-acquainted with that term.

you think it might hurt less, this time, if you pretend you’re not there. shallow-gazed, the darkness of the night blanketing the sky and presenting a comfortingly warm veil over your eyes. chin craning up, pointing to the north star.

he makes quick work of your jeans, they’re crunching around your ankles, as denim and fluid motion do not coincide. you fucking hate it. it’s almost as scratchy as the voices screaming at you from within the steel walls of your head, flailing and slamming on all sides, begging you to cry for help, begging you to turn your quirk back on, so maybe you’ll feel something, some terror, and leap into action. it’s growing weaker by the second, and you’re clamping your thighs shut as he growls a curse at you.

“what do we have here?” a voice from the dark muses. you might even say it held a semblance of amusement. ah, yet another sick fuck to partake in your humiliation.

“fuck off man, we’re just having some fun. we ain’t hurting anybody, isn’t that right, baby?”

the silence spoke for itself, you guess.

the anonymous gentleman, evading your line of sight, effortlessly conquers your assailant. you expect some cringey catchphrase, a declaration of victory or defeat, maybe some name calling, but you can’t hear anything but the boiling hot blood circling your ears.

you don’t need to see him to know from the shuddering groans and shallow gasps of air and pleading and promises of atonement (never directed at you) that tear from his mouth, that your savior was well-versed in combat. you don’t even try to conceal your chuckle, one that ascends your throat wryly and produces some stinging pain. a hero.

“walk down to the police station, and confess.” these words were unlike the ones he posed in his prior inquiry. the contrast, though, couldn’t be placed. the man who nearly became the brand new subject of your nightmares, heeds. face blank, eyes stoney and vacant. there’s no resistance, no more pleading or crying. it reminded you of the instantaneous numbness that sweetly enveloped you when you patched up that dam in your mind. then he’s languidly walking in opposite direction. it’s unsurprising that he knows the route.

now, you’re the object of the hero’s attention. and to your dismay, you quickly discern that he’s the hero with the villainous quirk. the very same that backhandedly glorified him in the article.

“that’s rude.” you mumble.

his staring persists, a muted violet with hollow pupils. you’d always heard that the eyes were the gateway to the soul, but upon your unwitting contact, you were compelled to judge that he was soulless.

the observation was brief enough to settle that the movement couldn’t have been misconstrued for eye contact.

“w-what?” you blurt, eyes cast at the asphalt in shame. you often took solace in the fleetingness of passerby gazes—even that of people your age. regrettably, you could feel the judgement, the assessment, and the heat of his prodding eyes.

“nothing. i was just thinking about how you never screamed once. i never heard you ask for help.” he reveals with an unabashed curiosity seeping into his tone. yet, the sentiment was lost on his eyes.

yeah, well, years of guilt and torment will do that to ya.

“i… didn’t think anyone would come to help.” you admitted quietly, your hand is wrapped around your forearm so tightly, you were beginning to lose feeling. at some point, your quirk had activated inadvertently. the static-y tingles envelope the skin.

“really. how come?”

the shift in his tone was… nothing of note. so slight, so easy to miss, but perceivable, nonetheless, if you willed yourself to observe it. the effort was not something that came naturally to you. most people were none the wiser, and you were no exception. as far as your ears had gathered, he was speaking plainly.

“i don’t expect anyone to act selflessly. not even heroes. no one’s ever helped me when things like… this happen.” things you’d never bothered sharing with anyone were unfiltered as they left your tongue, and you’re flummoxed. where went your restraint and trepidation?

your eyes are still cemented to the floor. and the hero, though intrigued, was growing tired of your hesitance.

“you could look me in the eyes when you thank me, at least.”

your breath escapes you at his unexpected audacious tone. but you know you’re in no position to chastise someone, as unsolicited as it was, who did in fact come to your rescue.

the air staggers in your trachea, slinking upside and downside the membrane as your eyes reorient themselves. they’d been fixed on the asphalt. your mary janes. and the intentional design of the boots strapped to his feet. the light above your ankles was disconcerting—having attrited the cordiality you found in what wasn’t another person.

unwittingly, bound to fulfill what was the edict of gratitude and respect in society, you lift your head, your sight following closely behind.

upon contact, your own vision sways, and you don’t know if the fault lay in the fatigue militating your uprightness, or the interference of cohesion in your head.

all at once, his voice becomes softer, and his face contorts from that laidback, complacent grin and relaxes entirely. almost tranquil. you’re not sure about his eyes though. for all your lack of skill in all areas concerning social reciprocity, you were excellent at avoidance. you could spent a very comfortably and fulfilled lifetime without staring anyone in the eye.

you weren’t sure if you could hold it together if you saw pity swirling around those murky irises.

“that was a joke. a bad one.” he says, it’s an apology without the proper structure. you’d take it. you didn’t know him, and you were set on having it remain that way. you’re hoping you become another faceless civilian in the cloud of enthusiastic praises, extensions of gratitude, love admissions, and just unremarkable people. you hope you’re another random headstone in a cemetery that people pass and never consider the bones beneath the soil, what they were composed of. you want to stop this charade of the assessment of your well-being, one supposedly conducted out of compassion, and go home and scrub your skin raw.

“you can skip the pleasantries. i don’t need any services. i’m going home. thanks for your help.” you say quickly, and when you leant over to scoop the contents of your purse into your hands, you found that the hero had beaten you to the punch.

“i’m shinso hitoshi.” he says as amicably as he can muster. the artificiality isn’t difficult to see through. he offers you your purse, palm outstretched where the strap laid loosely. you watch the mole under his eye as you regard him.

the data is before your eyes, yet you couldn’t construe it one way or another.

the metal toes of his boots point at you, and his eyes flit across the features of your face, mapping the expanse— it’s absolutely unnerving.

you couldn’t read his body language, gauge his facial expression, or even bear to allow the intermingling of your gazes.

“it’s nice to meet you, i’m (y/n).” you weren’t going to disclose any obvious identifiers, leaving you susceptible to a breach of privacy. your last name wasn’t necessary in this introduction— one you prayed would soon reach its conclusion.

he breathes a chuckle; your disinterest is painstakingly apparent, comically so.

“well… (y/n), i really insist; let me take you home. walk you. what just happened was… a lot. i’d bet you’d feel safer if—“

“you’d lose.” you snipped quickly. “i’ll go now. thank you again, sir.”

you now your head, intentionally at a higher decline, avoiding that pain in your lower neck that’s reserved for only the utmost respect. you spin on your heel, and you’re blinking back the fiery pain in your eyes.

you swore to whatever god that refused to heed any of your pleas that your back was scorched from a pair of eyes. but when you looked over your shoulder, the only sight that greeted you was that of flickering floodlights.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

i never noticed the hints towards pale Solfef! in light of that, i think it's interesting that Eridan pursued Feferi in the pale quadrant while desperately wanting her to end up in his flushed one, meanwhile Feferi pursues Sollux in the flushed quadrant, despite them seemingly destined to be pale lol guess seadwellers are used to swimming up current lmao

that said, what are your thoughts on Erifef? do you think Eridan actually wants her flushed? or is that another subconscious tactic of his to keep her(someone he deeply cares about) by his side?

personally, i'm of the opinion that though they do care about eachother, they could never work out flushed. i think Eridan -though very enthusiastic about her and thinks they share the same troubles that comes with being so high on the hemospectrum, as well as isolated via physical location and the requirements to meet seadweller expectations- doesn't actually want redrom with her, but he knows pale isn't 'good enough' plus prefers to go to Karkat for all the traditional pale stuff. dude doesn't realize they can just be friends and she won't abandon him(cue Feferi abandoning him the monent she leaves quadrants with him, further exacerbating that fear lol)

meanwhile, on Feferi's end, it's too much to go into here but i think she has struggles with being present with others. so though i think she also deeply cares about Eridan and was absolutely miffed he was going to Karkat for things that she(being his moirail at the time) should have been talked to about, i think she has a lot of character development to go through before she can really pursue quadrants as something she needs and wants and not something she thinks she should do. i think flipping pale with Sollux could have been that catalyst but alas :' ] it seems Hussie changed his mind

So, personally, I do actually think Eridan's flushed feelings for Feferi are real... kind of. The fact that he has 0 self-awareness really makes talking about his feelings difficult because everything needs to be qualified with "this would change if he were capable of taking a step back."

The "kind of" here is because I don't think it's necessarily Feferi, the PERSON, that Eridan's in love with, but rather, the Feferi that exists in his head. To Eridan, Feferi is a bubbly, adorable, cheerful girl who's nice to everybody and doesn't have a mean bone in her body. He literally says that he thinks she might be too nice to have a pitch relationship with somebody, which is definitely not true, as Feferi can be plenty mean, and there's plenty to find flawed about her.

The first reason for this mistaken belief is that that's definitely the way that Feferi believes herself to be, so it's how she presents herself, and Eridan believes people when they tell him stuff. The second is because, in Eridan's shitty, friendless life, Feferi has been his one constant - the person who's always been there for him, the only person who's consistently nice to him (until he meets Karkat, and even then, Karkat is master of the mixed signals, and Eridan implies that death threats and insults are regular banter between them), and oftentimes the one person who cheers him up when he's at his lowest.

I think a lot of people in the fandom are too hard on Feferi - she's genuinely well-meaning, and most of her bad points come from ignorance and privilege, not manipulativeness or spite. She doesn't consciously realize it when she's treating Eridan poorly, and she makes real efforts to be a good moirail to him, even though he doesn't usually reciprocate those efforts. I think she suffers from the Umbridge Effect, where Eridan's problems - being on such the extreme end of trauma and anxiety - almost feel alien and unreal, while everyone knows a Feferi, so Feferi draws in some undue vitriol.

She has a few outbursts at him when he's egregiously rude for no reason, but given she's been dealing with his severe mental illness for so long, and takes his threats and casteism at least semi-seriously, I don't blame her for being exhausted and snapping from time to time. She's genuinely just not equipped to help him with his problems - lest we forget, she's also 13. Otherwise, everything else she does to harm him is something she just genuinely doesn't consciously realize is a problem, because she's got a hard time seeing past her privilege.

For example, using Eridan for feeding Gl'bgolyb without gratitude - the thing is, societally, it's his job, and HAS always been a violet's job. Not only that, but given his... everything, if she asked him if he's okay with doing it, he'd definitely insist that he is, and in fact, that it's HIS duty and HIS privilege. He also started INCREDIBLY young, so it's genuinely just been like this for their entire lives. It's a bit shitheaded for Feferi to not realize how much she benefitted from this arrangement, but, again, it's a crime of ignorance, not malice.

In a similar vein, I think she stayed in her moirallegiance for as long as she did partially because she got an ego boost out of it. She commiscerates with Kanaya over how burdensome he is, and she gets to say things like "we are not better than anybody," which she absolutely doesn't actually feel, given how she won't shut up about being a royal when talking to Jade. She's elated to break up with him, her narration celebrating with a big "you're FREE!!!" and it's not a coincidence that said break-up happens after Eridan's no longer useful to her - she outright states that he can't threaten their species anymore now that they're in the game and everyone else is dead.

BUT, I think she ALSO means it when she says that she stayed in that moirallegiance because she was genuinely worried for him. Both this statement and the above paragraph can be simultaneously true. There's nothing about Eridan that's actually that offensive to Feferi, and I really do think she means it when she says she wants to stay friends. His constant emotional crises have just left her burnt out in terms of sympathy, and she never really knew how to handle him in the first place, but in their first conversation together, she's still genuinely making an effort to get him to open up about his feelings and to cheer him up about his failed kismesistude.

After the breakup and his failed confession, the thing is, he does accept that rejection! ... Kind of. (Again with the kind ofs.)

He outright tells her he accepts that she doesn't like him like that... BUUUT, is trying to get her to go ashen with him and Sollux, instead. THIS is the "trying to keep her with him" angle you're talking about, IMO; I think his flushed feelings are genuine, even if they're aimed at this idealized version of Feferi moreso than the real deal. Without Feferi in the picture, I think Eridan and Sollux would have a completely lukewarm mutual dislike. The sheer lukewarmness is probably why Erisolsprite is so stable - they're completely mid for each other.

The realness of his flushed feelings for Feferi is, incidentally, part of why I think him and Roxy would work so well together - if this idealized version of Feferi (bubbly, adorabloodthirsty, pink, cute, cheerful, and kind) is his Type... well.

I also think he and Feferi would work pretty well as just normal friends; they might have fallen into that dynamic on their own if they'd met later on in life. In a hypothetical golden ending, I think they do fall into it once EriKar happens, since moirallegiances are stated to have a stabilizing effect on a troll's other relationships.

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Hey there

I just wanna so a question

The other day I was out with my mum and i was wearing a hoodie

It was really hot out and because of this I got really mad

Everything became annoying to me

Like every sound became too loud and that sort of thing if that makes sense

I just wanna know if over sensitivity to heat has anything to do with autism or am i just really dramatic

Thank you :)

Hi there,

I also have a hard time in the heat. I find unbearable. I’d rather be freezing cold.

I found an article going over heat intolerance and autism. Here’s a excerpt:

For those with autism spectrum disorder (ASD), this problem can be exacerbated. This is because many people with ASD may experience hypersensitivity and heat intolerance.

Hypersensitivity can make the feeling of sweat, warmth, and uncomfortable clothes even more unbearable. While not everybody with autism struggles with this, hypersensitivity is a relatively common symptom of the condition.

The article will be below in case you’d like to read more.

I also found another article listing some ways to cope during hot weather:

1. Water, water everywhere

Keep water, or herbal tea, or anything drink-wise that is non-soda based and caffeine-free with you at all times. Sip (don’t gulp) at regular intervals. If the heat is unbearable, simple tricks like sucking an ice cube can also work; it will cool you down and keep you properly hydrated. Try and avoid anything sugary or carbonated, as that can sometimes make you sweat more or even induce anxiety.

2. Let us spray

Do you have an old spray bottle or an atomizer? Fill this with cool water and use it to spray your hands, face, neck and head if the heat feels like it might be too much for you. It’s very refreshing and as the water evaporates, you will cool down.

3. Inhale “cool” essential oils

If you can tolerate fragrance, make up a blend of cool-smelling essential oils that can be inhaled from a tissue or handkerchief at regular points. Peppermint, eucalyptus and tea tree are all great ideas — they’ll clear your head and cool you down.

4. Adapt your clothing to suit your ASD

I hate the feeling of having my arms uncovered outdoors, even in extreme heat, so I’ve had to adapt my clothing accordingly. I’ll only really ever wear long sleeve shirts in light-colored, lightweight fabrics. I won’t ever wear shorts for the same reason, so I’ll switch to linen trousers or light jeans if I can.

5. Protect your eyes and your head

Sunlight and ASD can equal problems with sight and vision. Always have good quality sunglasses, and a few pairs so you’ve got them to hand. If you have to wear them indoors, do so and don’t apologize for it.

6. A once a day sunscreen can really help

There are some brilliant once-a-day application sunscreens on the market now, which can mean the difference between having to stay in because you burn easily and going out for at least a few minutes every day. Sometimes, ASD folks can be photosensitive to sunlight, and a product like this can help them tolerate the heat and light better.

7. If you need to shut out daylight, shut it out!

Close the curtains, blinds and drapes if you need to, and it doesn’t matter what time of day it is. Sunlight can be intrusive and cause pain. There comes a point in every day — usually about 6 p.m. — when I have to give in and close everywhere up. I become too tired to focus and concentrate and I find the slight darkness quietens my head down a little.

The link to this article will also be below in case you want to check it out.

I hope these sources help answer your question. Thank you for the inbox. I hope you have a wonderful day/night. ❤️