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insoukokuhell-434 · 1 year ago

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Chuuya Takes Care of Dazai Fics

Includes:

Emotional Hurt/Comfort (long term & immediate)

Physical Hurt/Comfort

The format I’m using is:

Title - writer (ao3 link) Fic length Time period (teen/mafia skk, 22! Skk, all ages) Additional tags (Tags in bold added by me for extra info) TW

Some fics have parts of the summary/ comments added for additional info

Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Long Term (multiple instances)

hey look, the sky's falling apart - saffroncassis

24.8k TEEN SKK (16/17) AU - Canon Divergence Protective Nakahara Chuuya, Angst, Fluff, Humor, Developing Relationship Found Family (the Akutagawa siblings, Oda's kids, Kyouka, Oda, Ango) TW- Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse and discussions of both these, also cw food for the whole fic

Summary - "At age 16, Chuuya defects from the Port Mafia and drags his partner with him not so much kicking and screaming as silently begrudging, and the rest follow suit in time."

Mostly Chuuya helping Dazai, but Dazai supports him too <33

[Really realistic depiction of the relationship between a depressed person and their supportive partner!]

For the Record - zombiemarker

19.1k TEEN SKK AU- Spies & Secret Agents + Physical Hurt/Comfort Nightmares, Childhood Trauma, they get all dressed up and go to a gala, Implied Sexual Content, Fluff & Angst, Literal sleeping together, Getting together, First kiss, Developing Relationship TW - Blood and Violence, Childhood Trauma

From tags: "Chuuya's a government experiment, Dazai's been with Mori for years, they've both got trauma now"

Mostly Chuuya helping Dazai, but Dazai supports him too <33

A mouth to empty into - series by osamuchuu

Not listing all 4 fics cause this post is already so long, but they’re all amazing pls go read them!

The series depicts depression + CSA trauma so well!

This is my favourite -

Love is not a victory march - osamuchuu

8.7k 22 SKK Soukoku taking care of each other, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mental Illness, Depression, Drug Addiction, Blood and Injury, Healing, Recovery, Soukoku Tenderness, Light Angst TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide References and Attempts, Addiction, Drug Use

believe me darling, the stars were made for falling -communist_sasuke

14.6k ALL AGES Worried Chuuya, Love Confessions, Dazai is a Mess, Angst, Self-Harm , Fluff & Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon timeline, First Kiss, TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions , Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt

Trust Fall - insi

3.5k ALL AGES (Dark Era, Post-Dark Era, 22 SKK) Emotional Constipation, Mental Health Issues, Dazai has issues TW - Implied/Referenced Suicide & Self-Harm, Suicidal ideation

From tags: Chuuya has met Dazai on the rooftop many times throughout knowing each other.

Immediate

Emotional H/C

Even the Darkness We're Watching Is So Beautiful - NastyaEx

4k 22 SKK (post-109) bsd 109, Fluff, Dazai Needs a Hug, Dazai is a Mess, exhausted dazai, dazai cries but only a little bit, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sharing a Bed, Soft skk, Dazai centered, yosano is a bit here and she's great

I'll Make A Home In Your Gut Because its Somewhere Warm to Sleep - arahabakii

8.9k 22 SKK Fluff, Angst, Mutual Pining, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Making Out, Getting Together, Domestic Fluff, Touch-Starved Dazai, Dazai needs a hug, Chuuya needs a hug TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide References

stay- neon_toad

4.6k 22 SKK (pm!skk flashbacks) Suffering Dazai, Dazai Needs a Hug , Dazai is Bad at Feelings, Oblivious Dazai Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hugs, birthday, Birthday Presents, soft skk TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide References

where are you? - doeinstinct

2.8k 22 SKK Depression, Disordered Eating, physical symptoms of depression, Mentions of past self harm, m because they shower together, canon adjacent, meal replacements, Love Confessions, They're In Love Your Honor

Run Away With Me - Anonymous

5.3k Dark Era Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, Suicidal Thoughts, Soft Soukoku, Dazai Needs a Hug , Dazai Has Feelings, Pining, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sharing a Bed, Chuuya Needs a Hug, Kissing, Dazai asks Chuuya to run away with him

stay the night - Shinkirou

3.6k 22 SKK Gen or Pre-Slash, Developing Relationship, Character Study, Sharing a Bed, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dazai's depression

Physical Hurt/Comfort

Fool for loyalty, or some other word - osamuchuu

1.7k Dark Era Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Injury Light Angst, chuuya deals with so much tbh, what a champ, Fluff and Angst, Pre-Relationship, Established Relationship, chuuya being Dazai's nurse because he absolutely was Dazai's angry nurse

under wraps - Coffeebiscuits

5k Post-Dark era + Emotional hurt comfort Love confessions, deep talks, Light angst, Fluff and angst, kissing, crushes, sharing a bed, Suicide, Self-Harm, Tending to Wounds TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

From tags: “basically chuuya has to patch dazai upand they talk about some things they need to discuss”

Chuuya also gets some emotional comfort

EXHAUSTION

So if you go too far I'll be there - Kimisu

2.5k 22 SKK - Pre-Fyodor | Cannibalism Arc No Plot/Plotless, Literal Sleeping Together, Some Fluff, Canon Timeline

From Summary: Based on a HC that Dazai spends days before every major arc planning and arranging the pieces in order for everything to 'work'. He also pushes his body limits a bit too far when doing that sometimes.

SICK FIC

Nothing More Important Than You - StormDew2

3k MAFIA SKK (15) Sickfic, Soft soukoku, Vulnerability

Please like/reblog if this helped u find a fic, I'd be delighted to know asjsj <3

“Dazai takes care of Chuuya” recs here

Fic rec masterlist here

#soukoku #soukoku fic rec #skk #skk fic rec #soukoku fics #skk fics #really hope the categorizing makes sense!#didn't know how else to do it ;-;#15 in total :D #sierra’s recs #edit: added 'where are you'#Sierra’s posts 🌸

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avrelius · 2 years ago

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🙂

Can I help you @7wolfmoon

#cw: suicidal ideation maybe!#it's luca so it's just adjacent enough

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finalvortex · 2 years ago

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On the broken backs of all the words we spared Like little soldiers in the trenches It was a march we made towards ruin and despair But we held hands all the while

CW: self harm, suicidal ideation, animal death

I would describe my sasharcy playlist as 'loosely canon adjacent'. I basically think of it as taking place in an au where Sasha and Marcy find each other first, but all the major events are still more or less the same

Other playlists:

anne | sasha | marcy

sashanne | marcanne | sasharcy

plantars | calamity | darcy

#Spotify #amphibia #amphibia playlist #sasharcy #we're getting there

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no-wings-no-angel · 1 year ago

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CW: Ventpost with mentions of self-destructive ideation such as self harm in a PMDD context, some bad experiences with alternative medicine and spiritual cures.

I have a suspect I might suffer from PMDD or something adjacent, so I told my doctor about symptoms such as hopelessness, feeling like harming myself, feeling like everyone hates me, the list goes on, only to then have my period and just going “ah. so that was it.” And how despite me knowing I feel like that because of my cycle doen’t make it less uncomfortable and painful to feel like this once a fucking month.

She just. Just fucking showed me a silly PMS meme said it was very normal to feel like that and prescribed that Rescue Remedy that is basically watered down brandy.

I have no idea what the profile of the rest of her patients is but I feel like someone going in and saying they feel like dying by their own hand is not like, you know, normal and average and absolutely brush-off-able.

Also she prescribed that seed on the outer part of the ear treatment but I’m not doing that. No shame on acunpucture but. No. Just no. It just looks a lot like pseudoscience stuff I’ve been through. Alternative medicine overall makes me a bit uncomfortable.

I have a history of having my mental health concerns treated like something that can be solved by alternative medicine or religious practices such as magnets, fitotherapy, teas, herbal baths, blessings and religious iniciations. I also have been called an indigo child several times. It feels just like a way to explain away my pain like “is not that you are suffering, you are just built different and that is actually really good for the Earth and Space and you should become a medium or something! Feeling suicidal is actually a symptoms that your soul is not from this planet and you want to go home! You are an empath and special!”

Needless to say I don’t believe any of that shit and actually got an autism diagnosis recently.

This experience just catapulted me way back to my 14 y.o. stage of neglected concerns. I’m just so tired of this shit.

Still I’ll take the brandy drops because why the fuck not. Also the internet said it is supposed to be taken as a crisis med but the bottle literally says to take 4 drops 3 times a day, I’m confused.

#she doesnt know abt the autism diagnosis and my psychologist said i should have made that clear to her. oh well.#im getting a follow up appointed since i got some blood tests prescribed so we’ll see #vent #mine

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whumpingcrow · 2 years ago

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Fixed - Gio in retraining

Cw: bbu whump and everything adjacent to that, institutionallized slavery, dehumanization, behavior modification, migraine whump, memory loss, discussion of torture methods, whipping, shock collar whump, gagging mention, blood/bruises, noncon mention (vague), whumpee with a very messed up headspace, suicidal ideation (pretty vague), conditioned whumpee, humiliation whump, food mention, noncon mention (fade to black) (let me know if I missed anything!)

There is a tiny square window in the upper left corner of the concrete cell, a pale yellow light squeezes through and washes out the gray of the wall in the spot it touches. The boy has been staring at it for so long that a sharp aching is blossoming behind his eyes. He knows it doesn’t lead to the outside world, the light coming in never ceases or dims or changes color, but still he tries to imagine that it’s sunlight. As long as he doesn’t think about how he’s just pretending, it almost makes him feel a little better.

The bruises on his knees have long gone numb, it’s probably been a few hours since one of the trainers came in and gave him his position and told him not to move until he got back. He didn’t argue and he didn’t complain (he can’t remember if he used to do either of those things when he first got to this place, he tries now to imagine the taste of defiance on his tongue and it is painfully missing, so maybe he never had it in the first place.), and hours later, when the pain has escalated and morphed into something so intense he can’t even understand it anymore, he still doesn’t even move. There isn’t a shift of his weight to try and ease the pain, no pitiful attempts to discreetly stretch out his taut muscles. He knows by now that whatever pain he’s feeling right now is nothing compared to what will be done to him if he disobeys. He acknowledged right from the beginning of this…was this a punishment? He can’t even remember that much, by now, but at the very start of it he realized there was mercy in it. Kneeling on the hard floor and bruising to the bone was the nicest thing he’d been made to do in so long, so of course he was going to do it well. He could only imagine what they might do to him if he messed up something as lenient as this. So for hours, or days, or weeks, he lost his sense of time forever ago, he stays still, he pretends it isn’t hurting so bad, he pretends the synthetic sunlight isn’t giving him a migraine, he doesn’t think, he is good, he is so tired, he can hardly work up the energy to inhale, he doesn’t know how he’s still upright, but he is good, and he is quiet. Through his delirious pain, he finds himself thinking that his last owner would be proud.

The door is loud when it’s unlocked. He’s always been thankful for that, for the small warning it provides. It’s a metallic, technical noise, with lots of clicking and shifting of overly complicated mechanics, and it takes a few seconds before the door can fully slide open. It’s almost funny that the people training him think he needs that intense of a security system to keep him in here; he’s been doing ridiculously obedient things like kneeling for hours on end for what feels like a lifetime now, and they think, without this lock, that he might just get up and walk out.

But maybe he wouldn’t walk, maybe he’d try sprinting. Until his legs give out, or until someone catches up to him and tackles him and then they would have to drag him kicking and screaming back to this room-

He knows how blank and stupid his gaze is when he looks up at the two figures in the doorway, everyone around here is always reminding him of that whenever they get the chance. It must be even worse this time around, he’s been staring at the fake sun for so long the people in the doorway are blotchy with black and purple shadows floating around his vision, and he can guess how idiotic he looks trying to blink his vision clear and search for a way around them so he can see their faces.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe it.” The voice bounces off the bare concrete walls, everything has seemed so much louder in this room since they took the cot out. “Eight fuckin’ hours. God damn unbelievable.”

“I told you.” This voice he recognizes, it’s the same one that told him to kneel and stay put, once or twice before it’s told him to put his hands against the wall and keep them there while he was dealt gruesome lashes to his exposed back (never enough to bleed, they only make him bleed if it won’t leave a scar). He knows the voice comes with a pair of reddish brown eyes and slightly darker slicked back hair. He doesn’t know his name, or any of the trainers' names. That’s the only thing they have in common: they’re nameless to each other.

Their shoes scuff against the floor as they enter the room, just enough to close the door behind them. The lock whirs back again, and now he is trapped in here with them. He realizes all at once how sporadic and pained his breathing sounds, he tries his best to steady it so they don’t make it into another punishment.

There’s a soft, baffled chuckle from one of them, he isn’t quite sure who. Then, the first voice speaks again, a little softer than the first time. “No, no, I believed you about the no noise thing but-”

“Not a peep.” The trainer interrupts proudly.

“Right. But I mean, no tears at all? He didn’t cry the whole time?”

His heart sinks at the remark, he wasn’t supposed to cry, was he? He’d always been punished harshly for it, no one here had ever wanted him to cry. He searches through his memory for the exact words the trainer used after he was in position.

“Stay here. Don’t move, don’t make a fucking sound.”

It had been echoing around in his head since he first heard it, but he wondered if it distorted with time and pain and maybe originally the point was for him to cry. He has to focus all of his energy into keeping the panic out of his face, in the process he feels his hands twitch at his sides, just the tiniest bit, not enough for either of them to notice.

“I know. This new system is a dream, I’m telling you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a recall respond this well.”

He allows himself to exhale the most miniscule breath of relief. He had responded well. So well, in fact, that the trainer had brought someone else along with him to gloat. The boy would have smiled, if he didn’t know for a fact that it would get him beat. So he instead continues to blink at the two blurry, blotched out people standing across the room.

“Imagine how much we could save if we implicated this training with the new intakes-”

“You know that’s not an option,” the other voice cuts off the trainer, “it’s too…you know this is for recalls only. If we used it right out of the gate it could get us shut down.”

The trainer scoffs wryly, the boy feels instantly afraid at how unhinged of a sound it is. Surely, he will take the heat for this going bad, he will be there for the trainer to let his anger out on when the other person leaves, he will allow himself to be berated to make the trainer feel better, and he no longer feels any conflict about it. It is his purpose, he understands now, to hurt for others. Whether it be as a stress reliever or a punching bag or a sex toy, as long as he is in pain at the hands of others, he is doing what he was made for. He should feel honored.

He feels scared.

“I don’t think you’re getting it,” the trainer starts, his shoes are making their way across the concrete toward the boy, they stop a few feet away from him, “you were here when he was sent back. You witnessed right along with me the state he was in. And now…”

The boy can make out some of his trainer's features now, the splotches burnt into his retina are slowly fading away, and he is even more scared when he finds anger in the face of the man above him. He doesn’t react, though, he looks back down at the floor, making sure to breathe through his nose and keep his spine straight.

“Stand up. Come here.”

The command comes as a surprise to both the boy and the man standing near the door still, but only one of them reacts outwardly. The man is shaking his head, laughing to himself in disbelief. The boy screams inside of his head, and then he tries to stand up.

Everything from the middle of his spine to the tips of his toes lights up with pain the second he moves, he only gets one foot solidly under him before collapsing right to his knees again. His face burns with embarrassment, his hands shake in fear, but he doesn’t let out even a whine. When he looks up to see what his trainer is making of the pathetic attempt, he finds dissatisfaction, and his heart breaks. He used to question this, at the beginning, why did it make him so sad to displease these people that were torturing him? Now, though, he swallows the heartbreak fully, lets it overtake him, because pleasing others is what he was made for, and if he can’t do that then he doesn’t deserve to even live. So he tries standing again. It proves even more pointless than the first time, his already bruised knees hitting the solid ground hurts so bad he goes numb everywhere else. His breathing picks up, he’s now a mess of hitched and quick breaths through his flared nostrils. Still, he makes no sound.

The trainer is getting fed up with him, the boy can tell by the way he shifts his weight and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s the same thing he did before he put the shock collar on the boy and showed him what it was like to really not be able to hold back his screams, and before he threw him face first into the wall and held him there to make him watch as the others took away his cot. He dreads what will happen when the other man leaves, he dreads even more that the man might not leave and he will have to receive punishment from two of them. More than any of that, he’s just embarrassed. His trainer had been so proud of the progress he’d made, proud enough to show it off, and now the boy was ruining all of it just because he couldn’t make himself stand up.

So he tries again.

And again he fails.

He wants to cry, more than anything, and he has for the last eight hours, but he just can’t. Not when he knows that crying will only earn him the shiny, much too sharp gag that he’s been in more times than he can count. For a second he wonders if having that cut into his cheeks and tongue for a few hours would be better or worse than this humiliating test, but realizes that he doesn’t get to pick and choose his punishments, why does he think he deserves that luxury?

He tries again.

This time, he gets a little further, and there’s a moment where he’s standing on shaking, useless legs, and he’s proud of himself. He attempts a step toward his trainer, and then he’s right back where he started, on his knees, biting back tears, swallowing back pleas, wondering how to get out of this and then wondering how he could dare to think such a thing.

The next time his knees hit the ground, he isn’t able to stop the soft, barely audible gasp he lets out, and then he’s shaking even more at the idea of them using it against him. He sets his jaw, he tries to level his ever-quickening breathing, he tries to stand up again. This should be easy, he can’t process why he isn’t able to make the three or four steps it would take to be in front of his trainer, and he feels so stupid, so ashamed. He throws a nervous glance at the man standing at the door, who is watching on with an indecipherable frown. Is he disappointed in the boy for not being able to complete this simple task? Is he going to order more cruel “exercises” to make him better?

He forces himself to get his feet under him, he stands slowly, he doesn’t permit himself to wince when he wants to. His whole body jolts involuntarily at the pain taking a step causes, and right when he thinks he might be able to do it, his legs are giving way beneath him and he’s sinking to the cold, hard floor with a thud. This time it hurts so much he gets nauseous, and he presses his palms into the cool floor to try and ground himself.

“Alright, I think you’ve proven your point-” the man at the door begins, the boy looks up at him with the smallest amount of gratitude written into his face. He’s panting now, and he’s pale and jittery all over, and still he’s managed to keep the tears from his eyes and any sounds of discomfort from his throat.

“No, I haven’t. You’re missing my point entirely, actually.” The trainer looks down his nose at the mess in front of him, the boy could curl up and die right there at how unhappy he looks. “I’ve given him an order, and he’s going to do it. You’ll see.”

The boy swallows, he looks at the little square of light on the wall again. He hopes that soon, they might tell him that he’s finally trained well enough to leave and he can see real sunlight again. He stands. He sways. He falls. He stands. He staggers forwards. He falls. He stands. He holds his breath. He thinks he might pass out. He falls. He reminds himself that crying will get him into trouble. He takes a shuttering breath. He stands. He wants to feel the sun on his skin. He takes a step. He wants to breath in air that isn’t dense with his own tortured cries. He falls. He reminds himself that making noise is what got him sent back in the first place. He stays silent. He stands. He wants to sleep on something soft. He takes a step. He’s so tired of waking up covered in bruises and trying to figure out if they’re from the trainers or where his bones meet the concrete he sleeps on. He takes a step. He has to get out of here. He takes a step. He has to get out of here, it doesn’t matter where they send him as long as it isn’t here. He takes a step. He wonders what he did in his old life to deserve this. He takes a step. He knows that if it made him end up here, it must have been something horrible. He takes a step. He is glad he doesn’t remember.

“There’s no fucking way…” the man at the door mutters. The boy is uneasy at how much he’s cussing, too often he’s been on the receiving end of most of that foul language, and the actions that come along with them are never pleasant.

In between his soft gasps of pain held at bay, the boy whispers out a tiny “I’m sorry, sir,” and he leaves it at that. Because he can’t will himself to look up at his trainer, he misses the smile he’s wearing, and it startles him when he laughs.

“You hear that?” He announces. “The dumb fuck is apologizing to me.” Then he turns back to the boy, takes his face in his hand. His touch is somewhere between caring and demeaning. The boy leans into it like he’s been searching for warmth his entire life. When he speaks again, it’s quietly, just to the boy. “You did good. That was exactly what I needed from you. Well done.”

All of the pain from the last few hours seems to melt away at that. The boy cracks a tired grin, he pushes further into the hand against his cheek. When he first got here, he was humiliated at any form of praise, it only made him push back against the training more. Now, it feels like it’s what he lives for. He would do anything for it, because being touched gently and being told that he was giving up his humanity, his freedom, so perfectly was far better than the pointless struggle and agony of trying to keep it.

When the trainer steps away from him, he barely stops himself from falling right to the floor again, and he stays swaying in his spot as the other two continue their conversation. He’s hardly listening now, too focused on staying upright, but he hears his trainer saying something about how much money they could save if they used this so-called “new system” right at the beginning. Distantly, the boy feels a heavy guilt, like it’s all his fault that others may be treated the same way he has. He thinks about all the times he’d lay there praying for death to show him mercy while he hugged his own bloody and bruised body, and he thinks about the shock collar, and he thinks about the migraines, and he thinks about the little square of fake sunlight that never moves, and when he imagines anyone else going through that, it makes him sick to his stomach. He may have deserved it, but no one else does, and if the trainers start using those methods on others, it would be all his fault. He only feels that distantly, though, because he can hear his trainer saying something about a reward, now, and it’s been so long since he was given anything but punishment that he can’t focus on thinking about anything other than the trainer making his way back to him. The other man is gone, the boy wonders how he didn’t notice the loud sound of the door opening and closing when he left.

“How do you think you did?” The trainer checks. His voice has a slight condescending tone, but when does it not?

“I…I am sorry it took me so long, sir.”

The trainer hums in agreement. He’s touching the boy again, his hands trailing over the nape of his neck and grabbing onto his shoulders. “You didn’t make any noise.”

“I am to be seen and not heard. Sir.” He recites it well, despite his shaking voice and his wavering breathing. He can’t ever keep himself composed when historically cruel hands are suddenly nice with him.

“Good. That’s good. You didn’t cry either.”

“No, sir, I have no reason to cry.” He wants to cry every second of every single day. From the time he opens his eyes to the time he closes them he is holding back tears. Sometimes he wakes up and catches himself crying at something in his sleep. He thinks he would die if anyone ever caught him.

“Those bruises on your knees look painful. It must’ve hurt a lot, to do all of that just now.” There’s no pity in his voice, it is very clearly a test, and it’s one that the boy knows how to pass.

“My pain means nothing, sir.” The pain is making him lose his mind. He would do anything to make it stop, if only he knew how.

The trainer steps closer. The boy tries not to tense up in his grip, he tries not to flinch away from him when he leans in so they’re breathing in each other's air.

“I’m very proud of you.” He mumbles.

“Oh,” the boy breathes, his cheeks grow scarlett and he looks away from the trainer completely, “th…thank you, sir.”

“Are you hungry?”

He pauses, is this still a test? And then he looks back up at the trainer. “If you…if you wanted to feed me I would be so, so grateful, sir, but I would never ask-”

“Wow,” the trainer laughs, “this is incredible. I almost can’t believe…when you first came here, you probably don’t remember, you bit me so hard I bled. I still have a scar.” He pulls a hand away from the boy to pull down the collar of his shirt and sure enough, there’s a faded outline of teeth where his shoulder meets his neck. As soon as he’s sure the boy saw it, he lets go of his shirt and returns his hand to the boy’s slim shoulder.

All of the blood drains from the boy's face, he shakes his head to himself, like he’s scolding himself for it. He doesn’t remember, like the trainer said, and he also can’t imagine himself doing something like that. He is horrified that he was once in a place where he would hurt a trainer, not to mention disgusted in himself, and it shows in every inch of his trembling, wiry frame. “I am so sorry, sir-”

“No, you don’t understand, pet,” the trainer is leaning even closer, his mouth is against the shell of the boy's ear when he speaks again, “I fixed you. I tore you to pieces and then I rebuilt you from scratch and I made you perfect.”

There’s a brief moment where the boy is speechless. He’s still trying to reel himself in from the spiraling self-hatred and guilt that he hurt someone so bad, especially a trainer, and he’s trying to figure out what was happening to him that would make him lash out and bite someone in the first place, and he’s trying to understand why the trainers phrasing of “fixing” him makes him feel so sad. But then, after he really thinks about it, he’s happy. The trainer fixed him, he is perfect, he said, which means he doesn’t need any more training, right? It means he should be able to leave now, and maybe be somewhere with real sunshine and night and day.

“Thank you, sir.” He rushes out. “Thank you for fixing me.”

The trainer smiles against his skin, and then his hands migrate to the boy’s hair, he’s neither gentle nor aggressive when he grabs fistfulls of it, but rather something in the middle. “I’m going to get you a nice, hot, proper meal. I’ll even bring you to the dining hall, that’s your reward. You were so good for me today.”

“Oh, thank you-”

“I just need you to do one last thing for me, ok?”

The boy nods instantly. “Of course, anything, sir.”

“Good boy.” The trainer pulls off of him, looks him up and down with a smile. “Get back on your knees.”

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viralzone · 2 years ago

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WHAT IS ReLOAD RODEO : A SUMMARY

Series CW: death, strong language, themes of abuse, suicidal ideation and discrimination, sexual innuendo and sexually charged scenes.

___________________________________________________ Summer. 31st of May. 2008

Renée Roux, our miraculously impulsive graffiti enthusiast, finds herself in the middle of a crime scene during her usual delivery route. Wildly popular rapper and producer extraordinaire, EMceeEM, lies dead in a back alley, the scene triggering a strange vision depicting what appears to be Renee's own death.

Gun in hand and with a newfound desire to solve a crime she should know nothing about, Renée is at the centre of a mélange of time-travel intrigue, gang wars and self-loathing as she attempts to fulfill her responsibility (???) as a proxy agent drafted into working for a shadowy organisation known simply as the "Agency".

Job. Rent. Bills. Defacing public property. Investigating time-travelling serial killers. State-sanctioned destruction of the self. A lot to juggle in the suburbs of Paris...

___________________________________________________ SETTING: SEINE-SAINT-DENIS

The story takes place throughout the Île-de-France, but most prominently in the suburb of Seine-Saint-Denis adjacent to Paris. The area was victim to deindustrialisation in the 70s and has been left economically isolated since; though it is rich in culture/counterculture due to its social context and sports a huge mix of ethnicities, enriching it beyond its status as an economically deprived suburb. Saint-Denis is considered the birth place of France's hip-hop scene and lays much of the foundation for ReLOAD RODEO's thematic underpinnings.

___________________________________________________ DUM SPIRO SPERO

READ ReLOAD RODEO ON ITCH.IO

READ ReLOAD RODEO ON GLOBALCOMIX

READ ReLOAD RODEO ON TAPAS

PATREON

#reload rodeo #webcomic #comic #queer artist #artists on tumblr #viral-zone art

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virtue-and-beneviolence · 3 years ago

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Roulette

kisaki birthday special drabble except he’s dead and there’s only shuji lmao dealing with the loss tho so kisaki adjacent cw: death? suicidal ideation/intent? s’dark ig?

The door to Hanma Shuji’s apartment is ripped open and slammed shut. His fist meets the sturdy wood with a shuddering bang.

Again.

And again.

Over and over, until the white paint is stained crimson, and a neighbor is hollering for him to “keep it down, asshole!”

But he wouldn’t respond even if he could hear it. Not when his world had been reduced to a desaturated hellscape. His breath comes in short bursts as he slams his head and keeps it resting on the door. He sucks a breath through gritted teeth with eyes squeezed tight. Nothing. God dammit, it was all gone.

Gone. The word repeated in his mind, stumbling over the syllable until it lost all meaning in the screaming depths of his mind.

The last time he saw the colors they were spilling all over the street, pooling around his only friend’s body and fading by the second as the life drained from Kisaki.

No amount of pain, no high could bring them on since.

Hanma shoved off the door and made a beeline for his desk. Blood slicked fingers from split knuckles carded through unkempt locks leaving his signature blonde red-streaked. He sat at his desk and pulled his revolver from the top drawer. He knocked out the loaded bullets and let them clatter raucously along his desk and floor, save one that his large palm slammed atop and reloaded.

Without the colors he’s always known, what was the fucking point? Life without color wasn’t living.

So he flicked the cylinder with his thumb, lifted it to his temple, and pulled the trigger without a second’s hesitation.

#hanma shuji #shuji hanma #kisaki tetta #tokyo revengers

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ninereadytoanswer · 3 years ago

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Was sort of thinking about a scenario where Hua Cheng does something he has good reason to think Xie Lian would in fact be upset about (was thinking about going farther than ‘very annoying’ and hurting Feng Xin or Mu Qing in some random confrontation).

And ended up thinking about - Hua Cheng finds it really reassuring/assuaging, doesn’t he, the part of Xie Lian having his ring that means that Xie Lian can murder him whenever/if he ever feels like it.

Just, if Xie Lian decides at some point that he thinks Hua Cheng just shouldn't exist anymore, shouldn’t be around anywhere in the world at all, then he can do that almost as easily as he decides it. And I think Hua Cheng is very happy that this is the case - it’s correct, in his mind, but also I think it would be the very opposite of a weight.

(And then thinking if it bothered him, during the 800 years, that this wasn’t the case. Xie Lian told him to live for him, but that was a long time ago when things were very different. He’s doing what he’s doing for Xie Lian, but what if Xie Lian wouldn’t approve at all, what if Xie Lian would think he should have scattered to the wind and dispersed like Xie Lian thought he did.

He leaves his ring with Xie Lian and - now things are correct. Now as Xie Lian finds things out, purposely or inevitably, if he ever decides Hua Cheng should not have been living at all - well, it’s too late for it to have been done then, but at least he can easily and expeditiously take care of it now, no lapse or aberration lasting longer than his whim.)

#hua cheng #tgcf #hualian #hua cheng's ashes #cw hua cheng's issue's #...I feel like this needs more warnings but not sure what they should be...#suicidal ideation adjacent cw #I write #meta

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guqin-and-flute · 4 years ago

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[I am once again giving you an unrelated fanfic. Have some Modern married Xiyao.

Potential CW: poor anger coping skills?, very brief mention of suicidal ideation in internal dialogue. It's an errant thought and he doesn't actually mean it]

Jin Guangyao is upset. What's more upsetting is that he doesn't know why he's upset--this lack of information rankles him more than the feeling. He's used to feeling badly. That's how life is. But without a name, there is nowhere to file it away neatly. It is easier to ignore the sharp sting of a newly noticed cut than this fucking awful malaise that has apparently decided to settle over him with no rhyme or reason like he's some stupid idiot in an artsy French film, slowly choking down filtered cigarettes on some rusty balcony against a sunset or something.

That's not what he does. He is efficient. He is useful. And when he is like this, he is not.

And he still doesn't know why. And the fact that he cannot categorize and escape this has the ennui sliding slowly into a slow boil of tooth grinding fury.

Had it been the morning traffic? The fact that the library had emailed to inform him of a delay on his inter-library loan? The fact that his overpriced coffee was just a tiny bit burnt? The fact that Zixuan had taken a sick day today and so had not brought the soup his wife had promised Jin Guangyao for lunch? It shouldn't be, because these are all so horrifyingly trivial.

He has a tension headache beginning to string itself along his temples. He hates that the receptionist has a perky goodbye ready. He hates that the sun is shining so brightly. Then, he hates that the shadows of the clouds when they pass make things look grungy and dull. He hates that there is a flap of leather from his steering wheel that has peeled up in the back from his picking and he can feel it rubbing against his index finger as he stares, white knuckled and unblinking into the brake lights ahead of him as this bubbling pique crescendos as slowly as one of Xichen's beloved classical music pieces.

In fact, one is playing on the radio, softly, just within hearing range. The quiet, shrill edge of violins makes him want to kill something. Maybe himself. There's a bridge coming up in half a mile. He, very sanely, presses the button on the dash that turns it off instead of doing any of those things. The thought of Xichen has a voice of reason suggesting that he might meditate, while trapped here, 10 minutes from home.

Instead, he jabs a button on his fancy, stupid steering wheel with this thumb. An attentive computer noise beeps. The sudden noise in the relative silence of the car makes him dig his nails into the leather. "Text A-Huan," he snaps.

"Okay! What would you like the message to be?"

Jin Guangyao is going to find whoever programmed this faux-friendly robot voice and make them watch him drown their entire family in a toilet. "I. Hate. Everything."

Beep. "Okay! Your message reads; 'I hate everything'. Send?"

"Yes, send," he seethes before it can fully finish.

There is no plan to this. None at all. He just needs something real to sink his metaphorical teeth into. A reasonable anchor to reality to tell him whether or not he's being stupid and terrible for no reason at all.

Even though he already knows that he is.

The response returns in 43 seconds. Jin Guangyao had been counting. The cheery beep sounds just as the very stale green light turns yellow ahead. He presses the gas. "One message from A-Huan."

The light blinks red while he is only 1/4th of the way through the intersection. The lead car of the adjacent left turners beeps and he bares his teeth at her because he isn't fucking invisible, he's in a high profile gold Lexus and she had definitely seen him fucking coming. He stabs the button that makes the car read him the message.

"'Oh no. Bad day? Want to call? Blue heart emoji'," the female robot voice chirps in a butchery of his husbands words and no, no, he does not, because, at this point, it would simply be a minute long sustained scream of rage over literally nothing at all. He should have kept it to himself and found a quiet place to throw rocks at a wall or something until he wasn't such a repellant time bomb.

He does not reply because if he hears that robot voice again, he's going to commit vehicular homicide. And being arrested would not calm him down.

Finally, traffic parts and he pulls into his driveway--he notices how the bush on the side of the house's branches are creeping up to scrape the window of the kitchen and makes a mental note to send a curt text to the landscaper about his pruning habits. Why are they paying him several hundred dollars a month to let a stupid bush get unruly enough to damage the paint on his window trim?

When he slams his door shut, he hears a loud CLACK that announces that he has just closed his seatbelt in the door and lost the last tenuous thread of his temper. Heaving the door back, he plants his other hand up on the black plastic next to the window and smashes it shut again with all of his strength. Repeatedly. CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK--Chunk.

Breath hissing between his teeth, he jerks his suit jacket straight, loosens his tie and stalks to the house. The garage door groans to life behind him. Xichen had been watching.

Perfect.

He's nowhere to be seen when Jin Guangyao slams through the backdoor like a vicious thundercloud, which is good and probably intentional, because it allows him to wrestle off his shoes, jacket, and tie in privacy. This does nothing to release any pressure, because it must be intentional wrestling--controlled and confined so he doesn't pop off a button or rip a seam or scuff the shining black leather. Now he's seething in their immaculate, state of the art kitchen, hating how the cold tile feels against his black dress socks and the fact that it smells like tea. Which is stupid. Because he likes tea. But not right now.

Stop being a piece of shit, he snarls at himself. You've already probably fucked up the car and Xichen doesn't deserve this. He balls up his fists so tightly that the bright pain from his nails sinking into his palms leaks up his arms. Be better.

He has no idea how to do that because he has no idea what is wrong.

Reason says to steer clear of Xichen until he can get a hold of himself and behave like a fucking adult. And in the early days of their relationship, he would have. He had. Whenever he got like this, he would shut down or not have inflicted himself on Xichen at all with a smooth lie, and no amount of prying would get anything useful out of him because he would not be a bother. There had been Talks. Long, extensive Talks about trust and love and wanting to take care of him. He had even believed some of them. That's how they can be married, now, years later--Xichen knowing just how close he is to this at all times. How thin his veneer of manners and pleasantries actually is. (He can't truly know, though, can he. If he knew how much none of it makes sense, there is no possible way someone as kind and intelligent as him would choose to stay.)

Xichen would purse his lips if he said this out loud; somewhere between exasperation and sad fondness. Jin Guangyao doesn't tell him, anymore. Most of the time because he doesn't actually think this.

This is not most of the time.

Yes, reason says that he should suck it up and become a human being before burdening Xichen.

But his husband has long, cool hands and soft eyes and a brilliant mind that can solve any problem just by holding it and maybe he just wants to be small and angry and ugly and pathetic and selfish in the comfort of his own home while someone reminds him that there have been, in fact, good things that have happened in his life and he had been, at one time, happy--believe it or not.

And if nothing else, it compounds his streak of bad decisions.

The smell of tea intensifies when he reaches their room. The curtains are drawn. It renders the deep, dusty blues of the bed spread and the armchair black and the aged gold accent pieces muted, except for where the warm light pouring from their open bathroom door paints them bright again. Xichen sits on the edge of their bed in the soft, expensive loungewear Jin Guangyao got him for his birthday last year, one ankle on his knee, watching him with eyes just as soft as he had been expecting. A mug of tea is tucked into his hand and a plate with round, lumpy shapes sits by his hip. Beside that lays spread out the absurdly oversized and absurdly soft heather gray shirt that Nie Huaisang had gifted to him as a joke but was, in fact, one of Jin Guangyao's guilty pleasure sleep shirts.

With his perfect voice and his perfect logic and his perfect way of being the only good thing on this entire, worthless planet, his husband says, "I think you need to scream into this pillow."

'This pillow' is, in fact, one of theirs, dark blue with a thread count that was higher than any savings he ever had in college, perched on a bundle of blankets that is the perfect size to throw himself upon like a sulking romance heroine. He hates it. Hates that this is known, that this might help.

So he fucking does it. He deliberately stalks around the bed, climbs up, smashes his face into the pillow and screams as loudly as he can. With every single ounce of rage in his body, curling him up like the shriveling of a raisin in fast forward, like the curling of a scorpion tail, like throwing up, wringing every last scant molecule of oxygen out of his lungs.

When the sound peters out and he has to drag in another breath, he curls tighter, the claws of his hands reaching over the top of the pillow to fist in his hair. It presses the plush of it firmer over his face and bites it until his teeth ring with dull pain, and his jaw aches and his head throbs and his eyes sting. His scalp burns from the pull on his hair and his throat is raw and tight.

Tearing himself away, finally, he gasps in a gulp of cooler air. Xichen has turned so he is now cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watching him with a mix of calm and understanding sympathy. "Lay down?"

There is a ragged, hollow hole in him that still has scraps of rage clinging to it like disgusting lichen--but the visceral, all consuming hate seems to have been absorbed by his pillow. So he lets himself roll sideways, eyes closing. Xichen gets off the bed--Jin Guangyao assumes, wearily, that he's putting down the tea mug and hopes that he uses a coaster--and then returns by knee walking up the bed to his side. Then, those cool hands he had been hoping for pick open the tiny hard buttons of his shirt. Each pop releases a a tension across his skin and he feels that he can breathe easier with every one.

Jin Guangyao can hear him breathing, slow and measured, through his nose and thinks that it's probably the most comforting sound that he's ever heard in his entire life--now that he's willing to be comforted. Able to be. The reminder of Xichen's continued existence is the only sound he will ever need to be calm again.

The button up is abandoned in favor of undoing his belt--breath, more of it, infiltrating him deeper and deeper--popping the button on his slacks, tugging them down his legs in a warm slide. The quiet clink of it being tossed somewhere. A closing quiet as Xichen leans in and presses his smooth lips to his forehead. Then the corner of his eyebrow. Then the bridge of his nose. Different points and planes of his face like he is unlocking a combination that will open him up and allow him to purge the rest of the awfulness that lingers.

What it mostly is is exhaustion, now. "A-Huan," he groans--whines. Ugh.

Before disgust at himself can settle in, his husband takes this as the invitation for what it is and kisses his mouth, gentle and slow. Jin Guangyao moves his mouth back, halfheartedly, mostly parting his lips to allow him access to do whatever. But all he does is kiss him chastely. Lovingly. He tastes like green tea. Then, Xichen murmurs against his lips, "Would you like a bath?"

He vents a negating grunt, lolling his head back and forth. Baths are so much work. Even when Xichen offered to wash his hair or read to him or even join him, you still had to keep it hot, you had to endure cold when you left, get yourself dry. Too much change, too much sensation and movement.

He should be shaking himself awake. He should be apologizing for his terrible, pointless mood. He should be trying to kiss him back, love him back, pay him back. Thank him.

Xichen merely lifts his hands and presses the heels of his palms into the hinges at Jin Guangyao's jaw, inexorably grinding the tension out of them. Jin Guangyao allows himself to melt. When those cool fingertips slide into his hair, he lets them tug him upright, so Xichen can slide off his button up and slip him out of his undershirt. He shivers against the chill of the bedroom air, but he doesn't feel a surge of utter hatred for the sensations so, well, that's something. In no time, Xichen has coaxed him into the oversized shirt, removed his socks and bundled him up against the padded headboard, tucked into Xichen's side.

Jin Guangyao allows this. He allows himself to allow the blanket to be tugged up over his bare legs, Xichen to tuck the warm mug of steaming mint tea into his hands, and wind his fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep, shuddering breath before sighing it all out. Xichen's fingers rub soothing circles across his sore scalp.

"Open?"

He cracks one eye to see a cookie hovering at mouth level. It's too dim in the room to properly tell what kind it is, but because Xichen has been perfect in literally every other way, he simply obeys and bites down. Browned butter and sea salt and semi-sweet chocolate ooze across his tongue and the instant spike of sugar satisfaction warms his chest. Jin Guangyao chews with utter contentment, swallows, and opens his mouth again.

"Good?" Xichen's amused voice vibrates warmly through his chest as he indulgently feeds him another bite.

"Mm. Very. Did you make them?"

"I did, earlier today. I just got lucky with the timing." His nails scrape oh so gently across his scalp. "How are you doing?"

Instead of answering, Jin Guangyao blinks up at him and his sweet, kind, ridiculously gorgeous face that is graced by a light smile and a gold edge light from the bathroom.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Being terrible."

"You're never terrible."

"I was today. I think I fucked up the car."

Xichen chuckles, smile crimping to a knowing press. "I saw. It won't be a big deal. We'll deal with it later."

"...Thank you."

"Of course, A-Yao. Do you still hate everything?"

"Mm-nn." He snuggles down deeper against his ribs, looping an arm around Xichen's warm waist. He has the best husband in his arms, his dark-sweet scent is in his nose, chocolate on his tongue, and 1000 count sheets against his skin.

What is there to hate?

#I was in an exceptionally bad mood #so therefore I projected it onto JGY and made Xichen make it better #because that's what writers DO #There is no plot at all except my own journey of being in a better mood. I am now. But it is also 4:20 am. Oh well. You do what you can.#my stuff #my fic #xiyao #lxc #jgy #text #xiyao fanfic #completely unedited because that's how it goes #it's an errant thought and he doesn't mean it #brief suicide mention

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mutantsrisingrpg · 5 years ago

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Congratulations NOEL! You’ve been accepted as IAPETUS.

This was the hardest decision we’ve ever had to make. Both of the applications for Jack were so damn good and we went back and forth on it. But, the way Jack idealizes Alma in your expanded connection has what hooked us, Noel! The way you ended Jacks bio to everything written about Alma, to this “He’d expected a gun to his face; instead, he’d gotten a lifeline.” This, this line right here had us SOBBING. We can’t wait to see you bring Jack to life on the dash!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Noel :~)

PRONOUNS: They/them

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: CDT / GMT-5

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Jack Mizuno

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cismale, he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

I see Jack as someone with an identity whose boundaries are constantly in flux, and the consequences of that endless/unsure sense of self. Someone (largely) unrepressed, unrepentant, unashamed, whose depth comes from his own unknown limitations, and the exhilaration that comes with exploring that edge. What could he do, what will he do? He hardly knows himself, but rather than being a problem, it’s a challenge, a philosophical question. He shares his brain with so much all the time, and sometimes the space between himself and everything else is more a suggestion than a defined line.

He’s like one of those kids raised in excessive, grotesque wealth, except with information instead of money; information, which is often power. Definitely someone who never learned to shut up, turn down the drink or the job or the daring glance. No one can be tapped into the Internet like that, an endless sea of screaming neon and screens and signs and meaning and nonsense and desire, and not be a little bit unhinged. He combats this with a straight-forward, analytical nature, a temperament capable of riding the crest of all that data without drowning. Most of the time.

Ultimately, Jack is someone with immediate access to anything and everything he could ever want to know, and a personality just morally flexible enough that he wouldn’t for a moment think to feel ashamed using it against someone.

BIO: (cw: neglect, violence, addiction, drugs, suicidal ideation)

Jack’s power had started as a party trick.

It was the first time he’d been invited to a sleepover. The other boy’s parents probably felt bad for him, the kid with no mom and no friends and an always-absent father, but the specifics didn’t matter much. He’d been hungry for their attention, anyone’s attention, and when the opportunity was given to him he intended to leave an impression. Do you have a computer room? There’s something you should see. He’d rested one hand on the mouse, one on the keyboard, scowling-serious like the hackers he’d seen on TV. The posture was more for the visual than anything else; he wasn’t going to need to press a single key tonight. Give me a name. Someone you hate.

One brush of his thumb against a wire, and the screen flickered a hundred colors. Garbled words and images, resolving into a series of personal photos, emails meant for someone else’s eyes. A social security card. A private world cracked open for him, as easy as asking please.

It was the last time he’d let anyone watch him work. The other kids had looked at him in horror, his still hands, the blank look on his face. Blank as the static on a broken TV, or the waxy face of a corpse. Freak. Mutant. It didn’t bother him— other people’s opinions rarely bothered him— but it made the reveal less effective. Distracted from the point, which was: Look what I can do. And, more importantly: What can you give me for it?

Jack had been glad when they'd moved states not long after. Moving every few months was mostly an annoyance, but it did give him an unlimited supply of second chances at first impressions. By his teens, he’d perfected his routine. Cash for information. Blackmail, answers to tests, access to any secret. Any question answered, for the right price. Even if he had nothing to spend the money on but video games, candy, cigarettes and (eventually) drugs, whatever— it was the power that got to him, the real fun of the exchange. Before long his clientele had expanded from his fellow students to the local teachers. Then their friends. Then, a more dangerous kind of customer. More dangerous friends. If his father noticed his new schedule of late-night outings, he never mentioned it. Richard Mizuno had never been much of a parent, coming and going with no notice, sometimes for weeks on end. When they were sleeping in the same house, he didn’t seem to notice Jack’s movements around him at all.

Jack got caught when he was fifteen. A client looking for dirt on a cheating spouse recognized him, his dark hair, those blank eyes. Hey, aren’t you Mizuno’s kid? It was inevitable, running in circles adjacent to criminals, that he’d eventually run into someone who knew his own criminal father. Rich was a small-time con man and a big-time gambler. What money he made never lasted long in his pockets; it was rare that he made more than he lost, and outrunning his debts had been what kept them on the move through Jack’s childhood. That evening, his father called him into the kitchen and passed him a cigarette over the cheap plastic table where they’d never eaten a meal together. That evening, his father looked at him with interest for the first time in his life.

Once again his ability was a party trick, this time for his father’s benefit. Something to show off to strangers in the back rooms of clubs and anonymous private basements. Look what I found on you. Imagine what I could find on your enemies. Blackmail was a dirty business, but it paid better than the various scams his father had been working through the years. Pretty soon, they were making good money, more in a week than they’d previously seen in months. For the first time, they signed an actual lease on an apartment. He swapped out his Craigslist bed frame for one from Ikea. Soon, all Jack’s evenings were spent scowling in corners, the prop for his father’s grand reveal, and his mornings were spent sleeping through classes. He didn’t need to be present for the actual deals, but his dad liked leaving an impression, and silent boy genius hacker was a pretty memorable one.

That routine lasted nearly three years. The Mizunos made a name for themselves as the ones who could get dirt on anyone, anytime, and bore no strict alliances; it was more lucrative that way. Their reputation began to precede them. Even at a young age, Jack knew enough about the world— enough from watching his father, and the men who came after him— to know it could never end well. Inevitably, his dad made a gamble on the wrong person, and got a bullet in the head for his trouble. Jack took what was left of their money and ran as far as he could run, all the way to the opposite coast, into the familiar arms of an anonymous face and an unfamiliar town.

In another life, that would have been his lesson to take a sharp right turn and set down some more legitimate roots. As it was, he’d spent his years honing his abilities, learning how to control them and sell them to the highest bidder. The money was too easy, the satisfaction of a new impossible puzzle cracked— it was addictive, all-encompassing. Where most people only accessed a trickle of information at a time, their own personal corner of infinity, Jack bathed in it. All the world’s secrets at his fingertips, if he did things right, if he kept at it. Every puzzle had its solution. He could have anything and everything in the world he could want, and at that moment all he wanted was more.

He was so cocky. Cocky, and empty, and often bored. Sometimes high. It was a dangerous combination. First, he got run out of New York with his life, just barely. He’d bet on the wrong person, someone who knew that all it took to get him to do something was telling him he couldn’t. Nothing more attractive than a locked door and a challenge. Nothing better than proving someone wrong. Next stop, Chicago, where he hadn’t fallen into old habits as much as his only habits. It started with some high-powered mutant at a house party, looking him up and down with a raised brow— This guy? Really?— and it was like he lost his fucking mind. People could call him any name in the books and he wouldn’t bat a pretty eyelash, but questioning his abilities set him off like a rabid dog, what little common sense he had disappearing behind a smirk. All the mutant had to do was cock his head and ask, Can you? And Jack had said, Try me.

Jack would show them. He would show everyone in the entire world if he had to. And that was how he’d found himself on the wrong side of the Blackburn Syndicate.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

ALMA: When Jack looked up from his crouch on the floor of the Blackburn server room and saw Alma, pure rage in a five-foot-two frame and looking ready to snap his neck, he’d laughed. In the split second between seeing their face and recognizing it, his mind tried the odds of getting out of that room alive and came up with the equivalent of an error message. So this was it, his penultimate moment, the last bad decision in a history of bad decisions. He’d lived his life from one increasingly risky gamble to the next, always left unsatisfied and searching for the next big thing-- assuming he didn’t get his face kicked in first. Not a great way to live if longevity was a priority, but he’d been running long enough on hubris to ignore that part. Until now. Now, it seemed the ever-chaotic universe had found a small justice to be done, one small moving part of chaos to put back in its place. He was going to be powered down for good. All that was left was to let go, with the finality of an animal going limp in the mouth of its mother, submitting to the inevitability of the narrative he’d always seen coming.

Jack wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. Disappointed? He should be. He’d gotten caught before he could deliver the product to his client. He’d failed the job. But he’d gotten into the Blackburn servers first, cracked open the deepest secrets of one of the most secretive gangs. The rest of the job was just… transportation. This was his biggest challenge to date, and he’d— somehow, incredibly— pulled it off. Which was how he’d found himself laughing in the face of the inevitable, expression lit only by the blinking red and blue lights of the monitor below him and his hands nested in a tangle of wires like the hair of a lover.

He can’t imagine what she saw in him at that moment. A scruffy kid in old clothes living out of a hotel on the South Side, spending his days chain-smoking out the bathroom window while he waited for his phone to ring. Those days, he’d always had this feeling like he was about to vibrate out of his skin, worst of all when he was waiting for a job. Bouncing between all these intense, erratic impulses, always on the edge of shaving his head or robbing a bank or jumping in front of a car. He was a ball of tightly-would energy with no container, spinning and ricocheting and destroying everything it touched, and getting himself banged up in the process. An attack dog without a leash, biting its own tail into infinity. Jack was on his way to a dead end, full-speed, and changing paths wasn’t an option. Stopping felt like drowning; moving, outwitting every challenge, outrunning all consequences, at least it had a rush.

Until Alma Rosario looked at him and said, I’ve been looking for someone like you. He’d never been looked at like that before, like they were taking the whole measure of him, like they knew what he was and what he was meant to do. You’re with us now. Like he’d been theirs the whole time, and everything up until that moment was just practice for the real work of his life. He’d expected a gun to his face; instead, he’d gotten a lifeline. Someone who gave a fuck about him in a way no one ever had before. A cool hand on his shoulder, a direction to point his focus, and a leader who took his restlessness and alchemised it into blood-deep loyalty. The rest of the world could get fucked, but Alma Rosario had spared his life in more ways than one, and he’d follow them to the ends of the Earth.

EXTRA:

Jack speaks English, Japanese and Polish. The last he learned from his friend group in high school, who he had nothing in common with apart from a mutual interest in doing drugs and World of Warcraft. A fun side-effect of his ability is a natural aptitude towards languages, which could be cool if he ever cared enough to do something with it. In reality, he’d only learned Polish so he could talk shit as well as the rest of them during games.

At one point in his childhood he’d gotten really good at card tricks as an outlet for his fidgeting. It didn’t stick, but he still has the muscle memory.

There is an irony to the fact he ended up in the Blackburn Syndicate, the most holier-than-thou of the gangs, considering he doesn’t give a fuck about mutant rights. He’s never cared about politics or paid much attention to life outside his circle, and the interiority of his ability has spared him from the abuse other mutants experience on the day-to-day.

The last romantic interest he expressed in a girl was Rei Ayanami from Neon Genesis Evangelion; to be fair, he was 12 at the time.

There was a period at the beginning of his work with the Blackburn Syndicate where he lived in Alma’s guesthouse, because he had nowhere to go, and had been kicked out of his hotel for not caring enough to pay their bills. While he didn’t spend much time with Alma personally, being literally taken in off the street solidified his trust in their promise that Blackburn takes care of its members.

Jack was born on August 6, 1990 (which makes him a Leo sun, Scorpio moon, Capricorn rising.) Yes, this is a year to the day the internet went public.

His mother left him with his father when he was five. He doesn’t remember anything about her, but if she was thoughtless enough to leave her child with a man like his dad, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t think about her much anymore.

Jack has a secret obsession/fascination with the arcane and occult. Possibly because it’s one of the few topics that remains mysterious, no matter how much digging he does.

His home computer has a Sailor Moon-themed keyboard. It is wholly incongruous with the rest of his place, which has as much personality as a cheap motel room.

Jack reads everyone in Blackburn’s emails. Because he can. Occasionally their texts, too, if he really doesn’t like them, or distrusts their motivations. (He distrusts most people’s motivations.)

On that note, he considers it part of his job to keep some amount of dirt on everyone he knows, from bank account details to embarrassing archived Myspace profiles. The only one he affords their privacy is Alma.

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/remusjlupin/jm/

ANYTHING ELSE: N/A

#Accepted #accepted: iapetus

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distractionactivated · 5 years ago

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Ah FUCK.

This is a long post, CW for suicidal ideation (of a child (me)), self harm, gender dysphoria, and transphobia.

So, I’ve been on top of the world lately. I started testosterone a month and a half ago and I feel absolutely incredible - I’ve got energy, I’m doing loads of stuff and properly enjoying it, the things that should make me happy do. This is not my normal. This is completely new to me.

I have spent years battling suicidal ideation and low energy. I remember the first time I cut was when I was eleven, and I kept it up till I was nineteen-twenty, and only through an incredible degree of willpower have I never done it since. I definitely wanted to die by the time I was thirteen-fourteen; every birthday I had felt astonishing, I couldn’t conceive of any life plans because I couldn’t conceive of having a life, I just kind of stumbled into the things people expected of me. I attempted suicide when I was nineteen, I was so exhausted throughout my degree that I had to deliberately throw one exam in order to succeed on another by the end, my working life has been a mess of burnout and misery, I’ve lived for years on a knife-edge of ‘if I do this I won’t be able to do that.’ My eating habits suck.

And on top of that there’s a bunch of adjacent effects like the impact of hiding it, the trauma of using it to crisis-counsel other people when I was a fucking teenager, the health issues unaddressed bc no energy, the feelings of inadequacy and career stagnation that comes from just Not Being Able To Do That...

The thing is, I was a miserable kid, but I wasn’t that miserable. There was the self harm, and then I remember that over the space of a really short time, my whole world felt like it came crashing in on itself. Like a revelation.

Today I’ve been looking back at old files. Guess what. The dates match perfectly with the same phase in Puberty 1 as I’m in now at Puberty 2.

It’s quite likely that it was mostly dysphoria. (sure, some bullying, some other fuckery: but mostly dysphoria). And I had no idea. Even as an adult - no idea. I spent years thinking I didn’t want to go on testosterone, even after I knew I was trans!

And here’s the thing: it could all have been avoided. I was expressing discomfort with my assigned gender even before then; by the time I was fourteen I was actively trying to be a boy. If someone had just given me puberty blockers I can’t imagine where I’d be in life. What I’d be doing. Puberty blockers at 13 when it was obvious what was going on, testosterone at 16 or so when I was old enough to understand what I was, and I could’ve just skipped all that trauma. Can you imagine!

Thus: I am spitting mad at the world that couldn’t recognise what I needed and when, and even moreso at a world that, knowing that these treatments exist and they help, DENIES THEM TO PEOPLE. Writes hateful thinkpieces scaremongering about blockers and HRT, gatekeeps into oblivion, denies funding and services so kids are forced into bodies that will make and keep them miserable, disempowered, disconnected and require tons of money (bc public trans healthcare in the UK is a fucking joke) to amend.

Hhholy shit. How DARE they.

#kestor writes #transition diary

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mutantsrisingrpg · 5 years ago

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WHO

Name: Jack Mizuno Dossier: Iapetus Age: 30 Mutant Risk Level: Two Affiliation and Occupation: The Blackburn Syndicate, Informant Gender/Pronouns: Cis male, he/him Faceclaim: Sen Mitsuji

POWER

INTERNET MANIPULATION: The ability to access and manipulate the internet. Mutants with this ability can access everything from the internet, its protocols, its structure, the dark net, communication, data transfer, and even the electricity running through the wires that connect to devices. Jack can hack into and view classified information with ease due to years of honing their ability. If they are hacking into the Internet of Things, that which connects all devices, mutants are practically unstoppable with what they can access unless a device is not connected.

AESTHETIC

They are monitors caked in layers of smoke, wires twisting underneath door frames, and ring shaped stains on every surface. They are deleted files and digital paper trails and eyes watching your every keystroke. The cold stare that greets you in a freshly pressed suit, the light reflecting off of their shoes as they pace the outskirts of a room. They are the mist that wakes before dawn and the neon haze that lurks in alleyways when the clock ticks closer to the night. They are the one who knows your deepest secrets and won’t think twice about telling the world.

BIOGRAPHY

(cw: neglect, violence, addiction, drugs, suicidal ideation)

Jack’s power had started as a party trick.

Jack would show them. He would show everyone in the entire world if he had to. And that was how he’d found himself on the wrong side of the Blackburn Syndicate.

CONNECTIONS

LENOX SYED, Annoyance: There’s nothing that annoys Jack more than dealing with the illusion maker. While they live in their own world filled with screens, they’re plagued by the illusion Lenox inserts into their brain. If it was up to them, they would send one of Alma’s bruiser’s after them but this peace treaty has them holding back from their own desire. One of these days they’ll get their revenge.

ILIE LACEY, Target: While there are some that claim too much time spent in front of screens is bad for your health, Jack will disagree. In their spare time, they found a treasure trove of information on the Ilie. It almost seemed too good to be true but after digging a little deeper, they realized just how much of a hold they could have over the other mutant. Seeing the other dance around to whatever whim Jack throws at them all for the sake of saving their ego is entertaining. And as much fun as it is to have them under Jack’s watchful eye, they can feel themselves growing bored of the game.

RAHIM AVERY, Amusement: The grimace that crosses Rahim’s face whenever they have to enter Jack’s space is enough to make them smile. They’re aware of the others distaste of them, not that Jack is keen on Rahim, but it’s fun to play with them while they're forced to work together. The thought of diving in their past is a temptation itching at the back of Jack’s mind and each day it gets harder to ignore it.

ALMA ROSARIO, Salvation: It wasn’t Jack’s best idea to hack into the Blackburn servers. In fact, it was their dumbest one to date. They accepted the job without thinking twice about the repercussions, the money was too good to be true and they had grown tired of living in alleys. That was until one of Alma’s bruisers dragged them out by their hair and threw them in front of her. She gave Jack two choices: either work for her or never work again. She gave them what they lacked; a home, a job, a support system. Alma saved them from being another mutant statistic and they won’t forget it.

IAPETUS is CLOSED for applications. He is taken by NOEL.

#jack bio #iapetus #a #taken #tb

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