#It doesn't actually involve beds to the degree you seem to think it does
Note
omg i would love a dark!Peter or a Ransom prompt 👀 it can just be an idea, or a specific scene or scenario, whatever strikes your fancy 💖
Ok! Ransom x plus size reader: college au, fwb. Ransom doesn't want to be seen with her cause she's fat and she's cool with it cause she's literally just here for the d while she gets her degree right? Ransom's an ass but that dick is bomb and no feelings are involved so perfect. But then Ransom gets addicted to the p and wants her all to himself, still on the dl tho. His changing feelings don't come out till she meets someone and breaks it off with Ransom. Reader doesn't think anything of it but Ransom COMPLETELY loses his mind and starts stalking her, blowing up her phone, etc. Not caring if everyone knows now. Reader is CONFUSED and MIFFED!
Title: Breaking
Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Plus Size!Reader
Word Count: 5,374
Summary: Ransom wasn’t eager to stake any sort of claim on you—until someone else does it first.
Warnings: College AU, Stalking, Kidnapping, Darkfic, Plus Size Reader, Manipulation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, MINORS DNI!
A/N: thank you so much for this lovely prompt! i really hope you enjoy this little ficlet. ❤️ divider by @firefly-graphics
Ransom had found it kind of funny at first, when you’d stopped responding to his rather crassly worded “U up?” texts. It wasn’t until the third text in half as many weeks had gone completely unanswered that he’d tried calling instead—and found you had blocked him completely.
What?
That wasn’t like you. Not like Ransom had taken time to really know you, but ghosting just didn’t seem like it belonged in your playbook.
“The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time. Please contact your service provider if you believe you have reached this message in error.”
It had taken a little finesse, Ransom laying the charm rather thickly on your friend in his business management class, the one whose name he could never remember.
“She has a boyfriend,” she’d said, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger with a nervous giggle. “But I’m, um, single.”
Which brings him to now.
You weren’t the sort of girl he usually took out on dates, and, looking back on it, you’d picked it up rather quickly. Your requests to meet at parties or the bars his frat brothers regularly visited were answered with vague no’s. Or, more often than not, ignored outright until you stopped sending them. It wasn’t your fault—he had a reputation to think about. Though tonight, ironically, his reputation is the furthest thing from his mind.
What is on his mind, is you.
Ransom’s lip curls as he watches Isaac drape an arm across your shoulders, squeeing affectionately. He doesn’t know him well—they haven’t spoken much beyond the idle chit-chat around the keg. It turns his stomach, the thought that he’d finally realized just how much you meant to him, only to have this—this boy-scout steal you from right under his nose. Out from his fucking bed.
Ransom isn’t used to coming in second place. It’s never happened before, losing something he actually wants. Isaac seems happy to be next to you, not embarrassed or hiding behind baseball caps and wide sunglasses. Not like Ransom. He’s angry—at you, a little, but mostly at himself. It’s not hard to recall how you felt underneath him, all soft skin, soft curves, and fuck. He hates himself for not savoring that last time more, for not knowing it was going to be the last time.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Ransom Drysdale didn’t get dumped—he was the one who did the dumping. And, he, thinks with no small amount of derision as he watches you from across the bar, I didn’t get dumped. We were never together. You can’t break up if you’re not together. The thought rings hollow even in his own head as he nurses his fifth beer of the night. It feels stupid-no, superficial, now; the way he’d only drop by your dorm-room after midnight, showing up without calling or texting and knowing full well that you would let him in.
But not anymore.
You’re too far away for him to hear it, but when you laugh, you tilt your head back, attempting to cover your wide grin with one hand. Pretty, he thins to himself, taking another long swallow from the bottle. Fuck how had he not noticed how pretty you are when you laugh, before? Had he just never seen it? Now that it occurs to him, Ransom’s hard pressed to find a memory that isn’t just sweaty skin, and hungry words growled into the curls at the nape of your neck.
Fuck.
Those were his favorite nights, the ones he spent digging his fingers into the softness of your hips while he sank in to the hilt—Ransom shudders. Even through the condoms you insisted he wear, the memory of your slick, tight heat is enough to send a hot, jealous pulse through his veins.
“We’re not together,” you’d said, crossing your arms stoutly as you stared up at him. “Condom or nothing.”
Probably doesn’t make Isaac wear a fucking condom. He takes another bitter swallow. He doesn’t know what’s worse, the thought of you fucking that Leave it To Beaver reject, or you fucking him raw. Both make him see red.
“Right, Ransom?” Someone claps him on the shoulder, and Ransom nods wordlessly. He isn’t paying attention, not to them, not with you here. You lean over to say something to your friend, the same mousy one who’d volunteered herself in your place. Ransom scoffs into his beer.
“Three fucking weeks.” He mumbles, draining the bottle before placing it down almost too hard on the bar-top. “How’s it get serious in three fucking weeks?” He waves at the bartender, signaling for another.
“Ran, we’re heading out.” Theo jerks his head towards the door. “There’s a party at Jude’s place. Hella girls.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Drunk ones.”
Ransom shrugs bad-naturedly, grimacing. “I’m going to stay here,” he says evasively, casting another sour look at you as his lip curls. “I don’t feel like pulling your head out of the toilet tonight.”
“Whatever, man.” Theo rolls his eyes, squaring his shoulders. He follows Ransom’s eye across the bar, and smirks. “Just because you’re not getting your dick wet with your porky little sidepiece anymore doesn’t mean the rest of us have to stay here and mope with you all weekend.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol warming his gut, but Ransom’s up before he’s really got a chance to think about it, his hands on Theo’s shoulders as he shoves him backwards, hard. The other man stumbles backward, and Ransom squares his shoulders.
“Don’t fucking talk about her like that.”
“What, now you care, all of a sudden?” Theo scoffs. “Dude you wouldn’t even let her come in through the front door—”
Ransom doesn’t know when exactly he grabbed a handful of Theo’s thin hair, holding his head still while he drives a frenzied fist into his former friend’s face as everyone watches. He comes to as he rears his fist back again, the sound of his name distant in his ears, like it was spoken through glass.
“Ransom!” Your confused face in the crowd is all he can see—which is why Theo’s sucker punch catches him off guard. It makes his ears ring as stars explode in his right eye. The world tilts as Ransom stumbles, and the television static in his ears is replaced by yelling. The warm wet trickle from his nose is blood, staining the tips of his fingers red as he holds his face. Theo’s not doing much better, blood pouring from his nose, and an ugly, swollen bruise coming to bear on the right side of his face.
“Fuck you,” Theo mumbles, drawing the back of his sleeve across his bloody lip. “Fucking asshole.” He storms out, a few of their frat brothers trailing behind him as he goes.
“Are you fucking serious?” The bartender throws down the towel in his hands, before smacking them against the bar-top. “I’ve fucking told you guys about bringing that bullshit in here—”
“I was just leaving,” Ransom snaps, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hates that he can feel your eyes on him too; watchful, judging. Theo’s gone by the time Ransom makes his way outside. It’s almost winter break, and the icy night air feels good against the hot, painful throbbing in his cheek.
“Ransom.” He turns, scowling at you over his shoulder. “What the fuck was that?” He shrugs miserably.
“Nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
“What do you fucking care?” The venom on his tongue flows easily, likely aided by the liquid courage currently sloshing around in his gut. “You blocked me. You have a boyfriend.” He doesn’t know what he’s expecting from this confrontation, but your distinct lack of a reaction feels like more of a slap in the face than anything else. You blink at him, one eyebrow quirked as if in question.
“Yeah, I did.” Why does it hurt? Ransom’s rejected hundreds of girls—some as he was fucking pulling out of them, so why does this feel like a fucking knife in his back? “I figured you wouldn’t care much, Ransom, considering.” He hates this, hates how he’s the angry one and you’re calm—the roles should be reversed. They would be, if not for that niggling, irritating feeling that you should be his, just his. He doesn’t want to admit that you’re right, that you’ve got him pegged dead to fucking rights.
“How would you know?”
“You don’t sneak girls you like in through the basement entrance.” You retort smoothly. You’ve had a lifetime of this, of learning to live in your body, of learning to weather other people’s reactions to it—it’s Ransom that’s unfamiliar with rejection, unsure of how to handle the fact that the “r-train” isn’t enough to keep you coming back for more despite his treatment.
“But I do. I do like you.” He says, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t do this. It doesn’t have to be a thing. We can just, we can go back to how it was before.” This time, you do react, your face screwing up as you regard him first with disbelief and then anger.
“Why would I give up being in a relationship with someone who actually likes me, who is willing to be seen with me in public places and with his friends— you know what? I don’t need this.” You mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “This is what I fucking get for trying to make sure you’re okay. Silly me. I thought we were mature, here.” You gesture between the two of you before another dry laugh bubbles out from between your lips.
“Have a good night, Ransom.”
No, no, don’t leave! The desperate thought makes his throat tight. You can’t leave me. He stumbles exaggeratedly as you watch, falling against the bus stop with a groan. The plan lays itself out before him neatly like lines on a map.
“God fucking dammit—Ransom!” You huff irritatedly. He leans against the pole, counting the seconds until you come over to check on him. You do, and he moans pitifully. “Can you walk?”
“No,” he hiccoughs, swaying cartoonishly as you try to help him stand. “Ju-hic-just go. I’ll be fine.” You blow an exasperated breath out as you straighten him up. She doesn’t talk to her parents. He licks his lips as you pull out your phone, holding it up to your ear as you wait for someone to answer on the other end. She told me that when we were smoking, that one time.
“I obviously can’t. How did you get here?” You say, holding your hand over the mouthpiece as you scowl up at him.
“Theo d-drove.” The house is only a ten minute drive from here. Fifteen, tops.
“Yeah, I’m just going to head back to campus. No, I’m gonna take an uber. Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, Isaac.” The little smile that curls at the corners of your lips makes him sick. “Yeah, you too.” Ransom leans on you heavily, and you don’t seem to notice when he presses his face into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo with relish. Fucking Isaac.
“I’ll get the uber,” he says, slurring the words deliberately as he fumbles with his own phone. “M’sorry, Princess.” He taps the screen clumsily, selecting Home instead of Dorm, before hastily stowing it back in his pocket.
“Don’t call me that.” You snap sharply. You try—and fail—to stand Ransom on his own two feet. Instead he hangs over you, draped over your shoulders with his chin resting on the top of your head.
“Why?” The question comes out petulantly. “You used to like it.”
“Stop.”
The familiar feel of your body pressed against his is sweet in a way Ransom hadn’t anticipated. The attic’s secure. Quiet.
When the car pulls up, Ransom allows you to wrangle him into the back seat, where he sprawls across your lap when you sit down beside him. You don’t say anything to the driver beyond a mumbled hello, which suits him just fine. Ransom plays up the drunk act, asking the driver a nonsensical question that makes you whisper at him to be quite.
“Sorry. Just trying to get him home.” You reply, pushing uselessly at his head as he settles into your lap. Soft. He can’t help but run a reverent hand across your jean clad thigh. Love how soft she is.
You’re so distracted trying to keep him from getting comfortable that you don’t notice the cab is heading away from the dorm until the driver turns down the private road.
“Wait—wait, I think you made a wrong turn somewhere,” you say, leaning forward to talk to the driver. He shakes his head enthusiastically, and points at his phone’s GPS.
“No, I followed the directions,” he protests, and Ransom hides his snicker in a groan. “This is the address.”
You lean back with a dissatisfied sigh, and look down at Ransom.
“Let me see your phone.” He unlocks it and hands it over, his face a mask of innocence. You notice the mistake immediately, leaning forward again. “Could you turn around and take us back to Harvard campus, please—”
“This trip was already way out of my route,” the driver grouses, frowning at the two of you in the mirror. “And I don’t think he’ll make another trip. Looks like he’s about to puke any second.”
“He’s fine.”
Ransom retches, and watches as the cabby’s face twists angrily.
“He’s not! I’m sorry, I’m done for the night. Maybe someone else will be able to pick you up.”
The finality in his voice makes Ransom giddy, and he clutches his stomach, gagging. He’s never thrown up—he’s not a fucking freshman lightweight, he’s a fucking Sigma for chrissakes—but he’s willing to let the two of you believe he might. You bite your lip, teeth sinking into its pillow softness as you try to undo what Ransom’s done.
“M’sorry. Didn’ mean to put in the wrong hic place.”
You nod stiffly. “I know. I guess… Well, this place has plenty of couches, right?” There’s little humor in your joke, but Ransom makes sure to laugh a little anyway, nodding.
“My grandfather won’t mind if you sleep in one of the guest rooms. Promise, Princess.”
“Ransom, don’t—”
“We’re here.” The driver cuts in as the car pulls to a stop in front of the house. “Sounds like you guys have it all figured out.”
—
As expected, the only people home are his grandfather, along with a few odd members of the staff. They’re easy enough to convince, Fran and Marta ferrying him upstairs to his room while he mumbles incoherently. You help too, tugging the blanket up over him after pulling off his shoes with a grunt. It feels nice, having you care for him like this, your soft hands on his face.
It feels right.
“I’ll get the guest room set up for you upstairs,” Fran says on her way out. “I’ve got a t-shirt around here somewhere.” Ransom doesn’t catch your answer, but that doesn’t matter much, not when he knows where you’ll be. It’s strange, how he’s impatient now, here at the home stretch, but he is. The smell of you, the taste, the feel, it’s all he can think about now that he’s so close.
It won’t be easy keeping you, he knows that, but nothing good comes without a challenge, right? And with the right motivation, Ransom knows he can make you fall in line. The house quiets around him, and distantly, he hears the sound of first Fran’s car, and then Marta’s. He forces himself to wait a few minutes more, and when he emerges out into the still air of the hallway, he smiles.
The door to the guest room is ever so slightly ajar, and Ransom slides inside. You sit up sharply, and for a moment only sound between you is the quiet settling of the house.
“What are you doing?”
“I came to check on you.” He can’t see your face in the dark, but he can see the shape of you, silhouetted in the pale beam of light streaming in from the tiny window above the bed.
“I’m fine.” The words are stiff. “You should go to bed.”
He doesn’t. Instead, Ransom turns and closes the door securely behind him, slipping the key into his pocket. The sound is deafening in the quiet, and he knows you hear it too.
“Have you texted Isaac, yet?” He asks, cocking his head. The room is small, shaped oddly by the sloping roof, and Ransom himself takes up the bulk of it standing in front of the door. You seem to shrink a little in response, and your hesitation answers the question truthfully, before you’ve even spoken.
“Y-yes. You should go to—” The way your hand strays under the pillow to feel for your phone tells him the opposite. Ransom licks his lips.
“Have you fucked him yet, Princess?”
Your gasp is audible.
“Don’t—don’t call me that. Ransom go to bed. You’re drunk.”
“Have you fucked him?” He repeats it, dropping to his knees on the bed.
“Get out!” You make for the door too late, and Ransom grabs you, wrapping an arm securely around your waist as he breathes a relieved sigh into your bare shoulder. Your frustrated struggle turns panicked at the sound of metal clacking against metal. “No, Ransom no—” The handcuffs he produces from his pocket aren’t the padded ones he’s used with you before—these are the real deal, and he clamps them tightly around your left wrist, looping it around the bed-frame before capturing your right. You’re writhing and fighting, but it’s easy to ignore the pain as he locks his arms tight, waiting for you to tire yourself out.
You’re wearing just a t-shirt, and Ransom palms the heavy weight of your tits through the soft cotton with a soft groan.
“So you haven’t fucked him.”
You open your mouth to scream, and Ransom laughs.
“Nearest person is two floors down, Princess,” he breathes, a low, satisfied hum rumbling in his chest as he draws his fingers through your messy hair, before tangling his fingers in it to tug your head back. His teeth scrape at your throat. “You can scream if you want to,” he mumbles against your pulse. “You know I like it when you’re loud.”
“Ransom, stop. You’re—”
“Drunk?” He answers smartly, before shaking his head. He cups your face with one sure hand, stroking your lip with the pad of his thumb. “I know you feel bad, Princess. You let me fuck that juicy cunt so quick, you thought you needed to make him work for it.” This close he can see your face, can see the guilt you quickly try to bury because he’s right. The answer is there, written in the way you turn your head away from him, trying to hide your face in shadow. Ransom doesn’t let you, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers as he forces you to stay still, to look him in the eye.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You spit hoarsely, and Ransom laughs. “You’re fucking drunk and-and—get off me!” You shrill, bucking against him uselessly. If he’s drunk, that’s what he’s drunk on; the heady sensation of knowing the truth with absolute certainty.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” He sneers, pressing you down into the mattress. The smell of your skin is intoxicating, like orange blossoms and fucking sunshine. “Fuck, Princess, I missed this.” It’s almost reverent, the way he slides his hands down over your hips, slowly working a knee between your stubborn thighs. Your borrowed t-shirt rolls up as Ransom spreads your legs, grinning at the sight of white lace between them.
He draws a finger over the curve of your cunt before cupping it.
“Why’d you block me, Sweetheart?” He asks, tracing the shape of your puffy lips through the cotton.
“You didn’t want me!” You hiss through clenched teeth. Ransom clucks his tongue at you, shaking his head, before delivering a stinging slap to your cunt. You feel it through the cotton, of course, whining and writhing underneath him as you cry out. “You’re fucking crazy—” The palm of his hand cracks sharply against you again, and it cuts your complaint short as the words disappear in a pained gasp.
“Be honest with me, Princess.” He says, grinning as you try to wriggle away from him.
“You wouldn’t even be seen with me!” Your voice cracks. “It’s not fair, Ransom!”
“You want me to stake a claim, Sweetheart? I can do that,” Ransom breathes, pushing the shirt up over your breasts, groaning at the sight of your puffy nipples. He draws his thumb across one, watching, enraptured, as the flesh pebbles underneath his touch. He trails sloppy, heated kisses up the side of your throat, nipping at the skin until you whimper. He mouths at your skin, sucking at the purpling bruise until he pulls away, satisfied.
“We can think of a more permanent solution later.” He leans back with a satisfied sigh. It feels good to mark you, to watch the bruises spread like ink on your pretty skin.
“Please, Ransom, just go!” You sob, the chain rattling against the bed-frame as you try unsuccessfully to loose yourself from your restraints. “We-we’ll just pretend it never happened!” You nod at him, like you’re trying to encourage him to do the same, your wide eyes fever bright. “It’ll be just like before—”
“Why would I want that?” He asks, reaching down to tug your panties tight, pulling the fabric tautly through the lips of your pussy like dental floss. “I don’t think you’re really grasping the situation, Princess, so let me spell it out for you.” Ransom spreads your legs wider as you stare up at him with fearful eyes.
“I don’t want things how they were before.” He snarls. “Things are different now, Sweetheart. You made them different.” Ransom slips his fingers underneath the elastic of your panties, and begins tugging them own your thighs, ignoring your whimpered pleas to wait and stop. You kick at him, a frenzied wail working its way out of your throat. True to his word, he ignores it, sliding down your body until he’s faced with the slick patch between your thighs.
“Ransom—” His name is a hoarse wail as he attaches his lips to your cunt, his tongue seeking out your traitorously swelling clit. He grins against you, dragging his tongue noisily through your folds, moaning. This is perfection, he muses dimly, lapping at you as you whine. You can’t deny how good it feels, not when he can see the evidence glistening on your quaking thighs, taste it on his tongue. You’re gasping, those precious little choking noises filling his ears as you try to swallow down the sound of your pleasure.
“Can’t fucking get over how good you taste, Princess,” he mumbles, reveling in your yelp as he sucks harshly on your swollen bud, spreading you wide with his fingers. You shake, your body jackknifing as you murmur nonsensically. He’s always loved that flavor—like fresh peaches, why do you taste like fucking peaches—
“F-Fuck you!” He doesn’t let you cum, though, pulling away to flick softly at your clit with his thumb. He draws the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping away the evidence of your body’s betrayal with a sly smile. A hoarse little whimper escapes you, and Ransom clucks his tongue, before reaching down to palm himself through his sweats. His cock his hard, so hard it almost hurts, thick drops of precum gathering at the reddened tip. He reaches for his phone with the other hand, the shutter noise clicking as he snaps a few pictures of your tear-stained face.
“N-no, no—!” You voice your displeasure with a whine as Ransom pans the camera down your body, like he’s trying to map it out for posterity’s sake. “No pictures, please, please!” Your wild, watery eyes are frantic as you plead with him. “Please don’t, Ran, please don’t send those—” A hot pulse shoots through his body at your desperation, and his cock throbs.
“A minute ago you were just telling me to go fuck myself.” He quirks an eyebrow at you over the top of the phone. “So which is it?”
“Please don’t send those.” You swallow thickly, the sound audible. “Please.”
He has no intention of sending them anywhere—except maybe to Isaac with your face cropped out, of course. But he smiles lasciviously anyway, blue eyes narrowing. Ransom runs his tongue across his lips, still tasting you on them.
“Let’s make a little deal, then.” He tugs his sweats down, and the fat, veiny length of his cock springs out. Ransom hisses softly as he spreads a sticky drop of precum across his tip with his thumb. “You’re going to end it with Isaac.” You open your mouth to complain, but Ransom forges ahead, ignoring you. “We’ll be exclusive, you and me, Princess.” He forces your thighs open a little wider. “Just like you want.” Ransom’s practically giddy with the thrill of it as your full lips begin to tremble and fresh tears track down your cheeks.
“I—I don’t want you!” You gasp, your attempts to buck him off only succeeding in wedging him further between your frantically kicking legs. Ransom clucks his tongue at you.
“I don’t know about that, Princess,” he says, slapping a hand against your swollen cunt, cupping it roughly. You squeal as he draws a finger through your slick, still throbbing folds.
“Not sure if you’ve ever been wetter.” Ransom presses your thighs to your chest. He asks, licking his lips. “It’s all up to you, of course.” Ransom lies so easily it doesn’t even really occur to him that he’s doing it.
“You tell me to go, I’ll go. But I can’t say what’ll happen to that footage.” He shrugs. He’s got no intention of leaving this room, not really, but he doesn’t mind pretending. “But if you were my girl, I might be able to swing deleting it. After all, what would I need it for? Got the real thing all to myself.” He dips the tip of a thick finger into your entrance. “Get it, Princess? No more scholarship. No more shitty dorm-room. I’ll take care of you.”
You’re so easy to read like this, your guard down and your desperation front and center. He can see you weighing the options, trying to parse out the best win for yourself in this devil’s bargain. He can see you testing the weight of your future against the events of this evening, and coming up far short. Ransom’s not stupid—and neither are you. You know what happens to girls like you when these things make their way into campus chatrooms and local reddit pages.
“You’ll really delete them?” You ask meekly, your mouth trembling. “You won’t… you won’t show these to anyone?” Ransom grins wider, drawing an X across his heart with the tip of his index finger.
“Cross my heart.” Ransom steadies one hand against your hip, his fingers sinking into the soft curve of it as he aligns himself with your entrance. His eyes roll as the head of his cock meets your cunt with a lewd, wet squelch. He’s getting impatient—after all, it’s been more than two weeks since the last time he’s been inside you, and his cock twitches hard against you at the thought.
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry Princess, you’ll need to speak up.” Ransom leans down over you, his hard eyes locked on yours. “Again.”
“I said fine!” Your quiet voice is strained. “Fine. I’ll—I’ll break up with Isaac—” Ransom kisses you, swallowing the rest of your words eagerly. He gorges himself on your mouth, sucking your tongue fiercely before pulling away to worry at your lower lip with his teeth until it’s swollen and red.
“Oh Princess.” He breathes. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.” He watches with dark glee when your eyes go wide as he begins to press into you, the head of his cock forcing you open. “No condom this time, but that’s alright, isn’t it?”
“Ransom!”
“M’right here,” he breathes, his hips jerking as your slick, puffy cunt sucks at his tip. “Fuck.” Ransom watches your eyes roll as you sink your teeth into your lower lip. “I know you missed it too, Sweetheart,” Ransom grits the words out through his teeth as he sinks in, his toes curling as your wet heat envelops him inch by precious inch. “You can admit it.”
The warm euphoria that spreads down his spine as he bottoms out draws another curse from his lips. You feel like fucking slick velvet inside, your walls clamping down on the girth of his cock like a wet fist. It’s hypnotic, pulling out only to thrust home again, his ears barely registering the groan of the bed-frame beneath you. The space between his temples is buzzing—your compliance, the feel of you around him, the knowledge that he’d won—Ransom’s delirious with it.
What’s even better is he can see it, plain on your face how much you’re enjoying it—how much you hate yourself for it. It makes every mumbled curse, every moan he wrenches from your unwilling throat all the sweeter. Ransom clucks his tongue at you as he leans down to capture your lips again. They’re pillow soft and swollen from his teeth.
“It’s my fault.” Ransom drives his cock into you, groaning. “I was stupid, Princess, I know. But I know what I need, now,” he says, hooking an arm beneath your thigh, lifting it so he can sink in even deeper. “Just you.” The shameful little wail that escapes your throat as you clamp down around him is almost enough to make him cum with you, cursing and crying as you do. He hangs on by the last fraying thread of his self control.
“Shit, shit, shit—”
“See?” He laughs, rolling his hips into yours with heavy strokes. “You need me, too.”
God, he loves seeing you like this, loves being the one to break you apart—loves knowing he’ll be the only one. It’s that thought that does it, aided by the miserable way you mewl his name as you cum again. His hands are tight on your hips, sinking into the heavy curve of them as he growls your name roughly in your ear. For a moment he’s lost in it; his forehead resting against yours as you milk him.
He stays inside you for a few luxurious minutes, basking in the feel of your cunt before pulling out. Ransom slaps his still hard cock against your oversensitive clit and you whine, your hips jerking. He can’t help but admire the mess he’s made, dragging his tip through your slick, sticky folds.
You watch him with red-rimmed eyes, your brows furrowing as he rises from the bed, pulling his sweats back up over his hips. He doesn’t reach for the keys, but instead slides his hand underneath your pillow to remove your phone.
“Ransom let me out, now.” Your voice is high, panicked. “You promised—”
“To delete the pictures.” He finishes, nodding. As you sputter, he removes his own phone from his pocket, and faces the screen towards you as he selects the pictures and videos from the photo album, and there’s a swooshing sound from the phone’s speakers as they disappear. “And I’ve deleted them.” Frantically, you rattle the handcuff chains against the bed-frame, trying desperately to dislodge them as Ransom sighs.
“You’re just going to hurt yourself.” You keep trying anyway, ignoring him your terrified sobs grow louder.
“Let me go! You fucking promised, Ransom, don’t leave me here—”
He cocks his head at you.
“Why would I leave you?” He asks, slipping both your phones into his pocket as he stands, stretching. “Winter break’s just starting,” Ransom says with a smile. “And I can’t think of a better way to spend it.”
the end
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#chris evans smut#chris evans fic#chris evans x reader#ransom drysdale#ransom drysdale imagine#ransom drysdale smut#ransom x reader#ransom drysdale x reader#ransom drysdale x you#ransom drysdale fanfiction#ransom x y/n#dark!fic#dark AU#college AU
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It's a little past two AM when Wayne opens his lunchbox and finds himself unable to stop the smile that's creeping onto his face.
He's met with a note, in neat handwriting:
My dear Wayne,
I hope you're having a good day/night at work. I made you some extra healthy sandwiches because of that cough you were worried about – I hope you like fresh tomato and lettuce. (Please don't get mad at me for trying to make you eat vegetables on your bread.) I also hid some clementines in your bag.
I'll be thinking about you when I go to bed, and I can't wait to see you again in the morning.
Love,
S.
'Munson!'
He startles when he hears his own name and looks up to find his colleagues looking at him with various degrees of amusement.
'Who woulda thought?' John McMillan laughs while some of the younger guys let out wolf whistles. 'Wayne Munson got himself a lady?'
'We've been working here together for almost ten years and I don't think I ever saw you smile before,' Bernie adds. 'So she wrote you a love letter to go with your sandwiches, huh?'
Wayne rubs a hand over his beard, trying to hide his inclination to hide away from all those eyes staring at him like he's something funny. He has never liked being the center of attention.
'Don't act like y'all know somethin' you don't,' he grumbles.
'Who is she?' asks Logan. 'Can't be someone from the trailer park, you never were interested in any of 'em. Found yourself a more classy one? Someone from Loch Nora who gets the hots for a working man?'
Wayne suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at him.
'You got it all wrong, boys,' he says, hoping they'll back off soon.
'Do we, now?' With a taunting smile, John McMillan plucks the note out of Wayne's hands, and starts reading it out loud to his little audience in a high-pitched, faux dramatic voice.
Wayne isn't ashamed, and he knows the teasing is mostly meant in good fun, but he feels an overwhelming relief about the fact that Scott had been smart enough to not sign the note with his full name.
'S, look at that!' McMillan exclaims triumphantly, putting the note back into Wayne's lunchbox. 'So he got a mystery lady... Guys, who do we know with names starting with an S? Any girlfriends or wives we should get worried 'bout cheating?'
There's laughter, some guesses thrown around by people thinking they're funny, but Wayne mostly lets it glide off him, the same way he'd endure their comments about Eddie back in March. Granted, this teasing is much less mean-spirited than the so-called banter back then, but he still doesn't like to get involved. The less these men know about him, the better; that's a lesson he learned a long time ago. So he eats his bread – and even a clementine – while he lets them guess and pretends to laugh with them.
When the break is over and they get up to go back to their job, Bernie matches his pace to Wayne's.
'Look, you know we've been teasing you, but we're happy for ya, man, you know that, right?' he says.
Wayne pats him on his shoulder. Bernie is a good guy. He was one of the few men around here who actually seemed concerned about Eddie when all that shit went down. As far as Wayne knows, he never chose a side back then, never came for his nephew like those guys like Logan or John McMillan, with their big mouths and narrow minds.
'All good, Bernie, thanks,' he says.
'Does she make you happy?'
The question catches him by surprise; it prompts his lips to curve into the second unexpected smile of that day.
He thinks about the way Scott looked at him before they said goodbye this evening. He thinks about the sparkle in Scott's eyes whenever he talks about his students. He thinks about the way his hands held Wayne all through the night they spent together last weekend. He thinks about his neat mustache, his soft sweater vests, his long fingers cradled around one of Wayne's mugs. He pictures the private smile that must've surely been on Scott's face, a smile nobody saw, when he filled Wayne's lunchbox with fresh veggies and a surprise note.
'Very,' he tells Bernie, before slowing down his steps to be left alone with his thoughts about the man who will be waiting for him in bed after his shift, asleep and with his hair a mess, but waking up for a second to kiss Wayne's lips like he always does.
There is nothing that makes him happier than that one hour they get to share in bed together before Scott's alarm goes off in the morning.
#don't mind me rambling about stranger things#wayne munson#scott clarke#clarkson#wayne munson x scott clarke#clarkson my beloved#fruity ficlet#gah it makes me so happy writing clarkson again#their presence is like a warm blanket to me#i missed them
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Very interested in your "L gets Hanahaki" AU. Especially option 2 because that's the one that seems most like what L would take. Plus, it would likely end in Lawlight (albeit under threat of recurring terminal disease. Wait, does that mean Hanahaki is non explicit version of Fuck Or Die 🤔? Since failure to make the other person fall in love would eventually lead to death).
What sort of things do you think L would do, to make Light fall for him subtly? Does he refer to magazines for romantic advice? Or look stuff up on internet? Ask Wammy or Aiber (who is implied to be happily married even if he's involved in a morally dubious career path)?
I get Hanahaki is serious business TM, but L doing serious research and experimenting what methods work and what don't like a science experiment except it's about romance... It makes me laugh. It's creepy adorable? Sort of.
The possibility of "what to do if Light does love me back, I can't keep Kira... Or can I?" is also fun~
Would L make a 'Kira enclosure'? But if Kira is sad inside said enclosure... Light hurt and sad --> L hurt and sad. It's like hitting his own foot lmao.
Hanahaki is definitely non-explicit Fuck or Die. Love or Die. Except in this case it's Love and Die :3 Fun, isn't it?
And that's the fun bit, honestly—L trying various ways of wooing Light with varying degrees of success. L wouldn't ask Aiber for advice, though, because he's trying to get Light to fall in love with him, not trying to seduce him into bed. Or, well, not just that anyway.
Unironically I think Light would enjoy being wooed like a nineteenth century woman; flowers, poems and letters declaring undying loyalty and intent, expensive gifts and foods, the whole shebang. So I think L's best bet would be to take this and,,,,pervert it, a little bit.
But—first things first—L has to make Light register him as a romantic option, rather than simply an enemy to overcome. Luckily for L, he's already halfway there! He (rightly) assumes that, since no one else has ever had any luck gaining Light's genuine attraction with looks, pretty words, or outright affection, that Light wouldn't fall in love with just anyone, or he'd have a true partner by now. L, with his superior intelligence and moral standing, is likely the only person that could ever actually interest Light long enough for him to develop romantic feelings—and, despite how arrogant that is, he's right! :D So the first and biggest step here is for Light to stop seeing L as a looming threat. L would probably drop some comments here and there about not having Kira executed once he catches them, about how brilliant Kira is, about how it's a real shame that Kira is evil and wants to kill him because a mind like that could be very helpful to him. Drop a bomb in front of the Task Force and admit that he doesn't actually oppose Kira as much as he enjoys the chase and wants solve the puzzle regardless of the true outcome. A gamble, but one that would pay off in terms of Light's murderousness.
While L does that, he also begins to work on the 'wooing' aspect of his plan, by giving Light gifts 💖 BUT the caveat is that Light only receives these gifts directly after being nice or affectionate towards L. L even gives them out when Light is being real/sarcastic with him, to encourage him to not only want to be affectionate with L, but also to open up to him and show him his true (♡Kira♡) self. And then L also, at the same time he begins giving Light gifts, starts leaving romantically inclined things within Light's line of sight. A little heart eraser on their desk, a love song playing in the background while L works, several romance novels joining the book stack near their bed—all while L makes himself a larger figure in Light's life, forcing all of those associations to turn to him. Again, Pavlov would be jealous of the shit L is pulling.
(Watari is not exactly...happy about this turn of events, but he doesn't protest either. He wants L to live as well, he just wishes that it was a nice young lady instead of, you know, Kira.)
The funniest thing about this though, is that it would work. Light would be idly getting ready for the day, pulling on his fancy new clothes that L recently bought for him and liking how nice they look on him, and be mentally planning out a way to do something nice for L so he'll be in a good mood to have Watari order dinner from that nice restaurant again, and also so Light can watch L lick the chopsticks clean because he likes to watch L eat normal food—and then his brain would do the loudest fucking record scratch you've ever heard in your life because when exactly did he start planning his schemes around L's continued existence instead of his death?? When did he start feeling excited to see him, or fond of him??? Diaster!
Meanwhile L hasn't thrown up whole flowers for days and he's feeling pretty good about himself >:3
As for the Kira Enclosure....well, you're right. Locking Light up in any sort of way is no longer an option. But L would see continuing allowing him to be Kira as a loss as well. So maybe L finds a way to pin everything on Higuchi or Misa, and calls for Light to come with him since the case is 'solved'. Maybe L would have both Death Notes by the end, or maybe he wouldn't, but he'd wrap Light up in enough manipulative red tape in front of the Task Force that Light wouldn't be able to refuse him and stay in Japan, so either way Light doesn't exactly have access to a Death Note anymore.
Oh he still might have a page or two that he can use hidden away, but L keeps a very close eye on him 💕 "Light-kun's beauty distracts me" is not much of an excuse when it's true, even if that's not the only reason. And if Light finds an occasion to use one of those pages on, say, one of the more elusive criminals that they're hunting? Well, L didn't see shit, if you're asking. No idea what you're talking about, Watari, that man obviously had prior health problems. His lab results were clearly faked you should probably crack down on that morgue's security—
...Ironically, L with Hanahaki is the one most likely to have a happy ending :3
#asks#anonymous#lawlight#hanahaki#l lawliet#yagami light#L sees no point in denial and goes after what he wants incredibly doggedly#none of this wishy washy 'should I shouldn't i' bullshit only SOLUTIONS#IF HE HAS TO KISS KIRA ON THE MOUTH TO LIVE AND WIN THEN BY GOD HE'S GONNA DO IT#AND WITH RELISH
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bees 13 for the prompts :)
13. ribbon
beacon bees for you. in my head there's a whole au where yang finds out that blake is a faunus before everyone else and in that it happens differently but here's a snippet of an au of that au
"Do you think I could pull off the bow look?"
Blake looks up from her homework at the question, away from the desk and over to where Yang is lounging on her stomach on Blake's(!!!) bed. She has one of Blake's spare ribbons in her hands, and holds it up atop her head with a grin when she realizes that Blake is actually giving her the attention she's looking for.
"I don't think it would go with your hair," Blake says. "Or your color scheme."
"No?" Yang tips her head, still holding the ribbon up. "I think it's worth a shot. Wanna tie it for me?"
"Yang."
"Or not," Yang says, lowering the ribbon. "It's your stuff. Sorry."
"That's not what I'm—" Blake sighs. "Give me the stupid ribbon."
"Thank you," Yang says with a grin, holding the scrap of fabric out. Blake gets up from her chair at the desk and takes the ribbon, sitting down on the edge of her bed facing Yang. Yang sits up onto her knees, scooting back to make room for Blake. Blake takes the ribbon, holds it up, and—
"I don't know how to do this," she realizes. "It's...all wrong." She doesn't know where to begin without a set of ears to wrap the ribbon around. What else is she supposed to tie it to?
"Would it help if I turned around?" Yang says, not waiting for an answer before she does so. It does not help at all because it doesn't cause her to spontaneously sprout another set of ears, but Blake makes a few meaningless motions atop Yang's head anyway, running the ribbon through her hair like she's trying to figure it out.
Yang's hair is so soft. It brushes against the backs of Blake's fingers, and she fights the urge to turn her hands over and feel it with her fingertips. Blake hasn't asked, and Yang would say no anyway; she's so protective of her hair.
Come to think of it, why had Yang asked her to do this in the first place? It would inevitably involve some degree of hair touching, and Blake's been led to believe that's a serious no-no with Yang. She doesn't even let Ruby touch it most of the time, not unless she needs help with something. For all that Yang is open and free with physical affection, her hair is completely off-limits, as far as Blake knows. So why...
"Yeah, I can't do this," Blake announces, because going any further down that line of thought is going to seriously damage her ability to make good choices right now. "Sorry." She lowers the ribbon back into her lap. Yang spins in place to face her.
"It's okay," Yang says. She doesn't seem too bothered by Blake's failure. "Like you said, it probably wouldn't work for me anyway." They look at each other for a moment. "It's just too hard to do on someone else, huh?"
It's an innocuous statement, and certainly not anything Blake should read into. She should just nod and move along, and yet...something about how Yang says it...
"Why do you think I wear the bow all the time?" Blake asks. Yang takes a moment to answer, and that confirms it for Blake. If Yang didn't already know the answer, the question would garner immediate confusion. Why does anyone wear anything? But no. Yang takes her time, considers it, and then says—
"Because you want to." Yang's voice is quiet and even. Far too serious for a discussion about idiosyncratic fashion choices.
"You know," Blake says. It isn't a question. Yang lets out a long exhale.
"I don't assume anything about you that you don't tell me," she says. "That's important to me. If we want this to work out, we can't make assumptions about each other."
"But you still know."
"I'll know if you tell me."
"Are you going to tell anyone?"
"Gossiping about my partner based on things I don't even know would be kind of a dick move," Yang says. "Is that the kind of person I seem like?" Blake shouldn't know. They've only known each other a few weeks; Yang could be hiding all kinds of cruel depths, no matter how much Blake doubts it. "No," Yang says after a moment of protracted silence. "I'm not going to tell anyone."
"Thank you," Blake says. Yang shrugs. Uncomfortable, Blake stands from the bed and returns to her seat at the desk, turning away from Yang to better hide the turmoil she's feeling.
She should've expected this, really. She's hardly the first Faunus to ever hide their trait. Capes, hats, long sleeves, hell, the bow trick isn't even unique to her. Of course someone has figured it out. She should leave. She should run. She should—
"Hey, Blake?"
Blake looks over her shoulder at Yang.
"Your bow is twitching."
Blake's hands fly up, and sure enough, her ears are moving beneath the fabric, fighting to express the discomfort that the rest of her is trying to hide. With a huge effort of will, she stills them, straightens her bow, and returns to her reading, even as the words of her textbook swim around the page in front of her.
"Hey, Blake?"
"Yang, I swear," Blake says, looking over her shoulder, "if you don't let me concentrate I will take that stupid ribbon and gag you with it." Yang blinks once, twice, mouth slightly open in shock, then she grins wickedly.
"Don't threaten me with a good time."
Blake turns back to her homework with a huff.
It's fine. Yang's fine. Yang won't tell anyone. Yang is still (jokingly? definitely jokingly) flirting with her, despite knowing the truth, despite seeing it with her own eyes. It's fine. It's fine.
Blake can stay.
#bumbleby#rwby#blake belladonna#yang xiao long#professorspork#answered#reblog this one actually it's so good#it's going on ao3#my fics#fic: bumbleby
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Hey, I've got a question? I think I'm a singlet, but there's some brain stuff going on that I wanted to get input from a system about, as it seems to be a bit more up your alley.
So I can feel like a- a presence in my head, basically. I've named them Shadow right now as just saying "the presence" felt weird. I also keep subconsciously using he/him pronouns with them for some reason so just a heads up that may be a thing in this ask lol.
They're just kinda chilling for the most part. Like if my mind was a room and the body was a video game character, I'd be sitting at the computer and in control of the mouse and the keyboard, while Shadow is doing their thing on the bed if that makes sense. So I tried to like, mentally poke them I guess? Cause there's something in my head and I wanted to know what it was. And instantly was bombarded with a dehabilitating headache, like when you try to remember something you know happened but don't have any details about.
Needless to say, I have not tried to poke them again.
I asked some of my friends a. if this was normal, and b. if they knew what was up, and the two responses I got were something about repressed trauma (which is fair, I don't remember any trauma but I also am almost always mildly dissociating so yknow) and something spiritual, which was well intentioned but I don't believe in that stuff so I'm not real inclined towards that option. And I thought, "Who is likely to have ideas about Things That Arent You in your head?" and plurality seemed like an obvious place to look. I don't think I'm plural, at least not right now, since Shadow and I have had ZERO communication (not sure if they even are sentient or if it's smth else) and I only lose time and stuff the normal amount, but maybe you guys have ideas about what this could be? I don't have access to a psychiatrist rn (and frankly I am Not ready to tell anyone that isn't a very close friend about Shadow without the anonymity of Tumblr, my parents would definitely question if I asked to see a psychiatrist out of the blue and I am not ready to explain this to them) so this is kind of the best I can do, sorry.
Also one of my friends and I have a notebook we write back and forth in and when I wrote about Shadow it felt like they were pressing closer to me, like they'd moved off the bed and were watching intently over my shoulder.
-D (signing off in case I come back with an update)
Thanks for coming to me and providing me a detailed explanation to describe your situation, i have a few to say.
It can't be trusted when you think something is in a "normal" level because you wouldn't know if it is actually or it is not. Unless you have searched and asked questions to other people on whats the acceptable range of losing time normally, i will believe you on this.
Im also curious if shadow can respond to you, it doesn't need verbal communication between the two of you as it works well by "feeling" it. Have you ever get those moments where saying something it might like made them steer close to you too? Do you think your thoughts or actions are affected to a degree when you feel them around? Do you feel like you are it despite not knowing anything about what this shadow's personality is like? How long have you noticed shadow existing?
Also, for my people, they don't get headaches when it comes to probing or trying to know/think about the another part. I can describe it as staring/thinking at something that doesn't feel familiar which causes little to nothing but confusion or dissociation. No pain involved like yours (though this experience might be different for everyone)
If you have confirmed that you lose time in an acceptable range, get pain just by trying to think/interact from it, and don't feel affected in any ways by shadow,, i will say it could be something else. If you think shadow does something more than chilling inside and leering to you closely way too often (and even have its own gender preference), it could be plurality. I recommend you to search more things that correlate to headaches and not remembering trauma and feeling a presence to get a better understanding, i wish you luck and i will gladly wait for your update, D.
- j
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Terry feels like he would deliberately tamper and mess with beloved's medication and contraceptives to maintain his control over them.
Of course he would. Naturally. Absolutely. The opportunity is literally right there, so why not use it? All's fair in love and war. Medications of any sort are like an invitation and a clear chance to keep beloved under his thumb and he'd be an idiot not to utilize it whenever necessary. Would he rummage through beloved's cabinets? Yes. Terry's morbidly curious and he relishes in it, almost like a little kid stealing someone else's toys and candies --- he wants to know what they intake, always. Their body is more his than theirs. In fact, it is entirely his.
Is it unethical? Yes. He knows that.
You know what is worse for Terry? Not being in charge.
Maybe beloved gets a dosage of their usual sleeping pills just a tad bit stronger than they tend to take and they rest longer. They stay put, out cold for twelve hours straight. The whole day. Under his roof. Sleeping beauty under his watchful eye. Tucked away. Right where they should be. Maybe they're particularly stubborn sometimes, so they get a dosage of venom or some micromanaged concoction that'll absolutely down them back into bed until they recover, during which, of course, they're dependent on him and he's such a devoted caretaker, nursing them back into health. Maybe he gets a bribed off doctor to confirm all of Terry's medical mismanagement as accurate and totally prudent? People would do the most messed up things for cash, Terry knows. Also, do we think Terry's excellent at brewing a poison? I think Vietnam has thought him many a skill --- a skill he would undoubtedly use on beloved, in controlled measures. Sometimes, though, beloved gets vitamins, sometimes fertility pills, depending of the end goal he has in mind, and sometimes, when Terry doesn't want a bed warmer that isn't a beloved compromising him, he goes the other extreme, and keeps meticulous check of their contraceptives to almost obsessive degrees so no accidents he hasn't greenlit would happen --- with beloved though? The opposite is true. The contraceptives are discarded by their own volition either because he charms them out of using them, convincing them they're not necessary (Don't you trust me? Your Terry?), or if he wants to seem amenable and good, he lets them keep them (Little does beloved know, all they're really keeping are the boxes and not the actual contents), and then he fills the bottles with some harmless supplements and nutrients. Maybe potency and pregnancy medications if he feels particularly cheeky, finding the ironic humor in beloved not knowing what they're drinking might increase the chances of them ending knocked up by him, instead of preventing them. If he could fill the pill bottles with Tic-Tacs and get away with it as a placebo, he legitimately would.
Aphrodisiacs so they get flashes and feel hot for him and not know why?
They want to fuck and fuck and fuck him and now they can too, physically.
They can endure such a thing.
Rare herbs and potions that'll have them hallucinating if need be? Maybe because he's punishing them, or maybe because he wants them to see, feel and experience what he wants them to see, feel and experience? Of course, Terry's such a good lover, he'll be there holding their hand the entire time, experiencing it with them, through them, beside them, or perhaps, merely guiding beloved with his voice. He wouldn't miss it for the world. Maybe he's merely taking immense interest in their medication because he wants to ensure beloved's healthy for him and in peak conditions and he wants to have his finger on the pulse of the situation and be more involved than beloved's own doctor is, because he doesn't want unpredictables happening --- because he loves them a little too much and wants to prevent loss even as a concept. What if beloved got sick? What if beloved died? What if some change is happening inside of their body he isn't privy to!? No, no, no. He loves them too much. And extreme situations, such as love, require extreme measures. Maybe sometimes, Terry needs beloved so badly and can't fathom sharing them with the world or anyone in it to the point he simply wants them sleeping and sleeping and sleeping, with nobody but him ever seeing them. He gets that result and all it takes is half a pill more than usually, carefully measured on a scale by him. He's very precise when it comes to affection and adoration.
#terry silver#kk3#cobra kai#yandere#tw; medical mismanagement#terry silver x reader#terry silver x beloved
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NSFW ALPHABET: ABE HARUAKI
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Requires lots of aftercare but also wants to take care of you. Very clingly, like, will latch onto you and cuddle you for the rest of the night clingy. You should probably give him some reassurance or comfort, he seems like the type to stress about whether or not he was any good to you once the fun is over.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Hmmm... Totally the sappy kinda guy who tells you he loves all of your body and thinks it's beautiful and 100% means every praise he sings you about it. He loves everything about you from your soft hair to the tips of your toes.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
God. Just imagining him sprawled out on any surface with an exhausted yet dopey look in his eyes, covered in his own cum (and/or yours of course!) after a few rounds of sex really makes me feel satisfied. Really can't explain this one
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Secretly a bit of a masochist but also scared of being hurt so he never asks even if he really wants to.
Also secretly owns a couple erotic novels he used as "research" when you first brought up wanting a sexual relationship. Since you are his first, he would want to see how he's supposed to act in that scenenrio so he could please you properly. (But damn was he shocked when you wanted to be the dominant one. That wasn't in his books.) Haruaki learns the importance of communication that day.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Dudes a canon virgin y'all. This also excites me.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Secretly loves it when he's on his back so he can see your face as you ride him or peg him. He just thinks you're the prettiest person he's evermet and loves watching you even as you tease or toy with him.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He's a sappy guy. Would probably look at you like a puppy who sees someone they really love. Besides that he's have that dopey look like he's never been happier than he is in that moment, smiling up at you.
Once you've had sex a couple times he might start opening up more, cracking jokes and asking shy requests from you.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Yup. Makes sure he's nice and clean especially
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
He really tries hard to be romantic but he has 0 experience in this area and often fumbles his way through it by trying to be sweet and make you feel good. Very bad at saying romantic things and would probably give up after a bit before he dies from embarassment.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Tbh I actually think he'd barely masturbate if he did at all. This is partly because I actually have an asexual headcanon for him and partly cause in canon he seems really put off by sexual things if not being outright afraid of them.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Contrary to some of the fandom headcanons, I don't really imagine the sailor uniform thing as a kink. It just seems like a typical fixation or something that gets played up for laughs to a strange degree. But maybe thats my ADHD dumbass brain projecting my ADHD onto a fave. (Off topic but him knowing everything about sailor uniforms, from design to creation, being able to make them himself, getting happy any time he sees one, ect. Are headcanons I have because his weird fixation with them reminds me of my fixation on rocks, mushrooms, and jewelry.)
HOWEVER
Praise kink. Body worship. He'd love to be pet gently while you tell him how pretty he is. How you love his soft hair or his long legs or slender form as you lightly trail you fingertips down his body or card fingers through his hair. And he would do the same for you too.
Might at least try pegging, and then realizes he actually likes it when you hold him down and pound his ass.
Would be too embarrassed and a bit scared to bring this up but actually likes the idea being treated roughly. If you could pull at his hair and bite him even a little bit he'd practically melt in your hands.
Might try bondage if it's light. Soft hand cuffs or silk ropes are the way to go.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
At home. Anywhere is fine as long as its at home
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
The fastest way is probably being physical with him or just stripping for him. He gets embarassed and tries to hide but you know he's aroused, you can feel it when you sit on his lap.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
He'd probably not be okay with having more than one partner. You might frighten him if he starts feeling like you guys are ganging up on him.
Public/semi-public sex is a no go. Especially since he is a teacher, he wouldn't risk his job on the off chance you both get caught.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
I think he actually might no be very into oral at first. But will give or recieve though you may have to hear some complaint about it being kind of unsanitary or something. He's also kinda bad a giving oral but what did you expect? He's a virgin.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Personally prefers the slow and sensual kinda sex but you set the pace regardless so ultimately it's up to you. He won't be turned into a stuttering mess right away if you guys take it slow.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Alright with it as long as it stays private. You'll be the only one asking for these but try to get him in the morning before he leaves for work so you can corner him against a counter. Its best when his back is turned so you can grab his hair and lick along his throat, nipping here and there. He'd shiver in your arms as you trail a hand down to undo his pants
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
As long as it isn't a risk to him (would probably be too scared to try knifeplay) or job (no public/semi-public sex) you could probably talk him into it.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Hmmm... Depends I guess. I feel like he might only be active for a round or maybe 2 before he starts slowing down. You could still pound the guy into the mattress but he'll have those half lidded doe eyes cloudy with exhaustion. He'd wrap his arms around you loosely as if you'll help ground him to the waking world and try to hold you closer to him.
At that point you should definitely ask a few times before you start another round to make sure he's okay and reassure him that it's alright to stop now. Strikes me as someone who could easily fall into a place where he'd hide his desire to stop just so you can use him for your own fun since it makes you happy. That could be kinda bad for his mental health.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
You'd be the one with all the toys tbh. But you can sure as hell use them on him.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
He's not much of a tease but if he's feeling playful, he might play up the innocent look of his. He really is a pretty innocent guy actually, but he knows you love that sweet look he's got to him and he will use it on you.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
So damn loud. This guy would moan and beg loudly, scream your name and plead for mercy, for relief as you all but eat him alive. Might even cry and whine and beg. Oh, but he tries to be quiet so he doesn't risk disturbing anyone. He'd purse his lips and turn away from you while you play with his body in an attempt to stay quiet but he always gives in quickly. It's easy to turn this guy into a whimpering, begging mess no matter how many times you do this.
You'll know when he's tired because he will be unable to make much noise besides low pants and gasps. Probably best to wrap things up at that point before ya fuck him unconcious.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
I have a few actually.
-Has a hard time saying no to you. He's a bit cowardly and overthinks and he would be afraid to lose a first relationship. This is potentially hazardous to his mental health because he might say "yes" to something he doesn't want for fear of losing you. Consent is important though so even if it's difficult at first, keep checking to make sure he's alright.
-I actually headcanon him as a sex indifferent asexual. He can 100% live with sex or without it. Doesn't matter to him, though he's terrified of trying it for the first time.
-The first time you tried to get him in bed, you pinned him to a wall and he was terrified because he thought you were trying to shake him down or harass him. (Well, the latter part was true but not the way he expected.) And then you kissed him and he straight up broke, wrapped himself in blankets and hid under the futon for the rest of the day. Disappointing? Sure, but damn was it cute.
-I'm actually caught up on how he would take to dirty talk tbh since a lot of it I've seen or heard involves some form or another of calling your partner a slut or whatever. Seems to be popular. On one hand if he's secretly a masochist, he might be into it. But on the other, he also seems like he might take anything you say to him to heart and beat himself up over it and would ultimately not like it. Also probably would not be comfortable if he did the dirty talking and assuming he manages to make it through the night without apologizing to you for everything he says, then you'll hear it when you finish.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Mandragora patterned briefs. You cannot change my mind on this one.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Not very, so he's pretty chill about it.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Depends on how much you exhausted him but it usually doesn't take that long.
Bonus:
Some more cute Haruaki.
#youkai gakkou no sensei hajimemashita#a terrified teacher at ghoul school#abe haruaki#haruaki abe#nsfwheadcanons
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#WomenInHorror - Relic - Oh, the Thoughts
I bet you thought @tlbodine would get to this first, huh? HAH!
So as part of our ongoing quest to inflict doctorate-level studies of horror film on ourselves for... the sake of doing it, Wuffie and I have been watching a lot of horror movies. Having finished our #HorrorThruTheDecades quest, we moved on to #WomenInHorror, focusing on horror films directed by women.
She's written quite a bit about the movies we've been watching. However, this last week, we watched a film that inspired me into a long-winded post-mortem after we finished it.
Relic is a 2020 Australian horror film directed by Natalie Erika James, focusing on a three-generation family struggle between a grandmother, a mother and a daughter.
Edna, the grandmother, has been missing for several days when her daughter Kay and granddaughter Sam arrive to check on her. We get a little from Kay hinting that her relationship with her mother has been strained, and alternatively, defense of Edna by her granddaughter Sam who has a completely different relationship with her. (As tends to happen with grandparents and grandchildren.) Clues are laid out to hint that Edna may be succumbing to Alzheimer's and quite honestly, the movie does a very good job in showing how absolutely difficult it is to deal with that. Especially in the family situation involving the shift in power dynamic that happens when a parental figure suddenly needs a lot of careful, supportive care.
And Robyn Nevin as Edna? Fantastic. Sympathetic and terrifying all at once.
I won't spoil the film's ending here--you've got to go below the cut for that--but it's at once poignant and plays fair emotionally with the film's overall tone.
Now, for what I went off at great length at Wuffie about... [#triggerwarning for child abuse discussion]
Relic is pretty clearly intended to be a film about grief, aging, the inevitability of death and how part of dealing with health issues in older generations involves facing that you yourself one day may be in that exact situation.
What it also does really, really well--albeit unintentionally but strongly enough that it hit me across the face with a shoe--is create a solid metaphor for intergenerational child abuse.
Fairly early on in the film, the granddaughter Sam discovers a black mold staining a wall inside of a cluttered closet. This black mold becomes a consistent visual element that shows in nightmares, in the house and on Edna herself, staining her skin like a bruise. This mold, through the nightmares, is visually tied to a now-demolished smaller house that'd once stood on the family grounds and was the home of a "great-grandfather" mentioned once directly and alluded to in several nightmare sequences.
This mold grows on stained glass windows that were transplanted from the former house, spreads across the interior of the house itself and spreads across Edna's skin.
Several visual cues tie the black mold to the "great-grandfather" who, in one nightmare sequence, is shown sitting on the edge of a narrow bed before collapsing forward, out of sight. When the camera pans over, a human figure is etched in black mold on the floor.
At the end of the film, after Edna's transformation--you really ought to watch the movie to know what I mean--and the joining of three generations of women in silence together, Sam spies a black spot on her mother Kay's back, hinting at that same mold that destroyed Edna.
Incestuous child abuse is insidious and yet, from the memoirs I've read, always seems to be something the family "knows about" and simply doesn't discuss. A grandparent, a cousin, an aunt or uncle is abusing the family children--sometimes singling out one child, sometimes abusing every child--and the family is aware of this, but no actual steps are taken to bring the abuser to justice.
The cycle of abuse is fairly commonly known, but the long-term effects of child sexual abuse aren't always as easily identified by the public. Alcohol and drug abuse are extremely common amongst child sexual abuse survivors, as well as an inability to develop healthy, trusting relationships with other adults. Difficulties in parenting can also arise as the person who suffered abuse may fear the same thing happening to their child or be struggling emotionally and not able to show their child the affection they need.
Much like the insidious spread of black mold in out-of-sight places, causing illnesses that can't be immediately identified and threatening the structural integrity of a house, incestuous child abuse absolutely threatens and even destroys lives. It's hard to spot at a glance, hides in plain sight--in closets, cupboards, under stairs, behind furniture--and causes illnesses that can be attributed to more "acceptable" causes.
With the clear visual tie to the once-mentioned "great-grandfather" that isn't mentioned between the family members again, it's not hard to go a bit further and consider him the unmentioned, unnamed family abuser. His actions tainted the house he lived in, the remnants brought from it--Edna says later in the film how much she hates the stained glass windows, how cold and scared she feels when she passes them--and spread not only through the house but through the family itself.
And this mold--and the effects of intergenerational incestuous abuse--hits all three women in this family differently.
Edna, theoretically the member of the family who suffered direct abuse, is physically tainted by the black mold to the point it literally degenerates her body. Aspects of her behavior--disliking having "help" or needing to ask for it, offering a token to her granddaughter one day, demanding it back the next, trying to save photo albums from 'the house' by burying them--seemed strikingly like a woman whose coping mechanisms are now failing her.
She mentions believing someone is breaking into her house, stating it only began after the death of her husband. Alone in a massive house with visual, physical ties to the location of her abuse, feeling vulnerable and struggling to push away memories, Edna's actions feel like a cry for help that she can't verbalize because to do so would be to admit not only the vulnerability she feels now, but the fact that it's equivalent to how vulnerable she was as a child, being abused.
Fairly early on in Relic, Kay makes it clear that she and her mother are not particularly close. She makes attempts to stay in contact, but isn't invested in her mother's day to day life and has actually distanced herself to a degree. Her daughter Sam has a closer and more openly affectionate relationship with Edna. Kay mentions her mother threatening to lock her in the old house "when she was a brat" and seems to want a comfortable distance between herself and her mother.
A parent who has endured abuse as a child can have profound difficulty in bonding with their own children. Healthy sexual intercourse and adult relationships are tainted by child abuse experiences, and some memoires have mentioned being pregnant making them feel "dirty" as if they'd committed some great sin. Bonding with an infant while struggling with those emotions can lead to distant parenting and leave a child with an insecure emotional attachment.
Sam, the granddaughter, is the least damaged by the intergenerational abuse at the beginning of the film. She has an affectionate relationship with her grandmother, seems actively interested in doing what she can to help Edna and scolds her mother for not taking a more prominent role. When Sam finds a sketchbook with a sketch of the 'great-grandfather's' house, she doesn't know what it is or to whom it belonged. The cycle of abuse has been broken; Sam isn't even aware that abuse happened.
What she does is learn of it through a visual metaphor for unearthing family history. Discovering the black mold in the closet and pursuing a ghostly figure into what becomes a nightmarish labyrinth that has echoes of the home she'd always felt safe in plays very well as the realization for an unabused member of a family learning about the abuse that happened. What was loving and familiar is suddenly alien and terrifying, threatening and tainted.
By the end of the film--rather an emotionally poignant moment--all three women have been hurt by this black mold (i.e. incestuous abuse) and have come together in a moment of quiet rest. Edna, completely altered into a shell of who she once was, with Kay, accepting that what happened is fact and had effects on her as well, and Sam, who now understands a great deal about her mother and grandmother.
Every generation in the family has been affected to some degree, even if the cycle of abuse was fortunately broken. The black mold not only completely transformed Edna internally, expressed in a striking visual moment, but also tainted her daughter. Even the granddaughter, although physically unharmed by the mold, has been permanently changed by learning about what happened in her family and feeling her perceptions twist (frighteningly so) from what she once held to what she now knows.
While I don't think the film intended to be such a great visual metaphor for the horrific effects of incestuous family abuse and the intergenerational damage it causes, it did an incredibly good job of being one.
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The thing about naruto bieng a bad parent ,it's not about not spending enough time with your kids , it's how ruined his character is they wanted his character to seem grownup and responsible ,but he just seems tired and out of place , even with his family he feels like an outsider , like he doesn't fit at all and I dont even know how to explain it , it's just sad I f you were going to force a canon ending that makes no sense, at least do good man
HONESTLY THOUGH
No, really, what you just said is literally what I think whenever I see adult Naruto. It's not just that he looks tired and thus consequently ugly as hell, he doesn't even act like you'd imagine Naruto being, even after decades, at ALL. Of course growing up can basically tilt your character 180 degrees, and politics are even more prone to doing that. And considering that he spent the last of his teenage years being groomed into the perfect figurehead (because let's face it, there's most likely decisions being made behind his back, decisions that Naruto simply 'wouldn't understand' because I want to believe that deep deep down he's still the same righteous dork he was years ago and politics are ugly, dark, shadowed things, no matter how calm the peace times may be).
But generally? Not even his deeply rooted characteristics stayed the same. He's a dork. He's righteous to a fault. He has to save everyone. He's liquid sunshine and soothing warmth and the most important thing for him is family.
How far did he go to protect his friends, his found family? How often did he yell at Sasuke that he sees him as his brother? How FURIOUS and PANICKED was he whenever talk about eliminating Sasuke came up? How angry was he when Sasuke talked shit or even straight up tried to kill Sakura and Kakashi?
You want me to believe that this guy, so thirsty for love and acknowledgement and a family of his own, would—what, neglect his own family, both blood and found, the way he does? Not be there for every little milestone of his kids or pout whenever he misses one? Not kiss his wife every time he gets to see her, hold her hands or her arm and just constantly keep touching her because he's been starved for this kind of closeness for years? Yell about his FAMILY, inform everyone he comes across about whatever his kids did that day ("She finally called me Da, man! DA!!!!)"), whatever Hinata did ("And she just straight up knocked him out, dude, like didn't even hesitate and gentle fisted the shit out of him")? Bug his friends and tease them and talk to them when they run into each other on the street, even if it's just for a short moment? Not constantly lose his shit whenever Sasuke comes back, even if it's in a more controlled way thse days (frame slightly shaking and smile earsplittig and he has to hold up an image but his emotions are overwhelming, always have been whenever Sasuke's involved)?
He's already using so many shadow clones, and most of the time he doesn't even dignify his own fucking family with that. Instead he tells his pre-teen son to call him Lord Hokage instead of dad, like he wasn't the brat that flat out called the third old man. Instead he misses his daughter's birthday and sends a shadow clone that disspells because he—what, couldn't uphold it any longer? Instead he barely sees his wife, and doesn't even kiss or hug her when he sees her. Instead we see him looking at a freshly returned Sasuke (who came as a surprise, without any kind of warning, mind you) like he's just another one of his shinobi, like the man wasn't his greatest desire for the better part of his teenage life. Instead we rarely see him interact with his friends, with his found family, outside of Shikamaru, who literally works for him. We don't even see him interact with Sakura, who, arguably, is his best and closest friend. Doesn't even visit Kakashi under the pretense of seeking important kage advise.
For fucks sake, the guy literally sleeps on the couch. And, sure, common sense tells us he's merely doing that because he doesn't want to wake Hinata up when he gets home late, but honestly? The third week in a row you haven't slept in your own fucking bed next to your own fucking wife is probably when you should re-consider your priorities because I know, I know that Naruto cares for all of the villagers, loves them, needs to protect them now that they finally acknowledge him, but the thing about Naruto is that he always had priorities, even if it was unconsciously. Just look at his teenage years—does it really look like he didn't have his friends ranked from more important to less important? He'd have never believed it, never even realized it, but between Sakura and Kiba, heck, between Sakura and Sasuke—he chose, back then during whatever the fuck the five kage summit was. So politics and paperwork aside (also, do they REALLY want me to believe he or Shikamaru or SOMEONE with a fucking braincell wouldn't just get an assistant or a full team of assistants just to take care of the paperwork? For real?) he'd spend time with his family, period. Hell, even is it's just 10 minutes every day! He'd find that time. Make that time, even if it means pestering his kids until they come visit him in his office every day so he can play a quick round of cards with them and they can update him on their life, what they've done today and how school is.
Of course, you could also turn that around on its head and say the guilt of not being there for his family weighs down on him, thus making him even more tired and worn out looking.
Honestly though, what I'm trying to say is..... who decided making someone who solves problems via punching and screaming the hatred and stupid out of someone a political figure is a good idea in the first place? He's charismatic, people are drawn to him, but that doesn't change the fact that Naruto, even if he might be good at them, is not someone made for politics, for a position that's more bureaucratics than anything else these days; he's a do-er, does things with his own two hands and not his signature on yet another piece of paper.
They should have made him like... an ambassador or something, who regulalry visitis the other nations to uphold peace and treaties and remind people on why peace times are, actually, a good thing. Because time makes people forget, and they need someone to remind them about this fact and Naruto's the perfect person for that job. He could have even gone and done that with Sasuke, honestly, and left the whole Hokage thing to someone more suitable, like Sakura and Shikamaru. I mean, c'mon, Shikamaru was already pointed out to be a good Hokage in canon itself, and Sakura was both the fifth Hokage's apprentice and the sixth's assistant. They'd have made a terrifying duo.
And personally? All this talk about dreams, the way canon itself likes to point out that Naruto has dreams and things more important than his childhood dream mainly Sasuke, making him realize that dreams change and sometimes you HAVE to choose (because that's one thing Naruto, in canon, never had to do and is one lesson he really should have learned) would have made for one hell of a character development. (Not that Kishimoto cares much about THAT.)
But honestly, when I look at this guy slumped over his desk like his responsibilities are literally crushing him, crushing his spirits and draining him of everything that made him Naruto in the first place (love and care and the desperate need for a family, sunshine warmth and big ol' smiles) I don't even see Naruto. That's some beat-up workaholic father who neglects his family and forgot about having priorities.
#Boruto can't hurt you if you believe in the 'its all Madara's dream world' theory#Ignore typos it's literally 5 am n I just woks up but now im angry and need a Naruto fix it#Nart#Asks
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What they don't tell you about chronic illness, and more importantly, EDS.
WARNING- VENT POST.
They don't tell you, when you're diagnosed, that EDS will take things you love dearly from you. They don't tell you that with any chronic illness diagnosis, or any diagnosis of a progressive disease. You figure that out pretty quickly though. And when you have the remains of what it took from you, it hits you just how MUCH this disorder takes from you.
This is the sight I have. This is what I've been staring at for the last 20 minutes, willing myself to take them off the hanger and take individual photos for me to upload onto a Facebook for sale group for my area. The tears are rolling off my cheek as I think of all the lives I've changed, and the lives I've touched, and the lives I *won't* touch because I can't be a nurse or a doctor anymore.
I know it doesn't seem like much. But for a year, this was my identity. This is who I was. This was me. I loved going to work every day, no matter how much pain is caused. I loved the night shift that I worked. It was me. I thrived in this environment. And my mom saw that too. My boss saw it, my coworkers saw it, and my family loved how much I loved my job. Because I did. I learned about people, was compassionate, and passionate about my job. I had people get sad that I wasn't on that day because they wanted me as a CNA.
When I got the EDS diagnosis in April, my diagnosing doctor tried to have me stop being a CNA. She told me that it wasn't good for me. But when someone tells me not to, I normally do it. That's why I went to her in the first place. A doctor told me that I wouldn't be able to run. I did anyway, and the pin in my lower leg was painful.
Even before my diagnosis, with my knee and my back, people told me that I shouldn't be a CNA. The person who ran the CNA class I went through told me I wouldn't be a CNA. She told me that with my joints, I wouldn't do it. For a year, this badge was my identity too.
I started deep cleaning my room today because I have surgery on Wednesday on my shoulder for the second time in 6 months or so. I reached my closet and just broke.
I was a CNA for a year before EDS took it from me when my shoulder dislocated. I also dislocated my right pinkie for the first time that week before the shoulder went, when my hand got twisted up in a gait belt.
I had gotten my EDS diagnosis last April and continued on as a CNA until my shoulder went and my body gave in. Today, after being injured last September (September 1 will be a day I will always remember), I am cleaning the scrubs out of my closet. And I honestly cannot stop crying. This disease has taken so much from me. All I had wanted to do was be a nurse or a doctor. And with how severe my condition is with comorbidities and joint involvement, I can't do either. I had to change my degree to teaching and while I'll still do well, it hurts to be staring at the scrubs on my bed while I get ready to list them for sale. That and my old A&P textbooks and nursing for dummies books.
I hate this disease and I hate what it's taken from me. And I hate that I know that it'll take more. Because I have to get an AFO for severe foot drop, and specialty bracing, and I have surgery on my shoulder again next week. We're already looking into service dogs and I'm only 19, 20 in 3 months or so, because my mobility is waning and there are days that scare me because if I had one, I would honestly use a wheelchair. And that scares me. God, today it feels like I'm losing the battle.
Staring at these scrubs just makes me cry because I was so happy. I was in so much pain but I was so happy. And now when I go to the hospital for treatments or IV fluids or in the hospital as a patient, my old coworkers take care of me. And that... That stings. So badly. Because they tell me "I miss you. We miss you! When are you coming back?"
And I have to tell them about the EDS, finally, and that I'm *not* coming back. And they get that *pity* in their eyes.
And now I have to go see neurosurgery because it looks like I have Chiari and CCI. It feels like this will never end. I'm so frustrated and emotional today over articles of clothing and the stethoscope that my parents got me for Christmas in 2015 that I can't seem to get rid of, no matter what I do. I can't throw it out or give it away because it feels like I really am giving up. And while I know that I technically have given up on nursing, I still can't let it go.
So now I'm sitting here crying over goddamn clothing and a stethoscope. I can't go downstairs because my brother will roll his eyes and scoff because he doesn't get it. He's 100% fine. And I thought mom wouldn't understand it because while it does look like she has EDS, she doesn't understand it like I do. She was a Marine for 6 years. She's mild. But when she called me downstairs and saw my red eyes, she drug me into a tight hug and spirited us away to her room for a moment. Because she knows what it's like to lose the identity. Because she lost it when she was forcibly medically discharged from the marines. And I lost It for a moment. I feel a little better but now i have to actually pull myself to going intl the room and finally taking the photos.
It's gonna be a long ass day. And I'm so damn tired of what EDS takes from me, and what it will take from me.
I've had 11 surgeries, and surgery #12 is on Wednesday. My dad won't get it either. When I did my IV fluids at home yesterday via home health/my port, he looked stunned and struggled with it. Today is so rough. And I hate it so much. I hate *this*.
I hate what it will take from me and what it continues to take from me. I know one day I'll gain something back, but I know that it won't be CNA/nursing.
And that hurts the most.
#venting#what EDS takes from you#hypermobile ehlers danlos syndrome#ehlers danlos syndrome#hEDS#chronic illness#progressive illnesses#progressive disorders#scrubs#CNA#certified nursing assistant#work related#I'm legit sitting here crying looking at the scrubs#Because it's so hard to let go#POTS#postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome
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