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ghastlybirdie · 4 months

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I have an anxiety disorder so I have frequent dreams that are filled with fear and anxiety inducing elements. These usually wake me up since they border nightmare and even night terror territory if it’s bad enough. Usually, I just hear things like whispers or knocking as I fall asleep. This is based off of the other night.

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cw: stalking, mentions of anxiety, noncon touching, implied sexual tension (if you squint maybe?), not beta read, tell me if I need to add more

a/n: I’ve been drinking a lot of wine and I can’t stop thinking about a face I kept seeing while I was trying to sleep the other night so here is Ghost being weird

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The closet is a doorway to hell. It’s true. It has to be. It’s the only logical reasoning and the only explanation to the ghastly face that peers at you through the crack in the sliding doors.

It’s been staring at you through two black holes in its face, or what you could only make out as a face. Your glasses rested on the nightstand and your body was solid, your brain unable to send the right signals to even pry your eyes off the closet doors let alone move your arms.

It’s been five minutes. Or an hour. Two seconds? A day, perhaps, since you saw it looking back at you. This face. It’s impossibly tall, somehow peering down at you from the very top of the doorway, still as a tree and looming in its eerie presence. But this isn’t the first time you saw this thing. This face. This skeletal face.

Sometimes it appears as a shadow in your bathroom when the lights are off, teasing you to enter as it stood still in your shower. Tempting you to try and enter. See what happens. You never try.

It’s leaned over entry ways and stood at the end of the hall, all as a way to watch you. It was the shadow in the corner of your bedroom at night, escaping when you hastily switch a lamp on. It was a whisper as you were falling asleep, gently calling your name next to your ear, never to be seen when you shot up in bed, heart ever racing. It made you wake up in the middle of a deep sleep, sheets rustling and cold digits reaching for your feet despite you wearing socks and tucking them away. It saw in the back of your dresser, eyes dark and endless as it stared back at you, waiting for something. Waiting for you. Watching you. Seeing you grow anxious and tired. Just like now.

You refused to peel your eyes away from the eyes that watched you, the skeletal face looking back at you, though you hardly watched for dominance. No. You were crying. You’re tired. You’re weak from sleepless nights and your reprieves from your own home lasted such a short time that it was agonizing just walking through the doors. You knew what was waiting for you. Knew what was hoping for your return. Itching for your presence while you dreaded its. A ghost. Your ghost. Your nightmare.

You were paralyzed. Still. Mind betraying your body as the closet door creaked open slowly, a skeleton hand having wrapped its bony fingers against it, pushing its way to you. To your selfless body.

It was tall. Broad. And clothed. It had clothes. The skeletal face was a mask, worn paint fading in spots on the mask that drapped the head and shoulders. It wore a thick sweater and cargo pants, all as black as the shadows that crowd the dark room around you.

The bed dipped around you as the figure climbed overtop of you, heavy breathing wisping down to your face, a shuddering whimper escaping your clamped mouth.

It whispered your name, the same way your sleepy delusions have done timeless nights before, your blood cold in your veins as the cotton mask brushed against your cheek, labored breaths tickling your ear.

Something grazed your thighs, something hard, and another whimper left behind your teeth, tears flooding your pillow and ears, mind unable to decipher broken commands you tried shouting to it, rough words breaking through as the figure moved the last defense your bed could provide, blankets falling away and leaving your body exposed to your ghost. Your ghost that press skeleton hands and skeleton lips against your skin, lifting limbs and moving clothes to better access your pulse points, mask lifting for wet lips to press whispered kisses to your clammy skin.

It lasted far too long. Far too loving. Too delicate for a ghost. And as soon as you blinked away burning tears after what felt like eternity, you awoke to a sun-lit room.

Closet door closed and blankets pulled back to your neck the way you like, clothes and hair all left back in place. Like it never happened. Like it was just a terrible terrible dream.

But the bruises and discolored patches on your neck and thighs was your promise. Your evidence. Your confirmation, that a ghost… Your Ghost, was still with you. Watching you. Waiting for you. Tasting you. All for himself, leaving not a moment in your waking, or sleeping, days or nights for him left to imagine.

You’d never know, not even when you see a familiar skull mask on your neighbor after he returned home, that it was more than just your imagination.

#sunny writes #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon riley x reader #cod simon ghost riley #cod ghost #cw noncon #cw stalking

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terror-slut · 2 years

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Change of Heart

Chapter 05/?? Click HERE for this fics masterlist!

Reader is a troubled pediatrician at Hawkins lab when she crosses paths with this lovely orderly. Nothing will stand between Peter and his revenge. Not even really pretty distractions.

Pairing: Peter Ballard x f!reader

Word count: 2359

Ratings & warnings: SPOILERS, period typical sexism, violence, blood, torture, NSFW, swearing, no (Y/N), no described defining features for reader. Ratings may change as chapters are being added.

CW THIS CHAPTER: mentioned torture, NSFW, masturbating (m)

A/N: first part of this chapter is inspired by horror games where you learn about the backstory through picking up notes which I personally love. Also, finally some smut! Y’all deserve it for putting up with me tbh

Thursday, June 11th 1959

I’ve just come into possession of a young boy, his name is Henry Creel. His mother and sister passed away under curious circumstances. His father survived what he described as a targeted attack from Satan himself. He spoke of flickering lights, living nightmares and life-like illusions. He even went as far as to contact an exorcist to get rid of this supposed entity, though his efforts proved to be fruitless. I don’t believe in demons. There is no other explanation for what happened at that house but the boy. With what information his mother has provided me with, I believe the reason for Henry’s comatose state is overexertion through the use of his psionic powers. Once he wakes, I will begin working on forming a bond with the boy. He is still young enough to fool. With time, he will begin to trust me, I’m sure of it.

Thursday, June 18th 1959

The boy has finally woken up! Though disoriented and not very talkative, I can tell he remembers exactly what happened before he came here. Upon telling him his mother and sister are both dead by his hand, he nodded in understanding, devoid of any emotion. I suspect he might be traumatized. I’ve assured him he is safe and I will do everything within my power to help him control his powers. It will take a little longer before I can subject him to testing, I need to be sure he is ready. There is so much to gain with Henry’s help but I need to tread carefully.

Thursday, July 23rd 1959

I’ve dubbed the boy 001. He is the first of his kind that I’ve discovered, which has me convinced there are others like him out there. The testing has begun a couple of days ago, and 001’s abilities are extraordinary! Not only does he have telepathic abilities, he can use his skills to infiltrate minds and plant illusions there. 001 is able to have one’s mind turn on them, making one their own worst enemy. Though what he has displayed so far is exceptional, I suspect he’s not showing me the full extent of his powers just yet. I wonder why, but it does not matter. I have all the time in the world and 001 is not going anywhere. Once he is ready, I’m confident he will show me.

Wednesday, August 19th 1959

Something is wrong with 001. He has disturbing ideas about humankind that deeply worry me. Initially, I thought his nihilistic outlook on life was caused by the guilt and trauma of killing his mother and sister. I now know he viewed them as nothing more than parasites and what I perceived as behavior induced by trauma was nothing more than plain indifference. If this is how he views his own flesh and blood, I’m afraid of what he thinks of others. His ideologies are tyrant-like, and it makes me shudder when I’m reminded of how young he is. When he gets older, he will grow even stronger. Will these views of his grow more intense then, too? I have him monitored day and night, now. I spend all my time with him to try and get these deeply rooted delusions out of his head before they form a real problem. I can only hope I’ve caught this early enough to treat him, and there will be no need for drastic measures.

Saturday, October 31st 1959

001 has killed half my staff. I’ve begun developing an implantable suppressor, it’s purpose is to block off the connection between his powers and the ability to use it. I’ve named it Soteria, as a last resort. I pray to God he comes to his senses, and I don’t have to use it. Losing this opportunity would be devastating. For now, the boy will be subjected to shock therapy and I will keep him under a mild sedative so he remains controllable.

Thursday, February 18th 1960

The day I completed Soteria was the day I had to put it to use. Under a heavy sedative, I’ve implanted the device in 001’s neck. Over the last few months, the boy has become a disorderly atomic bomb with a mind of it’s own. I had no other choice but to dismantle this bomb for everyone’s safety. I hope that one day, he will understand that what I did to him was for his own good.

Monday, March 14th 1960

I’ve spent the last couple of months wondering where I went wrong with 001. I’ve come to the conclusion that my greatest enemy is time. The experiments started too soon, he was not ready yet.

Had I come into possession of young 001 ten years prior, he would have been much easier to bend to my will. A more secluded childhood with children just like him would have had a positive impact, I’m sure of it. Now that 002 is here, I get a free do-over. I will be sure to do it right, this time. I will do it for 001.

A sigh escapes through her lips as she reads through dr. Brenner’s notes for what must be the sixth time. If her job was to diagnose the doctor instead of Henry, it would be a much easier job. But she was passionate when she heard about his case at first and she still is passionate. The Henry she reads about in dr. Brenner’s log is so different from Peter the orderly that she has come to know.

With a series of pops and cracks, she straightens her back by leaning back into the tall backrest of the dark office chair. The pencil that rests between her fingers twirls absentmindedly from side to side, in sync with the tapping of her foot on the tile floor. This whole entire case was much easier back when she could observe him from a distance, before he became… tangible.

Before she came to Hawkins lab, this was when she hadn’t graduated just yet, she thoroughly studied his case file front to back. The case file didn’t include Dr. Brenner’s notes, but it did describe the use of electric shock therapy on the young boy, the dehumanization by referring to him as a number and how they confined him to the same little space for months on end. The injustice that was done to him lit a fire in the depths of her stomach, and she swore she would get him justice. Maybe freedom wasn’t obtainable for him, perhaps not even beneficial after everything he had been through, but she had promised a picture of young Henry that she would do right by him.

With a groan, she lowers her head on the desk in front of her. Though her passion hasn’t wavered, her motivation has shifted. She wants to help Peter so badly, but now selfishness has muddled her initial pure intentions. It may have taken her a little bit, but she can finally admit to herself that she likes Peter more than a psychiatrist should like their patient.

“You are such a fucking idiot,” she murmurs, annoyed with herself. “You see a pretty face and that’s all it takes? Seriously?”

But he is more than that, isn’t he? Despite his pretty smiles and his soft curls, the warmth that rises to her cheeks when he turns his full attention towards her, the shiny pink hue of his lips… He makes it so easy to talk to him. She actually likes talking to him, likes how he actively listens to her. Though it has never been her plan to divulge too much personal information, everything she has told him as of yet has been the truth.

In the middle of her research to the best way to approach the orderly, she had been catapulted into making contact with him. She would have preferred if she had had the upper hand during their first contact, but she had promised dr. Brenner her abilities to adapt and overcome were up to par for situations like this. He told her she would need it to deal with 001.

With a soft rustle, she closes the folder lying flat on the desk top. The notes didn’t bring her any new insight like she had hoped they would. If anything, she is even more confused now. Between wanting Peter and wanting to help Peter, she wonders if she is the right person for the job after all. A guilt shaped stone sits heavily at the bottom of her stomach. Peter is her patient. If she is unable to keep her feelings professional, she should hand him over to another psychiatrist, she knows that. The only problem being that there is no one else and Peter is unaware of his status as her patient because of how unorthodox his treatment is. She is also too stubborn to give up.

“I can stay objective,” she whispers to the closed folder. “I promised you I would help you and I will, Henry Creel.”

The office chair softly rolls away as she resolutely stands. Renewed determination has pushed away the guilt for now, and she will gladly take it. Giving up is not an option.

Peter’s knuckles are white from clenching his fists as tightly as he is. It’s the middle of the night and he’s sitting up in his bed. Before the pediatrician, the darkness of the nights brought him great comfort but now, they are his worst enemy. His mind has been turned by her, to her, and Peter hates it. He can’t afford to let her be a distraction, can’t afford to be burdened by these human desires of his. And yet.

Yet.

It has been three nights in a row that his cock has been begging for attention, three nights where he wakes up from dreams of her and him. Dreams that would have her turn up her nose if she only knew.

Frustration has him slap his hand over his eyes as he lays back down, cock undeniably hard and warm pressed up snuggly against his stomach.

In his dreams, she comes to him willingly. She wears a sheer violet nightgown that does nothing to hide her dusky nipples, straining against the fabric, begging to be touched. Her breathing comes in soft huffs as she kneels before him and presses her cheek softly against his uniform clad leg. With big, wide eyes she looks up at him, and starts to begs him with all her pretty words to take her. She begs and paws and pouts when he denies her what she so desperately craves, his hard cock plunging into her soaking wet cunt. Her eyes shoot daggers at him when he tells her she needs to deserve it.

Peter can’t help himself when his right hand drifts down to where his cock throbs against the fabric of his boxers, and he shudders when he takes himself in hand. It’s been so long since he last did this, the skin of his dick is extremely sensitive to the touch. His breath hitches when he gives a slow, experimental stroke.

In his dream, this is the part where his sweet pediatrician tells him she’d do anything he’d ask of her, anything that would please him. He gives her a smile and a nod, and she knows exactly what he wants. With deliberate precision, she places her hands on his thighs, just barely grazing his member through the thick, white fabric of his pants, and makes careful work of unzipping him. It’s hard not to notice how she clenches her thighs together when she pulls his weeping cock out.

“F-fuck,” his moan is breathy when he hears the unmistakable, obscene wet sound of his fist working himself up and down.

All it takes is an approving nod, and she wraps her lips around his cockhead. Her lips are velvet around his throbbing length. His big hands cradle her head to hold her hair out of her face, and she gives a thankful, tight swirl with her tongue around a particular sensitive spot. A breathy laugh always escapes him at this point in his dream, as if he can’t believe his luck.

She bobs up and down his cock, takes him in her throat as far as she can and wraps her hand around the base where her lips can’t reach. A frustrated moan leaves her because of this, which in turn sends shivers down his spine. He appreciatively feels her tits tightly pressed up against his leg, nipples poking hard through the sheer fabric of her gown. The sight of her desperation only increases his pleasure, cock hard and hot in her throat as her empty cunt clenches around nothing.

The bed softly creaks underneath him as he increases the speed of which he’s fucking his hand with, imagining it being the pediatrician’s tight throat like in his dreams.

In his dreams he would tell her how good she is being for him, doing so well at sucking him off, which doubles her efforts at taking that last little bit of cock down her throat. Once her nose is snug against his stomach, he rattles off praises, half incoherent because of how close he is.

“‘M gonna…” he murmurs to no one in particular, fisting his pre-cum covered cock, so close to his climax that he aches.

It is her name on Peter’s lips when he comes, seed warmly coating his fingers as he imagines shooting his load down her grateful throat. His body seizes slightly as he rides out the waves of his orgasm, droplets of hot, sticky cum escaping onto his soft stomach. He feels satisfied as his cock softens in his hand, albeit only for a short moment.

His panting dies down and his bliss makes way for thoughts much darker not soon after. The pediatrician was never supposed to become this much of a distraction, he thinks as his seed begins to cool on his stomach. Human desires are weaknesses, and he can’t afford to have any weaknesses. Peter needs to take action, before she becomes his undoing.

A/N: that was one hell of a chapter and I’m so proud of it honestly? Please lmk what you thought, it keeps me going!

My apologies for the delay of this chapter. I promised an update last week but since that did not happen, I owe you another one this week. I’m aiming to have it up by Sunday. See you then! <3

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eddiemunsonw · 1 year

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It takes one kiss

CHAPTER 2 - I need it to be you

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5

Steddie Fanfic

Summary: Steve hosts a party and ends up suffering through the consequences of humoring Tommy.

Steve Harrington kisses Eddie Munson by accident and that sucked. Right?

CW / Disclaimer: Some mild overlap with S4 scenes (barely) - But (!!) Eddie lives - Mention of F-slur once.

Author’s note: My first Steddie fic! Another first woop. Let's hope you like. It has five parts that I'll be posting both on here and on my ao3: eddiemunsons. Enjoy!

Words: (of current chapter) 2696 / (complete fic) 15381

Eddie’s POV

Months passed after what Eddie now liked to call the “Natural 1 Occurrence”, or NO² for short in his head. Not very catchy, but it made sense to him. The first week after the party had been especially hard at school. The name calling had gotten much, much worse than before. At least until Harrington snapped and told everyone to move the fuck on because he didn’t want to be reminded of that horrible event that he had been forced into. Yeah. That’s how he had turned it around.

Steve Harrington, the jock, the King, the popular guy, had been too drunk to think and just did what was expected of him and kissed one person after the next, not knowing the last had been Eddie. It was gross and he obviously never would have done it otherwise, and he had lied about the rating but never got to the point of the joke. That was his story. Lo and behold, people seemed to believe him. Popularity did that to you. Eddie did catch some whispers here and there that the guy had been totally into it and that they didn’t believe a word he said, but it fell on deaf ears. The guys didn’t want someone like that amongst them and the girls didn’t want their dreams to be crushed. Oh, the horror of losing their favorite jock to the gays.

To be fair, Eddie really, really wanted to believe Harrington. It would be a lot easier if he could believe that he would rather die than kiss him. However… he had been there. He had felt Harrington kissing him, felt the gasp against his lips and felt the reluctance of pulling back. Sure, maybe it had all been alcohol induced, but still. Thanks to his crush on the guy, he had in fact been paying attention to him. Steve Harrington was a horrible liar. And when he gave Eddie’s kiss a 9.5, he had definitely not been lying.

Which did not help at all for Eddie who was trying to get rid of his delusions that there was something there. There wasn’t. Even if there was, there still wasn’t. Whatever was going on in that beautiful head of his, it wasn’t in Eddie’s favor. Even if that kiss had been the best kiss Harrington had ever experienced, it wouldn’t matter. People like him wouldn’t own up to their sexuality until they were unhappily married with four kids and several acts of infidelity later. It was fruitless.

Eddie knew not to engage with Harrington or anyone from his circle for that matter and was actually relieved when he finally became more invisible again. There were a few people who still seized every opportunity to call him names, but it beat the time when it had been half the school. He was surprised he hadn’t received another beating. All in all, it had been super draining to deal with negativity every day while there was already so much of it swarming around in his own mind. As tough as his shell was, he was glad it seemed to be over for the most part.

Summer break had offered a much needed, temporary escape from it all. Unfortunately school knocked on his door again and he had to drag himself back to that hellhole. He wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Failing English just did that to you. He was convinced that Mrs. O’Donnell had something against him and whether that had to do with the fact that she had caught him doodling during her classes, he didn’t know. He had been pretty harmless otherwise, apart from the one time he had glued her favorite pencil to her desk. But, no one knew that had been him. He doubted the jocks would have laughed about it, had they known it was his doing. Mrs. O’Donnell wasn’t the only one with a personal agenda against him. Principal Higgins severely disliked him as well, which is why they really should have given him a passing grade to get rid of him. Of course, they hadn’t. Why not torture him with another year of being surrounded by the people that hated his goddamn guts, right? That’ll show him.

Eddie had managed to survive about half of the first semester when Callum had finally wrapped up his D&D campaign at the Hellfire Club. It had been the plan to end it before summer, but he had miscalculated the time that was needed for their final quest, endboss and everything. Now that it was finally done, it was time for Eddie to host his first campaign. He had been working on it all summer (and even before that) and he was excited yet nervous to start.

While it was a big change from being a player to being a DM, he liked it a lot. His first session went surprisingly well and the practice that he had done with some generic dialogue for a few NPCs had definitely paid off. Even Callum was positively impressed (although he admitted it with some reluctance) and he was definitely someone that was hard to please. Eddie knew the rules of the game in and out by now, but he had still spent extra time to make sure he wouldn’t cause any major fuckups. The rest of the party was excited to go on the new adventure and Eddie could not wait until next Friday to continue.

At the end of their session, once everyone had gone, Eddie lingered behind to make some notes for next week and checked everything that he had written down during the session. He was busy scribbling away with his Walkman on when suddenly the fluorescent lighting from the hallway came into view. He looked up at the silhouette partially blocking it, but couldn’t make out who it was. Probably a janitor about to get up in his business because he wanted to lock the school, Eddie thought.

“Who’s there? I can’t really see you,” Eddie told the stranger as he squinted at the dark blob in the distance. The figure cleared their throat and dread immediately filled his chest. He wasn’t proud of it, but he’d recognize Harrington’s “throat clearing” everywhere. Now that they shared several classes together, he had become hyper aware of everything the guy did. Embarrassing, but true nonetheless.

“Uh, Steve. Harrington,” he heard the guy say awkwardly as he approached with caution. The door loudly fell shut behind him, revealing Harrington in the dim lighting of the room as he slightly jumped, startled by the sound.

“And what brings ‘King Steve’, to the drama room?” Eddie drawled lazily, eyes lifting up to meet Harrington’s as he peered at him curiously yet cautiously. Harrington ran a hand through his hair, making the front of his hair stick up from all the product that was in there. He still looked stupidly gorgeous. Eddie tilted his head and watched how he pocketed his hands, his thumbs fiddling the loops at the front of his jeans as he bit his lip. Harrington was nervous. It would have been endearing if the guy didn’t hate Eddie’s guts. When Harrington struggled to speak, Eddie decided to do it for him.

“Listen, Harrington. I have avoided you like the plague for obvious reasons, so I would really like to know why you’re breathing down my generous, but still very personal bubble right now.”

“I need you to kiss me again.”

Eddie blinked a few times, registering what had just come out of the other boy’s mouth as he felt his own lips part. Say what now?

“Excuse me?”

“I need— I need you to kiss me again. Please.”

Eddie looked at Harrington as if he had spontaneously grown a second, or even third head. Where the hell did Harrington gather the courage to actually say shit like that out loud? He’d heard rumors that he was hung, but surely he needed an extra carrier for his balls only if he ran this sentence around in his mind and then still decided to go through with it.

“Absolutely not. What kind of sick joke is this?”

Harrington shook his head. Desperately, almost. His hands were shaking.

“It’s not. Not a joke. I just— I need to know.”

“Know what, exactly?”

“It really doesn’t concern you, man. Please, just once.” Harrington’s voice echoed in the room as Eddie took his time taking in what he said. It vaguely occurred to him that he was actually begging. Eddie wondered if he could possibly get him on his knees and have him repeat it, but realized there were a lot of reasons why even thinking of that was a bad idea.

“That’s really fucking rich of you, Harrington. Get lost already. Whatever you’re dealing with, I’m sure you can figure it out without my assistance. Lots of lost boys ‘round.”

An exasperated sigh left Harrington's mouth and Eddie cocked an eyebrow at him. He better not try to be annoyed with him, because he did not have the patience for that.

“No, you don’t understand— I need it to be you.”

“Ah,” Eddie said with a smirk. “Trying to figure out if I made you gay? You’re gonna what, try to see if you can reverse it by kissing me again somehow? Rest assured Harrington, being gay is not contagious. It’s all you.” There was no need to take it that far, but after enduring all the harassment while Harrington got to prance around the school like nothing had happened had apparently annoyed him more than he thought it did.

“I’m not gay,” Harrington protested and Eddie noticed there was no longer any venom behind it. Not like before. He watched him curiously as his face scrunched up and he ran a hand through his hair yet again. It should have made him look ridiculous, except it didn’t.

“Okay, well. Whatever you are or aren’t, it’s none of my business, so don’t try to make it my business. Or should I remind you that you told me, the freak, to “just stay the fuck away from you”? Surely you haven’t forgotten about that, have you? ‘Cause I sure as hell haven’t.”

Eddie watched him, arms crossed in front of his chest, one sole resting on the edge of the table. Watched as he inhaled shakily, his hands moving at his sides aimlessly as he tried to work out how to respond. Eddie almost pitied him. Almost.

Steve’s POV

Steve felt like he was about to vomit. For weeks he had prepared to talk to Munson about it. To gather the courage to grovel at his feet, basically. After treating him so horribly both at the party and afterwards he didn’t think the odds were in his favor but he had to try.

As soon as summer break had started, he slowly felt better about the whole ordeal. It was easier to forget about it when you weren’t constantly faced with the sole cause of your stress every morning at the lockers. Why the hell did Munson have to have a locker so close to his anyway? So yeah, summer was great. So great in fact, that he grew confident that whatever lingering thoughts he had had about the kiss in general and… Munson, meant nothing. It was the alcohol, and the fact that he thought that he had been a girl. It made total sense. Tommy had finally stopped pestering him about it too after shoving him against the lockers in the locker room after practice one time. Dickhead.

All of that bliss of being over it got immediately destroyed however when Munson entered his class on the first Wednesday of the year. Walked in there like he owned the place, or something. Barely spared anyone a glance before he sat down diagonally from him at a window seat. Steve had caught a whiff of a mix of cigarettes and cologne as he passed and it had kept him busy all through first period. That, and the way Eddie was scribbling away in some notebook that had nothing to do with class. And when the bell rang he was so quick to get up that Steve only had about three seconds to look at his ass before he disappeared.

Those three seconds weren’t the problem. It was the fact that he had purposefully lowered his eyes from the bouncing hair on his back all the way down to his ass.

Maybe he could have played it off if such glances only happened once, but no. He had also watched him from the bench during P.E., as he had to sit out due to a sprained ankle. Munson, who was known to never show up at anything called exercise, was suddenly running over the field during a game of dodgeball and was actually fairly decent at it. Hit Jason Carver square in the face. Steve hadn’t even noticed. His eyes had been glued to Munson’s victorious expression and the way he clenched his fist at his side.

Then there was the cafeteria. Their tables were far enough apart to not have to listen to him or be distracted by him in any way. And yet, as if the rest of the world went on pause, his ears always picked up Eddie’s laughter. And his laughter reminded him of Eddie’s lips. And his lips reminded him of their kiss. That, and the way Eddie had glanced down to his lips that one time. An action that sent a spark straight to his groin and still sent a spark straight to his groin whenever he thought about it as he jerked off. Which he really did not try to do. Somehow, some way, Eddie just popped up in his brain. At random. All the time.

And that was another thing that bothered him. Munson became Eddie in his brain. Not always, sometimes his brain cut him some slack, but more often than not his first name was prompted instead of his last.

Steve’s grades had not been doing great so far and he blamed Munson for all of it. All of this nonsense had to stop. He wasn’t gay. He liked girls. It was clear as day. He wouldn’t have done the things he had done with girls if he didn’t like them. Besides, he never had had any thoughts about other guys like this. Sure, he thought some guys dressed nice or looked handsome or whatever, but every guy could probably tell when another guy was handsome. They just didn’t dare to say it out loud in fear of being labeled incorrectly. Like him.

Right now, in front of Munson, Steve felt like his world was crumbling. The ground was slipping out from under him and it was stupid, right? To be so upset over something like this while he had the literal knowledge of another dimension in the back of his mind. Things like this should feel trivial after something like that, but they weren’t. It would be nice if he could talk about this stuff with someone without being judged, but he had no idea who to turn to. Not his friends, not his ex and certainly not any of those kids. So who else was there? He didn’t exactly have any parental figures in his life that were around.

He felt those big, brown eyes staring up at him, waiting for an answer. Of course he hadn’t forgotten how he had acted towards him. When everyone had started ganging up on him he had hated it. It was shitty behavior. He believed that their kiss had started out as more of an accident now and that they were both just drunk and too slow to react, or something. But of course it was too late to say that now. The damage was already done. As for his request, it was obvious that it wasn’t going to happen. He had to find another way.

“No,” he eventually said quietly. “I haven’t.” He heaved a sigh, breath still shaky before he added: “I’m sorry.” Steve left the drama room without another word.

#steddie #steve x eddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fanfic #stranger things fanfic

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dykeyaoi · 9 months

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finally! 🧷

the name's Cal! welcome to my blog. whatever you're here for, best of luck finding it. I use she/he pronouns and binary terms (girl, boy, dude, lady), preferably in direct opposition to one another when possible

I like Mob Psycho 100, Homestuck, Undertale & Doki Doki Literature Club and have a Genshin Impact sideblog with a somewhat counterintuitive tagging system. I'm an adult scalie (type of furry) who really loves the water and the way light works inside it. the kind of person who wears freaky black eyeshadow with an outfit that looks like it's from the 1930s

sometimes I make art :D you're welcome to use it as an icon/header/background/whatever with credit to Dykeyaoi on Tumblr!

👇 more below 👇

☝️ I don't tag slurs and reclaim several, as you could probably tell by the URL. be advised not to follow if it will bother you

✋ please don't tag my art as kin or ID unless we're friends and/or you have reasonable belief that I meant for you to

🤞 I'm mentally ill; some of the content I post & reblog may be disturbing, paranoia-inducing or otherwise uncomfortable. I'll tag anything unreal, exceedingly gorey, et cetera as such and you're welcome to ask for specifics. ex: I tag 'frogs' (with no tw, cw or slashes)

✊ when I say 'delulu' I mean actual delusions. don't use it or other words like it improperly

👉 images in original posts will be described, usually in an alt text ID. I also sometimes describe images in posts I reblog

🤏 tone indicators occasionally pop up in conversation with me. feel free to ask what one means, or not; they're really more for my confidence than your understanding

👌 I have several tag collections that reflect facets of how I experience the world. they're mostly for me, but you're welcome to explore

🤙 I do not ship incest or children with adults, that's gross. trans women are women. I respect and accept mspec gays & lesbians as well as all identities which don't actively cause harm

have a look around:

🪶 original posts

⚖️ art

⏳ Mop Cycle

🪙 pronouns.cc

thanks for reading!

#click keep reading for info #pinned #making these blinkies was so fun #if anybody wants them lmk and I can resize for you #not an art tag #ask to tag #postscript

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sillyfanatic · 1 year

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Dreams and realities

This is part 2 of Touch Starved, so please go read that if you haven’t already!!

CW: This fic is very much like its predecessor! There is swearing, mentions of unreality, and detailed talk of bad mental health. It’s also just generally more mature than what I usually write, so please read at your own discretion!

That being said, this was so so fun to write and I was giggling and kicking my feet as I wrote it,, the fluff is so. EEE you’ll have to read it to find out :3

click here to read it on ao3!

(wc; 3880)

Life had only gone downhill since the dream.

Or, well, dreams, as it was now.

The strange subconscious experience Shadow had encountered turned out not to be a one-time thing. What could have easily been dismissed as a fluke, or even a fever-induced hallucination – if one disregarded the fact that Shadow was incapable of developing such a fever – came back.

In fact, it seemed to happen almost every night now, or more specifically, every night the agent chose to sleep. It was as if Shadow was being infected, like he had caught some sort of persistent parasite, hell-bent on ruining any and every hour of rest.

He could not rid himself of this literal nightmare – evenings and nights had begun to blur together, exhaustion relentlessly clawing at the agent’s sore body. When he’d given up and surrendered himself to it, the dreams would so easily take hold him, and Shadow would find himself abruptly awakened, crumpled bedsheets sticking to his tussled fur.

Mornings were now dedicated to the feeling of panic that choked him; its claws wrapped tightly around his throat. It sped his heart and drowned his mind, and when it was done, it left him empty. Alone, desperately chasing a fantasy that had vanished the moment he’d woken up.

It was cruel, and it was beginning to feel familiar.

And Shadow could not help but wonder why?

The first dream had served as a message, a realization that he’d fallen for someone he shouldn’t have- so then, what purpose did these dreams have, now? He’d already learnt his lesson. Did they seek to plunge him into a love-ridden madness? Were they some sort of sick self-torture, some trick orchestrated by his heavily scarred mind?

Hadn’t he been tormented enough?

Whether it was the people that surrounded him, whether it was the gods or even the universe itself, someone was playing a trick on him. Something was laughing at him, content in plucking away every last sense of control and stability he’d so desperately clung to. It rendered him a pathetic, yearning mess, an echo of a person he once was.

But that wasn’t the real problem; of course it wasn’t.

Shadow could suffer through the repetitive dreams, the sickeningly sweet fantasies, and all the delusions his heart so desperately preached. He could even withstand the foreign emotions that plagued him, much too content in pushing them down, deep enough to put on a calm façade.

What he could never control, what still roamed around causing an ever-growing number of problems, was the other. It was Sonic. It was always him, and it seemed as though it would always be.

“Hi, handsome.” The voice was soothing, involuntarily invoking a fuzziness in Shadow’s stomach – the feeling was still so foreign, so new. It felt like a knife to the gut, and yet a stabbing was something the agent was much more familiar with. Flesh wounds were easier to heal. These things? Not so much.

Shadow deemed it unnecessary to respond, simply tilting his head towards the approaching hero, quietly observing the other’s movements.

Until now, the park had been blissfully empty. Shadow had appreciated the comfort that had accompanied his solitude, choosing to lean against an old oak tree as he silently observed the city. From afar, it glowed quietly.

Here, even if it was momentary, he had felt safe. Here, he was away, away from the bright lights, from the never-ending noise, from strangers and friends, but most importantly; it had felt like he’d been away from his mind, too.

The noise, it seemed, had found its way to him.

“Not too mouthy today, huh?” Sonic teased, hastily slotting himself besides Shadow. He wore a large purple coat, the loud colour only slightly interrupted by deep greens and hot pinks. It was slightly too big for him, and certainly a decade or two older than him. It contrasted oddly with the simple leather jacket Shadow had picked for himself, an old one that fit him rather well. It kept him warm, at least, like it was meant to do.

The dark hedgehog reared his gaze forwards, eyes steadily gazing upon the horizon. “It’s late.” He remarked, not bothered to answer any of Sonic’s quips. “You should be asleep.” His book scuffed the dirt bellow him, lazily scuffing the yellowed grass.

The response was immediate, like it always was. “You know I sleep whenever.” This, Shadow could not deny, Sonic’s sleep schedule was almost as fucked as his, if not more. “Besides, you’re one to talk. Why aren’t you asleep.” Sonic regurgitated the question, much to his annoyance. Before he had time to roll his eyes, however, Sonic continued; “And don’t say some obvious bullshit like ‘I don’t need sleep’ because we both know you do.”

Shadow huffed at the comment, turning briefly to observe his friend, only to find that Sonic’s gaze had never quite left his. The agent opened his mouth to say something, but found his tongue to be rather heavy, and so he closed the opening, feeling a warm blush tainting the surface of his cheeks. “I can’t sleep.” He blurted after a minute or so, unable to stop himself underneath the other’s piercing gaze.

The words had tumbled out of his mouth with a surprising ease, a simple confession that would’ve taken much more time to squeeze out of him, should anyone else have asked.

But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Sonic, Sonic and his stupid smug grin, Sonic and his talent for rendering his companion a flustered mess. He had been the one to question, and that was apparently all it took for Shadow to confess.

The blue hedgehog was smiling coyly, his features softly illuminated by the distant glow of the city, and by the soft light of the moon that bloomed above them. The sight pleased Shadow’s gaze too much, and so the agent pulled it away, trying to focus on something else. Anything was better than Sonic’s soft features, than his vibrant emerald eyes.

“And why is that?” He heard the other question.

“Don’t know” He responded simply, trying desperately to avoid the subject. It would not take much for him to tell the truth, and yet the last thing Shadow wished to do was to reveal what truly troubled his sleep. The longer he could avoid it all, the better.

“Mm.” Sonic responded, his jacket rustling in an unpleasant sound against the bark of the tree. They suddenly found themselves much closer with this movement, their clothed shoulders bumping together, tips of their gloved fingers mere inches from one another.

Shadow felt his arm burn with the sudden touch, his body unconsciously leaning in, trying to savour as much of the fleeting feeling as possible.

This felt too familiar, too casual, too coincidental.

“Is this a dream?” He blurted rapidly, the words like an unfinished thought that dangled from his lips. They were better left inside of his head, and yet there they were, hanging awkwardly in the air as he mulled over his own stupidity.

Had he strayed so far from sanity that he now struggled in discerning reality? How pathetic.

The silence did not last more than a few moments, and yet it weighed heavily upon the agent, every new second stretching uncomfortably.

“Why would you say something like that?” Sonic naturally questioned, but his tone wasn’t mocking, or judgmental; it was kind and concerned, like it always was. It was loving and caring, and fuck, Shadow did not know how much more of this he’d be able to take.

The dark hedgehog’s gaze was practically glued to the sight before them, to the city and the sky above. He gazed upon the barely visible stars as though they could impart their wisdom. And softly, he thought; if the stars could speak, they would surely mock him.

“Don’t know.” He responded again, brows furrowing in anger, a frustration he only felt towards himself. It would surely be replaced by shame, he figured.

He was losing control. Again.

He was slipping, his façade was crumbling, and it had only been ten minutes.

Sonic shifted again, the back of his gloved hand grazing Shadow’s. The touch did not go unnoticed – how could it? How could ever find it in himself to ignore it, when it burnt so hot, searing his skin and sending his mind down a dangerous path, one he could not return from.

“You seem to not know a lot of stuff tonight.” The other remarked, his tone light and teasing. Shadow could practically hear the smile in his voice, but he could not bring himself to look. Why did this seam to easy for Sonic, when it was practically destroying Shadow? “Funny, I’d pinned you for a pretty smart guy.”

The compliment sent the agent’s heart rate to the moon, the soft spoken words echoing in his mind for several moments, until he’d memorized them perfectly. The familiar accent of a friend, the inclination and expression pushed so carefully into simple words.

Was this really all it took? A basic compliment, disguised as an insult?

Pathetic.

The word made its way to his mind, obscuring the others.

How sickly did you have to be, how desperate, how lonely, to end up like this? To be frozen solid at the slightest touched, plagued with a yearning that did not cease, that only increased as time flew by?

Fucking pathetic.

It was like an itch in his head and he could not scratch it. It drove him insane.

Shadow moved abruptly, unable to stay still for any longer. He stepped away from the oak tree in a flurry of black fur and dark leather, distancing himself from Sonic. They were only apart a foot or two now, and yet it felt too distant, too empty. The agent tried to still his breath in this new separation, attempting to rid his body of the weightlessness that lingered.

But he could not stop his eyes from observing, could never stop his mind from thinking. Chaos, how Sonic looked perfect like this. The odd lighting of the distant city gave his fur a warm glow unlike any other, something Shadow had never had the privilege to witness before.

The ill-fitting jacket was somehow so him, and his quills were slightly ruffled and tilted upwards from his position against the tree. He oozed a certain calmness, body language a reflection of his perpetually calm state.

It wasn’t fair.

“Shadow?..” The hero questioned, slightly startled by the sudden shift in their dynamic. He stayed still for a moment, his demeanor remaining too casual, somehow relaxed as if Shadow’s entire world wasn’t crumbling to dust, struggling to stay stable at the mere sight of the blue hedgehog before him. The hedgehog, who seemed to be made of smooth lines, lean muscle, and a never-ending grin.

“Stop.” Shadow spoke, his voice shaky. Sonic did not understand – how could he? – tilting his head in an inquisitive manner. The agent cursed himself for finding the mannerism so endearing, his stomach flipping in excitement and shame. A now familiar feeling, it seemed.

“What? Stop what?” Sonic feigned innocence, or perhaps he just was innocent. Perhaps he stood there, simply unaware of the effects he had on the other, unaware of how his deliberate touches have driven Shadow to a madness, a madness so different from the rest that it nearly broke him.

But then again, maybe he knew. Maybe that’s why that smile had never quite left his features, maybe it’s why his body language was so at ease, and maybe it was why Sonic looked so undisturbed, like he always did.

Shadow was over-analyzing; he knew he was. He was panicking too, but that much was obvious.

Slowly, the hero pushed himself off of the tree, approaching his friend. One step was enough to render them too close for comfort – but Shadow did not back away. He could not do it, could do nothing but observe the scene that unfolded before him.

Powerless.

He could not bring himself to look away as Sonic hesitantly stepped closer.

How had he come to be like this? How had he never realized?

There was a heavy silence that hung above them, thick like the fog on an autumn morning. It was the only thing that served to keep their bodies apart, separating them, neither of the two willing to close the small gap, to breach that layer of privacy. It’s not like they hadn’t done it before, and yet, this was… different. There was a stillness in the air that they did not dare to break, heads filled with questions none knew the answer to.

Shadow could feel a headache forming, as though his unspoken confessions had grown too heavy for his mind to bear. He felt so out of himself and yet so heavy, the contrasting emotions mixing into a general unease that overwhelmed his senses.

Go ahead. Tell him, you coward.

A voice spoke in his mind, and it was the last droplet that made the glass overflow. The dark hedgehog broke his silence, unable to make sense of anything anymore. “I can’t sleep because of you.” The words were spoken like an accusation, accompanied by a shaky breath and an unsteady heartbeat, one that was almost loud enough to hear. Emotion laced his words, creating a certain vulnerability that rendered him uncomfortable.

He could have held his tongue, he could have walked away, left it all behind-

…Could he?

It didn’t matter if he could or not. It was too late; the words had been spoken and he’d chosen to stay.

“Really, huh?” Sonic started, but the dark hedgehog did not let him finish.

Quickly, and with the efficiency of someone who’s been trained in combat since birth, Shadow had his right hand clamped firmly over the other’s mouth, taking his left hand to the hero’s chest. Before he could consider anything, before his mind could stop him, Shadow roughly shoved Sonic backwards, pushing his body against the oak tree they’d just barely left.

Sonic’s back collided harshly with the wood, the blue hedgehog wincing beneath Shadow’s hold. His eyes were half-lidded at the impact he suffered, his head tilting backwards ever-so-slightly as his chest pressed against Shadow.

He was effectively pinned against the rough bark, and the hands that touched him did so firmly, indirectly informing him that there was no escape, that there was only here and now, for as long as Shadow deemed it to be.

But that was not a revelation. And this was not the first time the hero found himself at the aggressive mercy of his companion. Sonic was used to this, in fact, he knew this, even went as far as to like this.

The only touches Shadow had ever offered came harshly – they were never gentle. Old habits died hard, one could suppose.

It was then that something snapped within the agent’s mind – perhaps it was simply reality catching up to him, or perhaps it was something else. His eyes blew open so suddenly, their ruby irises frantic, searching every feature of the other’s face.

What was he doing?

Control yourself.

He’d gone too far.

Quickly, as though Sonic’s skin burnt him, he removed his hands from the other’s body, hastily lowering them, holding them stiffly to his sides. The muscles in his body tensed and tightened, and the fire that burnt in his core raged hungrily as he struggled to tether himself to common sense.

What had he become?

He’d finally lost it. He was starting to act from impulse, from instinct, from anything but logic. He wasn’t controlling himself; he should always control himself. Shadow stood frozen once again, so close to the other, and yet not daring to touch him again. He was afraid, afraid of himself and of what he might do if he slipped again.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He managed to apologize, the words tasting sour on his tongue. He wasn’t sure if he believed the sincerity of his own apology – he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Sonic’s hands remained clasped behind his back. His quills were slightly more dishevelled than they’d been earlier, and his fur was ruffled wherever the harsh touches had lingered. And yet, despite it all, the hero’s body relaxed, speaking entirely of ease – it was too nonchalant, as if he hadn’t just been thrown against a tree.

“It’s fine.” He reassures, lazily shrugging his shoulders.

Shadow’s bros furrowed as he observed the man before him. Had he hit Sonic hard enough to give him a concussion? It would certainly explain the odd casualness of the other’s demeaner. No, it wasn’t possible – he’d seen Sonic take worst beatings (mostly of his own hands) and walk away just fine. So why then, was the hero not behaving just as oddly as him?

Silence sat between the two and they simply observed each other.

Shadow cursed himself, ashamed of his behaviour, ashamed of the effect the other had on him. How simple it was, to get him to lose control. How effortless it seemed for Sonic, who barely had to lift a pinkie to make Shadow into a flustered, uncontrollable mess.

“So, you dream of me, hm?” Sonic spoke, and it was like a soft melody, the words rolling off his tongue teasingly. Shadow felt his heart plummet, a cold chill crawling up the length of his spine.

“What?” He questioned abruptly, taken aback by the sudden question.

How did he…?

“Well, you mentioned not being able to sleep, and then you mentioned me. That doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, does it?” The words were driving Shadow insane, a familiar sense pof anxiety now spreading itself throughout his body. His felt his cheeks darken in embarrassment, the tips of his ears reddening too.

But that wasn’t enough, of course it wasn’t.

The cobalt hedgehog shifted, lightly pushing himself off the tree he’d just been pinned against. His hands came up with him, gently placing themselves upon Shadow’s sides. The hero’s fingers slid beneath leather, trudging through soft black fur, only to lodge themselves firmly onto the agent’s hips, hungrily digging into the soft flesh beneath them. It was almost as if Sonic anchored himself here, silently holding on as if the agent would crumble if he let go. Perhaps he would.

Shadow bit his cheek firmly, almost unable to muffle the gasp lodged inside his throat. The action drew blood, the metallic taste coating the insides of his mouth.

The touch was delicate, almost subtle, but it burnt a hole through him, like it always did.

It sent sparks down his veins, and it clouded his brain. It rendered him speechless, like it always did. And no one made Shadow speechless – no one, apart from Sonic, it seemed.

The hero chuckled at the other’s expense, and the warm sound went straight to Shadow’s stomach. “Mm, what kind of dreams have you been having, Special Agent?” The voice was sultry, the nickname annoying, and it could not have been more Sonic. Shadow barely felt alive anymore, almost trembling in the other’s grasp, his body weightless, his mind a wasteland of half-finished sentences.

“Stop.” Shadow managed to whisper, not a warning for Sonic, but for himself. He didn’t want it to stop, no, he wanted it to continue far more than this – that’s what terrified him.

He continued in his struggle to grasp onto reality – this felt so very much like the dreams did, and fuck, Shadow couldn’t recall the last time they’d been alone. Sonic threw his head back now, laughing, unashamed, or perhaps unconcerned with the effects he was having on the other.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered, you know?” The azure hedgehog spoke lowly when his laugh had finally faded enough to allow him speech again. His eyes were piercing in their incessant gaze, and Shadow keened under the attention, unable to look away.

The agent could feel his head swimming with unanswered questions, with unattainable dreams and a yearning so powerful he could almost drown in it.

“And you’re a dick.” He managed to reply, too easily slipping into old manners. This did nothing but amuse Sonic.

“Not the first time you’ve called me that.” He spoke matter-of-factly, reminiscent of a past they so recently shard. “Thought we were friends now.” He tilted his head, most likely aware of the shiver that crept up Shadow’s spine at the endearing gesture. “Friends don’t call each other ‘dick’.”

“Friends don’t do this, either.” Shadow noted, wanting to bring his hands up to gesture at the distance between them. He couldn’t. And so, he stayed still, unable to ignore the fact that his lips were so close to the other’s it almost fucking hurt.

“Hm, guess not.” Sonic still smiled, and Shadow was sure he looked like a deer in headlights, unable to blink or move. The grip on his hips tightened, causing his heart to sore, his chest light and airy, struggling to breathe properly.

“So, what are we, then?” The agent boldly questioned, unable to hold his tongue. His voice was broken, his heart rate rapidly increasing, bound to slip out of control very soon. And Sonic, the asshole he was, could not grinning.

Their faces were mere inches from each other now, their warm breaths forming fuzzy little clouds in the frozen midnight air.

“Guess we’ll have to find out” The hero nonchalantly responded, and Shadow wanted to slap him.

His mouth opened to protest, to question, to yell, so say anything, but before he was able to make a sound, Sonic swooped down, placing his lips upon the other’s, connecting them in a hasty kiss. Caught off guard, shadow let a soft yelp escape him, the sound quickly lost within the contact.

Sonic’s lips were on his, and Shadow swore he had finally died.

No – it was the opposite; he was very much alive. More alive than he’d been in years.

Sonic tasted like mouthwash, and it was acidic and cooling against his tongue. Shadow was sure all the other could taste was iron, the small wound in his mouth dispersing the strange taste into their kiss.

The agent felt his eyes close shut, felt all sense or logic completely leave his body as he went limp, forgetting everything he’d ever known. The only thing he could breathe, see, and feel, was Sonic.

It was desperate and needy, every stroke of their tongues laced with spit and unspoken emotions, and the agent could not stop himself from attempting to deepen it.

They worked stupidly well together, and it was as if every small movement was anticipated by the other, every small shift anticipated and easily followed.

Shadow’s hands found themselves to be moving now, crawling up to hold Sonic’s sides, to dig into his flesh as they separated for a breath. The agent could not help himself in uttering a soft gasp as the other took him in again.

There was no gentleness to be held between them anymore, no restraint. They poured their hearts, their frustration, their every being into this kiss – they were incapable of stopping it, of stopping themselves.

Shadow had known he was too far gone, but now, he was just really, really, fucked.

A/N

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee please tell me your every thought on tbhis!! and let me know if i missed any warning or if i made any grammatical errors because i did not really read it through for once,,

im gonna start a nw job tomorrow :0 between that and everything going on in my goofy little brain, ill have less time to write! its alright though because im leaving you guys with this <333

As always, likes reblogs and comments are super appreciated! My messages and ask box or open to positive critism, so please comme gently yell at me if you feel inclined to do so!!!

#myr writes #my writing #sonadow #shadow #sonic #sonic the hedgehog\#shadow the hedgehog #shadnic #touch starved

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strawberrybabydog · 2 years

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(CW: Unreality, discussions of potential delusions, discussions of paranoia, etc.) Um, hi, so I'm really sorry to bother you, I just... I need to really know something. (I'm autistic, so I just wanna maybe give as much info as possible to know if what I'm talking about is right or not. I don't have access to a therapist or psychiatrist at the moment, and you seemed like someone who actually KNOWS about delusions) So, I have BPD (borderline personality disorder) and NPD (narcissistic personality disorder) and I just need to know if delusions are something that are capable of being temporary or periodical? Like, I know this might not sound like logical? But when I experience really bad BPD episodes and my fears of abandonment are really intense. I guess what happens is that I dissociate hardcore from my surroundings, it's really hard because my vision gets blurry and I'm not really focused on my surroundings as much. I experience really bad depersonalization and derealization, and these things are usually induced by stress or BPD episodes. During those times I genuinely believe I've been kidnapped (particularly by people I am close to) or I'm apparently this grim reaper from another universe named "Alex". And these dissociative + (potential/not sure) delusions episodes that come with my BPD episodes. But the thing is, I also don't really know if I genuinely do or don't believe these things during those times. I have really bad anxiety and stuff. I do know one thing is that I think I might genuinely believe I AM a video game protagonist and am NOT real at all. But these things also are a coping mechanism, so it's really hard to detach from it. I genuinely cannot find many good resources on delusions that spread proper information, because there's a lot of sanism and ableism everywhere... I don't even entirely know if I completely experience delusions of grandeur (in relation to talents and self-esteem) because of my NPD that makes me have a really messed up relationship with my self-esteem. Like, I both hate myself and think I am the greatest thing ever, which is just smth related to NPD. But, I don't know if it's accurate to say I experience delusions of grandeur/superiority in these cases. I also do genuinely believe the universe is out to get me and it wants me to suffer, and that it is constantly telling me that the people I love will abandon me?? But Idk if that's just regular negative thoughts in relation to BPD or just... smth?? The only thing I do know that I seem to genuinely believe in and have utmost confidence in, is literally believing that something is always watching me or out to get me. I genuinely do thing things are looking at me or whatever, and I've had this sort of paranoia for... who knows how long?? Idk if this counts as paranoid delusions? Idk, I'm really sorry. All I'm trying to ask is if these experiences of mine count as delusions or if it's just smth else entirely? It's just these instances of paranoia can be something I experience all day and in almost any circumstance, but I also can sometimes have elongated periods of time (weeks or months) without this paranoia? I mean, I was with a therapist which allowed me to not deal with this paranoia for a while?? But like... can you pls help a man out with some educational information? It's really hard to find info on both personality disorders and delusions/dissocation... (Btw, if you really don't feel comfy wtih this. i'm so sorry, i will leave you alone. I hope ypu have a good day/night. You're not obligated to respond to this at all. Just... yeah.)

delusions can be periodic, most commonly if you dont have psychosis from a psychotic disorder... if you have delusions from personality disorders, basically, this is normal. psychotic symptoms are usually flared by stress regardless of cause

i cant tell you if youre delusional or something else. i dont know you/im not you/im not your psychiatrist. i suggest researching the type of delusions you suspect you have to the best of your ability, or researching how your personality disorders can interact with psychotic symptoms

i dont know what information you're looking for if you dont specify the question youre asking

#delusions details #persecutory delusions details #long post #unreality #asks #not dog

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ojibwa · 1 year

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"dont ruminate dont listen to ur delusions its not going to help you in the long run" what if i told u im enlightened and special and i Know Things

#this is /j btw #ok to rb #txt #delusion inducing cw #??? idk if this counts as that but just in case

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pigeonwithapen · 3 years

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I scared myself with the hall light so y’all get this (also lmk if the alt text doesn’t work and i’ll add an ID!)

#horror #suspense #nightlight #comic #delusion inducing cw #unreality cw #listen i'm not sure what to tag this so let me know if something else neeeds to be here #digital art #monochrome #long post #alt text

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petrichorvoices · 3 years

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yes i’m psychotic yes i’m insane can i have like. a single day where there aren’t wires and bolts in my leg lol

#actuallydelusional #actuallypsychotic #actuallyschizophrenic #delusion inducing #just in case #cecil's tag #slurs cw #slurs reclaimed

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salazarslytherin · 3 years

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sex on fire (s.b x y/n)

summary: an encounter with sirius in the kitchen

🃛 masterlist

cw/tw: smut, pussy slapping, fingering, dumbification, praise kink, like exhibitionism if you squint, age difference (reader is of age!)

word count: 2.14k

a/n: Inspired. SO HEAVILY by @thotbutpurple’s dilf!marauders headcanons, specifically this post for this imagine. also heavily inspired by @acosmis-t's fic peanut. honestly this is just, self-indulgent. might do a dilf!series, I'm not sure reblog to boost please xxx

tag list at the bottom ☯︎ join tag list here

Some people would think that it’s weird to like someone almost twenty years your senior. And if we’re being honest, you thought the same too.

That was until Sirius fucking Black walked into your life.

One of your dad’s best friends from high school, Sirius appeared in your life when you were sixteen, riding back into town on a Bugatti motorcycle and a battered leather jacket. A photographer who’d travelled the world, he came back to your small town to spend time with his younger brother and his old friends from high school.

That spelt weekend barbecues at your house, watching the absolute hunk of a man walk around your house shirtless, or in the thinnest fucking white tank you’ve ever seen in your life. Whether Sirius owned clothes that weren’t band tees, white tanks, and ripped jeans, you didn’t know.

But secretly, you hoped he didn’t.

⚔︎.

Now it’s been three years since Sirius had returned, and yet another one of your dad’s friends’ barbecues was being held at your house. The men were out back barbecuing – they called themselves the Marauders, the name never not making you laugh. Unfortunately, this week you were unable to join them, holed up in your room to study for your finals.

With the weather heating up as it neared the beginning of the summer, you could feel each individual bead of sweat run down your spine. Unable to focus on anything with the immense heat and the overwhelming stress you were feeling, you took out your earphones and got up off your chair, deciding to go downstairs to get something cold to drink.

Opening your bedroom door, you could hear the music playing from the backyard, the booming laughter of the various men standing around the barbecue grill. Walking down the stairs, you recited the formulas you were revising earlier, not at all paying attention to anything around you. Stepping into the kitchen, you kept staring at the flashcards you held, opening the fridge door to grab the carton of juice you knew was in there.

“That focused, are we?”

The deep voice scared you, making the flashcards from your grasp fall all over the tiled flooring. You whipped around to see Sirius leaning against the kitchen sink, smirking as he watched you. You watched him in return, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he downed a gulp from his beer bottle.

Shaking yourself off, you turned back to the fridge and grabbed the carton, before placing it on the counter and closing the door. You bent over to pick up the flashcards that you had dropped earlier, only to hear a splutter of a cough behind you.

You turned around as you placed the cards next to the carton, seeing Sirius cough into his forearm, his abs flexing beneath the thin tank top he wore.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay, Sirius?”

The man waved his hand at you, placing the beer bottle between his lips as his eyes scanned up and down your body, smirking around the bottle.

“S’nothing, Y/N.”

Your eyes followed Sirius’s gaze, looking down to realise just exactly why he had his little impromptu coughing fit. Given the heat, you’d forgotten you were only wearing a thin tank top and booty shorts that day, meaning that when you bent over, you’d given Sirius quite the show. You felt yourself turn red as you realised, spinning around promptly to grab a glass from the upper cabinets.

Unfortunately for you, but quite a fortunate happenstance for Sirius, all the glasses on the bottom shelf had been taken outside for “public consumption”, and only those on the top shelf remained.

Conscious of your every move in front of the hottest man you had ever known in your damned life, you stood up onto your tippy toes, reaching for the glasses on the top shelf. You could feel your shorts riding up as you reached up as high as you possibly could, honestly just contemplating climbing on top of the counters to reach the glasses.

All you wanted was some damned juice.

As you struggled, you heard a chuckle sound behind you, then footsteps. Warmth emanating from behind you, and then a hard body pressed up against you. Your body tensed up as you felt Sirius’s body behind you, swallowing audibly. You saw a hand reach up above yours, the large appendage wrapping around the blue glass before receding as the warmth moved away from you.

“Here you go, pumpkin.”

The nickname made your mouth run dry as you turned around to take the glass from the man, smiling slightly at him. You felt a shiver run down your spine as your fingertips grazed his, having to grip the glass unreasonably tight as you felt your hands weaken at his warmth.

“Thanks.”

Your voice croaked at the word, Sirius’s smirk growing on his face yet again. You took the carton and poured yourself a glass, sipping on it as you leaned against the counter, mirroring Sirius who was back to sipping at his beer bottle.

You could feel your exam stress building up again as your hand reached for the flashcards again, flipping through them as you mouthed the different formulas and definitions written on them.

“Stressed, Y/N?”

You hummed in agreement as you focused on the cards in your hands, the glass having been returned to the counter as you sunk back into revision mode, barely registering the clink of the beer bottle being placed in the kitchen sink as the man made his way towards you.

“Want some help, destressing, hmm?”

You looked up at the man only to find him right in front of you, your body straightening up as you watched his teasing expression, lips curled and eyebrows raised.

You knew Sirius knew the way you felt about him. The way you sucked in a breath the first time you’d seen him, the way you licked your lips subconsciously at the sight of him, the way you thought about him when you touched yourself…

He wasn’t exactly subtle with hiding the innuendos.

You shook yourself free of those thoughts as Sirius watched you, almost as if he knew what you were thinking.

“More juice, maybe?”

The smirk only grew bigger as the man shook the carton slightly, uncapping it and tilting his head backwards, drinking straight from the carton itself. You watched with your mouth hanging open slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing entrancingly with every gulp.

“Oops, I might've finished it all. Though, I think there’s still a little more in here…”

Sirius watched you almost mockingly, mouth dropping open to show the bare minimum of juice left in his mouth.

The man knew you wanted him, and felt the exact same way towards you. He couldn’t help it.

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, he was a goner. The tank top clinging to your breasts, showing just the right amount of cleavage, the shortest fucking shorts he’d ever seen you in barely covering your ass, the man was holding himself together by a thread at this point.

“Hmm? You want it?”

Sirius’s eyes scanned your every move, eyebrows raising as you pushed off the counter slowly.

“Come get it.”

⚔︎.

You didn’t know who moved towards who in that split second, only that a moment later your world was turned upside down. Sirius’s lips were soft and sweet – the entrancing taste of Sirius overwhelming you, beer and orange juice mixing together in the kiss. As promised, Sirius’s tongue pushed a dribble of juice into your mouth, making you moan into his lips as your arms wrapped around his neck, flashcards scattering across the tiled flooring yet again, his hands coming up to grip your waist. The man’s calloused hands fingered the hem of your top, pushing the edges up, his thumb drawing circles on your hip bone.

You gasped at the feeling of his fingers on your skin, feeling Sirius chuckle against your lips at your surprise. Your own hands moved from his neck to his shoulders, sliding down to his arms. You could feel Sirius’s arms tensing at the feeling, the veins on his muscled forearms like braille under your fingertips.

Grunting into your lips, the man stepped forward, pushing you up against the counter, the edge right against the small of your back.

“Can I?”

Sirius asked breathlessly, lips bright red from what felt like minutes, but also hours, of yours against his. He ghosted the elastic of your shorts, eyes flicking between yours as he awaited your approval or disapproval.

You nodded, unable to speak as you held your breath.

Was this actually happening, or were you having some sort of heat stroke-induced delusion?

“Turn around and bend over for me then, doll.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you nodded again, rendered dumb by your disbelief at the situation. You bent over the counter, leaning on your forearms as you looked over your shoulder, watching Sirius crouched down, hooking his fingers into your shorts, pulling your panties down as well in one move.

The man sucked in a breath at the sight of you bottomless, making your face turn red.

“Such a pretty pussy…”

The blush spread throughout your body as you noticed how close Sirius was to you, his breath ghosting your clit as he did nothing. Simply staring at your cunt. His hands moved up from your ankles, where he’d brought your shorts down to, and spread you open, fingers dipping inside you unintentionally, but it was likely to have been intentional. You squeaked at the feeling, walls clenching around thin air.

This is so fucking embarrassing. But your body seemed to disagree, feeling yourself become wetter at the feeling of Sirius’s eyes on you.

Moving in to take a closer look, the older man sent you one of his signature panty-dropping smiles.

Literally, in this case.

“I’m going to fucking ruin it.”

You threw your head forward as Sirius ran his forefinger up and down your slit, the brief contact with your clit making you let out a loud moan of surprise. Your eyes squeezed shut as you hid your head in your forearms, Sirius’s finger stretching you out as you moaned into your arms.

“Don’t be so loud, doll. Do you want everyone to hear you?”

You shook your head, biting your lip as Sirius moved his finger in and out of you, growing wetter at the thought of anyone catching you here. In the kitchen.

With your dad’s best friend.

All coherent thought was interrupted as Sirius’s other hand landed on your clit, rolling the nub between his thumb and forefinger. The movement made your brain short-circuit, letting out a loud gasping moan as he pushed a second finger inside you as well.

“S-Sirius. Fuck.”

The man tutted from behind you but didn’t even falter in his movements, seemingly spurred by your pleasure to pump his fingers in and out of you even faster. You were so immersed in the pleasure that your eyes shot open in surprise as a sharp slap landed on your clit.

“What the fuck?”

Your head whipped back to look at the older man, who merely lifted a brow at your outburst, his fingers still thrusting into you, the sinful sounds echoing around the kitchen.

“Told you to shut up, doll. Or are you too dumb to understand simple instruction, hmm?”

As he said that, Sirius curled his fingers inside of you, making you choke on your breath as he hit something inside of you.

“S-Sirius. I-”

Another slap landed on your cunt, but the pain mixed in with the insane amounts of pleasure you were feeling, your eyes squeezing shut once more to see nothing but stars in the midst of your pleasure.

“I told you to be silent, didn’t I? How’ve I fucked you dumb already.”

You whined silently, wiggling your hips slightly as your walls clenched around him, feeling your pleasure mount inside you, climbing towards its precipice.

“Your pussy’s so tight around my fingers. You wanna cum, love?”

You bit down on your forearm, moaning out into it as you nodded, your orgasm threatening to erupt on his fingers.

Sirius curled his fingers inside you, the movement pushing you over the edge as you nearly screamed, thanking the heavens that someone, probably Sirius, had come up with the idea of blasting AC/DC in the backyard. Convulsing around the older man’s fingers, your chest fell onto the countertop, your fluids running down your thigh as Sirius pulled his fingers out of you slowly. The feeling of being empty made you whine, hand searching blindly behind you to find Sirius.

“Want more.”

A chuckle sounded behind you, Sirius’s hand finding its way to your hair, threading his long fingers through it.

“You didn’t think I was done, did you, pumpkin?”

taglist: @marvelslut16, @siriusbarnesslut, @marimorena06, @weasleysbitch2, @reg-arcturus-black, @themoonwithprophets, @moonys-gf, @quindolyn, @lilypad-55449, @kermiemoon, @jamespotterslover, @remoony1, @siriusblackwifeeey, @iamnibbsi, @azura-mist, @accio-remus-lupin, @tomriddle_whore, @greenlyblue, @lillsthoughts, @jeannelupinblack, @i-love-scott-mccall, @justadreamyhufflepuff, @shit-thats-true, @dorcasmeadowesx, @sunflowersandpansies, @elenapatricia99, @90sgoldentrio, @itsmentalillness, @sprucewoodlover, @kiaslily

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

Text

Sick Fic I Didn’t Bother to Name Part 2

Basically Jon is sick post canon and Tim lives and is looking after him while Martin is at work. See look you don't have to read chapter one!

Okay so I know we all expect my fics on Wednesday, but next week it will probably have to be early Tuesday morning. So keep an eye out. Wish I didn't have to switch it up, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

cw fever, delusions sort of? sort of flashback?, past strained friendships, I think that's it?

Jon is starting to lose track of time. Getting lost between the seconds. Gaping spaces where he isn’t awake enough to register what is going on or what episode he and Tim are supposed to be on. He’s lost in the moments his gummy eyes are closed and between strained breaths.

He knows it’s the fever. And he thinks he knows where he is.

He’s on the couch with Tim.

In his and Martin’s home.

But between blinking and the gaping chasms between one tick of the clock and the next, he finds himself in places that have been gone. Long gone. Burned to the ground. Both the places and the things that occurred.

He’s on the couch he’s on the couch. He is on the couch. He is using Tim as a pillow. While Tim gently runs a hand through his curls. It would be soothing if he wasn’t also seeing another time. Another place. Another Tim.

A Tim with his face twisted in a familiar rage.

Shoving him. Redirecting a forgotten, graceless fall. Legs giving way under the strain of the worst couple months of his life. Whichever worst months those were… Because for a while each month was the worst in a new and horrifying way.

He is on the couch.

And Tim is speaking to him soothingly as his breath catches in a panic he knows is lost in time. Out of time. Unstuck like Billy Pilgrim. So it goes.

It would have been a sensible fear years ago.

It Was sensible.

When the exhausted slip of the tongue and static echoed off the hatred behind Tim’s eyes, ricocheting. At least once slamming Jon against the wall when he lost control.

And he knows he isn’t making sense. And he knows that Tim would never raise a hand against him. And it wasn’t as if Tim ever really did. But he wasn’t gentle. Touches that once-and-now mean comfort and safety then meant something too tight too rough too much and sent him into walls or to the floor or caused bruises on his stupidly sensitive skin.

Jon is on the couch, mumbling to himself feverishly.

Tim is worried. Jon’s fever is up, despite the recent medication and the damp flannel on his forehead. Tim doesn’t even think it’s too high, but Jon has always been delicate. Or has been recently. Tim wishes he could cast his mind back far enough to confirm that this is just the way his friend has always been, and not a recent development in the years in the Archives where the world was against this slip of a person.

Tim tries not to think about it. Because he can’t lose himself to regret when Jon is facing whatever his mind is throwing at him. Even when his mind could very well be throwing the memory of a Tim that the present Tim regrets. Guilt is something for the bottom of a bottle. Or in the muscle cramping heat of the heavy beat pounding music and pounding feet. Or in the thick of paint fumes and the wet splat of a brush against the walls.

Guilt and anger are not meant for quiet moments on the couch watching over a sick friend. Not for episodes of Avatar the Last of the Airbenders.

No, this is how you rewrite the guilt and rage.

He will regret and be angry with himself and the situation that is no longer the situation when he has his coping mechanisms, both constructive and self destructive.

He soothes Jon. With quiet reassurances and a gentle embrace, trying to gauge if Tim will have to step back to sooth, or if the words are helping, or if he should pause the show or if the familiar noise will help ground Jon.

In another time, Jon stumbles across Tim in the break room. Limping his way to make some tea and let that sooth the fire beneath his skin and the heavy weight of trauma. Rubbed raw wrists. His body failing to bounce back after kidnapping. And the taste of static as the question he’s already forgotten pulls and answer he can’t comprehend from Tim.

The twist of lips in a snarl.

Jon reaching out to apologize, but Tim jerks away.

Sending the unsteady Jon reeling.

Tim is gone before Jon hits the ground. Too dizzy to keep his feet.

Jon is crying, and Tim wonders if he has grounds to blame himself. He will anyhow, but he wonders if it is justified this time.

But he can’t act on that sort of regret. Substantiated or not. This is not the time.

“Hey, ace.” If Jon were more lucid, he would absolutely hate the nickname. Tim loves it. It combines a lovely gender neutral expression with the happy double meaning of Jon’s sexuality. Tim feels that it could serve to ground Jon to a friendlier memory. Not to mention, well. Okay he wouldn’t Hate the term. But he would love to make a show of hating it. “You with me?” He pats Jon’s face lightly, and gently wipes away the tears. He isn’t really sure if Jon is sleeping or hallucinating or just uncomfortable.

Jon frowns. He struggles with coordination enough to rub at his eyes. Eventually he cracks open a fever glazed eye, bringing (Tim assumes) the world into whatever blurry focus he can without glasses.

“Tim?” Jon’s voice is rough. Tim isn’t sure if it from congestion settling or just disuse.

“The one and only.” He throws in a cheeky wink. He wants to say more, but doesn’t know where Jon is in his mind.

A clammy hand reaches up and traces some of the scars Tim got in the unknowing.

Tentative. Both with the lack of clear vision, probably, and with a hesitation that Tim is fairly certain that comes with an uncertainty of where their relationship stands.

“What?”

Again, Tim isn’t sure if this is Jon lost in the past or just hazy on some details.

“It’s Tuesday and Martin made you call out from work today. Martin would have stayed, but I got off from work earlier today, so I am keeping you company. Sasha is at work, though. She’s probably jealous. Uh… We’re watching Avatar. Which you always complain about, but I know that’s just for show because I know you watch it on your own. Oh! And my favorite part! The Magnus Institute has been burned to the ground! And please don’t try to know anything, because you’re sick enough please don’t give yourself a migraine.”

Jon doesn’t give him the typical annoyed look at over-explanations, so Tim has to guess that Jon was missing some of those details. Jon relaxes, however. Which is good. Lucid enough to understand what he’s saying.

“You back with me?” He asks Jon.

Jon makes a so-so gesture. He’s stopped crying, which is good, but he’s still hesitant to relax against Tim.

“Where had you gone?” Tim asks against his better judgement.

“Felt unstuck.” Jon’s hand closes over Tim’s wrist. Using it to cling to the here and now. Tim understands that feeling.

“Anything I can do?”

“Just… be here?”

“Not going anywhere, bud.” Tim promises.

Being shoved. Hitting the ground. Curled on the unforgiving tile.

He’s on the couch. Tim is here, and he’s kind and solid.

Tim is shouting. Angry. Biting. Chilling words. Bent too far to be a friend. Twisted.

Jon is getting dizzy from the unstuck feeling.

Everything is spinning and he is dreadfully cold.

Aching cold.

But he’s afraid that every drag of his eyelids will take him back to echoing shouts and freezing tile and bruising hands.

Jon wakes up screaming. He tries to pull himself up, the blanket wrapped around him like restraints and he wants to be up and moving and free. He screams when someone grabs his arms.

Tight grip, enough to leave marks over his raw wrists. Tim shaking him until the world upends itself and he’s on the floor. On the floor. On the floor.

As Tim looms. Angry and shouting and tall. And Jon is so so so small. Breakable. In a way that no one seems to notice until he’s broken in front of them.

He’s on the floor of his living room. There are no bruises. No rope burns.

Just a precariously high fever. Sitting crying and dizzy in the thick tangled blankets.

Tim kneeling before him, making his posture as unthreatening as possible.

“Jon? Bud? You back with me?”

Five things he can see. Tim. The laptop. His cane. The couch. His ace ring.

Four he can hear. His own pounding heart. His strained breaths. Uncle Iroh on the laptop. Tim’s voice.

Three he can feel. His sweat damp frizzed hairs plastered to his forehead. The thick blanket that takes turns being a comforting weight and a panic inducing restriction. Again, his heartbeat.

Did he take his medicine this morning?

Is he up for more medicine for his fever yet?

The heat of anxiety is easing him back into the ice fever chills.

Tim is reaching for him. Offering him a hand. Instead he tips forwards against him.

“Back with you.” Jon assures, finding his voice at length.

For sure this time.

Nothing like panic to jolt him back aware.

Tim settles him back on the couch with care. Presses a kiss to his forehead, and tucks him in again against the shivers.

Jon settles back to watch another episode, Tim as his pillow once more.

#the magnus archives #fic #tma #jonathan sims #tim stoker #timothy stoker #cw fever #cw strained frindships #in the past its all good now #cw hallucinations #sort of

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