#its not like i have trauma about her locking me in the cellar basement of one of our old houses when i was like 5!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bakugousbabygirl · 4 years

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Toxic Aizawa Headcannons

genre: angst i guess?

pairings: aizawa x fem!reader

cw: || cheating || jealousy || cursing || manipulation || overall toxicity ||

A/N: this is kinda short, but i might do more of these and make them longer and add scenarios at the end. idk

SFW

• he's a scorpio.....that shit is toxic enough on it's own lmao

• but fr everyone seems to have this image he's a patient caring man and i mean he is, with his students

• but you? no

• you're an adult, you should just GET things but you don't which frustrates him beyond belief

• you're his partner, not his student he shouldnt have to baby you

• i also feel like aizawa has a thing for younger women, he's 31 and he likes his women in their early to mid 20's

• i feel like that isn't inherently toxic but the way he uses your younger age against you most definitely is

• when you get in an argument he throws it in you face calling you childish and stating how he should've just dated someone his own damn age

• shota definitely prioritizes his job over you, will stay out late at night patrolling. he will stand you up on dates to go to hero meeting and even be gone for weeks on missions without contacting you

• luckily toshinori and hizashi are nice men knowing how their colleague and friend is so they send you updates about him to keep your mind at ease

• this causes a lot of fights. he questions you on why you're talking to his friends, he wants you to stay out of his personal life. you try to rationalize with him that you are apart of his personal life and needs to start acting like it. if he's gonna be gone for long you tell him the least he could do is give you a heads up

• he argues back that you should just KNOW if he hasn't shown up he's gone for hero work and should be content with that. he tells you that you KNOW what you were signing up for when you started dating so why are you trippin now.

• he never yells but his tone becomes really harsh and his words cut like blades tearing you apart cutting you down until you feel so belittled that your argument isnt worth it anymore making you grow quiet

• he'll glare at you and make a few snide remarks before leaving like a upset father after scolding his daughter

• definitely avoids you afterwards, i mean he doesnt come home for a solid 2 weeks after and you dont get any updates from hizashi and toshinori because he told them to but out of his business

• when he comes back he pretends as if nothing ever happened, he already said what he had to say. why rehash it? and if you're really still hurt it's just gonna reinforce the fact he thinks you're childish and thinks he should've dated someone his own age

• speaking of people your own age if he catches you texting or hanging out with a guy your age he's gonna be pissed

• "what am i not good enough for you, you think i'm too old or something!?"

• like no bruh we were just having a friendly conversation what's your deal, PLEASE get over whatever complex you have dude

• I feel like aizawa would definitely judge the way you dress lmao

• with alternative fashion coming back in style you have a stab at it and start dressing like an e-girl because it's the easiest look to manage

• aizawa laughs his ass off at you saying how that isn't true alternative fashion and calls you a poser

• yeah yeah aizawa is a fuckin gate keeper, you can't tell me he wasn't emo back in the day

• tells you to change and never dress up like that again because it makes you look like some cheap cam girl

• if you ever try to walk away when hes scolding you he will use his scarf to tie you up making you sit down and admit you're wrong

• he's the type to stress that communication is key but doesn't communicate himself

• its more like he talks and you listen if you haven't gotten that by now

• he refuses to open up to you and keeps you 100% separated from his work and personal life

• probably makes fun of your trauma, nothing too fucked up like if your parents are dead or anything. hes not that much of a douche, but if its something like your sister use to lock you in the dark cold cellar at night and told you a monster was gonna get you he'd definitely laugh

• would even go as far as locking you in the basement closet to see how you'd react

• also gaslight you using your age against you saying how he knows more because he's older

NSFW

• wanna start this off by saying aizawa is defo cheating on you with midnight lmao take that how you want but he is

• when you catch him he just says it's not that serious and it just happened because they have history together and shes more mature and experienced. he said it wont happen again so why cant you get over it, stop being so childish

• i have a feeling he'd probably complain about how annoying you are to her during pillow talk 😹😹

• he's the type to keep a straight face when you're giving him sloppy toppy to give the illusion that you're underperforming and can't satisfy him but in reality his toes are curling and he's doing his best to hold back his moans because your head game is out of this world

• definitely is the dominant one and he'd laugh in your face at even the slightest mention of you taking over ( he does let midnight dom him tho😒)

• it was this one time where you asked could you ride him so he allowed it, you got on top of him and just when you were getting into the groove of it he rolled his eyes flipped you over and growled in your ear saying to never waste his time like that again

• when you try to initiate sex with him laughs at your cute efforts of trying to seduce him saying he's too old for that stuff to be appealing to him

• he'd use sex to take out all his frustrations on you

• it seems hot but not the way he does it, he'll have you in his lap infront of a mirror as he pounds into you while degrading you

• it starts off cute and light with just calling you things like his pathetic kitten but then the insults start getting a little too real saying how he could go find a better girl with a cunt just as tight as yours who doesn't annoy him and how you're such a bitch and you can't nag at him now that you're stuffed with his cock

• yeah needless to say you start crying and hit his ass with the safe word making him stop and he just rolls his eyes and mutters to himself about how the younger generation is so sensitive and kinda just....leaves you there to mope

• also yeah theres never any aftercare even after particularly rough scenes like that he just showers then goes to bed and expects you to do the same

• and it's not like he doesn't know with aftercare is, i mean he's banging midnight our bdsm queen he knows what aftercare is but just doesn't see you as important enough to be that intimate with

• if you do something that turns him off during the middle of sex and kinda just pushes you off of him and goes to sleep on the couch and won't have sex with you for a while

• drags himself at all types of late nights and early mornings crawling into bed with you whole you're still sleep and kisses you're shoulder saying to himself outloud "i'll do right by you one day"

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sabre-tooth · 3 years

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Basement Arc #personal

This is the last fucking time I’m gonna talk about the goddamned basement arc, I swear, I just gotta get the personal shit off my chest.

Yeah, the shit in the basement arc? It happened to me. Not note for note, word for word, obviously, but almost. It was some of the first shit that hit me, first shit I remembered when I was waking up to being me again. It's always like that for me, with memories. The pain comes back first.

It was the darkest time in my life that I can remember. The first time I was locked in a basement, when I was a boy, by the bastard who had the gall to call himself my father, I still had hope. Hope that I could escape. Hope that there were better days ahead. My time locked up in Xavier’s basement was hopeless as hell. I felt like I had reached the end of my road. Like that was probably where it ought to end.

The killing urge…. The killing urge was a part of me that was broken. Don’t get me wrong. I love killing. There’s an immense satisfaction to it, a little like sex. Kill for food/money, for territory, for revenge, for a challenge, cause somebody pissed you off. But the killing urge wasn’t about any of those things. If killing is like sex then the killing urge was like true nymphomania. Inconvenient, demanding, painful, and impossible to satisfy.

It was the brainwashing layered over the fucking abuse and trauma that did it, I’m pretty sure. Coupled with the natural instincts of my mutation. All those signals going haywire. The labcoat boys wanted me to kill, well they got a killer all right. But what happens to a gun when you stop firing it? That’s what it's made for. Pavlovian thing. They made it feel good when I killed the targets they gave me, so I’d kill em real good. But then you got a pleasure center of the brain that’s not getting its juice punched any more.

For a while, the contract killings were enough. Kill whoever I got paid to, satisfy the urge. But when something pushes the joy button in your brain, you push it more the worse you feel. And when pushing that button pisses everyone around you off… well, the more I killed the more I wanted to kill, til I just couldn’t fucking stop. And it wasn’t even fun any more. It was just a fucking twitch response to the hurt that happened when I closed my eyes.

Psychics could help. A really good psychic could probably have helped a lot. Birdy helped a lot. (I think she actually spelled it Birdie. Or many I just couldn’t fucking spell. Can’t now, anyway.) Initially I didn’t remember her very well. Considered her just a temp who was helping me out with work, and my addiction. But the more I’ve thought about it the more fucking attached to her memory I’ve gotten, and the more pissed I am that she got killed. And how she got killed. Birdy was a good girl. She didn’t deserve that shit and I wish I hadn’t dragged her into it.

But yeah. The X-men were supposed to help me. Xavier was supposed to help me. They didn’t. They tore me apart and they locked me in a box and they made me feel like I was nothing. Like I was a failure and a monster.

All that time, all those fucking decades and I was the monster locked in the cellar again.

And the X-men were trying to beat god into me just like my daddy.

You call a man a monster enough, you get the monster.

The condescending hypocrisy of it turns my stomach. Makes me want to puke. They stood there all high and mighty and they didn’t help me at all. And they were like fuck anyone who wanted to. Poor Tabitha. That girl had it hard. Rotten daddy, like me. Wanted a big bad scary man who she could actually help. In other circumstances, we probably could have had a really awful fling.

But the circumstances were shit. They locked me in the cellar. They put a leash on me. A literal goddamn leash. Kept me like a fucking dog and didn’t have the common decency to put me down.

I wanted to die for a while then. I really did. I’m not proud of it. I’m Mr. Live Forever, outwit outplay outlast, in that life and this one. Suicide ain’t for me. But I was so goddamn tired and I did not know how to fucking put my demons to rest.

Guess I’m grateful to Logan for resetting my brainmeat with his claws. Wasn’t what he set out to do, I’m sure, but he did me a fucking favor. Helped me heal, eventually anyway. I was still fucked up for a long while. Patterns of behavior don’t just fucking disappear overnight. But I was a lot more in control of myself when X-Factor got a hold of me.

And boy was I pissed the fuck off.

#fictionkin #memories #personal #personal thoughts #kin thoughts #basement arc

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sketch12artist · 4 years

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AO3 cross post of Chapter One of Alptraum, a Beyblade and Faust’s Alptraum crossover. I’ll post the chapters I’ve written on here. Each chapter has it’s own name, so the chapter number will be displayed with the title.

Warning: Mentions of childhood trauma, major character death, gore

1. Returning “Home”

Today is Heinrich Faust’s funeral.

As the little boy glanced at the sign, he couldn’t help but feel slightly relieved and anxious at the words. A memory flittered up, but was repressed as the little boy turned back to the quiet crowd of adults before him. Despite how the sign read, however, even he was unsure if that was the man’s real name.

So, let’s put it this way—

Today is daddy’s funeral.

“There’s more people than I thought,” Auntie huffed, looking tersely down at the boy.

Does it really matter? The boy looked over the rain soaked cluster of black. Why do we even need to get up on this dreary day?

Some people were crying, although the rain hid the tears. It was almost nice to know that people would still lament this death. It was so dull, and the boy felt so sleepy. He almost wished he was in the coffin instead.

As the service finished, Auntie started crying. It was fake, like always, but people never noticed. The coffin clicked closed, like a herd of clouds running into the wall, and was lowered into the ground. The boy didn’t care. Maybe they could go back to the house now.

But alas, Auntie had other ideas. The boy was simply dragged along as they both stepped into the carriage and headed onwards to some undisclosed location. He tried to get some rest, but the bumpy road made that near impossible. When the carriage stopped, the boy followed her towards a familiar mansion. The boy’s stomach knotted up as he watched the older woman fiddling with a ring of keys, house looming above him.

“Is it this one. . .No. . . .” Auntie mumbled under her breath, and the boy could tell that she was frustrated. Better not to focus on her, then. Perhaps he should focus on the old mansion, then?

He sighed softly, eyes peering out from damp bangs. No matter how tidily the lush blue tiles were stacked on the roof, one could still detect the passage of time. Even the off-white walls had aged slightly.

How long had it been since the boy called this place home?

“Hm? What’s wrong?”

The boy didn’t want to go in.

Auntie smiled wryly, as if reading his mind. “You only have to go in and see what’s in there. Don’t worry, it belongs to you now.”

Liar, the boy thought to himself. Why do you think that would bother me? That’s not what you all say at your home.

The older woman sighed, finally opening the door, “Fine. Wait out here, then.”

He watched as she disappeared into the house. Then the waiting game began. The boy sat on the ground, back against a nearby tree, and simply watched the front door. It didn’t take long for him to get bored and start daydreaming. But as time passed, the boy noticed that Auntie hadn’t come out. This was unusual for her.

“Aunt Marthe?” The boy entered the foyer, stepping onto the worn carpet.

Complete silence.

The very air itself seemed to be frozen as he walked further inside. A horizontal layout could barely be made out through the sunlight peeking through the doorway. None of the lights were on. In the silence, it almost seemed if dust would be stirred up if the boy continued forward. But the odd thing was that there was no dust at all.

Weird. The boy tried the doors to the right and left of the room, but both were locked. It was hard to see in the darkness. The electricity must be on. Where’s a light?

“Mew!”

The boy jumped, then turned around to the source of the sound. Feline eyes pierced through the gloom, coal black fur melting into the shadows, separated by some patches of creamy white. The boy relaxed. It was just a cat. It had probably gotten in when he’d opened the door.

The cat’s ear flicked as the boy slowly approached, then it fled. Not to the front door, like the boy expected, but under the stairs.

Weird. He thought for a second time as he peered into the door that had been hidden from view. Was Auntie down there? It seemed unlikely, but she was the only one with the keys.

The empty path in front of him extended downward, into the darkness. The boy made sure to watch his step as he descended the stairwell; it wouldn’t be fun to trip in the darkness. Once he was safely down the stairs, a long, stone corridor greeted him. Was this the basement? Or perhaps some long forgotten cellar? Either way, there was only one path to walk down.

The boy opened the only door that this corridor had led to. Empty space all around him, cast in pitch black darkness greeted him. Nothing revealed itself. The stagnant air thrummed violently in his ears. There was no way Auntie could be here. Now he felt foolish for exploring and a bit afraid of facing Auntie’s wrath if she had already gone back outside.

A screeching noise came from the door behind him. What in the world?

The boy opened the door, attempting to leave, and then darkness oozed in. He looked on in disbelief, the corridor gone, at the immense void in front of him. The boy stared at it, and in turn it stared back.

This was the beginning of the nightmare.

A patch of purple was eerily bright in the absence of light, as if it had been sugarcoated or glazed.

“Hello?” An ear piercingly sweet voice queried as the purple patch probed out from the inky depths. Smooth locks bleached of color, as if waiting for the delicate brush of a painter’s palette, shone out as the beautiful face peered at the young boy.

“Hi?” The boy hesitantly replied, and the smile on the young man’s face quickly faded.

The young man, who the boy noticed had ribbed horns curling out from his head, wore a look of disappointment, as if he had been expecting someone else. “Oh, excellent. You understand me.”

The boy scrambled out of the way as the lean figure pulled itself up, as if he was ascending a flight of stairs. Long, long, frilly sleeves swayed in his vision as the young man queried again. “What time is it? Is it spring?”

The way the attractive young man moved wasn’t entirely human.

“Who are you?” The young man focused his golden eyes on the boy. “I remember the door being locked. If there’s nothing else, can you please close it on your way out?”

He started to head further into the darkness, strange boots clopping like a horse’s hooves, or perhaps a goat’s. He seemed bored, but it made the boy uneasy.

The boy cleared his throat, gathering his courage, then yelled defiantly, “I don’t want to leave!”

This was daddy’s old house, so he should be the one to inherit it. The adults had said that before. No matter how unwilling their expressions had been, the adults had indeed said that before. So he wasn’t going to let himself be swept out the door by anyone, no matter what.

“Oh, really?”

He immediately regretted those words as the young man suddenly appeared before him despite being a good deal away when the young boy had shouted. The expression on the young man’s face had changed slightly, now slightly curious instead of entirely bored. The boy tilted his head up to meet his gaze.

A garnish grin suddenly split open, and the young man’s eyes briefly flashed a violent red, as if he remembered the boy from somewhere. He was gleeful, and a gnawing fear suddenly possessed the boy.

“Timothy,” His cloyingly sweet voice slowly pronounced the boy’s name. “You’ve returned.”

The lights flickered as if someone was playing with the curtains, despite there being no windows. And in that moment Timothy quickly flung open the door, not even caring about the slam it had made. His body moved of its own volition, disconnected from his panic and confusion. Timothy sprinted up the steps, passing through the doorway and back into the foyer. He relaxed slightly as his feet hit the carpet.

Why did I even enter this place? The nausea in his stomach threatened to overspill.

As long as the front door was still open then—

Timothy stopped, staring at a blank wall where the door should’ve been. It loomed over him, intimidating him with its emptiness. His heart pounded as the room seemed to change, flickering uncertainly.

Hospital with bloody gunneries.

A room tinted mint green.

Church with bloodstained windows.

“What’s wrong?” The young man’s voice reached Timothy’s ears just as the room returned to normal.

He spun on his heel, facing the young man, “Let me out!”

“Eh? What’s that you say? There’s no such thing as a front door.”

“I just came in from the front door!” Timothy’s face felt hot, uncomfortably so.

The young man lazily replied, “I didn’t see that.”

“You told me to shut the door on my way out!”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

The unease that had been building up suddenly exploded inside of the boy, almost tangible in strength. Terror, exhaustion, all swirled together in a poisonous ice cream sundae. Timothy didn’t want to face this latest turn of events. The room started to spin as the corners of his eyes darkened.

“What’s wrong?” The young man’s voice sounded distant, echoing around him. “Timothy?”

How did he know his name?

Timothy’s eyes shut firmly before he could utter a single word, and he knew no more.

#beyblade #horror #fausts alptraum

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writingbeautifullyblog · 4 years

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“The Bringer Of Death” – A Horror Poem by Lesley Patterson AKA Lady Opaque

It began with a story from another realm that was but was not real,

Stirring up so many emotions that I do not know how to feel.

There was once a little girl who broke all of her dolls,

she was always getting the short stick of life’s slips and falls.

The preacher said, “The child needs to be blessed!”

And so, with her spirituality, they started to mess.

Of what once was and someday maybe once more,

she rapped ever so gently on the cellar door.

To her surprise, an answer arose,

Was really it so hard? God only knows…

All she ever wanted was to be loved and protected,

but of this fact her parents shamelessly rejected.

She kept her small head high, just pushing forward and on,

but she had died inside already, that little girl was gone.

She sits in the corner dismembering dolls,

and she trembles in the recoil of her family’s harsh calls.

No one was ever there for the child,

and in her mind, she grew more feral and wild.

She wears long-sleeved shirts to cover the bruises,

but she will not ask for help, this she very sternly refuses.

The teachers all suspect, but they do not really want to ask,

“Who is that little girl who hides behind a mask?”

She adorns it each and every single day,

she yearns to break free or to just go away.

At night, the monsters under her bed,

well, they all slip inside of her head.

So battered, so broken,

not a single word of this she’s spoken.

To say it out loud would make it worse,

so instead, she suffers in silence from one hell of a curse.

In the dark, she prays for the Goblin King to, “Come take me away!”

but he never comes and so it is there she is forced to stay.

Her home life is so toxic that its profound.

If I said it out loud, how would it sound?

Scars crease her tiny wrists created by a blade,

that she had dug inside of her flesh, yes; mistakes were made.

Her mother is a distant, cold, and cruel bitch,

but the suicide didn’t go as planned it was thrown off the hitch.

Inside her head, she’s crying out loudly, and yet no tears have fallen.

She is dreary eyed and anxious; she seems so very sullen.

Her father forces himself on her in acts of wretched and hateful molest,

but she keeps that to herself, locked up tight inside her chest.

All she’s ever wanted was to just escape,

that and oh yes, a father who didn’t commit rape.

Incestuous, she never cries anymore,

but it’s rotting her to her very core.

Her parents are druggies and they live in a slum,

they think they’re so smart when they are actually dumb.

Dirty syringes, sharp needles, all urging her point of release.

When she can finally run away perhaps these thoughts will cease.

Burdened, mistreated, malnourished, and disrespected,

she wishes that they’d left her alone and instead neglected.

At night when she sleeps, she keeps on having this dream,

it is the same one as every night and that makes her want to scream.

It’s always about being trapped in a house with no doors, windows, or mirrors.

This same repetitive reoccurring dream has gone on and on for years.

Cracked like the foundation she uses to cover up her black eyes,

destitute, forgotten, she no longer cries.

She feels like a ghost, one of the walking dead,

as she runs from the demons trapped inside of her head.

They taunt her, and prod her, and poke her with sticks.

Reality or fantasy? Either way, they’re dirty tricks…

She feels hopeless in a situation that she can’t fix,

her back to the corner, head down, clutching a crucifix.

She feels trapped like there’s no way out,

then the voices in her head get loud and they shout;

the most horrible things at her in a ghastly wail.

She’s too thin from not eating and she looks rather pale.

Another day of this horror she just can’t survive,

and often she wonders if she’ll get out of here alive.

Dank and damp like a basement long forgotten,

you can literally smell the decay as if something is rotten.

All she ever wanted was a little more love,

from her parents, her teachers, and God above.

She’s been plotting the day when she plans to strike back,

her heart begins pounding, then it fades all to black.

She grabs her father’s gun from off of the wall,

then moves ever so silently down the dark hall.

Slowly creeping into her parents’ bedroom,

with an ever-increasing sense of death and doom.

She’s in their doorway now as they sleep,

stalking like a predator, she doesn’t make a peep.

She aims the rifle at her daddy’s still head,

then she fires, pulls the trigger, and now daddy’s dead.

Her mother wakes up to the sound of the gunshot,

looking now as if she’s the one that’s been caught.

The little girl aims once more and squeezes the trigger,

and wouldn’t you know, just wouldn’t you figure?

Suddenly the gun becomes stiff and jammed,

the Gods are playing a joke on her, the very recently damned.

Out of bed and running past her, the mother tries to flee,

all of a sudden, the hunt is back on and this thought fills her with glee.

Her moms got no shoes on and is dressed in a skimpy nightgown,

the little girl pulls a knife from her pocket and easily chases her down.

In a panic now, her mother’s trying to escape via the front door,

and the fear in her eyes makes our heroine smile more.

Up behind her, she jabs the knife deeply into her back,

instantly she feels like it’s Christmas and Santa’s brought a full sack.

Again, and again, with such savagery so fierce,

the knife goes in and out; her mother’s been repeatedly pierced.

The little girl didn’t know it at the time, nor did she count her stabs,

her mother’s hands now bloody, in self-defense the blade she grabs.

She’s soon overpowered and knocked back to the floor,

where she’s stabbed over and over until you could quote the Raven, “Nevermore.”

By the time she was finished the total stab count was forty-eight,

and now that she’s finished the little girl feels great.

For the first time ever she’s actually free,

to do anything, or say anything, well, that’s what she told me.

She left both of their bodies in their own pools of gore,

but to be honest, she’d really like to knife them some more,

just for all of the pain and trauma that they both had inflicted,

but her thoughts settle now and become shifted.

This is all like a dream, a bloody fantasy gifted,

and off of her shoulder’s the weights finally shifted.

She finally found justice and she felt vindicated,

and now as she reflects, she sees that some love is over-rated.

So glad she was there to take from them their final breath,

no chains now, she’s the victor and the bringer of death.

https://medium.com/@lady.of.the.opaque/the-bringer-of-death-a-horror-poem-by-lesley-patterson-aka-lady-opaque-of-4cb3b5df8d2a

https://www.writingbeautifully.com/Blog/blog/the-bringer-of-death-a-horror-poem-by-lesley-patterson-aka-lady-opaque/06/14/2020/

https://www.facebook.com/The.Official.Author.Lady.Opaque

https://www.twitter.com/WriteBeautiful

#The Bringer Of Death #Poem #Poems #Poetry #Horror #Horror Poetry #Horror Poem #Creative Writing #Writing #Writing Beautifully #WritingBeautifully.com #Lady Opaque #Lesley Patterson #Lesley Michelle Patterson #Murder #Death #Horror Fiction

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