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comradekatara · 1 month

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Ok we should talk more about sokka and aang because these two dumbasses are adorable together! Underrated relationship

The gag with Katara and blind Toph in season 3 is still the funniest scene in the series lol

yeah their friendship very cute. i like how when they're left to their own devices their respective adhd tendencies combine, that feels very true to my relationships with my friends who also have adhd lol. it's also just really adorable how through aang's sheer lovability, sokka learns to loosen up a little and appreciate life (somewhat, sometimes) in a more relaxed, content way. aang is a really good and highly valuable influence on everyone around him, especially as he counteracts the logic of war and its necessity for violence, which is an ideology sokka not only heavily subscribes to, but to which he attaches his very personhood. aang reminds sokka that he is still a child (he reminds katara of this too, but it happens in the literal pilot, whereas sokka's journey to literally enjoying himself ever is far more gradual and grueling). aang reminds sokka that he is human.

that said, i do think that people tend to be reductive when talking about the value of their relationship. not to single you out specifically, but i do kind of take umbrage with the notion (perhaps unintentional) that all their dynamic is good for is being adorable and funny. calling them "dumbasses" because they can be silly and goofy sometimes, or scatterbrained and absent-minded. i genuinely think that aang and sokka constitute one of the most interesting foils in the entire show. normally when we talk about character foils, we talk about characters who are positioned in opposition to each other, but aang and sokka are fascinating because they're allies (and friends) who nonetheless approach the same problem with the same intentions and the same goals but from completely different angles.

in many ways, sokka is aang's most distinct opposite. but first, to address their similarities: they're both victims of a genocidal imperialist project that has burdened them with a responsibility to their people that they are too young and barely equipped to handle; they are both expected to shoulder this burden easily by those around them due to their nature as "gifted" child prodigies with distinctly unique skillset and an unprecedented ability to absorb and apply new information that they learn at a genuinely abnormal rate (remember that aang is not just the avatar, but an incredibly prodigious avatar at that; he mastered all four elements within less than a year by the age of twelve, whereas most avatars take at least another four years to master their elements); they are both the "leaders" of their small guerrilla militia of child soldiers, and they take turns giving each other guidance and trusting and following the other's lead; they both consider katara the central figure in their lives and love her with an almost obsessive devotion; they both repress their grief and other unpalatable emotions through humor and constant distraction, and sometimes even depersonalize entirely when they feel that their goal is more important than retaining their humanity (sokka does this more frequently, but when aang does it, it's more blatant); and of course, they both harbor massive guilt complexes for the devastating tragedies (largely beyond their control) that have shaped their lives, and are constantly replaying those moments of "failure" as that of acute shame to motivate themselves as they strive to rectify and "atone" for their past errors.

so, as you can see, reducing their friendship to "adorable dumbasses" is already not very interesting. to me, the best aang and sokka scenes aren't the ones wherein they are playing and goofing around together. those scenes are sweet and charming, of course, but the best aang and sokka scenes are the ones wherein sokka is positioned as the logical consequence of aang's grief. wherein present-day sokka becomes the worst case scenario for a hypothetical future aang. in many ways, their friendship is incredibly bittersweet, because it is also punctuated by moments wherein sokka threatens aang's entire value system and quote-unquote "innocence" through attempting to mold him into a Man Of War the way he does those hapless toddlers in his village. for all that sokka is remarkably open-minded and receptive to new ideas, he cannot see past the limits of the world he was born into and the mechanisms and assumptions of violence he was forced to internalize and embody. aang is, of course, totally unique in his ability to not only envision a world beyond the war (i would argue that katara has the ability to do this as well), but also to have actually experienced it. and so it is truly a testament to aang's resilience that he is almost entirely impervious to sokka's ruthless, militaristic logic, even as sokka constantly attempts to enforce it.

i have a much longer post in my drafts about how aang and sokka are positioned in "the serpent's pass" (one of their best episodes in terms of their dynamic, also just a highly underrated episode in general), so i'm not gonna get too much into it here, but katara's relationship to aang as paralleled with suki's relationship to sokka is really fascinating in this episode for the ways in which it also positions katara's grief over witnessing aang's attempt to detach himself from his grief to focus on his goals and aang slipping into "sokkahood," and the absolutely devastating implications of what that must mean for katara. i think there's a strong case, in general, for the reading of katara attempting to replace her lost childhood (with sokka) through aang as he represents a vehicle for her overly idealized nostalgia (much like how zuko projects onto aang and views him as a vehicle to return to that site of his overly idealized childhood), and thus, quite literally, replacing sokka with aang. to katara, aang possesses what sokka has since lost, or perhaps something he never got the chance to have in the first place. and that isn't to say that katara views aang as a brother, but rather that katara longs for companionship in any form, and what is aang if not the ideal companion? so aang's grief and rage scares her not only because it pains her to see someone she loves so deeply in so much pain, but also because it reflects her own pain back at her, as someone who has lost so much, including family members (also including kanna and hakoda) who are, ostensibly (at least physically), still alive.

one of the most fascinating scenes between sokka and aang in the entire show is when sokka straight up attacks aang for burning katara in "the deserter." katara is very clearly affected by this beyond simply the physical pain; being burned by the weapon that killed her mother is explicitly triggering for her, and she retreats into herself and sobs like a child (she is a child, but you know what i mean. an even younger child). and sokka in turn is triggered by katara being triggered, because his entire existence revolves around his oath to protect her, and she was just hurt by the one person to whom she stakes all her hope and pride and joy and affection above all. aang obviously understands the gravity of this accident immediately; it of course wasn't intentional, but he nonetheless takes full accountability and apologizes sincerely. but sokka only calms down somewhat once he knows for certain that katara is okay. and instead of going to find katara as she sobs, he spends all his focus on yelling at aang, throwing him to the ground, more furious than we have ever seen him. and in a way, it's clear that he's also furious at himself, for having let his guard down around and trusted aang, and for his failure to perform his primary duty, protecting his sister. the fulcrum of aang and sokka's relationship is, necessarily, katara. she is the force that brings them together, and the person who is most important to either of them, but she also person who connects them in her mind, and so our perceptions of them as the audience are primarily informed by her perception of them as the narrator.

moreover, sokka's advocacy for killing zuko (in "the siege of the north") and ozai (in "sozin's comet") constitute two more fascinating scenes with aang, for the way in which sokka does not even find the act of killing something to flinch at, let alone an absolute betrayal of core principles and values the way aang does. killing is simply not something sokka feels guilty about, despite the fact that he seems to carry guilt over simply existing a lot of the time. and that juxtaposition, between aang and sokka playing together, of sokka learning how to have fun and entertain his little friend, versus sokka chastising aang for refusing to commit murder, is what makes their relationship so compelling. when people reduce their dynamic to its most comedic and innocent mode, they are reducing their roles as they embody two opposing relationships to violence, and how that reflects their ideological positions as someone who has subscribed to imperialist logic insofar as his values have been shaped by war, as opposed to someone who knows through his own experiences to refute that logic by any means necessary. when we talk about aang helping sokka to regain his humanity, it is crucial to understand specifically how sokka lost his humanity in the first place, but also why aang specifically is so crucial in counterbalancing his logic in a way no one else alive actually can.

ultimately, if sokka represents the voluntary auto-dehumanization of the colonized subject, then aang represents the potential of preservation and even reclamation of humanity and the imaginative potential of a world[view] beyond those colonial limits. their ideological conflict is not simply one of what it means to be human within a colonized paradigm, but what it means to exist at all.

#lilith-91 #asks #aang&sokka #analysis #aang #sokka #katara #under a readmore again bc i ended up writing a bajillion paragraphs (again)#also sorry for getting kind of existential with it #again obligatory disclaimer that i recognize that this is a nickelodeon y-7 cartoon #that said. i do think aang and sokka are really deep characters. like truly #and i want to honor that properly #(when i finish that serpents pass essay its over for u hoes...)#anyway. i love them so much. they are so much more than adorable dumbasses.#although yeah they are that too

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thesunshineriptide · 2 years

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I got a suggestion for a request.

Headcanons on OB perfect?

Also can't wait for whumptober 🥺

Overblot Prefect

CW// insanity, dissociation, depersonalization, mental breakdown, physical violence, blinding, choking (implied), overblot stuff, spoilers for chapters 1-5 of twisted wonderland

I don’t think it would surprise anyone as to why the Ramshackle prefect would overblot, however I do have a lot of concepts related to them overblotting so I’m gonna list them in sort of order?

After being in virtually every overblot (at least so far, on the English server), not only is the prefect at the end of their goddamn rope, but they’re suffering the long term effects of being hit with magic over and over again

It’s not even just the overblots, either.

On the daily, they’re having magic used on them.

Some benevolent, like Trey using paint the roses to change the taste of something, and sometimes non physical, like Jamil hypnotizing them, but then there’s instances like Azul paralyzing them with a trap, or the twins spitting elemental spells at them over and over.

If energy can’t be created or destroyed, who’s to say that the prefect isn’t simply slowly becoming a ticking timebomb or magical energy?

It starts with them looking exhausted, eye bags deep.

Their hands shake when they go to reach for something.

They’re starving, eating insane amounts and they never seem satisfied.

Their walk has a stagger in their step, like every movement is painful.

More obvious things begin to show.

The way their eyes seem almost black now, their skin taking a paler, greyed out tone.

Their mood shifts, almost more alarming than Floyd’s.

One minute they’re fine, the next they’re asleep, then twenty minutes later they’re raging.

And their moments of anger in themselves are odd.

Sometimes they’ll go from totally fine to screaming at Ace for breaking one of the queen’s rules, or snipping at Deuce for messing up their potionology assignment when in reality he had simply swapped the order of steps.

The prefect becomes obsessed with their looks, to a worrying degree.

And what’s worse is that they’ve taken to lying - or at least everyone thinks it’s lying.

They claim that they were different, that they know things there’s no way that they could.

It gets to the point where most people are genuinely afraid of the prefect. Behind them lurks a darkness that they can’t comprehend, it makes people scatter.

With no magic of their own, what happens when they overblot?

It’s a glitching screen of cosplays.

They look like a shattered mirror, different parts of them looking like different parts of the overblot boys, but wrong.

Behind everything is their face, yes, but they don’t normally have fluffy lion ears or tentacles or snakes for hair.

Their hands aren’t supposed to be clawed, they aren’t supposed to have cards dripping in strands from their waist, they aren’t supposed to look so dead, so pale.

They have no phantom, as they have no magic, instead they themself are both the phantom and the wielder.

You could think of it like shards of each other’s overblot monster trapped inside of Yuu.

The magic that comes out is only the magic they’ve received, but that doesn’t make it any less dangerous.

No, they can’t collar more than one person or turn someone entirely to sand, but that doesn’t stop them from making it count.

Riddle has his own collar used against him. Without him being able to use his unique magic, it creates a terrifying moment for him.

He can’t get it off, and it’s heavy, and it’s weighing him down more than it should, forcing him to lay helplessly on the ground.

It’s Vil’s poison that blinds Jamil, forcing his eyes shut and his throat closed.

He’s close to succumbing to the fog when Azul manages to pull him away and dump water into his eyes to clear away the smoke.

What object was cursed, nobody can tell, the smoke is too thick, but Jamil is still lost.

They can’t give up. This is their own mess, taken out on one person who physically can’t control their actions.

Their mind isn’t their own, their magic isn’t their own, and it seems they don’t even know who they are.

Corrupted by them.

The stolen copy of king’s roar threatens to dry out Azul, cracking his skin painfully.

Drying out is deadly to a merman, even in human form, and Azul knows this.

He can’t help but cower away, calling for a tactical retreat

If only anyone could get away…

In terms of whether someone could win against overblot Yuu, it’s a toss up. Yuu knows everyone’s weakness, even if they don’t use it against them, but they’re also completely out of their mind. Furthermore, they have a warped copy of Azul’s signature spell and Jamil’s hypnotism that they haven’t used.

They can only use each signature spell once, so they have to make it count. But like I said, it isn��t just limited to overblot magic….

What do you guys think? How could someone win against overblot Yuu?

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst headcanons #azul ashengrotto #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst mc #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #jamil viper #vil schoenheit #twst riddle #twst azul #twst leona #twst jamil #twst vil #overblot yuu #overblot

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raccoonspooky · 1 year

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They’ll Pay you a Thousand for a Kiss & .50 For Your Soul

Bo Sinclair x Reader (About 17k words, Oneshot. Rated!! E!!! This dude is his own warning but PLS read the tags on ao3!)

This is a nasty fuckfest featuring knifeplay, daddy kink, choking, spanking, nothing is safe or sane! & the list goes on and on! Heavy emphasis on the polaroid women and themes of idolization and depersonalization.

Summary/first few paragraphs under the cut!

Ao3 Summary:

Against red lips, he probably didn’t notice the blood. If you told him what he did, it wasn’t as if he was going to apologize. You licked your blood away without any sense of defeat. It felt more like acceptance. You felt as if you’d gone through the stages of grief, mourning your own death and now you were in your afterlife, reborn and unsure who you were supposed to be.

You figured that Marilyn never quite stopped being an actress. The world ate her up and she was probably just as rotted as you were inside by the time she died. Barbie was just about every single type of girl and she seemed happy.

Was Bo your Hefner or your Kennedy? You were pretty sure he was not your Ken.

First Few Paragraphs:

For the first time, you noticed that the camcorder in your basement prison was duct-taped to the wooden dowels your captor used as a tripod. It wasn’t perfectly even, one leg of the tripod was longer than the others. You wondered if he’d purposefully done that so that the camera looked down at you. You looked behind yourself, at the polaroids on the wall and you looked at the bloodied face of some stranger. Had she seen Bo’s piss-poor filming set up too? It was funny right? What kind of hick bullshit was a tripod made of wood and duct tape? Anyone who saw this must’ve thought it was in some way funny… right? Surely you weren't the only girl with a sense of humor here. Hell, you had about thirty new friends whose pictures were tacked up on the wall. Someone had to think his shitty tripod was funny.

Sighing, you looked at the polaroid closest to your head. You couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive in the photo. Had she met her end right here where you were sitting? Where you’d been sleeping for weeks on end? Was she mad at you for being here?

You tried to analyze the brick behind her head so you could figure out where exactly her polaroid had been taken, but looking at the photo made your head swim. The more you looked at her face, the more her features began to morph into yours. Soon, you were looking at your own eyes and familiar panic began to peck at your corpse like a hungry vulture. The fear came with a bruising impact while the bird’s beak tore flesh from your bones.

You weren’t even sure what hurt anymore. With shaky hands, you touched your face and you were surprised to feel your clammy flesh, you almost expected to feel the dry remains of yellowed skin that stretched thinly over your skull. You were already dead, weren’t you? You were there on the wall. Every picture up there was another photo of you. You’d died over and over and over again and some cruel bastard kept forcing you back up, he couldn’t just let you rest. He kept feeding you, washing you, stealing kisses from your lips when all you wanted to do was cry. You weren’t sure when it happened, but the only time you felt truly alive was when he was buried inside of you. He was so warm, so much bigger than you. His hands on your body were welcomed because he awakened your decaying corpse, slowing the rot he inflicted. Each brush of forced affection helped you reunite with your still-beating heart.

You were alive because of him. He told you that enough. He let you live because you were a good girl. You were so grateful. You owed him your life, he was good to you. He hadn’t hurt you like the other ungrateful sluts on the wall. You were better than them.

Why couldn’t you be grateful in the way that he needed?

You hated being left alone. It was constantly dim in the basement. Nighttime was never truly dark, he left the lights on for you as a favor, as a gift but you wished he’d leave you in the dark.

Keep reading!

#house of wax #house of wax 2005 #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #slasher fandom #slashers #x reader #my writing #this shit is NASTY like jfkwhfkwndkend i have no excuse

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sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee · 1 year

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Two-Face Background

Like with Killer Croc, I got an ask and realized clarifications on my personal take on Mr. Harvey Dent would be a good idea. With comic books, there are lots of ways to interpret a character, particularly those with mental illness like many of the Rogues Gallery. That being said, I discuss DID (dissociative identity disorder, previously called multiple personality disorder) because it comes up often with Harvey Dent. I do not have DID, so I'm absolutely open to criticism and learning from mistakes if I make them.

TW: Mentions of domestic violence and child abuse

- From the time he was young, Harvey Dent knew what violence looked like. His father made sure of that when he abused the boy and his mother. Too many times cops came to their home to give his father a warning or a quick rough up.

- That changed when he was around 11. His father was arrested for almost blinding a man and when he was, the arresting officers saw how bad the bruises and wounds really were.

- He got to see his father's trial and that's when it really hit: bad people can be put away so the innocent can be protected. His father was put away and served divorce papers in prison. A hyperfixation was born.

- It was rough at first, but he and his mother flourished. He got addicted to any law shows, movies, books he could get his hands on. Even the bad ones he would watch just to critique them.

- This man has seen "My Cousin Vinny" so many times, he can quote it back and forth. It is one of his favorites even now.

- through a lot of hard work and dedication, he got scholarships for school and became a prosecutor. Then, the DA for Gotham.

- After investigating the local mafia and hitting them hard, mob boss Sal Maroni threw acid over the left side of his face and body during his trial. That was the start of Two-Face.

- Duality. Good and evil. A coin flip. Anger and revenge and a life as someone upholding the law to someone twisting it to hurt those who hurt him. A criminal life. Lots of fights with Batman and lockups in Arkham.

- A diagnosis of DID has been evaluated, crossed out, re-evaluated, crossed out, so on and so forth many times for poor Harvey. While it's determined there is "Harvey" and "Harv" as well as other signs (switching, depersonalization, childhood trauma), other symptoms typical for criteria just aren't there. He doesn't experience amnesia, derealization, or identity confusion. From his own description, both personalities are aware at all times. A truly unique condition.

- Harv hates the narrative of Harvey being "the good one" and him being "the bad one." Harvey is an active participant in their criminal career, the only difference is Harvey feels all the guilt about it. Harvey agrees to some degree.

- There are even times the two are switching and only those with a keen eye can recognize it. They are mostly harmonized besides the occasional fight and Harvey Wanting to be good.

- When Harv is talking, his shoulders curl in slightly, body tense. He favors the burnt side of their body, down to the way he uses their face. Staccato, growling way of speaking, a strong lateral lisp from the whistling in his exposed teeth. When Harvey is talking, his back is straight and he favors the unburned side of his body. The lisp is still there, but less prevalent. His voice tends to be much softer.

- Harvey is logic, impulse control, guilt and compassion. Harv is rage, spontaneity, passion and doing what needs to be done, even if it's difficult.

- what all the professionals at Arkham CAN agree on is that the man has components of OCD- concerning his coin especially. He and Edward Nygma glare at each other when they're forced into group activities at Arkham focused on the OCD patients/inmates.

- On a different note, Harvey Dent has always been a bisexual man. Before the incident he harbored a little crush on his friend and companion Bruce Wayne. Still does to some degree. Post-incident he's even been in polyamorous relationships with both men and women.

- Over time has started liking he/they pronouns. Either is fine, actually.

- He still sends his mother flowers for her birthday. Her favorite- the morning glory.

#harvey dent #hcs #foxwriting #dc comics Two-Face #two face #Two-Face #he just starts quoting the deer scene both parts with accents from my cousin vinny wyd

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floareadeaur · 2 months

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Chapter 134 Flashback detailed analysis ( A Documentary About Ferid Bathory )

— The fourth part —

This is a continuation of this analysis about Ferid. I am basically studying every panel in the flashback that Ferid recalls in chapter 134, because I feel that each scene conveys a certain message and is a key to Ferid's character.

We were on the sixth panel, when we were analyzing how Ferid adopts a childish attitude in his response to the older brother, as if what he was reading was not important — an attitude that shows the self-mockery in which Ferid was used to living.

His smiling expression here.

" Why humans are here.

Where we go when we die.

That sort of thing. "

Ferid almost ridicules this topic, as he ridicules his own feelings, although in each situation it is about something that marks him deeply.

But he can not help it, and his expression finally matches what Ferid is feeling as he says how souls keep returning to that world.

It is already the expression of a desperate person.

" Over and over "

His gaze in this sequence shows the deep despair Ferid feels, the way he feels imprisoned and without an escape. Even if he was educated to hide everything he felt, now Ferid can not do it anymore.

Then this panel, where Ferid confesses that it would be nice to have only one life, as his older brother says.

And as he once believed. Because Ferid also grew up with the idea of this Christian God, who created the world and people out of love.

He believed in this God, but as Ferid mentions with genuine sadness in "The Story of the Vampire Michaela", he lost this God.

Because the reality is different and Ferid somehow found it in all its rotten dimensions.

His facial expression, from the sequence at the bottom of the panel, where Ferid confesses what he did, in fact, that he killed his parents.

That facial expression is very similar to the facial expressions he has as an adult when talking about these type of topics.

How the elder brother strokes his head, saying that Ferid inherited their mother's kindness.

It is the same attitude where big brother treats Ferid like he is this little fluffy porcelain puppy, his manoeuvrable pawn, born to serve him, a pawn who is only adorable and useful, whose ambitions and meaning in life do not matter.

And Ferid's facial expression here is that of a person determined to take revenge.

And we have this sequence.

In this scene, Ferid already does not seem so "short" nor so "small" compared to his older brother. We can see a representation of an agile boy, of a one terribly skilled in wielding a sword. So skilled that he can stab using his left hand, even though Ferid is right-handed, and that too while his back is turned.

In the next panel it can be as well observed a power, an ambition and a precision in total discrepancy with what the older brother appreciated in Ferid:

Because through this killing, Ferid somewhat frees himself from the role that his family imposed on him, from his repressive life, from the depersonalization to which he was subjected.

Ferid betrayed the context in which he as a real soul did not exist. Basically, he tried to free himself from this fate of being someone else pawn, lacking authentic love.

But still, killing is not something that calms Ferid, or brings him joy. That is not his purpose.

Even Ferid's last line to his brother,

" Who are you again? "

, the fact that this brother's name is not mentioned at all, then how Ferid will speak to that brother's soul in the next panel, hoping that he does not reincarnate yet.

All this shows the terrible despair that Ferid feels in the face of death, in the face of the laws of the rotten world in which he exists.

World that reincarnates souls ad infinitum, cursing them with the same fate. And Ferid's destiny being that of being alone, invisible as a soul, imposed only in a certain role desired by others.

And the following panel testifies a lot about this reality of Ferid:

Ferid talks to his brother's soul, looking at the sky, confessing how he hopes that his older brother is not yet reborn, and how just the thought of souls returning endlessly to that destroyed world makes him so terribly afraid of death.

Ferid feels a terrible fear when he kills, a fear that disturbs him.

This is also how it is described in the novels, after the killing of the Hyakuya orphans:

"It had begun, flashed through Ferid's mind. His mouth spread in a toothy grin without his intention, but the face he was making might have betrayed his panic and impatience, too, he felt."

How despite the smile, the horror Ferid feels when he kills is terrible.

The fact that he confesses this reality of him looking to the same sky again shows Ferid's need to be heard by someone beyond that sky.

The need for that good God, whom Ferid lost.

Tumblr limits my images again. But I will continue in the next post.

Small advertising break and do not forget that kind feedback is welcome!

#ferid bathory #owari no seraph #seraph of the end #ons #sote #owari no seraph chapter 134 #seraph of the end chapter 134 #ferid bathory chapter 134 #ferid bathory character analysis

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thechangeling · 2 years

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The Wall

For the longest time I said I wasn't going to write a fic where Ty figures out he's autistic because I don't remember a time where I didn't know. I was diagnosed when I was two.

However in the end I decided I wanted to put my own spin on it. Happy disability pride month.

Cw: mentions of ableism, ableist abuse, trauma, autistic self dehumanization, dissociation and depersonalization. Also a not so favorable look at Andrew Blackthorn.

It's 3:35 am and Tiberius Nero Blackthorn is autistic.

It was something Julian had mentioned to him in passing after dinner, telling Ty to look it up. He hadn't thought much of it at first, although granted it was a little peculiar. But Ty had done as he asked that evening and now many hours and many websites, instagram posts and tiktok later, he was spiraling.

Not for the reasons one might assume. It wasn't exactly surprising, the idea that there was something different about him that separated him from the rest of his siblings, from almost everyone else he had met actually. Although according to the extensive research he had done, different sets of traits could present themselves differently in each autistic person.

Autistic

There was a word for people like him.

There were people like him.

Ty was trying to focus on the information, on the facts and not let his emotions overwhelm him. But the irrefutable proof that there was a reason. A reason for him being this way. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't broken or weird or strange. He wasn't some creature other than human.

As a child he always thought he must be a changeling of some sort. Some alien creature left amongst humans either by mistake or as some kind of experiment. He never felt as though he fully fit in with his family, even his twin. It was always as though there was a giant wall of ice separating him from the world.

He had tried so hard all these years to break it down. To feel apart of something fully and truly. To feel loved. But there was always something missing. Even reading these posts online and watching these videos he still felt seperate in some ways. He had a community, a place of people of shared his thoughts and experiences, but it still wasn't exactly right. Like a shirt that fits a little small. Something felt off.

He watched a Netflix comedy special by an autistic comedian named Hannah Gadsby who stated that "it is lonely being on the spectrum because my brain takes me to places that nobody else lives." And that was it wasn't it? The simple truth. Ty existed in places that the people he loved just couldn't reach. Sometimes that was fortunate. When he wanted to get away. He could just leave. He could leave his body and float away.

There were also moments when he felt so disconnected from any sense of his self or who he was. As Tiberius Nero Blackthorn. What did that name mean? Who was that? When he looked in the mirror he saw a face, but had no connection to it what so ever.

The internet called this dissociation, depersonalization in particular. It was a symptom of trauma, but often associated with being autistic.

Trauma. Another new and exciting word.

Ty thought about everything he and his siblings had gone through. He thought about the death of his parents, his parents in general. His father was hyper aware of the reputation their family had for being different. It dated long back before he had fathered two half bloods but that certainly didn't help. And then he had the audacity to take his anxieties out on Ty.

Andrew had never liked that he was different, strange. He thought that he could teach Ty to be normal. He probably thought he was doing him a favor.

He would try and hold Ty's hand down to his sides while he stimmed and try to hold him steady when got upset and rocked back and forth. When Ty had what he now knew was called a meltdown, he would just get angry. As if Ty was doing it on purpose. He could remember one time his father had locked him in his room and refused to let him out until he calmed down.

Ty shook himself from the memory and attempted to regulate his breathing. He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the pads moving against each other.

Then there was his mother, she wasn't as bad but she never tried to stop his father. She was always telling him that she loved him but he needed to learn how to control these things. That she knew how harsh and brutal and loud the world could be but he needed to learn to cope as she did. He need to learn to keep still and blend in.

Ty had found his attention drifting over to articles about symptoms in women. Autistic women and girls talking about their lives and experiences. He thought about his mother, so clearly uncomfortable and obsessed with presenting a certain way right up until the bitter end. He thought of Livvy, his own twin with her obsessions and her tendency to pack bond with her weapons. Of the way she was always moving, not like he was, but twirling her hair or tapping her leg or pacing back and forth.

And dancing. She loved to dance and belt out the lyrics to her favorite songs. She always said it calmed her down. She was always talking with her hands as well. It was like his twin always had a switch that was on. Even in death. Livvy's ghost hovered beside him offering moral support and helpful criticism. And when he turned to her and asked if she was ok as he tried to remember to do from time to time, she smiled her perfect wide Livvy smile and told him she was ok. It sounded exactly the same as it always did.

It sounded almost rehearsed.

He was worried about her. But amongst his worry for Livvy and all of his siblings was crushing realization that he just didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to put all if their peices back together. Everyone was so fucked up. It wasn't just him. None of the Blackthorns were normal. All dealing with trauma in their own ways. The dark war, so many dead. Julian had been forced to kill their father.

Ty had been so furious at the time. So emotionally unbalanced that during a meltdown he punched a mirror. It was strange. How you could love someone who hurt you so badly and still miss them. It didn't make what they did ok, but it made things messy. And then Mark and Helen were taken.

Ty found he didn't remember much from that period of time. When they knew Mark was lost to them and they were being told that Helen had to leave. It all blurred together. At a certain point Ty just stopped. Stopped being. It was all too much so he had just left himself behind.

He thought about Mark some more. How Mark was the one who would always listen to him no matter how many times Ty had repeated the same information. Never getting bored or frustrated. How Mark matched his enthusiasm for whatever thing he was currently obsessed with, a special interest Ty had learned they were called, by rambling about whatever he was passionate about in that moment. Mark never had year long intense loves for certain subjects like animals or cats or Sherlock but he would occassionally spend a few days completely buried in something and eager to share with whoever would listen.

Ty recieved the same joy he felt hearing about Mark's passions when he saw videos and posts if other autistics rambling about their special interests. It was tangible proof that there was joy and passion and love in this life even when he himself could not find it. And that rush of feeling, just feeling so deeply about something, or someone. It was like a drug. Although that line of thinking was bound to lead him somewhere dangerous if he pursued it. Thinking about autism and love would lead him somewhere he didn't want to be. Couldn't be. So he aggressively ignored and references to relationships in his research or romance.

He thought about Mark's relationships and how he had always been sensitive like how Ty was sensitive. And as he got older that sensitivity had grown into insecurity and a profound self hatred preventing him from seeing how people really felt about him.

His fear of rejection often led him to actively push people away, like Cristina and Kieran.

It was a good thing Ty wasn't like that.

But there had always been similarities between the two of them, and an unspoken solidarity.

Now we both have hurt hands.

Maybe that was something. Ty didn't think Mark was like him but...something.

It was then Ty realized how exhausted he was. Not just exhausted physically but exhausted all the way through into his brain. Exhausted emotionally and mentally. He can't sleep though. There's still too much energy vibrating through him. He gets like this sometimes, where he is unable to to sleep. According to the internet it's yet another symptom. Insomnia.

For fucks sake.

It was starting to feel like everything in his life was an autistic trait or at least related to autism in some way. As if there was no way to tell where he ends and the disability begins.

Livvy tells him that maybe that's the point. Maybe there is no end and beginning, maybe this is just him. The good and the bad.

"We're all made up of good bits and bad bits and some that are just ok," she murmers to him softly. "That's life. That's human nature."

Ty thinks about this. He thinks about his life, his mind, his thoughts and feelings. The good the bad and the parts that are just ok. And in spite of everything, he loves it.

He loves his crazy wild and wonderful big beautiful brain. Because it's him. And bared underneath all the trauma and anger, underneath all the despair there is a burning urge. An urge to live.

Not just to survive.

He lays in bed and listens to music from his headphones, not classical this time but something soft and calming. A song called The right way around. He let's his mind wander as it does when he hears music, concocting different fictional scenarios in his mind. He lets his imagination take him away.

It's now 4:55 am and Tiberius Nero Blackthorn is autistic.

And he is going to be ok.

Tagging: @lavender-scented-rat @littlx-songbxrd @have-a-holly-jolly-angstmas @amchara @wagner-fell @sandersgrey @the-wckd-powers @spooky-drusilla @ellexu

#what good is a blorbo if you can't project your trauma onto him lol #mark blackthorn had adhd fight me #tsc #the dark artifices #the wicked powers #ty blackthorn #autistic livvy blackthorn

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nivienne-grovant · 1 year

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Defenders of Eorzea // The Coils of Bahamut

Taking note of Nivienne's depersonalizing behaviour, Minfilia smartly pairs her off to help Alphinaud with his new Crystal Braves, since she recognizes that Nivienne will do her best to be a good example for him, and at least appear more put together than she feels. This works extremely well, with Nivienne still checking out for some parts of their work and trusting Alphinaud to handle the finer points of what’s going on, but keeping an eye out for his well being as well. As they travel north and Alphinaud starts complaining about the cold, Nivienne gives him a clumsily knitted scarf that is way too long to actually wear.

Nivienne is caught off guard by her first encounter with Iceheart. When asked to describe her after their encounter Nivienne gets as far as "...Tall…." and "...pretty" before Thancred laughs so hard he almost falls over, having drawn exactly the right conclusions. When Nivienne and Ysayle do get a chance to speak after she summons Shiva Nivienne hears a familiar rhetoric of being willing to sacrifice for peace, a simplicity that Nivienne has been craving. It makes it all too easy to let her escape to continue her work.

While her first impressions of him are mixed, Nivenne quickly comes around on Aymeric, particularly due to his dealings with Alphinaud. She privately thinks this is a good opportunity for Alphinaud to learn from someone who is more experienced with politics, and appreciating when Aymeric lets Alphinaud in on his more noble intentions, and how he hopes to work around his constraints.

Much like with her brother, Nivienne is immediately endeared to Alisaie, seeing a young woman trying her best to do what's right, even if her bluntness will run her into trouble. She steps in as her sword in the Coils of Bahamut though she has an inkling that this quest for her grandfather will end in disappointment. Once again she is reminded that Alphinaud is occasionally just as insufferable as she was at that age, but she can tell the siblings care about each other, and is glad they have one another to rely on. She marvels at how, as they unlock their own power, the twin’s act twins defend and preserve their dreams, unlike Nivienne, who faced down the Galerians with only a mind for fury and revenge. Looking at Louisoix Leveilleur's spectre she silently promises to watch over Alisaie and Alphinaud in his stead, and to help them make their dreams into a reality.

#a normal amount of thoughts #arr lore #I'm so glad I got to do Coils when I did because I was such a good transition for Nivienne's relationship to the twins #Also I got to actually interact with Alisaie before Stormblood #I love the idea of Minfilia being like “okay will this will be good for both of them” actually #Nivienne immediately getting a crush on Ysayle is so important to me

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sinatsu-kun · 1 month

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my life had always revolved around other people and their presence. i wasnt the person i was a month ago, society is too demanding to the point that it is required for me to conform to its standards, or else.

it has been a long while since I've tried to think alone, depersonalizing myself and not recognizing the image im showing other people. what is my true identity? i find this question very challenging to answer for myself.

dont get me wrong, this rant is not meant to display any anger or derogatory emotions toward my univ friends. it's solely directed to myself and how i perceive myself and to society as a whole.

i know deep inside myself that i dont like many people, i dont like noisy places, yet, i had fun when i was with my friends last time we drank.

is this because of the hardships we all mutually experienced? the prelims period? our almost one year of being with each other? or is this just because of the dance of alcohol intoxicating our bodies?

eitherway, looking back, my point is, why do people change their behavior towards other people? why do we have multiple personalities depending on the people we're with?

and why do i sometimes feel like im being controlled to act the way people/society asks me to do?

going back to the point i made earlier, society is too demanding to the point that it was required for me to conform to its standards, or else,,

or else i would prolly be labeled as boring

or else i would have no friends

or else my family wouldnt accept who i am

or else my loved ones would not love me back

or else i would be irrelevant, an outcast, away from everyone else, sitting in a corner with insanity the only thing thats holding me back.

crazy to think is it?

and if you delve deeper, you would realize that it's not just me, it's you too, everyone in the world is being "controlled"(s.l.) by one another.

it would only be up to our choices who would we want to "control" and who would we want to "control us".

——or is this just another question of whether if it's actually a choice or no? 👽

as harsh as everything sounded, the depersonalized me at 5am believes this,,, but when i actually wake up i know i might not believe this anymore.

lol ig it's time to sleep, now i actually wanna wilt in this bed until someone wakes me up

,,,,,why did i forget that my therapist was writing weird shit at 3am while crying and basking in loneliness.

anyways, thanks for passing by, fellow human.

#lunodsahinagpis

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systemconfessional · 6 months

Note

(Hi 🔴🟣♥️ Anon, thank you for the answer! Not super good at tagging triggers but will try > syscourse / discourse, oversharing of diagnoses and probably a lot of overthinking / sorry for the long post)

We’ve been someone who’s had not many on call positive memories of the past, and don’t often remember during our time before transitioning (AFAB nonbinary transmasc adult). There is no memory of gaining consciousness at all until age 5, have bad memories from growing up as AFAB and masking as a kid, being 12, and have been having a crisis over everything since graduating in 2021 and turning 20 in 2023. Turning 21 in February, so, yay for that?

There’s so much more that could be said, but, we truly don’t have anyone to talk to about it, and someone who has been a friend since young days online who has been identifying as a system for almost 2 years; when we brought it up, they ended up making us feel horrible about it and we haven’t told them or talked to them about the topic since, despite getting more info, because we are so scared of upsetting them- they said we were probably just taking something and running with it; calling us a kinshifter/kin related things (we can see why, but, it still hurt) and only thinking about being a system after getting an extreme hyperfixation on a source and possibly finding alters because of it.

We have talked to a social worker before about this, and when she asked if we felt scared or comforted with the feeling of being a system; we answered that it’s comforting, because in a strange way, it’s extremely comforting to think that there’s someone with the host. It’s comforting to think about the possibility of those alters being there, experiencing everything and helping each other out.

We’ve actually been trying to log who fronts and keep track of any journaling through the SimplyPlural app, it’s been nice. It’s comforting to do and we sometimes forget to update/switch, but it’s so so nice to have an app for stuff like that.

We already have enough issues as it is as well; major depression, social/generalized anxiety, ADHD (hyperactive and inattentive) and our doctor has told us we have symptoms of borderline-personality-disorder, bipolar disorder, derealization/depersonalization/disassociation disorder and symptoms of Autism we masked severely in the past and are only in the last couple of years experiencing them full force. We have had severe memory issues and don’t often remember what we did the last day or so.

Whenever we try to look into information about being a system, we see so many mixed experiences and people gate keeping; syscourse/discourse in general scares the shit out of us because we have the fear we’re faking, especially as it’s being seen as a ‘trend’ to have DID. We know there’s no right way to be a system and every one of them is different, but it’s still scary to think about. It’s extremely hard to sit through said research information, because it becomes quickly overwhelming and we have a breakdown; crying until numb dissociation and pushing ourselves away from it.

Most of our members are fictives, we felt strongly to the characters in our source, literally feeling and experiencing their experiences and trauma as if it was our own. Of course we don’t look exactly like our source. We believe most of us also formed out of the extreme comfort and safety our host felt with those characters, as well. We don’t act exactly the same as our source either, our interests blending with each other’s and the host’s but we do have parts of source interests and such.

It feels so isolating not being able to talk about our experiences and what we think is EXACTLY how we feel, being around people who could never understand or don’t even know at all how we’ve been feeling for years. We often think about making an account personally for system stuff, but again, there’s the fear of discourse.

Really appreciate a blog like this, and everyone being so supportive of one another so far from the few confessions. Only found out about y’all last night, hopefully life’s working good for ya.

Hey! We're glad this blog is a place you can come to! That is why we exist

We're doing good thank you for asking. Life's working out

-Mod Yellow

#🔴🟣♥️#confession booth #system confessions #syscourse #discourse #oversharing

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christinedaaeunofficial · 1 year

Text

I posted 13,049 times in 2022

That's 6,382 more posts than 2021!

95 posts created (1%)

12,954 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@hairynoodlelegs

@teophan

@dat-soldier

@doubleca5t

@apocalypse-tights

I tagged 1,525 of my posts in 2022

#spookycore - 278 posts

#💖🌹posting - 69 posts

#screamlaugh - 62 posts

#spooky speaks - 55 posts

#yeah - 48 posts

#ask spooky - 34 posts

#rouxlscore - 29 posts

#spooky sulks - 13 posts

#bump - 12 posts

#me - 11 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#this blog? sipping a horrible mix of baja blast and mikes hard lemonade while listening to bela lugosi's dead and making shit jokes at each

My Top Posts in 2022:

moonlight sonata's 3rd movement is the fucking piece EVER. the urgency... the drama... the abject beauty in the stark contrast it plays to the melancholy of the 1st movement... to the cheery disposition of its 2nd movement... it hits the ground running, speeding off toward a nameless something... and it does so with impassioned gusto

its such a showstopper piece im gonna foam at the mouth holy FUCK

48 notes - Posted June 4, 2022

morbius, dorbius, orbius, go eat some worbruses, orbifices porrbidges, morbius morbius, going to the morbuffet and worbruses confidence, corbiusseses, worbcestershire sauce, go into your morbifices, red blood, blue blood, morbius worbruses, seashells by the seashorbius

morbius drinking a blue blood bag in a death basket! auwgh

59 notes - Posted May 27, 2022

weird fish makes the chemicals in my brain go brrrrrrrrr

130 notes - Posted April 8, 2022

nubert?!? :D

MY MAN

edit: g. guys i understand ur love for nubert but this same art is posted on my art blog sjslsjwldjslshd

nubert be with ye tho 😌💕

359 notes - Posted April 1, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

what i hate most about fatphobic society is how fat people as a whole are so neutered by fatphobic institutions and depersonalized to the point of being subhuman. to the point where we get almost... denied from gender.

fat people are not permitted to exist in the same way as thin people do. fat people are expected to overperform their gender to have even a chance at being perceived as that gender in a way that is not outright ridiculed. and if we do not, if we dare be gender nonconforming, or not be overly cautious in how we present ourselves at every moment of every day, or dare to even enjoy our bodies as they are with no intent to change it to please others we are EXEMPT from gender.

fat women will never get to be women. they will always be fat women. and same with men. and same with every gender beyond the binary.we are instead treated as... monsters. horrifying melted flesh beings in the facades of men and women and nonbinary persons. as if we are but a mere mockery of what we "intend" to mimic.

i grow... increasingly tired of it. day in and day out, i ache to be acknowledged as myself, a human being. i can pretend to love basking in the comfort of sharp fangs and claws and terrifying others with my very existence but it is an exceedingly thin comfort at best when compared to the warmth of being so readily accepted and tended to for being born "correctly."

i want to be a nonbinary person that is allowed to be beautiful in pajamas and messy bedhead hair and all sweaty after a run like the thin folks do. i want to not obsessively check every reflective surface i can to make sure i look presentable while fat because if i don't, i'm just a fucking joke waiting to happen. i want to never again feel like i have to preen my damndest for scraps of recognition.

i want to exist freely.

371 notes - Posted February 11, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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clownspiral · 3 years

Text

MORE michael headcanons!

- michael (all forms) is an afab nonbinary transmasc with a fem-leaning presentation/expression

- michael (all forms) is autistic

- michael shelley is a bit of a neat-freak & the disorganization of the archives drives him a little crazy

- michael shelley LOVES oldies but goodies

- michael shelley’s glasses are oval (long-ways) and have pink frames

- michael shelley usually wears his hair up in a ponytail

- michael shelley frequently becomes lost in his own daydreams (a lot of which involve living in a nice little cottage)

- michael shelley carries around a clipboard to keep notes on throughout the day

- michael shelley is usually wearing bell bottoms

- michael shelley has a nervous laugh

- michael shelley comes from a small, poor family

- michael shelley is kind of a goody-two-shoes but doesn’t snitch on his friends, even though it makes him feel guilty to keep secrets. he’d rather get dragged into trouble than throw a friend under the bus

- michael shelley misses a lot of social cues & jokes especially tend to go over his head

- michael shelley isn’t exactly the Most Skilled of liars

- michael shelley fidgets with his hands a lot

- michael shelley is over-sensitive or overemotional at times but is a pretty consistently responsible/reliable person

- michael shelley has trouble expressing when he’s struggling emotionally & usually just doesn’t tell anyone

- michael distortion is immune to human sicknesses but does experience the occasional monster-cold, usually caused by fatigue

- michael distortion really likes having its hair played with/braided

- michael distortion perches itself on things it should not be able to fit on

- michael distortion is almost weightless despite being something that takes up quite a bit of space

- michael distortion has to lean down to enter rooms if it’s not using its own door

- michael distortion really likes classic disney movies

- michael distortion has elf ears, which it hides under its hair out of insecurity

- michael distortion likes to help its human friends with household chores, as well as running errands

- michael distortion refuses to harm animals or children (claiming that they’re “too easy” as spiral targets)

- michael distortion likes to whistle

- michael distortion has a long, lizard-like tongue

- michael distortion likes putting on shadow puppet shows for its friends & can quite literally perform entire movies with just its hands

- michael distortion is able to hypnotize people & is especially skilled at putting others to sleep

- michael distortion’s handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, over-the-top cursive

- michael distortion often mimics any animal it is interacting with

- michael distortion is usually either swaying subtly or is 100% motionless

- michael distortion does not Need to breathe but often fakes it just to fit in

- michael distortion mirrors & adopts its friends’ quirks and behaviors

- post-spiral michael is not ok with being called it/its

- post-spiral is cold and closed-off at first, and becomes extremely argumentative when talking does become a more common thing. he works on being less snappy during therapy

- post-spiral michael comes out of the spiral in very bad health (weak, underweight, shaky, etc.) & it takes some time for him to recover back to a healthy state

- post-spiral michael experiences Severe bouts of dissociation/depersonalization/derealization, as well as random crying & laughing spells (post-spiral helen experiences the same & they often trigger each other into having such spells)

- post-spiral michael has trouble reading or solving equations

- post-spiral michael is very jumpy and hypervigilant

- post-spiral michael has nail-biting, finger/hand-gnawing, & hair-chewing habits

- post-spiral michael goes nonverbal (and sometimes catatonic) for varying amounts of time

- post-spiral michael experiences intense migraines

- post-spiral michael & post-spiral helen like to twist their limbs together as a form of cuddling (they're both extremely flexible)

- it takes a while for post-spiral michael to warm up to Having A Skeleton & he spends a good chunk of his immediate post-spiral period walking a bit like a baby deer

- post-spiral michael greatly prefers doorbells to knocking

- post-spiral michael will only keep clocks that do not tick in his home

- post-spiral michael is sensitive to rejection, especially from post-spiral helen (at first he interprets her wanting Alone Time as her hating him but he slowly gets over that as his own social circle begins to grow so he’s no longer dependent on her and her alone)

- post-spiral michael has joint/bone pains, especially in his fingers/hands/wrists

- post-spiral michael prefers sleeping in the light to sleeping in the dark, and will only sleep with the bedroom door Open (closet door too)

#lowkey i still have more... another time #tma headcanons #tma #michael tma #tma michael #michael shelley #michael distortion #post-spiral michael #the distortion

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lindendragon · 2 years

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Unwilling accomplices

AU where the Prince gets taken from the cellar by the Nyakuza as they plunder the frozen and desolate Subcon. They make him work for them and he ends up forming a tenuous friendship with the person whose home they housed him at. Both of them hate their circumstances and eventually agree to escape town together.

The summary in my ao3 post doesn't give a detailed explanation to what this is about, so putting this here on my main blog too.

AO3 link

Chapter 1/?

Content tags: Kidnapping, Torture, Imprisonment, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, (very mild and very vague in this chapter) Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Past Abuse, Vanessa Is Her Own Warning

At times, it was almost as if the shadows were reaching out to him. Perhaps it was to shroud him, to keep him company, as absurd as the idea was. Not like he had anything else anyway.

Now with the window boarded up, the glow of the sun and moon themselves prevented from keeping him company despite being one of the rare constants of the world, with the single candle next to him out for what must have been hours, they blanketed him completely, closing him off from the world. That's good. He'd rather it stay that way. Then he can't see his prison anymore. That might as well be his entire world now, since he'll never see anything else again.

Maybe if he stays completely still, his nerves will numb completely, and he'll never hear the clinking of his confines accompany his wheezing breaths or the constant dripping of water again. And if he pushes the memories away enough, maybe they'll fade and he'll forget that life was ever any different than this. Because what use is there in feeling and remembering if it only ever aches? When his body is now nothing more than a torpid vessel caging his soul in suffering? How isn't he dead by now? He's pretty sure he's supposed to be.

If she wants her puppet, she can have it.

But he isn't at that point yet. He can still tell the differences between states of consciousness. Feeling empty felt different than feeling nothing. When he was conscious, he still thought, even if it was fogged and nothing came of it.

He can feel himself slipping back into unawareness when the thud of footsteps forces him back. Oh, she's just back from her supply run then. He shouldn't be dwelling on something as simple as a routine, especially when he could barely even think… but the steps sound different this time, a faster, lighter rhythm to them, with a frequent echo that seems as loud as the ones right before, like multiple sets of them layering over each other. They don't stop, soon accompanied by thumping and slamming that reverberated through the manor.

Is she upset again? At what… what did he do this time?

His chain-bound body stiffens at the thought and its implications, a heavy chill piercing through it and into his shadow-shrouded soul.

No. He doesn't want her to come down. He wants her to leave him alone. It's why he kept his sorrow silent. It's why he never called out for her, even as his hunger became so strong it tore at his insides and he ran out of tears to cry. As agonizing as this solitude was, it was better than being forced to look her in the eye, begging for the barest scraps of relief as she did what she pleased with him.

But no, he'll never get the mercy he needs. Even the shadows themselves seemed to retreat in her presence, or perhaps they were just overtaken and claimed by her own darkness, like soot blackening every surface it touched regardless of light. Her touch felt like the coldest thing there is, and he'd distantly wondered how his body hadn't been frozen solid under it, like the rest of the kingdom had. The relief he did get from her was meager, reminders of rose-tinted moments of the past flashing whenever she gave it to him. It's not worth it. It's best to- he just has to let it pass, and then he can go back to pretending that there's nothing beyond the shadow's embrace, intangible yet so gentle as it shrouded him, numbing yet almost comforting.

The steps grow closer yet distant at the same time, or were they happening simultaneously at different places? And something else is off. It's the voices- something he never thought he'd hear again. The voice of another, not her or himself. He's hearing another, and that must mean they're here, someone is here, somehow. And he can hear them coming down the stairs, towards him. The peculiarity gives him just enough strength to draw his gaze towards the opening door as light is let into the room.

Once his eyes adjust to the sudden presence of light, a pair of legs and a long black tail enter his vision. Definitely not Vanessa. Moments later a call sounds out, then others, about half a dozen, follow them further into the room. He can just spot large triangular ears on top of some of the shorter ones' heads.

The sight sends questions storming his mind, though their coherency is short-lived, flickering and disappearing as soon as they conjure- Other people are here? Why? Is it a- he's dreaming- delusional again, isn't he?

Sometimes, through the delirium, he sees images flickering in the darkness, morphing into familiar objects and people. Distorted fragments of the past, things that can't really be here. Was his mind trying to substitute what had been so cruelly ripped away from him by showing him manifestations of the people that brought him joy in life? Was it trying to provide some kind of fleeting comfort where there was none? It wasn't working. It was just salt and acid being rubbed into the wounds he'd tried so hard to numb. He can't think about those times. Closing his eyes in the already pitch black room did not make them go away, inescapable, just like everything else.

This can't be here either. Why would anyone come here, to this place that must be long-forsaken by now? It can't be real- it has to be another delusion. He doesn't know what to do if it isn't. He can't even tell if that would be good or bad.

But this was- it's hazy, but a different sort than usual, one that still feels too tangible to be a fabrication of his mind. The gleam in their eyes and drawn blades as the light from the doorway shone on them, the focus of their gazes as they landed on him. And he doesn't recognize any of them. If it was another delusion, it would at least have some kind of familiarity, right? Haunted by figments wearing the masks of his loved ones.

One comes closer, tilting his head up, and he feels their touch, their short fur brushing against his skin. They grimace before turning back to the rest. "This one's actually alive." they say, followed by overlapping murmurs and whispers. Could it really… He closes his eyes, and the view disappears while the voices remain the same. He reopens his eyes, and the scene remains unchanged. The person in front of him is looking at him again.

"Hey, you still with us?" they ask. Whether he was too weak to muster a response or his mind too hazed to even make anything of the question, he doesn't know. He just couldn't find it in himself to try, staring in their direction through unfocused eyes.

More murmurs sound out, then-

"We should put him out of his misery." a voice says, firm and louder than the rest.

"It'd be a mercy." he catches someone claim over the ensuing crowd of hushed but distressed-sounding voices.

It would, wouldn't it?

The first person sighs and lets go of his face, letting his head fall back down. The pain of such motions stretching his flesh is always there, but it had dulled over time, like a frostbitten limb that can no longer feel touch. That was one good thing the fatigue granted him.

"Alright, then you do it." he hears them say.

"I… but-"

"It was your idea." they retort.

"Fine, I'll do it. Move." a third voice interrupts, and soon his head is tilted up once more as something sharp presses against his throat. For just a moment, his body seizes, throat tightening as it remembers the crushing grip icicle-sharp hands. But the touch remains a single line, pressing into his flesh almost gently despite its sharpness. But this isn't punishment. This means death, doesn't it?

He's going to die.

The quickening of his heartbeat, the frantic pleas to be given another chance, the last of his strength summoned in his fear-fueled struggle against his confines, trying to escape the life-ending tool as survival instincts take over…

It doesn't come.

He finds himself closing his eyes instead, the discomfort of the object pressing into his exposed neck dissipating. Acceptance washes over him, so much lighter than the one forced upon him as he choked on his own breath, chest torn asunder by both heart-wrenching grief and suspension strain. This was on offer to end what he had accepted would last forever.

This is what he'd been hoping for, right? To stop feeling. He won't have to watch his body and mind slowly wither away to nothing. He'll never again have to utter declarations of love to her as she lacerated his very soul, rearranging the pieces to her liking. He won't be forced to spend time lamenting over a fate that will never change, thinking about what could have been, why she had him locked away and had so many lose their lives to her wrath and suffer, just so she could secure something he had already freely given her. At least this will be quicker and less painful than waiting for her winter frigid lips to take away his final breath.

He wants this.

But he won't let those be his final thoughts, not when he can use the last living moments granted to him on a memory of happiness, one that the present won't have time to taint this time. To picture his parents, his family and friends, the children he often saw playing in the square, the forest and its ever-present thrum within everything that resided in it. One last attempt at solace by keeping the memory of his lost home and loved ones alive for just a moment longer.

The pressure of the blade lifts slightly in preparation for the slash. Then, the sensation of his flesh being torn, blood whose meager salvaged warmth fades in unison with his life as it spills down his chest, breath abruptly cut off…

…it doesn't come either.

His sense of time might be a bit off, but surely it shouldn't take that long, right? Why were they hesitating? He barely wills the surrounding voices back into focus.

"…shouldn't be so hasty. Look at him, he could be worth something."

"Really? But look at-"

"…but I'll take what we can get."

Before he can process what they're talking about, two people start tampering with his chains, and shortly after, the shackles release their bruising hold on his arms only to immediately be replaced by ropes bound around his wrists and ankles.

As he's hoisted up into someone's arms, he briefly blacks out from the sharp pain the movement causes, regaining some awareness once the hold on him is adjusted. His vision stays blurred still, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to give himself one less sensation impacting him. At last, he finds one thing to cling to, familiar yet almost foreign, leaning into the faint warmth he feels from the body carrying him. That was one thing he knew without doubt he wanted.

It all would have pulled him under if the familiar creak of the cellar door didn't strike a realization, a fact that froze his blood and gripped his chest so tightly it overpowered everything else, finally breaking through to awaken a visceral dread screaming at him that he shouldn't be doing this. He can't see others. He can't lean into their touch, he can't partake in their relief, he can't leave without permission. Vanessa will be furious. With him, with them. She'll end them. She'll never trust him again- he'll never leave her sight again after this. It will never end. He won't be able to- He'll always be too aware of her presence- too aware!

He feels his heart pounding, his every vein as blood rushes to fuel his feeble struggles to escape his new captor's hold. With his limbs atrophied and restrained, they don't budge under his force. He tries to speak, to protest and implore to be left where he was, but his throat is too hoarse and his mind too deep in delirium to form words.

They don't understand. They're making it worse! They'll both suffer. They'll lose their lives while his life will become even more unbearable. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want these changes. They only bring a different kind of suffering. He just wanted to stop feeling. Please, just this once let him have what he wants.

He's forced to shut his eyes as a bright light glares into them to the point he can still feel it through his eyelids. Is it the sun? He's feeling sunlight again?

And the air still stings with its coldness, but no longer as stifling. The shock elicits ragged coughs from him, and the feeling akin to sharp ice crystals cutting his throat subsides. Is he outside the manor?

Only once they set him down in a darker place, and he can finally open his eyes to the blurry sight of an unfamiliar wood-paneled room, does the belated realization sink in.

He's leaving. Leaving the manor, Subcon, her. He's getting taken somewhere, somewhere else , somewhere she won't be able to touch him again.

As if the realization cut through the strings holding his body taut, he instantly falls limp where he'd been set down. He lies there in disbelief of his fate, barely managing a twitch of his limbs that simultaneously feel leaden yet like salt dissolving in water, like the rest of him had been detached from them yet he still knows of their existence.

His fading awareness is abruptly seized by hands gripping and pulling him up, pain shooting through his body.

"Drink." a distant-sounding voice says as he feels something press against his lips. Despite the suddenness and current lack of vision, he instinctively swallows the liquid that starts to flow into his mouth. Eating and drinking hasn't been a thing he had to be fully lucid for in quite some time. It's slightly sweetened and it burns his dry throat yet leaves a soothing feeling after passing through, and he finds it easier to breathe after the canteen is removed from his lips.

He slumps against the wall as the hands lift from his body, sliding back to lie on the floor with nothing to hold his body in place. He can't tell anymore if the people from before are still with him, the sounds of commotion around him blurring together and into the background.

A warmth blooms beside him, strong enough for the very air to carry it to him as it grazes him. During his time in the ice-sheened manor, in her frost-lined embrace, the cold had become an unchanging constant to him. Only now that there is warmth reminding his body of its absence does it begin to shiver in a plea for more. It permeates his skin and burns, painfully and pleasantly all at once, across his entire body's surface. It's so much, too much- but he needs more.

He feels a weight placed on him, light and soft compared to the cold stone floor. It molds around his body, trapping the warmth yet not constricting him.

The air carries an earthly scent and is not as stagnant, flowing like an almost imperceptible breeze. With every new shuddering breath, he feels less desperate for the next.

The multitudes of sensations drown each other out as they course through his body, evading his mind's delirious attempts to grasp at something from the swarm. He can't discern what any of it means. It's all too much at once.

But he's leaving- That's one thing he knows with ever-growing certainty.

Aching relief manages to breach the roiling surface of sensations, rippling into a hesitant acceptance. The shadows take the chance to reach out and whisper promises of temporary escape, of enveloping him to dull the inevitable around him. He lets himself sink back into their embrace, and the world dims in its intensity. That's good. As reassuring as some of these changes are, as much as he'd yearned to feel warm again, he still wants something familiar to cling to.

After all, there is comfort in familiarity.

#ahit the prince #ahit fanfiction #ahit oc #a hat in time #ahit nyakuza #ahit snatcher #ahit queen vanessa #tw suicidal ideation #my stuff #lindendragon

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dear-yandere · 4 years

Text

[ kinktober day 4 — devotion. ]

yandere! dio x f! reader x the world. oneshot.

summary. day by day, he’d fuck you like a man fucks his most expensive whore. a demon masquerading as a God, and you’ve come to realize that there is no true God who will punish him.

— word count: 2313. — prompts: mindbreak + size difference + degradation. — warnings: n/sfw (dubcon, threesome, biting), blood, religious themes, depersonalization. — art credit: @tyonoraora.

“How does it feel, little one?”

Little one—his voice is untouched silk, reserved only for when you’ve been good. Your heart pounds against its cage as if trying to reach him—it shows on your face. He lowly hums and buries his lips against the nape of your neck, easily enticing moans from your throat. The effect he has on you was disgusting at first, hearing remnants of praise for letting him violate you, seeing his body dwarf yours against the bed, feeling his powerful touch trap you against the sheets. You have no control, no freedom here—no one would come save you even if you screamed.

Sharp teeth graze the hollow of your neck, dangerously close to puncturing your jugular. Air’s trapped alongside your throat—you can’t breathe under the full weight of his body and the threat of death on your skin. Fingers hungrily knead and pull at your nipples, twisting when you don’t moan quite to his liking. “Answer me.” He hisses and nips at the skin beneath your ear.

Your throat dries up—his commanding tone enough to knock you down to Earth. “G-good—feels so good My Lord!” You bite back another moan, mind empty and gaze locked onto the snap of his hips against yours. You whimper, half wanting to look away from the way his cock disappears between your folds, the other compelling your hips to meet each thrust. Hips shamelessly and sloppily cant into his, the thrill of knowing that one wrong thrust and he could split you in two. Looking at it now, seeing his dick disappear between your thighs—it’s rapturous, addicting like ambrosia. Deep in the recesses of your mind, the thoughts strike you as foreign—that the image of dying by his hands is exhilarating. You want him to tear you to pieces, to use you as a cock sleeve until he has no more use for you.

Dying at his hands is all you’re good for now.

He says you should consider this an honor, a privilege to be personally fucked by your own God. You’re his favorite toy, he says—the other girls don’t come close, but you can’t help but question why you’re so special. Is it your defiance, your cunning? Is it how easy it is to strip it away, down to your fragile and wary bones? Or is because he gets off on how rewarding it was to break you, to hear your screams blossom from terrified to eager? Because he knows how to get under your skin, knows how to make you feel special, knows how to make you feel wanted as if you finally have a purpose in life, a purpose rewarded to you by the hands of a God himself.

Your purpose is to used.

A comfort, more than anything else. When did it happen exactly? The drugs had grown less potent, weren’t as needed when he was in the mood to take you without complaint. When was it? When did you become addicted to doing this act with him? When did you stop resisting and refusing refusing, stop kicking and biting and clawing at his thick skin? Resist has always been useless, when something so inhuman and inhumane heals before your eyes, when your hard works is all for naught. How do you fight a man who calls himself God? How do you fight a man who may as well be a God?

...You don’t.

“M-more, My Lord.” You shamelessly plead—anything to win his favor—and wrap your legs around his waist.

He stills, briefly, and watches you fall apart. “Oh?” Your whimpers of complaint are a serenade he finds himself indulging in. “How indecent. I taught you better than to beg, didn’t I?”

Your hearts hammers.

He sees the way your eyes widen and he smirks, content with the fear he’s struck into you. He’s made it clear he never liked needy women; you’re an exception only in that he enjoys fucking you most.

“Beg for me more, little dove.” He orders and begins gently rocking his hips.

Desperate for the friction, you throw your head back and eagerly hum out countless, wordless prayers. This isn’t you anymore, not in the slightest; this is better in his eyes. And that is so much worse. But he is content, and so are you when his pace descends into harsh thrusts that leave your pussy throbbing. You take it like a bitch in heat, like a good girl, like a good concubine.

“Little dove...” You drink his praise up like water. His gaze travels downward, enraptured by how small you are beneath him. You could break in an instant. “This is all you’re good for, isn’t it?” He asks—you waste no time anxiously nodding. “So full of my cock, it almost looks like it belongs there.”

Tucked under his large body, pressed flush against the chest of a man who’d sooner leave you for dead — tears spill, but you’re overjoyed for once. He’s always loved making you cry, who are you to rob him of that? Even though your legs hurt from being pressed flat against your torso and your cunt is bruised bloody and raw, you weep and moan like you mean it. His arms are curled under your pretty legs like vipers, large hands pinning each of yours against the mattress as he buries his cock in your womb.

You can’t help but focus on the way his body presses against yours. His cock feels heavy between your folds, and he’s careful to keep his pace slow enough to drive you wild. Each harsh thrust is few and far in between, a perfect cacophony of impatience and frustration building a coil in your stomach. Dio runs his tongue over unused fangs, studying the way your features twist and contort with pleasure when his thick cock would press against your insides. He’s waiting, and you both know it; he wants to see you unfold, wants you see you whine and beg and claw at his arms for more. It’s a feeling unlike any other — his other women can’t compare, can’t beg like you can. You used to hate him, but he doesn’t see that hateful glint in your eyes anymore. You like this, you like being fucked — he’s finally broken you. This once prideful woman is his to do as he pleases with.

There’s no greater feeling in this world.

“Lean into me.” He orders like a king and you comply like a whore. Dainty arms weakly coil around his shoulders, not nearly long enough to touch each other; his body is too big, too monstrous, and the thrill of being torn apart by it only makes you want him more. He praises in hushed tones, allowing you a small, rare moment of bliss. Your face is always particularly cute when he utters such meaningless words to you, like a dog desperate for praise. It’s tempting to defile that innocence even further.

“Look how needy you’ve gotten, gripping my cock so tight I can hardly pull out,” he teases, lies right to your face. Unsheathing himself is as easy as you are, but he keeps that to himself—prefers to get your hopes up. You’re already whimpering at the sheer mention of how needy you’ve become; Gods, you’d feel so empty without him, but it isn’t your place to complain. He doesn’t have to please you, you only exist to pleasure him. And still, you can’t hide the disappointment on your features. Dio smirks condescendingly and utters assurances. “Stop making that face, little dove.” He jests and realigns himself to your cunt, not even so much as a warning when he slams into you once again. “I’m not done with you yet.”

And you did — your eyes roll back into your head when his hips slam into yours. Fangs part your flesh as easily as meat, and droplets of blood quickly well from the incision, but he doesn’t care to lap them up; you always did look better coated in blood. You hadn’t even noticed his stand, The World hovers over the mattress by your head, its cock free from pants you didn’t know could be removed. His dick, thick and grey, is as large as your Lord’s; you already knew it was to go in your mouth, you just weren’t sure if it’d fit. The image alone made you want to come apart, it was already taking all your willpower to not scream with each thrust into your little cunt.

“Suck.” Dio pulls away from your neck long enough to bark out an order. That simple command is all it took to strip you of dignity. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind another cock to please, would you?” He caresses your hips, his thumb sweeping over the raw flesh he’d gripped onto in his earlier reverie. You wince, but maintain eye contact—he prefers it like that. “Look how needy you are, little dove. Sometimes you just need the extra attention, don’t you?” He coos. “Need another set of hands on you, more skin to get your hands on.” Breathily, you nod and lean into his touch. There’s no use hesitating or complaining; you’ve turned a new leaf, after all. You’re a good girl now, and good girls don’t talk back.

Fangs return to your neck, digging deeper, harsher this time. You whimper, the new sensation of pain overwhelming when your thighs were already so chaffed and your cunt already so bruised, skin still raw from this morning’s session. But your mouth fell open anyways, the underside of your tongue pressed taut against your lower lip, ready to accommodate The World’s shaft. The creature grunted lowly, more akin to the growl of a wolf in heat, and slid himself into your tiny mouth. The feeling of being filled from top to bottom was so intense, so overpowering you feared your jaw would come apart. The World was markedly more gentle than his user, but it was hard to miss the excitement rolling off his body like waves; he’s not being gentle for your sake, he’s trying to hold himself back lest his length rip through the back of your throat. He’s excited, even if you can hardly hear his moans.

Dio chuckles but makes no further comment, too busy suckling on your sore flesh. The World stares down at you, locking eyes for only a moment before bucking into your throat. Your tongue instinctively swirls around the tip, drool soon pooling beneath your nose. Deep growls escape the Stand’s lips, and Dio feels every second of it. His cock is buried deep in your cunt and he can feel every lick and suckle of your lips.

Dio licks his lips, already feeling the bulge of The World’s cock inflate the throat he’s mercilessly sucked on. The chuckle that rumbles from his chest and into yours would be enough to send your body shaking if he hadn’t pinned it to the bed with his own. “What a well-trained whore.”

“Mm—”, you struggle to breathe out a raspy response, hardly able to formulate words when your thoughts are filled with cum and his thrusts refuse to relent. His stand’s dick press against your insides, blocking air from entering your jugular or from leaving your throat. The soft, rubbery skin of the stand’s balls stuff your nostrils — you nearly lose yourself in the bliss of being treated like a lifeless fuck toy. You could die right now and they might keep fucking you, and that alone fills you with joy. To be used until the very end... you could think of no better use for the new life Dio has given you. But, he doesn’t plan on letting you die just yet; you still have many more uses left in you.

“Oh? Are you going to cum again? So soon?” His tone is mocking near the end, and he squeezes your hips. Fingernails rake closer to your inner thighs, coaxing you to tell him what he wants to hear. The World leans back slightly to relieve some pressure from your nostrils and throat, and you shamelessly fill your lungs.

“I’ll, aah—” A moan catches in your throat, and his Stand gives you enough space to speak. “I’ll cum as many times as you like!” There’s a spark of boredom in his eyes, but it’s gone so quickly you wonder if you’d imagined it. You...you hope you imagined it, and a feeling of realization and disgust washes over you like a cold wave. You want to cover yourself, to crawl into the deepest hole you can find and die, anything to escape the way he looked at you just now. Like you’re trash on the street. A charity case he picked up out of pity. A pet he’ll discard at the drop of a hat.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, and before you can ask, your mouth is stuffed again. He watches your shoulders squeeze together and your throat bulge from the sheer size of his Stand. The tip of The World’s cock pushes against the back of your throat, pinning your head to the mattress—you would have thrown up if Lord Dio hadn’t train you so well.

“Then cum.” He orders, stuffing your mouth and your cunt full. “Cum as many times as I want. Cum until I’m done with you.”

You obediently nod. You can’t see his face anymore; whether that’s a blessing or a curse escapes you, so you stop thinking and simply oblige. Your past self would be laughing at you. Chastising you, encouraging you bite down on his cock and fight back. What happened to that girl, you wonder? Did Lord Dio tire of her? Did he dispose of her? Will he dispose of you too?

What a terrifying devotion. When did you lose yourself?

When did he become your world?

#yandere dio x reader #yandere dio brando #yandere dio #yandere jjba x reader #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure x reader #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure #yandere jojo x reader #jjba x reader #yandere jjba #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere #yandere scenario #yandere imagines #kinktober20 #*oneshot #tw dubcon #tw not sfw

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