there's no crying wolves now - Chapter 1 - daybreaklonging - Marvel Cinematic Universe [Archive of Our Own]
there's no crying wolves now - Chapter 1 - daybreaklonging - Marvel Cinematic Universe [Archive of Our Own]
Some of the things that are different in India compared to the west. - we are not allowed to talk (women and young boys - your opinion doesn't matter) - mom and dad are always right; even if they beat you black and blue, you just take it without saying a word. - you cannot live independently/be financially independent until you have a full-time job. No part-timing. And women are usually asked to find jobs closer to home, so they don't have to live alone. - there is nothing called mental abuse or mental illness... (you are making it up for attention) - no crying or any display of extreme emotions
- physical abuse is normal in families, and it is an inside matter that is not to be discussed with anyone. - no boyfriends or girlfriends or any relationships. - you cannot talk on the phone after 7 PM- WIFI will be turned off after 10PM -You have to give your phones and laptops to your parents after 10PM. Now, let me tell you about some incidents in my house; the cause cannot have a diary, my parents check my social media and messages and don't want my friends or anyone who knows my family involved. Both my parents are verbally abusive and very loud. They scare me. I have a younger sibling, and we refuse to get out of our rooms cause we are scared that if our dad sees us, he might start swearing or find fault with something and start yelling at us. We try our best to be invisible. My mom constantly slut shames me and tells me I was molested and sexually harassed because I asked for it. She tells me it's my fault that I have big breasts. My mom constantly bought me wrong sized bras so that my breasts seem smaller. And now I have terrible back and shoulder pain. And when I refuse to wear them, she brings up traumatic incidents from the past and slut shames and then blames me. My parents have always beat us up. We have scars all over our bodies because they have always been beating us. And every time we protest or defend ourselves, we are cussed at beaten harder. I am putting this out cause I have no one else to confide in. Thank you for understanding.
The fandom being toxic and rude to one another 🤝 The canon content having SO much trauma and characters victim blaming others
The reason why I'm interested in DSMP less and less
ive had enough of today
dont rb bc this is a vent but
A portion of the Castlevania Fandom being victim-blamey towards Hector = me being a very uncomfy person.
Seriously, some of the shit ya'll say is disgusting, and it kinda reflects how ya'll might think about someone in a similar situation. It's okay to like the Sisters (Sisterhood?) as villains, I love their characters, but that doesn't mean you have to hate Hector at the same time and call him "stupid" for daring to reciprocate his affections to the one (1) fucking person he thought was kinda on his side when he was literally isolated in a castle in the middle of the mountains w/ no allies to be found anywhere.
Please rethink your entire fucked up state of minds, thank you.
pero es que es una estupidez que te digan que a estas alturas estas dejando que tu mamá te manipule como si ya cuando eres adulta el abuso solo es válido si viene de tu pareja.
Here we are! I’m gonna preface this by saying it’s very, very dark. Here, we get a glimpse into some of Dabi’s disordered thinking. If you aren’t comfortable with themes of spousal or child abuse and victim-blaming, then I would suggest turning away from this.
Summary: Shit. Does he really make you that sick?
Pairing: Yandere!Dabi x Psychologist!Reader.
Warning: 18+, child abuse, dark themes, delusional thinking, dirty talk, justification of abuse, manipulation, mentioning of abuse and sexual assault, misogyny, noncon fingering, potential spoilers, slut-shaming, toxicity, threatening, victim-blaming, yandere behaviour.
You kept your eye on him as best you could from your position at the stovetop, sifting the medley of breakfast food around absently in the pan. He was staring back at you from his seat at the head of the table. Before now, you hadn’t thought it was possible to harbour such strong abhorrence for a single human being. Alas, Dabi had shown you the light. Dabi had shown you that it was possible to hate someone like they were the devil, himself.
And for all you knew, maybe he was.
“Gonna burn the food if you can’t keep those cute eyes off me, dollface,” he taunted, winking when you huffed and averted your gaze.
Good, you absolute piece of shit, you wanted to sneer. Then, he wouldn’t get the nourishment he needed to torture you today. Granted, that meant you wouldn’t, either, and although you didn’t necessarily want to indulge in your carnal desire to eat, you were shamefully famished.
It didn’t feel right to eat when your fiancé was dead. It didn’t feel right to do much of anything, if you were honest. Everything you did, whether it was getting dressed or walking around the kitchen, made it feel as though you were overstepping an invisible, unestablished boundary of the deceased. Why did you get to live freely when you had inadvertently killed them? Why did you get to eat and shower and dress and exist in your own domain when there was blood on your hands?
You pursed your lips and clamped your tired eyes shut. No, that wasn’t correct. It was true that you were the underlying cause of your lover’s murder, but Dabi hadn’t needed to commit such a heinous act. You hadn’t requested him to do so. You hadn’t ever wanted to see anyone get hurt on your behalf.
This wasn’t your fault.
It was a difficult pill to swallow — one you would be choking on for days to come — but you would accept this truth eventually.
You turned off the stove and removed the pan. Loading over half of what was inside it onto a nearby plate, you grabbed a fork and made your way to the dining table. Dabi hadn’t torn his gaze from you since you had started making breakfast. It was unnerving, being analyzed so carefully. You supposed this was how he had felt during his time as your patient, what with all the inventories, injections, and interviews you had subjected him to. Maybe this was part of his payback. The charred male was quite vindictive, after all.
You spared him a fleeting peek before sitting down across from him. He wore a plain white t-shirt that dipped down to the middle of his pectorals. His pants were the same black jeans from the night prior. He probably didn’t have anything else to wear but those and his usual overcoat. You doubted he had kept the gown from his days confined within the psychiatric unit. In fact, if it came down to it, you thought he would have much preferred to be naked than remain in that pathetic, dehumanizing garb.
“See somethin’ you like?” He inquired, casting you a bored simper.
“Nope,” you replied instantly, not giving him room to debate that fact.
The blackette regarded you with vast disinterest when you started to dig in, wolfing part of your meal down at a rapid pace. You knew you should have waited in between vicious bites, but you couldn’t help yourself from devouring the early morning cuisine like an utter swine.
“I’ll look past the fact that you didn’t serve me first, but you’d better get your pretty ass up and fix me a plate.”
You couldn’t stand for it any longer this day.
“Get it your-fucking-self,” you hissed with a feral scowl.
There was something about being hungry and having a severe distaste for your captor that made your mind go to an ugly, irrational place. All you wanted to do was jump up, grip his wild raven locks in a tight fist, and repeatedly bash his face down on the tabletop. It was an incredibly violent thought for the likes of you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t bring yourself to fantasize about anything but the pummelling of this dastardly villain, if only so that he couldn’t harm anyone else.
The vigilante within you was rising with each passing moment, filling you with adrenaline that you couldn’t possibly use. In reality, you couldn’t lay a finger on Dabi. He had already proven that he was more robust than you in almost every way. The only one-up you had was your emotion regulation and intelligence. The stapled beast couldn’t healthily construe his feelings if he tried, and though he was quite smart, you didn’t think he could hold a match to you.
Trauma or not, you would beat him at his petty mind games, even if it made you embark down a dark road in your head. You would survive this. You wouldn’t let yourself crumble by his hand. Anything you had to do in order to survive, you were willing to do, just to see him rot in a cell for the rest of his pathetic life.
Or better yet, to see him dead.
“That how you feel, gorgeous?” He scoffed smugly. “A real wife wouldn’t treat her man like this.”
You shuffled uncomfortably in your chair. There it was. That was what he was going to use to trap you — this idea that the two of you were playing house.
“Let me make this clearer for you,” he said, tone low and eyes narrowing dangerously. He leered at you, as if ready to pounce. “If I have to get up and grab my own plate, I’m gonna bend you over that fucking stovetop and bruise your ass until you’re begging to serve me.”
You gulped. You wanted desperately to deny his request. Unfortunately, there were too many unknown variables at play, one being that you were quite positive he would lean you against one of the burners after he cranked it to medium-hot. The last thing you wanted was to look anything like him.
Wordlessly, you got out of your seat and removed a plate from the cupboard. Then, you gathered his cutlery. Finally, you packed the dish full of his meal.
“Good girl,” he purred, staples barely able to withhold his sickening grin as he watched you finally do as you were told.
The key was to corner you, to give you two crappy options that would force your hand. In this instance, it was mortal injury or simple compliance. He couldn’t lie; he had wanted you to choose the former. You had disappointed him with your decision about your ex’s box. He had wanted the opportunity to punish you for the first time. He knew it would come, but he wasn’t a very patient man. He had used up all his restraint when he had dedicated himself to playing the long game for the sake of revenge.
When you practically tossed his plate and utensils down in front of him, he snatched your wrist in a vice-like grip. He didn’t miss the way you trembled. He also didn’t miss the sweet gasp that flew from your parted lips. It was adorable, how you thought you could get away with being shitty to him.
You tried to wrench your hand away from him, but to no avail. Your skin was sweating beneath his smouldering grasp. Was he planning to burn you anyway? Perhaps you had pushed your luck.
“Y’know what dear ole dad taught me when I was young, doll?” He asked, making your brows furrow. He twisted his head to look at you, cerulean orbs boring into your own. “When a woman doesn’t listen to you, she needs her behaviour corrected.”
You felt a familiar anger bubble aggressively in your gut, followed by an intense nervousness trickling up your spine. Back at the ward, he hadn’t spoken much about his upbringing. All he had told you was that his home life had been rotten, that his father had been relentlessly driven by power and thus, abusive. It wasn’t shocking to you that Dabi had seen him assault his mother. That was one of various things that had screwed him up, you supposed.
His hand was continuing to tighten around your bone, threatening to break it if you didn’t reply soon.
“That’s fucked up,” you growled. “You know that, right?”
He knew that his dad had done a lot of awful things, including tossing his eldest son away when he became useless to his selfish, blind goal. Nonetheless, Dabi thought that he had gotten a few things right, as well. Whenever he struck his mother, she stopped nagging for a time. It was as though he had to give her a refresher on her place every once in a while, with a well-timed slap across the face or a session of rough sex when he thought all the kids were in bed.
And Dabi had sort of liked that. His mother hadn’t coddled him as much. He had gotten to spend more time with his father, training like men, working toward a common factor. Then, when she had started up again, he would repeat the process to make her presence regress.
He knew that there were some issues with taking a physical method when reprimanding one’s wife. For starters, women whined about every scratch and bruise they received, and they seldom saw that they were the ones to blame for their hardships. If they didn’t want to obey, then they would reap what they sowed, now, wouldn’t they? But you couldn’t tell a crying mess of a human that; not when they were emotional and far too unwilling to comprehend logic.
He was sure you would be the same as his mother. You would need reminders here and there. Ultimately, though, he thought you would get the hang of your novel role as his over the course of your relationship together.
Your lessons would begin today.
“Give me a kiss and I’ll let this slide.”
Another opportunity to punish you.
You grimaced, your stomach gurgling from the prospect of pressing your lips against his mismatched skin — the skin of a bloody murderer — and giving him a show of faux affection. This was what playing house was all about, though, right? You had to take on the role of Dabi’s tamed housewife, like you had been married for years. That was what he wanted. Now that you were contemplating it, his fantasy about such a domestic life was likely a result from a broken childhood. If that was the case, then you weren’t going to escape this situation without giving him one of the two things he wanted.
You could either kiss him or have him pummel your ass.
As much as your subconscious self wanted to punish you for surviving over your fiancé, you knew which option you had to take.
You bent down robotically, slowly moving your face closer to his. Up close, his scars were even more grotesque. You had never truly examined them before, always electing to be a professional first and a curious human second. You wrinkled your nose when you neared him, the faint smell of burnt flesh touching your nostrils. You wondered, vacantly, if that was what your lover had smelt like as he had been roasted alive.
You flung yourself back up and spun around, managing to wrestle yourself out of his grip in time to race over to the sink. Spit flew from your mouth as bile plummeted into the drain. You pawed blindly at the tap, turning it on to wash the disgusting chunks away. Boy, were you happy that you had already washed the used dishes.
Dry heaving and clutching the counter for dear life, you weren’t sure how long you had stood there, staring at the rush of filtered water.
You sighed, dropping your mouth beneath the tap to rinse the unappealing aftertaste from your mouth. Gradually, you twisted around to face the music. You knew the logic as to why you had lost your lunch would undoubtedly escape him. All he wanted to do was find reasons to punish you. If he didn’t finally lay his hands on you this time around, you weren’t sure when he ever would.
Dabi was laughing humorlessly, propped back in his chair as he idly witnessed the scene play out before him. There wasn’t an ounce of delight on his face. There wasn’t a smidgen of forgiveness. He was angry with you, as you had suspected he would be.
Your fiancé would have rushed to your side and checked to determine if you were okay. The thought to perform such a considerate gesture had probably not crossed your new housemate’s decrepit mind. His point of view was too egotistical to account for the wellbeing of others.
“You hate me that much?” He challenged you. “Enough to make you fuckin’ sick?”
You don’t know what possessed you to nod. You should have shaken your head and made up an excuse about feeling nauseous this morning. You should have told him that you were feeling overwhelmed by everything, that you had a sensitive stomach — something. You certainly shouldn’t have agreed with his statement.
He rose from his seat in an instant, marching over to you before you could think to dart away. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and made sure you could barely move an inch, as his face came devastatingly close to yours. You grunted at the small pain but didn’t attempt to scurry.
You had bruised his ego without meaning to. It wasn’t like you had willed yourself to vomit upon leaning close to him. Alas, pleading to a damaged, temperamental man like Dabi in hopes that he would comprehend a point of view beyond his own was akin to ramming a square block into a circular hole; it just wouldn’t work.
“Let’s test that,” he proposed darkly.
You shook your head vehemently. “No, please. I didn’t mean t—”
You were cut off when he pressed you firmly between the counter and his lithe body. He freed your hair, giving your scalp a temporary break.
“The pigs’re gonna be back tomorrow,” he mumbled, teeth grazing your neck. “Can’t mark you up how I want, yet, but there are other ways I can hurt you, doll.”
The scarred pads of his fingertips were at the waistband of your sweatpants. Your heart was pounding quickly. A cold sweat broke out across your whole figure, and you felt as though you had been gridlocked.
You stared down at his hand, creeping into your pants and ghosting over the hem of your panties. You were trembling like a newborn at the prospect of him taking such a thing from you.
You had known it was coming. In fact, you should have anticipated that he would do this today, after he had restrained himself so diligently last night. Nevertheless, you weren’t sure anyone could be prepared for rape.
You were going to be sick.
“Please don’t do this,” you whispered hoarsely, as if you believed begging would spare you from his wrath.
You felt the urge to cry harder when he moved his hand beneath your underwear. You didn’t, though, knowing it wouldn’t make a damn difference. If anything, it would only excite him further.
The sensation of his digits down there felt foreign. His hands were the roughest you had ever felt. They weren’t loving, like your fiancé’s careful caresses had been. They weren’t caring. They weren’t hands you could trust. They were hands that would take from you, whether you wanted them to or not. They were hostile and terrifying in their sheer, unpredictable strength.
His index finger dipped down lower. You held your breath until you finally felt him grace your sensitive, neglected nub with attention it didn’t cherish. You gasped, not expecting him to roll his textured fingertip in a short circle before applying only a miniscule amount of pressure to it. If this had been anyone else, you might have enjoyed getting teased. Maybe if you blocked him out while he did this, you could pretend it was (fiancé name).
“Look at me,” he warned, a callous edge to his tone.
You groaned, defeated. Well, so much for that plan. You couldn’t properly dissociate when you were staring directly at your monster.
“Please don’t,” you repeated, slamming your eyes shut stubbornly.
Alas, that only fed the raging fire in his black heart.
“Look at me!”
You were startled at the sudden, unbridled power of his voice. You hadn’t heard him yell since he had first arrived at the ward.
You did as you were told, eyes wide and doe-like, as mini rivers streamed down your puffy cheeks.
“Am I that hard to stomach?” He sneered, seizing your chin with his free hand. “The scars and burns turn you off?”
Yes, but that wasn’t all. He was a goddamn psychopath. Alas, he had deluded himself into thinking it was all about outward appearance; this was one of the reasons why his obsession was so frightening. If he thought he could make you want him for his personality, he was sorely mistaken. But what would he do when he figured out you would always despise him? There was a darkness floating around in his eyes, indicating that he had a barbaric side he hadn’t revealed; you didn’t want to be subjected to that.
The feeling of your clit being rubbed in small, teasing circles snapped you out of your woes. You exhaled, clutching the counter stiffly. You knew that shoving him away now would only worsen what he was going to do. There was nothing you could do except take what he gave you while staring deeply into his abyss; he still hadn’t relinquished his hold on your face.
He hummed sensually, words laced with lust. “You’re wet.”
That was correct. You had self-lubricated. You were wet to accommodate for what was to come. It had little to do with whatever perceived attachment he deluded himself into speculating that you had for him. It might work well in your favor if he misperceived it, however; that way, you could have an easier time swindling him when the time came. This wouldn’t be a simplistic feat, though; not when your mind was screaming at you to flee.
Unconsciously, your legs tried to clamp shut, barring him complete access to what he wanted. He glowered at you, pupils like missiles when they met with yours.
“If you try to close ‘em one more time, I’ll burn ‘em,” he murmured dangerously; then, clarifying, “the pants and your thighs.”
You swallowed thickly and allowed him to part your legs, once more. The most difficult part of this endeavour was the illusion that you had a choice.
You didn’t have a fucking choice.
You weren’t given a fair opportunity to decide.
This pleasure he was delivering unto your body was being forced upon you.
Nonetheless, you knew you would feel revolting for days after this. Like almost any other human exposed to intense psychological trauma, you would need to navigate this experience as objectively as you could, without overanalyzing the semantics. That was the key to survival.
You just didn’t know how long you would be able to keep up such a mentally straining farce before you erupted. Sooner or later, you would probably give.
Dabi’s digit started to move when you let him have autonomy. He thought it was adorable, how you tried to buck back against him, as if you thought you could ever be granted success. The only reason he hadn’t lost his shit earlier and made you suck him off anyways was because he had known you would slip up eventually; you had to. He couldn’t fathom you staying idle forever, especially with the extravagant demands he had in store for you.
The villain leaned in to nip at your neck, leaving a small mark near your collarbone. You whined like the bitch you were, pretending that you didn’t like being marked up. He knew better; you were a fucking waterfall. If you didn’t want it — at least a little — you wouldn’t be drenched. He thought a part of you was turned on by him taking what he wanted.
He had read somewhere that women were more prudish than men. As a result, some of them lied about liking sexual acts to save face. He had clocked you to be that type.
That was fine.
You would get used to it.
If all worked out according to his plan — and it would, if you didn’t want to see your neighborhood charred to a crisp — then he would be doing things like this often.
“Oh, fuck, gorgeous... how long’s it been?” He abducted your earlobe between his teeth and tugged on it gingerly.
You couldn’t remember. Maybe two weeks. Maybe a month. This last while had been insanely busy for both you and your fiancé. Sex had been the last thing on your mind. Of course, you were currently kicking yourself for not making the most of your time with your partner. Now, you would be extra desperate for the one who had caused his demise.
“I...I don’t know,” you answered, hoping that would be good enough.
Thank God, it was.
Dabi snickered cruelly. “You’ll never have that problem with me, doll. Gonna make sure to stuff you every day.”
Your pussy clenched. You hated that it was feeling good. You didn’t want to cum on his fingers. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of an orgasm. You knew he wouldn’t stop until you did, though. Furthermore, you didn’t want to know what he would resort to if he thought his mere touch wasn’t doing the job.
“Just fuckin’ gushing for me, huh?” He purred, shifting to lick down the length of your neck. “You’re such a slut.”
“I-I’m not a s-s-s-slut!” You asserted breathily, unable to refrain from telling him off. You couldn’t let his words get to you, but… you sure felt as filthy as his voice made you feel.
Dabi teased the beginning of your convulsing hole with his index, no longer toying with your precious pearl. In one fell swoop, he shoved the entire length of it into your pussy. Then, he got to work, flicking your clit with his thumb.
Earnestly, you had never been stimulated like this before. You wished someone else had been doing this to you. You wished you didn’t have to feel bad about feeling good. Why did it feel good?
“Yeah, you’re too tight to be a slut,” he relented, curling his digit inside you as his onslaught on your swollen bud continued. “How ‘bout my little cocksleeve, then?”
The way your walls were milking his finger wasn’t helping you make a convincing case of noncompliance. The burnt beast scoffed mockingly, making the humiliation in your chest spread wider. He could feel how hard you were squeezing him. It was obvious to him that you loved what he was doing to you. How could he bring himself to stop when he had you like this, your nails digging into the cotton of his white tee, as you found yourself drawing close to the peak?
He had to admit, it was lovely to see you submit, but it was delicious to see the beginnings of self-blame on your beautiful face.
“Cum for me, doc,” he coaxed, tone velvety and oddly soothing for who it was coming from. “Fuckin’ cum for the man you claim to hate so much.”
He was getting off on this. If the time was right, he would have pulled his cock from the confines of his jeans and fucked you. Sadly, he would have to wait. It didn’t feel right, taking you here. Dabi wasn’t a sentimental person by any means, but you were a special case; he wanted your first time with him to be more impactful.
He would know when the time came — he was sure of it.
You bit your lower lip strong enough to make it bleed when you reached your climax, restraining all your moans and whimpers with every fibre of your being. You may have spilled your juices on his fingers, but you wouldn’t give him any verbal indication that you had felt nice.
You had never received anything like that before. Your end had been bittersweet. Although the physiological pleasure had been present, your brain had centred you, not allowing you to find a powerful release. In a way, it was sobering to make this realization. It meant that you weren’t entirely crazy at this point, that you hadn’t resorted to trickling involuntarily down the path of Stockholm Syndrome to make it through this hellscape.
It was wild how you had given him joy from merely creaming around his index finger. Dabi had never felt satisfaction from making his partner cum before. It had always felt nice, particularly if they did so while wrapped around his throbbing cock, but the emotional aspect of gratification had never been present for them. This spoke volumes to the idea that you were made for him, that you were always meant to be his.
He evaluated your tired, perplexed, blissed out expression for a few moments before removing his fingers from your womanhood and veering away.
“Heh. Sick, my ass,” he sneered, barely affording you a second glance.
It made you feel used, like you were nothing less than a prostitute. He had just brought you to climax with his fingers. Your former patient had just made you squirt in your own kitchen, after killing your lover.
You had to force the bile down. Between your distaste for what had just occurred and how much of a workout you had gotten from the encounter, you didn’t know how you hadn’t lost your breakfast again. Instead, you groaned pitifully.
Dabi strode back to his seat, though not before stopping to lick his fingers clean of your fluids. He reached his chair and sat back down, as if nothing at all had transpired between you two. You didn’t budge.
“Sit down and eat,” he muttered rigidly. “I know I rocked your world just now, but we’ve got to talk, sweetheart.”
Ah, there was his ego.
You lurched forward, body heavy as you struggled to catch your breath and walk at the same time. You felt like you were going to pass out.
You plopped down in your seat and stared at your cold meal for however long it took you to feel some semblance of okay. Absently, you were eating. The taste wasn’t registering, though. Time was slowing down for you. You didn’t feel like you belonged.
He cleared his throat after a while. When you finally found the drive to glance up, he was deadpanning you across the table, plate cleaned of any food. You had barely touched yours. To think, you had been extraordinarily hungry only an hour ago.
“Bet you thought you were fuckin’ clever, wearing this shit.” He was referring to your outfit. “Want you in something nicer tomorrow.”
You detested the idea of dressing for him. This was another one-sided trade deal wherein you would have to bite the bullet, though. You didn’t want him to risk him dressing you himself.
“Wh-what would you… uh… what would you rather... I-I… wear…?” You asked, averting your gaze from his when you felt your cheeks heat up. It had been difficult for you to belt out the question. It must have had something to do with him fingering you not more than five minutes ago, and then making such an alpha male demand.
Dabi leaned back in his seat and appraised you carefully, relishing in how flustered this conversation was making you. He was surprised with how far you were letting him go. Perhaps the threat of being harmed had smartened you up.
As suspected, you were a lot like his mother. There were some key differences, though, and Dabi was enchanted by these. Your defiant nature — which was hiding beneath the obvious front you had erected to protect yourself from him — was one of them. You would be boring if you didn’t have spite.
“Honestly, doc, I don’t want you in anything but a sexy little thong,” he mused with a smile, sighing dreamily to mock you. “But you wouldn’t be comfortable with that, would’jya?”
You shook your head shyly. There was no use in lying.
“So we’ll save that for a punishment.”
You cringed inwardly. You hated that you couldn’t have avoided that ultimatum. He wanted you to believe otherwise, though, if only to plant the initial seeds of doubt in that racing, overworked mind of yours. You wouldn’t let him.
“Put on a dress,” he drawled. “The skimpier, the better. No panties.”
Simply because you had no choice.
You met his blank stare with one of your own.
You furrowed your brows when he slid your cell phone across the table with expert precision. You thought it had been forsaken in the backyard. He must have grabbed it when you had departed for the night. You weren’t sure how it had survived the torrential downpour, though.
You scrambled to pick it up, casting him an uncertain glare as you unlocked it with your fingerprint. It presented you with a series of notifications from several of your apps. From what you could see in the preview, there were a few texts from Wednesday and Alexandra, and then a few missed calls from your family. Before you dove into any of them, you addressed your dubious captor.
His behaviour was concerning. How could one person go from demanding to resentful to lustful and finally, to calm in the span of just fifteen minutes? Moreover, didn’t he realize the power he had given you with this device? He must not have thought his decision through… or perhaps, this was a test.
“Why did you give this to me?” You inquired wearily. “I could—”
“You won’t,” he interrupted firmly. He wouldn’t give you the opportunity to tell anyone about your current predicament. If you did, he would promptly hunt down and kill the person. He was sure you knew this, as well, following his previous statement with a mumbled, “you’re not stupid.”
“You need to reply to your texts and calls before those bitches start gettin’ worried,” he explained casually. “You’ll tell them you’re fine and I’ll take it back. Maybe smash it.”
You weren’t going to argue with him. If he destroyed your device, people would come looking for you in a few days, after they didn’t receive a reply. Even if you told them you needed space, you knew your friends would be worried about your wellbeing during this mournful time.
“Whatever,” you lamented, pretending to act upset over the prospect of losing your phone.
In a way, you were. Normalcy wouldn’t be very normal without it. How else were you supposed to dissociate for hours on end? You certainly weren’t looking forward to coexisting with only Dabi as your source of entertainment, cut off from every aspect of the outside world.
Tags: @shadowkunoichi @kinasart @thechroniclesofawriter .
kate marsh and chloe price are Both trauma mirrors for me. wild
wow, you are a shitty mom
On one hand I understand how c!Dream got to this point and how his past experiences shaped his personality. It’s an impressive show and requires analysis but everything we need is there.
On the other hand... I really love the Dreamon theory. It is in no way the superior plot but the angst... the angst of it is incredible. Imagine:
Dream shoved out of his body, a ghost even more intangible than Ghostbur, screaming, crying, begging the Dreamon to stop harming his friends, his family. There was nothing he could have done to stop it but he tried, again and again and again and again and again and he failed every time.
Dream finally regaining control of his body on day three of the torture. Quackity’s axe carving a bright line of pain down his back, his breath stuttering, Dream doesn’t say anything. The Dreamon left, the pain wasn’t worth staying in that body. Dream doesn’t tell Quackity or Sam about what happened, about who he is now. He knows they wouldn’t believe him, thinks he deserves whatever they do. Dream failed to stop the Dreamon, he deserves this.
And that’s just one of the many Dreamon AUs I thought up. Like the angst is very fun me thinks
If you don’t understand domestic abuse, you should not earn your living working with people in high conflict divorces.
Meet Me Under The Azaleas part 12
Read previous parts on the masterlist
Masterlist 2 for more nonsense
I don’t know what it is about this part that broke me but I had to stop multiple times to cry. Anyway, one more part left and then we get to move on to something just as sad
Me, listening to Shell tell me about the shadow and bone books as she reads them:
Shell and I watching the show and seeing how much they changed for the better:
this is such monstrous cruelty at this point, holy shit