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crash-and-cure · 2 years

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If I Were You Part 2 (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Reader tries to navigate the immeadiate aftermath after that fateful night with Elvis, to varying success. WIth his return to performing on the horizon reader questions is if there is a way of forward that causes the least amount of damage for both parties. Elvis sees only one path forward.

Note: This is based on @venus-haze One shot If I Were You. Please go read that before this because it’s absolutely incredible. And yes before anyone asks I had her full permission to continue the story and she has been on board the whole time. I swear on my life this was originally a one-shot to continue on and let it be known what I saw for reader and Elvis’ future. Then about 5k into this story and realizing there were so many scenes I wanted to add within the first week alone for these two, I just went all in and decided to restrain this chapter to a week. There will be at least one more chapter following this. Reader is cis female, and aside from that no other descriptors are used. Full disclosure I do use this song, which, while never performed by him, has all the makings of one, and it fit to well in the scene it’s in. I do have a Bachelor’s in Psychology, but I am not a therapist, so nothing here should be treated as genuine mental health advice. That being said there is alot more focus on reader this time around. Please read the warnings before deciding to read.

Word Count: 10.5k

Warnings: Yandere fic so there are themes of obsessive , manipulative, and delusional behavior as well as some heavy allusions to blackmail, emotional and otherwise, here too. There is an informal therapy session depicted here as well in which topics such as performance anxiety, sex, exploitation, and substance abuse are discussed. Depictions of drinking that may be seen as delving into alcohol abuse territory, as well as some other erratic behavior on readers part. Explicit sexual content depicted that includes oral (f. recieving), pentrative sex (m/f), spanking, some daddy kink, and other dom/sub undertones sprinkled throughout. And of course Elvis’ mommy issues and readers daddy issues (truly aa match made in hell). Finally depictions of a toxic relationship that include power imbalances, manipulation, and uses of coercion. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

My Masterlist

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You kept that bottle of wine, you can’t fully explain why though. Worse yet you kept it in the bottom drawer of your desk, and every time you opened that drawer these past few months you were always secretly hoping that it wouldn’t be there and would always feel the disappointment when it continued to be there out of your sight. How poetic you thought idly as Elvis forced open that locked drawer after curiosity over the glass clinking sound had gotten the better of him.

Recognizing the bottle he let out a dark chuckle. “Well I’ll be damned. Thought you didn’t take gifts from us patients, Doc?” he said, very much amused as he used his teeth to take the cork out. “Don’t worry though mama,” he paused taking a swig, “I forgive ya’. Least I could do after all ya’ gave tonight.”

Shaking both in shock and humiliation, you grabbed the bottle and after nursing it for a beat too long, you proceeded to ride him to oblivion as he sat in your own desk chair in some twisted attempt to regain control of the situation. Though the closer you got to your peak, it became clear that this was all in vain. The way he sat there, lounging back, one hand behind his head and the other leaving finger-sized bruises on your rear, guiding you as you desperately chased your release, he was the very image of a King on his throne. It was on that thought that you proceeded to shatter around him once again that night, drifting as he whispered in your ear what a good girl you were.

The rest of the night proceeded as a blur as the next conscious thought you had would be wondering how you were going to get to work the next day as he drove you home in his own car. You don’t quite remember giving him directions, but for the sake of your sanity you just assumed you did. And in some perverted form of chivalry, he even walked you to your front door and gave you a tender, almost sweet, kiss as though he didn’t have you bent over your own desk not even an hour ago, before departing into the night.

You’re in a fugue state as you work toward your nightly routine. You don’t taste your dinner, you don’t hear the music from your neighbor’s radio, and you especially don’t feel his cum flaking on the skin beneath your blouse. Nope. Definitely not. You’re too ashamed to even look at yourself going so far as to shower with your lights off.

As you settle into bed that night, your sleep is fitful as you try your best to decide what to do about this night. In the end, with all the evidence of your tryst washed away, you resolve to ignore these feelings at the very least until you have to see him again.

What you can’t ignore the next morning is your car, that had no business being there, in its usual spot, along with your keys in the ignition. Not really trying to think too hard on the implications you would rush to work hoping to clean up before your first client of the day.

To your surprise everything in your office is already in order: No furniture askew, no suspicious stains on the desk or chairs, not even the panties that you swore didn’t come home with you anywhere in sight. The only proof that last night even happened at all was the broken desk drawer and the slight tenderness on your ass.

The days following that session were hazy at best to you as, even during work, your mind was occupied by him. You formulated plans as to how best to address what happened and why it must never happen again. Elvis has always had a reputation as a bit of a cad, so perhaps you can both treat this as a one time thing. Something that he had to get out of his system in order to successfully further his treatment. Even in session he confessed that he had trouble with maintaining monogamy to almost all of his previous partners - though, you thought, he did immediately follow that up with the justification that he was looking for the “right” girl.

You pushed that notion away, he will understand - he has to understand - that it would be better to return to the previous professional relationship. So come Thursday morning, you take steps to effectively unsex yourself; no makeup, loose fitting pants and blazer, hair in a less than flattering style, the whole nine yards. All of this done in an effort to make yourself a less viable option for a sexual partner .

As you leave your apartment you catch a glimpse of your ill-fitting attire and you can’t help but be reminded how as a child you would wear your fathers suits and declare you were going to be a Doctor like him. As you would swim in his oversized coat, you remember feeling lucky to receive a dismissive glance your way and monotone orders to return the clothes back where you found them. You rush out to your car before you can dwell on that train of thought.

If your other patients noticed your sudden change in style that day, no one mentioned it. You had previously taken pride in the level of professionalism you were able to maintain, but in the grand scheme of things, looking frumpy for one day of work could hardly be deemed the worst thing you have done.

As 4 PM rolled around you were still in the process of convincing yourself that you were ready to confront this head on by not confronting it and acting as though nothing ever happened. You can do this- you have to do this- you told yourself.

4:15 PM, you were ready for the knock on the door that would not come that night.

4:30 PM, you were still waiting in a rigid state with your pen and notebook clenched in your hands, full attention at the wooden door, like a dog waiting for its owner to come home. You shudder at the comparison.

4:45 PM, you were justifying his tardiness with his upcoming concert, and even with your barebones knowledge of performing, you realize that these types of things are planned weeks, even months in advance. And so you wait.

5 PM and you’re already mentally packing up to go back to your apartment. You know that all of your things are sitting at your desk but you wanted to spend as little time looking at it as possible. These past few days, you had the irrational fear that even so much as looking at where your indiscretion happened would tip off everybody. You disregard that reflexive response that makes you clench your thighs together when you look in its direction.

5:15 PM you can no longer ignore the stiffness in your back but you're doing your best to disregard the feeling of rejection that has settled in the pit of your stomach. Because this seems to be the place where you make your worst decisions, you decide to pull out that damned bottle of wine. You see the teeth marks on the cork, and you push down the part of you that blushes at the thought of putting your mouth where his was.

It is in that moment with the stopper wrenched free and you thinking about a man you definitely shouldn’t be thinking about, does the shrill tone of your office phone ring. It’s embarrassing really how quickly your hand shoots to answer it, moreso when you answer with a mouthful of cork.

“Hww-” you quickly spit it out. “Hello this is Dr. Y/L/N.”

It is little comfort when you recognize the voice.

“Baby I’m so sorry that I missed tonight, but I coulda swore I told one a my boys to let ya’ know I wouldn’t make it.” he said apologetically. “We got rehearsal’s all this week for Saturday and my minds been all over the damn place.”

Baby, you thought as you took a quick gulp of wine. Early on, he had slipped and called you tha, maybe a month or two into his treatment. You, as gently as you could, informed him how you would appreciate it if he wouldn’t refer to you as such. He reassured you that he meant nothing by it as he apparently calls everyone that from time to time. You accepted that answer and didn’t say anything the few times he would say it later on.

Looking at the bottle in your hand, you had spent the last few days blaming it for being your first misstep in your career, but retrospect is funny like that and you’re now realizing it was one in a series of many over the last year. With him continually elbowing his way back into your life, you doubt it will be your last.

“That’s alright Mr. Presley, just please don’t let this happen again in the future.” is your response, wanting to end this conversation as quickly as possible. “I’ll see you for your next session on Monday.”

“Speakin’ a that. I was hoping we could reschedule today for Saturday,” he said before you could lift the receiver from your ear.

“Mr Presley, I don’t work on Saturday’s,” you half-heartedly protested.

“Then you’re free,” he quickly countered. “Doc, it’s just that… I’mma need some help gettin’ my head straight before the show, cause it’s been over a year since I done this, and even longer since I done a show sober.”

You immediately clock what he’s trying to do, and for all the ill-advised actions you’ve taken in the last week, you didn’t get your license out of a cracker jack box. “Elvis, that is in no way appropri-”

“Well it’s the show,” he quickly cuts you off. There is a dark edge to his tone as he continues. “And what happened on Monday. I think I really need to talk to someone ‘bout it.”

It doesn’t have to be you, goes unsaid.

He’s got you there and you know it, and currently you’re in no state of mind to try to find a way around this. So rather than doing anything semi-responsible and enforcing the boundary you have set, you down most of what’s left of the bottle and agree.

“Darlin’ that’s perfect. If there’s one thing I can promise, it's a helluva show” You can almost feel the self-satisfied grin over the phone. “I also been thinkin’ ‘bout what you said with not lettin’ people know that you’re my therapist, and you’re right.”

The neck of the bottle is clenched so tightly in your fist, you’re concerned it may shatter at this point. That earlier feeling of rejection being quickly replaced with dread.

“So I think I best I send you a lil’ somethin’ to wear for the show, I want them knowin’ you’re my girl, not my shrink, and you don’t exactly dress the part Doll.” he says this with such a cool authority that leaves no room for argument.

You stared off into space with this offer. You’re idly reminded of months ago when you had him practice an exercise in control. He did, you observed, have an excessive need for control in almost every aspect of his life, but this mindset also held the detrimental effect that everything that went wrong was also his fault due to the control he felt. So you came up with this exercise so you could both figure out where it is reasonable to be in control, and in which places he could relinquish it a bit. One aspect he mentioned that he often controlled was the way his girlfriends dressed, which you will admit made you do a double take. The only thing you commented on that detail was that so long as both parties were consenting he was truly not in control of the entire situation.

Doll indeed, you think bitterly. Did he take it as a challenge? Whatever the case may be, one thing becomes evident. You have no doubt what his intentions are anymore, no overwhelming emotions clouding his judgment, nor any post-orgasmic high having him say things he doesn’t mean.

As you look at the near empty bottle of wine while you sit in the room where your career has lived and will inevitably die, you can hardly say the same thing about yourself.

Mark had insisted you keep it that night months ago, and after realizing that there was no way of returning it to Elvis without bringing up the incident again, you kept it in your office for the sole reason that it felt wrong to keep it in your apartment. Too Intimate, you had thought. You begin to wonder how your life would have been had you told Mark why you wished to refuse the wine. Maybe you would have been strong enough to put your foot down and keep this relationship professional… or maybe he would have taken the same approach you took, and let it slide under the guise of Elvis not knowing any better at the time. Elvis seemed to have that effect on people, of wanting to justify his actions in spite of it everything.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the way he sounded when exhausted, or just maybe it was looking into Pandora's proverbial drawer and finally finding those lost panties with the evidence of your attraction to him stained into the fabric. Whatever it was you found yourself finishing off the bottle and agreeing to his requests - demands really- and drunkenly trying your best to rationalize to yourself why you shouldn’t burn your license to ash at this very moment.

The next day rolls around and you return to your normal wardrobe. Though that morning you can’t help but take an extra long look at it as though the promised new addition will change it fundamentally. You chalk that thought up to you still being hungover. As the day continues, you try your best to be more attentive to your patients that day, because even if you failed to do so once, these people deserve a space free from your own personal issues.

You’re not surprised to be met with a package at your doorstep, though the colored box and large bow it arrives in are a bit much for what you assumed to be a single dress. What you’re met with inside is in fact a full outfit complete with even the undergarments you assume you’re expected to wear. The style itself so far from your typical business professional taste, it circles into the territory of a disguise. You even have to admit that there is an air of brilliance to it, since you doubt even you would be able to recognize yourself in this outfit.

Though in that regard, you already have a lot of trouble doing so lately.

Your tentative plan as of right now is to attend the concert and take part in this impromptu therapy session, and you will discuss with him what happened and explain why it is in fact critical to his mental well-being that this affair goes no further. You begrudgingly admit that come Monday, you will have to start from square one with him, but this is the only path forward you can see anymore.

That Saturday morning is devoted to running in and out of grocery stores, trying to gather as many tabloids featuring Elvis as possible, if you’re going to -temporarily- play the part he wants you to play, you will have to look like it. The rest of the day is devoted to primping and preening to get said right look. This brings back memories from undergrad, you and a friend preparing for a double date and Priscilla, along with various other celebrity faces, taped to the mirror for inspiration. Specifically you remember after being able to achieve her dramatic cat eye, your friend joking that if this college thing didn’t work out for you, you could put in an application for being Elvis’ next girl. You laughed at how preposterous that idea was at the time.

Your thoughts of the past are quickly interrupted by rapid knocking at your front door, and you quickly put the finishing touches on your makeup and throw on the ensemble. At the door you’re met with a familiar blonde whose apparent agitation swiftly surpasses whatever momentary discomfort he clearly feels at encountering you once again. Though in that moment you’re at least grateful Elvis had the good sense to not involve anyone else in this matter (that and the fact he didn’t send a limo).

Getting into the car you’re praying for a long and silent trip to the show. Jerry not reading the room says to you “Sorry for rushing you out the door back there, um…” he says. “It’s just been a bit of a crazy week, and the Boss is just wigging out about every single detail.”

“I understand” you attempt to placate, wishing for this exchange to end as soon as possible. “You have a job to do.”

“By the looks of it, so do you,” he says in an attempt to joke, though he quickly cuts himself off after seeing you tense up. He quickly apologizes and as you turn to look out the window, you hear what sounds like a flask being opened and Jerry downing a good portion of it.

You resist the urge to demand a shot of whatever he’s drinking because, as poorly timed as that joke was, you are on the clock. And for as unprofessional as you have been lately, you don’t think you’ve quite gotten to the level of drinking right before a session. Because that’s what this is: an emergency/supplemental session that will precede a momentous occasion for your patient, and out of respect for his privacy, you are in disguise so that no one will know he’s even seeing a therapist. You’re hoping the more you tell yourself that the less ridiculous it will sound.

And due to the fact you're on the job you reason, it may be best to get an idea of his state before going in. “How has he been today? I’m sure the stress of the event is getting to him,” you ask.

“Yeah, uhh… he’s been in a bit of a mood all day,” he says carefully.

“Meaning?”

“He’s basically been sayin’ that he wouldn’t perform until he saw you,” he says, looking anywhere but at you.

And there it is, you think. You give a simple nod in acknowledgement to Jerry, as he is all too happy to let this conversation peter out. You now recognize what Elvis is attempting and using Jerry as a proxy for. Despite all your training that tells you that you’re not responsible for any actions your patients take, you feel yourself start to shoulder the burden of getting him to perform tonight. Not only that but it seems you also bear the responsibility of putting him in the right headspace to perform well tonight.

The rest of the ride to the show itself is quiet, which you’re grateful for, as it gives you time to steel yourself. Jerry as well seems to ease into a more relaxed demeanor the way one would when doing something that has become routine. It seems he’s no stranger to ferrying women to the King of Rock and Roll.

Regardless of the slight pang of sorrow you feel momentarily at that observation, you try to see the upside to it. That this… thing with Elvis, your patient you have to remind yourself, will be short-lived.

Arriving at the venue, you are immediately led backstage, and you’re not sure you can write off the feeling that everyone was watching you to paranoia on your part. Whatever it was, you surmised, there were more than a few people beyond Elvis expecting your arrival. As you were ushered to his dressing room, you felt equal parts dread and anticipation as to what would be on the other side.

What you weren’t expecting was your office. Though that may be a stretch, you can’t seem to find the logic in a dressing room having two chairs facing each other with a small table between them complete with a box of tissues right on top. The entire arrangement takes up an inordinate amount of space in an already cramped room, and you can’t help but conclude that it is intentional.

You find the man of the hour in an open robe (sans shirt, though thankfully with pants on) sitting cross legged on the sofa in what you recognize to be a meditative position. You wouldn’t say he is quite disheveled, but every time you’ve seen him, he’s looked nothing less than immaculate. So finding him in this state with his hair undone and no ostentatious clothing is slightly jarring. Upon hearing the door open he cracks open one eye, and seeing you his face breaks into that handsome grin you’ve become far too familiar with. “Y/N, baby you’re here.” he says feigning surprise.

Not even acknowledging what he just said, you make your way into the room and Jerry, clearly just as disturbed by the setup, closes the door behind you. You glance at the clock on the wall showing that you had a little over 2 hours until the concert was set to start, just enough time for a full session and then some for him to get ready for the show. There is no way this was not meticulously planned, you conclude.

You sit down placing your bag on the floor, as he takes his time to stretch out for a bit before he strolls his way to sit astride the chair across from you. There with an amused look on his face, he says nothing apparently wanting you to start.

Considering there is no protocol as to how to conduct a session in this highly specific situation, and not wanting to immediately open with the elephant in the room, you decide to begin with just idle chit chat. “So… um, I didn't know you practiced meditation.”

“Yeah, it was somethin’ I picked up in San Diego,” he says off-handedly.

“I’m glad that it works for you,” you say as neutrally as possible.

“Oh, it don’t,'' he clarifies. “It works in gettin’ everyone to leave me the fuck alone for awhile. But not in the other ways it’s supposed to.”

You nod your head in acknowledgement as he continues. “I got into yoga when I was down there too.”

“Do you find that works better for you?”

“Yeah,” he verifies. “When I feel somethin’ real bad, I gotta move. It don’t matter how.” This makes sense as he's a very physical person. You are aware of his love for Karate, and you briefly consider recommending he pick up Tai Chi as a happy medium between meditation and martial arts to help him in achieving mindfulness. Your thoughts are interrupted as he continues. “Too bad I ain’t been able to practice in a while.”

“And why is that?” you softly probe.

“I been needin” a partner,” he said with a sly grin, very much an offer.

There’s your opening, you think to yourself. This is the moment you can make a bid to reinforce some level of boundaries between the two of you. Where you can tell him that Monday was a mistake and should never happen again. That this infatuation with you is in fact detrimental to his mental well-being and will destroy your career. And most importantly that there is no future between the two of you.

“Elvis, please” you say, exhaling in frustration. “About what happened on Monday… I think it would be best if we-”

“Well,” he chimes in, “I think it best we save that talk for another time,” his severe delivery leaving no room for argument. Fear grips your throat as he continues in a notably softer tone, “Everything out there is ready for me to play, but up here,” he says, putting two fingers to his temple. “I don’t know ‘bout. Darlin’ I need your help right now, because I can’t do this without you”

Almost everything within you says to push forward no matter what, and tell him right here and now. The one thing that stops you is knowing for a fact he will be devastated with what you have to say. And then what? You leave and he’s unable to perform, leaving hundreds devastated. And come Monday will he even show up, or will he make the call and have you immediately reported for your part in this whole ordeal. Not to mention the long-term variables of if he will even want to continue therapy should you fail to get him ready tonight.

You sigh in defeat, as it appears you have no choice but to concede on this matter and focus on the immediate task at hand. “So you mentioned over the phone that your head’s been all over the place this week. Tell me, is this how you normally feel in the days leading up to a performance?”

He looks pleased with your question and answers “Not in the last few years no. I mean, first time in Vegas it was a little like this, but after a while that all became routine.”

He leans his chair back and reaches behind him to the vanity table to reach for a glass of water. This angle puts his full chest on display and you can’t help but rake your eyes over the hair there and follow the trail of it down to his-

Focus, you think to yourself.

He offers you a glass, and in spite of how dry your mouth feels at the moment, you are trying to no longer accept anything from him at this point regardless of how small, so you refuse. “Tell ya’ what though,” he says, taking a sip. “I ain’t feel this nervous since my early days of performin’ and I would shake somethin’ fierce on stage,” he laughs a little at this statement. “That’s actually parta where all my dancin’ came from.”

“I see.”

It’s unsettling how you could almost mistake the rest of your time together as a typical session with him. The only cosmetic differences being the harsh lighting from the vanity behind him and the uncomfortable feeling from the leather chair sticking to the back of your thighs. You’re also at a bit of a loss as to what to do with your hands without anything to take notes in, and the outfit has you feeling particularly vulnerable. As for his part you doubt you’ve ever seen him this relaxed in your presence before; leaning back with his legs spread and his robe exposing a mouth-watering amount of his torso. If you had to guess, it may have something to do with you being in his territory so to speak, as opposed to the typical setting of your office. Or maybe he’s just into your humiliation.

Aside from those factors, you would have even labeled today as a successful session… that is until the conversation takes a turn.

“I’ve done what feels like a thousand shows, most of them without all that crap Nic was pumping me with, but it feels like… I don’t know. Like that was some other guy that was performin’ and that he ain’t here tonight.”

“This ‘other guy’ has he always been a part of the way you perform?”

“I ain’t feel like myself on stage in a long time.” he said morosely.

“Elvis, I want you to try to recall a concert where you did feel like your true self. It doesn’t have to be the last time you felt this way, just the most memorable.” You replied leaning forward.

The half smirk that creeps on to his face makes you regret that question though. “Actually the show that comes to mind is the comeback special. You seen it before?” he asked.

Yes. “...No, I-I believe I missed that one,” you manage to stutter out.

He grins knowingly, “Well they had me in front of an audience, maybe less than a hundred people and had me dressed all in leather with only a small square for a stage. In spite all that I felt free especially since Parker had almost nothin’ to do with it,” he said wistfully. “He chewed me out later for it, sayin’ shit like how it was no real audience and that they were told when to clap. But I knew…”

His hungry gaze meets yours and you feel a kin to prey about to be devoured. “You wanna know how I knew?” he said.

In spite of your gut instinct that you are delving into dangerous territory with this conversation, you’re far too curious at this point. So you try to swallow that uneasy feeling and reply in the affirmative.

“I came in my pants,” he says, taking a sip of his water, as neutral and matter of fact as if he were just telling you what he ate for dinner last night.

“Wh-what?” you said, for the first time in your career, truly at a loss for words.

Sex certainly wasn’t a taboo subject to discuss with your patients, and it wasn’t even the first time you discussed it with Elvis himself. But those conversations typically surrounded your patient's fears of intimacy with a new partner, and even though that wasn’t a concern for Elvis, he did make reference to it when discussing his need to please others. Most importantly though when discussing sex with a patient, you’ve never actually had the experience with them.

“It was the weirdest thing, Doc. Never happened before, hasn’t happened since,” he said, at complete ease with himself. “Sure a few close calls here and there, but it never got to that point. Hell, it mighta been the suit itself that did it for me. What ya’ think it means doll?”

And what can you say to that really? You try to even out your shallow breathing as your mind races through the possible implications of this reaction. You have certainly never met another performer before so you’re unsure whether this is even unusual to those in his line of work, but at the same time most people who do what they love for a living also aren’t sexually aroused by it, let alone reach climax through it alone. Previously you would have labeled yourself as firmly within that category, but that damp feel beneath your dress proves otherwise.

Across from you, he waits patiently for your reply, but he is also openly delighted by your squirming state.

“I-” you clear your throat. “Um… Sex is a perfectly natural thing.”

“Don’t I know it,” he smiles rakishly.

“Yes I…” you say, briefly losing your train of thought. “A way of interpreting the… arousal you feel on stage is that being there and performing in front of an audience comes just as naturally to you. As for what happened at your special, it may have been the moment you felt most acutely aware of your desire to be on stage.”

He nods his head and you continue. “You’ve mentioned previously how you were unsatisfied by your movie career by that point in time. So the return to the stage may have also acted as a cathartic release of all these pent up frustrations you were feeling up until that moment.”

He raises an eyebrow at that in the way he typically does when he’s confused by your wording. “Basically you were feeling unhappy for a long period of time, so when you felt the joy of being back on stage, you’re…” you hesitate, suddenly embarrassed. “Body, as a result misinterpreted that joy as arousal. And adding to that, Parker’s disapproval as well as the feeling of being free that you described. It all culminated into that… reaction.”

He sits on your presumption for a moment, before chuckling a bit. “I see where you’re comin’ from on that doc. Though I gotta ask.”

You pause, apprehensive to what he may ask. “Ask what?”

“What are my chances for a repeat performance tonight?” he asks in a way you could almost mistake as innocent. As you feel close to hyperventilating, he continues. “I mean those things you brought up from the special are here tonight sooo…” he quirks an eyebrow, putting it on you to continue.

“...well… um” you draw out, truly dumbfounded and without any words to respond to that. You’re only saved from this conversation by hurried knocking at the door behind you.

“Well, looks like we’re outta time here doc,” he said standing up, prompting you to stand up as well. With a hand on your lower back guiding you to the door, you don’t miss the fact he’s effectively dismissing you. “Baby, thank ya’ for comin’ down here tonight and settin’ me right. And I just want you knowin’ that this whole show is because of you. I don’t think I woulda made it this far without my girl” he said looking down at you and bringing you close while his other hand was on the doorknob.

Your primary focus is trying your best to collect yourself before you need to go out there, but you’re so astonished by how he just so casually slipped in “my girl” into there. You know then you have to say something.

“But… I’m not your gir-” you quickly cut yourself off as you see his jaw clench, the previous look of satisfaction on a dime replaced with one of intense indignation at your denial. Before you can even begin to feel regret for your refusal, his expression just as rapidly shifts to one of downright mischief.

Not wanting to find out what that look meant, you attempt to turn towards the door, only to be halted by an iron-like grip on your jaw. “Not my girl, huh?” he says, forcing you to look at him, as he brings his face closer to yours. He then whispers, his lips just barely brushing yours, “tell that to them.”

You can’t say you weren’t expecting him to bring his lips closer to yours, but you can say you weren’t expecting to be such a willing participant this time around. You can tell yourself all you want that you did it to save him from the embarrassment of being walked in on with a less than willing woman, but it seems, deep down, the both of you knew better. So you played your part as you grabbed a fistful of hair at the nape of his neck as your lips came together, and he was all too willing to believe in your role as his hand snaked down your back. You’ll never fully know (or at least admit) who closed the distance that night.

All you really know is that being in here with him as he was now, was nothing short of intoxicating, in a way it had never felt in your office. You were not one to participate in drugs, but as his tongue slips past your lips to wrap around your own, you truly believe you could become addicted to this. His scent, his taste, his touch, all of it threatened to consume you whole and never let you go.

He was so all consuming in fact, you barely registered the sound of the door opening beside you, but you definitely don’t miss what feels like a dozen sets of eyes in full view of the both of you. You’re aware that you should in fact be more embarrassed of your compromising position with your arms thrown around his neck and his hand firmly on your ass. But with all the shame you’ve been feeling this past week, this hardly registers as the worst. Though you do feel a spark of it when he pulls away, and you let out a small whine from being denied his plush lips, until you feel them near the shell of your ear.

His breathy demand for another session after the show is hard to deny in your state, and more so when you see the color of your lipstick haphazardly smeared across his downright sinful smirk. It goes without saying what that will entail, but you surprise even yourself by not immediately running for the hills. Instead you, with all the grace of a newborn fawn, stumble past a line of people rearing to get in and do their job. This venture, not at all aided by the playful swat he gives your behind. The “knowing” looks on some of their faces tells you what they are all assuming. Part of you wishes they were right, because doing that would somehow have been less shameful than what actually happened.

After that “session” you try to compose yourself as best as you can, and make your way to the ladies room. Alone in the restroom you see your face in the mirror and to your relief aside from the smudged lipstick, you look relatively fine. You reach for your bag to touch it up, only to realize that you forgot to grab it when he was leading you to the door. As you shudder at the thought of going back to retrieve it, you finally realize how much of a sopping mess you’ve made of your underwear.

Insanity is truly your only defense for your next course of action, as you quickly remove your panties and dispose of them.

After cleaning yourself up a bit, you end up wandering around backstage with a new resolve to not think about him. You still have roughly another hour to kill before the show is set to start, so unsure what to do with yourself until that time, you attempt to strike up conversations with your fellow VIPs. Your attempt at keeping your mind off of him proves fruitless though, as it becomes apparent that word travels fast behind the curtains, and their interest in you begins and ends with Elvis. You’re flooded with questions as to what he’s going to wear tonight, what he’s going to sing, if there will be an afterparty at Graceland and subsequent requests for you to try to get them invited. The only time any questions are directed at you, it’s simply polite inquiry as to where you met him and how long you’ve known him, and you try to be as vague and non-descript as possible.

One woman remarks how she thinks she saw you in a magazine last week along with “the big man himself.”

“Guilty,” you reply with a nervous laugh, because you truly are. How would you even begin to try to explain the truth?

You are able to meet most of the members of the so-called “Memphis Mafia,” and get the rundown as to who does what in the group after asking in an effort to get a basic conversation going. It doesn’t go unnoticed that none of them ask what you do for a living, only mildly interested in the fact you’re the new girl, as though being Elvis’ “girl” is supposed to occupy the totality of your existence. Usually you would take offense to this, but under these circumstances, you know the fewer in the know, the better.

You don’t think you’ve ever truly considered the world he lives in until this moment. A world in which he’s surrounded on all sides by women that want him, and by men that admire and/or envy him. What does that do to a mind when everybody he meets falls into one of those two categories? How would one handle someone who doesn’t fit into either category?

Eventually though Jerry finds you and brings you to your seat, front row and center, because of course Elvis would. You know from his stories about his Vegas residency that he would often kiss women in the front row, and you already have a feeling as to how this is going to play out. As Jerry leaves, you contemplate making a break for it at this point, but without your purse, that idea is quickly tossed out.

You look around your area and breathe a sigh of relief at the fact that all are virtually unrecognizable. You know from the tabloids that this concert was deemed one for the ages already, being essentially his second comeback and with rumors flying around that there would be more than a few international attendants this fact is not all too surprising. There’s a small swelling of pride within you knowing that he is so loved worldwide that you quickly try to stamp down.

As the curtain goes up and the music starts to blare, you make the conscious decision that at this moment you are not his therapist, and that you are merely a fan. That you will be without worries at the state of your career right now, without fear that the APA is breathing down your neck, and definitely without any guilt to the sexual attraction you feel for him at this moment. Afterall you’re a fan, isn’t that just par for the course?

So as he steps on stage and immediately makes eye contact with you, you play your part. You get lost in it even, as you dance and sing and make a fool of yourself. He’s just… incredible doesn’t even begin to describe what he is as you’ve never seen someone move like he does, never felt music as you did in this moment. There’s not a single inch of the stage that’s not occupied by his presence as he’s able to keep the crowd fully enraptured for music they’ve undoubtedly heard hundreds of times before. His command over everything truly brings a new perspective to his King epithet.

Despite your best efforts you cannot help but think of the comeback special incident and in the brief moments between songs you can’t help but observe and this makes you feel all the more like a voyeur. In spite of the fact that there’s a couple hundred people watching the same show you are, they aren’t cursed with what you know. Unintentionally you read into every gyration, every hip thrust, even every time he throws his head back looking for any indication. You had thought about what he looks like in the throes of ecstasy an inordinate amount of times already this week, so you even compare every face he makes up there as well.

Eventually, after two demands for an encore, Elvis merely has to put a finger to his lips to command the rowdy crowd down. “Now before I go,” he pauses with a slight quirk in his lips as he hears their protests, but continues with “I’m gonna leave y’all with somethin’ new.” This statement is met with uproarious applause as he gestures to the band behind him and begins.

Want me to love you in moderation?

Do I look moderate to you?

Not even two lyrics in, you know you’re in trouble. Previously he had the decency to not single you out as he worked the entire crowd in front of him, but as he sings you know exactly who he’s directing this song to.

And are you any better? Like the other women in the front row you move to the stage, as you're overpowered with the urgent need to be as close to him as possible. You’re overwhelmed with just about everything at this point: the audience, the song, him, and all your conflicting emotions this past week all reach a crescendo as he kneels on the stage before you. You’re crowded by his fans all reaching out to touch him as though he were some divine being. But you knew better.

Girl, you better learn

Can’t hold it in,

And girl you better learn

I just can’t win

Cause I don’t see the worth

I don’t see the worst

He is something monstrous, demonic almost. Elvis is a siren-like creature who is leading you to your doom. As he leans down closer to you, you stand on your toes, willing your knees to not give in at a time like this. The women around you flock even closer, all trying to get a piece of him, while he puts a hand underneath your chin, his eyes challenging you to stop him. He may very well be a siren but you’re his victim who is all too happy to drown at this point.

And I’m still tryna figure out if it

Always

Has to hurt

Unlike the last few times, you were very much prepared for this kiss. At least you were, until he proceeded to lean away from you and plant the kiss on the woman directly next to you. Time slows at this moment, truly forcing you to take in every single detail of what is happening not even a foot away from your face. He kisses her with all the filth and passion you were craving in that moment, and she just as enthusiastically kisses him back.

His face is glistening with sweat from his performance that runs down onto her, but this woman doesn’t seem to mind. She will leave this concert and forever be able to have an interesting anecdote to tell at every party she will ever attend. This will be her one crazy story to tell about Elvis Presley, and the more logical side of you truly envies that about her.

Finally, after what was perhaps only seconds but felt like an eternity, he breaks away from the kiss, though that doesn’t ease the heavy stone that has settled in your stomach. You want to cry, you want to scream, and judging from the state of the women around you, you wouldn’t be at all out of place. You’re upset that you’re in this position, you’re devastated over the fact that this is the man who holds your career in the palm of his hand, and most of all, you’re heartbroken that you even wanted him to kiss you at that moment.

Did he not see you? Did he mistake her for you? Shouldn’t you be glad about this new development? That hundreds of people weren’t witness to you flagrantly breaking every rule and ethical responsibility you made upon becoming a therapist?

He answers all these questions with the single look he gives you as he stands before you, his lips now stained red from that random woman.

You want looove

You feel a tug at your elbow as Jerry once more guides you backstage. Elvis for his part shamelessly watches you walk away all the while belting out those final lyrics of his song. As the lights from the stage blink out, and the crowd proceeds to explode in near-deafening screams and hollers, and you see him bow out as the curtain drops. You try to make yourself numb to it all as you make your way through the bustling corridors, but in reality you can’t ignore your heartbeat thundering through you, nor the uncomfortably slick feeling between your thighs.

You have to get out of there and you know it. But you also want to stay and there’s no denying that. You have accepted that he has an unhealthy attachment towards you, and you naively thought you could work to dismantle it over the next few months to get him back on track. But seeing him kiss that other woman made you realize that this attachment threatens to be mutual, and that is truly where it will derail.

Before you can figure out what you’re going to do, you’re back in front of his dressing room door and you walk in not even having bothered to knock. You find him along with several members of his crew already in there but upon seeing you he grins and a simple wave of his hand has them all scurrying out, leaving the two of you alone. He stays seated at the vanity, too comfortable apparently, with his feet propped up, the upper half of his suit peeled off of him, and a towel around his neck. He doesn’t even bother to fully turn around to look at you directly, he simply watches you through the mirror.

“You enjoy the show Darlin’?” he says, lightly dabbing himself with the towel. “It sure as hell looked like you did out there.”

Despite knowing he saw how you behaved, you still try to lie with an indifferent, “You did good up there.”

“Ahh, baby” he draws out in a light teasing tone. “Don’t be like that. Why don’t you come over here and tell daddy what’s wrong?” Your breath hitches at his casual use of that word and you find your feet making the decision for you. You make your way over to him and you finally find your purse on top of the vanity. You go to grab it but in one fluid motion he grabs your hand and you find yourself on his lap. As he leans forward for a kiss, you see the red that still paints his lips and without even thinking you use the towel to wipe some of it off.

He makes a pleased hum at that, believing that this is what has you acting this way.

Is it not though? You think sarcastically. After rubbing off most of the color you drop the towel letting it fall back into place on his chest. He takes your hand into his, and your heart does an embarrassing little skip as he gives it a sweet kiss.

“Baby, I was raised to be a gentleman,” he said, adopting a chivalrous affect. “If my bestest girl don’t like me kissin’ others, all she’s gotta do is say so. Then I ain’t never gonna do it again.” His eyes pleading as he waits for your answer.

So that’s what his plan was, you think bitterly. You’re resentful over the fact that it worked at all. But he doesn’t need to know that.

You rip your hand away from him as you reply with as much resolve as you can gather, “You can do whatever you want Elvis,” before mulishly looking away. He evidently didn’t like that answer, as he stood up to prop you onto the vanity and placed himself between your legs. You try to escape his grasp only for him to place his hands at the top of your thighs, effectively pinning you in place.

“I can do whatever I want?” he says in a low, challenging voice, looking you directly in your eyes. It is only then do you regret your wording. Were you not so petrified, you would have admired his ability to quickly turn your own dismissive words into seemingly an invitation. There is no denying the trembling force in your body at this point and with the way he’s holding it is only inevitable that he will find your secret. And as though reading your mind, you feel his thumb brushing your inner thigh, and he finally notices the slick feeling in between. If you're going to be honest with yourself, you think you’re even more wet than when you walked in.

He makes an approving hum as he flips your skirt up, and you get the momentary pleasure of seeing his eyes widen at your lack of underwear. That is until he quickly bunches up the material past your hips and you feel mortified at being naked from the waist down in a room you don’t remember locking. You’re even more mortified as he kneels down and begins to pepper your inner thighs with light kisses. You instinctively try to close your legs, but his grip makes it impossible, and he notices your effort.

“Ahh, sweetness none of that,” he drawls out, emphasizing his point with a small nibble at the sensitive flesh that has you cursing. You feel his hot breath waft over you and as you’re trying to wrap your head around what’s happening, he teasingly licks a stripe up your slit, giving you a taste of what he has to offer. You gasp for air as though you’re about to drown.

“I can do what I want, can I?” he asks knowing you’re far too preoccupied to answer. “Well I want this,” he purrs, emphasizing his point with a soft kiss to your clit, which you meet with a strangled moan. He chuckles at your reaction before resting his head on your thigh and looking up at you. “But I gotta know what my girl wants,” he trails off.

Your muddled mind cannot even begin to process the question itself before he follows up with. “What’d ya’ say mama? Do you wanna be my girl?” he says looking up at you with those piercing blue eyes of his, and you know there is not even a choice anymore. You’re so far gone at this point, you hardly hesitate in saying yes. “No, no mama. I wanna hear you say it.”

You can already feel a few shameful tears trailing down as you cover your face with your hands, as though that will absolve you of your next words. “Yes… I want to be your girl,” you cry out desperately, and he dives straight in.

All of your composure is tossed out the window the moment you feel his mouth on your needy cunt, you moan and shout freely, no thoughts given to the people undoubtedly outside of the door. He’s going at an unhurried languid pace, exploring your nether regions, seemingly trying to learn what gets the biggest reaction out of you. He’s apparently indifferent to how desperately you need to cum. You grab at his hair and try to bring him closer, desperate for some control of this situation but the noticeable tightening of his grip on your legs make it clear that he’s going to take all the time he wants.

You’re there for what feels like hours before you’re at the point of begging him to let you cum. The King finally takes mercy on you as he stuffs his fingers into you while simultaneously nursing at your clit as you are finally allowed your release.

You’re a mess after that devastating orgasm, and as he brings himself back up to you, you don’t put up a fight to this kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, and the smallest, pettiest part of you feels victorious over that woman whose name you will never get to learn. Before you can dwell on that part of yourself, he spins you around so you’re facing away from him. Despite all of that you still feel yourself wanting for more, and as you look over your shoulder at him, you know he is very aware of that.

“Were you watching mama?” he said, pressing kisses to your neck as he undoes his belt. “Were you sittin’ there, wonderin’ if I did it again, and that’s how you got this wet?” You let out a small keen as you feel his cock just barely brushing at your entrance, and he presses a hand on your back, prompting you to bend over the vanity fully. You give a slight shriek as you feel a sharp swat on your ass. “Answer me,” he growls out, sending another shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you say, pushing yourself backwards to him.

Another swat on the other side, “Yes what?” he rasps.

“Yes daddy,” you nearly cry out and you bury your head into your arms in shame as he drives into you. Once slotted fully inside, he pauses giving you time to adjust to him. The stretch of him burns only slightly this time around, though mostly you feel satisfaction as he feels achingly familiar.

“You don’t gotta worry mama,” he pants next to your ear. “I saved it all for you,” he says as he slowly begins to push his hips back and forth into you. You find yourself just as eager as you push backwards to keep him within. You close your eyes to the sensations, as this feels like the closest you’ve come to a reprieve in this whirlwind of a week he’s caused. You want to lose yourself here, and for once want to believe as he does that this is any way healthy or sustainable for the both of you. This delusion has the ability to ruin you, but for the moment you truly just want to indulge yourself in it.

Reality will always win out though. At some point he thrusts so hard, your feet no longer meet the ground, and you have to brace yourself on the mirror. Here in this position you’re truly forced to look at yourself for seemingly the first time as you truly are. You see your eyes bloodshot and pupils blown, your mascara trailing down your face, and, mortifyingly, you're drooling from the pleasure at not only what he’s doing to you but the sight you're met with in the mirror. You also see him behind you, looking more animal than man with the way he forces your hips to meet his pace and the snarl that mars his face. It’s all too much for you to handle. The only way to describe how hard you came in that moment would be violently, as you convulse and sob terribly at all the shame and pleasure you’re experiencing in that moment.

You feel him pull out, and moments later you hear a shuddering howl as he paints your lower back with his cum, effectively marking you as his. You sob even harder with the realization you had not even been thinking about protection in the last week, and now you fear that there will be another cord that will forever tie you to him.

If he sees your tears he ignores them and places a kiss on your cheek before sitting you down in front of the mirror. He lets you know that he has a press conference soon, but that he will meet you back home for the afterparty. He quickly dresses himself while you use a tissue to fix your makeup and try to make the wrinkles in your dress less noticeable. Once outside the door he hands you off to one of his men with orders to take you back to Graceland.

It is only as you’re pulling up to Graceland do you realize you gave no resistance whatsoever to his whims and didn’t even try to insist you go back to your own apartment. You pay no thought to that as you see there are already many of his people there to celebrate his astonishing performance, and the last thing you need is to draw more attention to yourself by being the one woman having a breakdown at the party.

So you slip back into your role as his girl, though can you even say that it is simply a role anymore when you fully agreed to it.

Eventually he arrives home and is met with all the praise and glory he has earned tonight. Yet he barely looks at anyone before he seemingly sweeps the room to zero in on you. He grins and approaches you to sweep you into a hungry kiss which is met with various wolf whistles and cheers from those around you. You are still playing your part for the audience you tell yourself.

The rest of the night is spent on his arm essentially advertising to all attendants that you're his. Eventually he announces to no one in particular that he is starting to feel tired, and it feels like only moments later when a mass exodus occurs, no one daring to stay past their welcome. The grip he has on your waist though tells you that he has no plans of letting you go.

That night and the following day in Graceland you spend in a daze of fucking and resting and even more fucking, interspersed with conversation between the both of you. Surprisingly you find yourself opening up to him as well, and with the conversations being not so focused on him, it’s easy to pretend that this is even remotely natural.

You do make a few attempts to leave that day, each time met with some pushback on his part to get you to stay. Each attempt is met with some excuse on his part be it being too early, his fans outside the gates, his exhausted state etc., and immediately following your concession, you are bombarded with physical affection and compliments as to how understanding and what a good you are for him. You allow yourself to indulge in this fantasy for a little while longer, and stay another night with him.

The next morning, reality sets back in, and there is no denying your active part in this anymore. He kisses you good morning and he reminds you that you have work today. You’re amazed that he hasn’t already made you cancel all of your appointments today, until you remember who you have your final session with later. You shower and use his toothbrush, no longer hesitating to do something you would previously labeled as far too intimate to do with anyone, let alone a patient.

You are however disturbed but not surprised when you exit the restroom and find a full outfit ready for you. This one is more in line with your regular work attire but the blouse does have a rather loud pattern, a far cry from your admittedly limited, colorwise, wardrobe. Without the tags, you briefly wonder if this is something left behind by the previous stand-ins or if he bought it for one of them to better pretend they were you. You push that thought aside as you finish getting ready for the day. Being early on a Monday morning you are able to be driven to your office without the worry of any ogling eyes. He even gives you a parting kiss at the door and it feels far more domestic than it has any right to be.

You would deem that day almost normal. You are of course exhausted from the strange weekend you had, but somehow you also feel unfettered when compared to the stressful week you had previously. You receive some compliments on your blouse, and you are able to, through tightlips, confirm yes when someone asks if you got it from someone special.

Other than that you are able to get back to your standard attentive self for your patients. Having worked with Elvis for nearing a year at this point, has had the unexpected benefit of making your other patients seem easier in comparison. You laugh at their funny stories, you dole out advice and insights when asked, and you comfort them when needed. These moments in between your nearly all encompassing thoughts around Elvis, you find, are a welcome respite from the looming black cloud that is your future as a therapist.

Eventually though 4:30 PM arrives and you hear a knock at the door.

#my fic #elvis x reader #yandere!elvis x reader #yandere x reader #for once #elvis #elvis 2022 #austin!elvis #yandere #yandere!austin!elvis

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demonsandmischief · 1 year

Text

-Chapter 8: The Avengers' Therapist-

Bisexual Female Reader x The Avengers

Rated M for eventual sexual themes

600 Words

My Masterlist for previous chapters. Please read disclaimer in Ch. 1

"This weekend went by so fast," you said to Steve as you filled a travel mug full of coffee. You took a mug from the cabinet and filled it for him.

It was already Monday, and you were going straight to work. You had a great weekend that you didn't want it to end. You were supposed to go home yesterday, but you decided to extend your stay.

"I know," he said. "I'm glad you decided to spend one more night. I hope you won't be too late."

"Luckily, some borrowed clothes from Nat were all I needed," you smiled.

You picked up your bag, soaking in Steve's warm features.

"Just a few more weeks," you said gently.

He nodded. "A few weeks too long. Let me carry that out for you." He reached for your bag, but you stopped him.

"I know you're supposed to be training right now, and you need to go because you also meet with your therapist today."

Steve ultimately agreed and you said your goodbyes.

It was a long stretch through the compound to the parking garage.

"Hi, YN," someone said to your left, and you looked up from the window you had been looking out at while you walked.

You glanced over at the tall blonde dressed to impress. She was older, and familiar. You realized she was an old supervisor for some observations you completed during school.

"Hi," you said with a polite smile. "How are you?"

"I'm great." Her smile changed from polite to something else. "I've heard a lot of things about you lately."

"What do you mean?" you asked, confused by her change in demeanor.

She shrugged, adjusting her briefcase on her shoulder.

"You know, I think doctor patient relationships are entirely inappropriate, especially when they involve criminals."

You frowned. "Criminals?" Was she calling the Avengers criminals?

"I'm sending a complaint to the board to have your license revoked," she said simply.

Your heart was pounding viciously in your chest. You felt like you were floundering, like a fish out of water. She couldn't do that. Why would she do that?

"After everything I have done for you," she scoffed. "This behavior is disgusting-"

"Dr. Reynolds," Bucky said. He stepped up behind you, preventing her from continuing. His hand gently skimmed your back before he dropped it. "You're late. Natasha hates to be kept waiting."

"Of course." Her polite smile returned, and she walked away, heels clicking on the floor.

Bucky ushered you into a dead end hallway, out of view of the main corridor.

"Buck," you whispered, gripping his soft t-shirt. You struggled to suck in a breath. You were certain your heart or lungs were going to burst in your chest from each labored inhale.

He soothed you. "Match me. I'm going to count to five."

You matched your breaths to the rise and fall of his chest until you could do it on your own. You dropped your head to his chest.

"She can't do that, can she?" you whispered. "Try to take away my licenses? I wouldn't be able to practice anymore, and-"

"Easy," he soothed. "Relax. We wouldn't let that happen."

"You can't control something like that," you looked up. He thumbed away a lone tear.

"Neither can you. I'm sure she was just bluffing to get under your skin. Honestly, everyone has been bragging about how differently you do things, I'm sure it was getting on her nerves."

He wrapped his arms around you, kissing your forehead.

------------------Author's Note-------------------------

"Come on," he said, picking up your bag. "I'll walk you to your car."

Here's Chapter 9

Merry Christmas Eve Eve! 💕 and a very happy holiday season to everyone. hope you're staying dry and warm during this freezing time!!

•updates are MWF

•you will only be tagged if you comment here

•reblogs, requests and tips are always welcome. Please send Christmas requests 🥺

@inluvwithfictionalwomen @pancakefan7529 @sugarrush-blush @royalmuffinsworld @ichala @cricket-reader @almosttoopizza @wtsseb @ananyar1bughead @dont-staple-waffles @lilylovelyxo @ghosting4boasting @lyracarvahall @meeksmusic83 @superchumchum @dracanah @elmontsmile @wolf-phoenix-lover @2234world @thunderinglava

#poly! avengers #avengers x reader #avengers #marvel fanfic #marvel imagine #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x reader #tony stark x reader #clint barton x reader #sam wilson x reader #marvel #captain america fluff #iron man #fluff

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fire-but-ashes-too · 3 months

Text

☆º.⭐︎200 event!!⭐︎.º☆

HIIIIII

OMG OMG OMG OMG THIS IS GONNA BE SO FUN AAAAAAAAAHHH

ok so! wow! 200! youre giving me too much power istg im feeling ✨important✨

oh btw here is my intro post

soooo how is this gonna work??? basically u have all these lil red (cause in this blog we stan red) emojis and each one has a meaning! by sending them in an ask (to me ofc lol) you'll get smt! which is basically how every other event usually works lmao

also pls dont just put the emoji, specify what u want lmao

OK HERE WE GOOOO

★•.☆ index ☆.•★

❤️ - therapist moment -> spill the tea bestie tell me your dilemmas and ill try to help u out

🥀 - smol art commissions (keep in mind im not the greatest artist bbut im inda in an art block so ill try everything!) these may take 1-2 weeks max, no nsfw or lot of gore, and mostly not very complex pieces lol (u can choose the medium btw)

☎️ - smol writing commissons! same as before, not more than 3k (idk whats the point rlly but im on block and ive seen ppl do it so ill give it a try)

🍉 - collage board! can be either for you, a character, a song, whatever u want youll just need to specify it :)

🍓 - playlist!! give me a genre and a theme and voila ill make u a playlist

💥 - mAmMA MiAaaAA -> i teach u italian✨ idk this was rlly random but y not?

💃🏻 - free compliments~ ill get u cheered up

🌹 - ill have my old grandma moment, take a seat, get some hot chocolate or some tea or whatever, some cookies and ill tell u about my life :D (maybe specify which kind of story u want? like TELL ME OF WHEN YOU WERE A COMPLETE IDIOT IN FORNT OF THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE👹 that works well)

🎁 - ash the chef™️ aka i share with u my precious recipes (another very random one but i got back into baking lately soooo why not lol)

🧧 - 3.40 minutes -> u get ONE song for a veeeery specific feeling/moment/situation/ etc etc just specify and the sporacle (spotify-oracle ahahah im so funny ik) shall answer you

👠 - the poetrist aka a variation of writing commissions but on poetry (its more fun if u give me lots of specifcs lol)

🍄 - fandoms 101 -> do you want to get into a fandom? have you seen a fandom which seems really cool but you have no idea on hwere to start or how? call the 13-fire-but-ashes-too-13 (or: my ask box) and get yourself a new fandom to cry over! (this only applies to things im in lmao)

🧣 - idk guys im out of ideas but i wanted the 13 thingies so this is extra, just do watever you want, run free my dears

AHHHHHH OK OK IM GONNA GO NOW SPAM ALL U WANT AND DRINK WATERRRRRRRR

bye :p

#ash on fire #200 event!!!#were a little over that now (HOWWWWW)#but still!!#wow!!#writeblr #artblr #200 followers

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filthforfriends · 1 year

Text

Chapter 10

Alpha!Damiano x Omega!Reader

Word count: 7.7k

Day 1 of Silence

When Damiano’s stomach rumbled you got up from the bed, assuming he’d want to go eat. Based on the look in his eyes, he very much did not.

“Love, you need food. You have a freakish metabolism.” His expression didn’t change. “How about I get you something to eat and bring it back?” Dami reached for his computer. Why hadn’t that occurred to you? He opens up a document and begins typing.

I’m really sorry for scaring you earlier. I don’t expect you to be my maid.

His expression is so earnest. You take his face in your hands and press your foreheads together for a second.

“I don’t feel like your maid. You’ve watched over me for a year, Dami.”

I don’t want to hide in my room.

“Okay, but it seems like you don’t want to leave either.” He pauses and sighs.

They’re all going to be standing there, waiting for me to say something. I feel like if I start talking all the pressure comes back. I’m also so exhausted that talking sounds impossible, but also panicked.

“Panicked, why love?” You rub a hand along his back, the same way Damiano does when he’s trying to comfort you.

It’s all just too much.

He stops typing and looks at you, pleading with his eyes that you understand. Of course you do and he can see that too.

“You feel trapped?” He nods. “Trapped because everyone expects you to speak. Trapped because if you start talking everything goes back to the way it was, which is how we ended up here.”

Yes. Trapped by my AD2. I have to play the perfect part in case something happens. My entire life is an insurance policy, but it's necessary.

“I’m – I know you’ve been raised to think that, but I wonder if it's true. There might be another way.”

There isn’t.

He’s so sure, but you aren’t. However, anymore destabilizing today would be cruel, so you put that in your back pocket as something to research.

“I think you’re so courageous to participate in the world. You have so much life and passion inside. No one realizes how much.” He doesn’t type. Instead he just rests his head against yours and folds your hands together. He can’t always be by his computer. Even with a cell phone, this written text thing is going to get exhausting.

“Let’s figure out a way to communicate, just us. One tap for yes and two for no?” Tap. “Okay that's good.” Yes or no questions were the place to start. Dami opens his computer and types one-handed.

Three=maybe

“Okay.” There's a burning question you can’t resist asking. “Have the non-verbal episodes happened since you were diagnosed?” Tap. “So you must have stuff like this,” you raise your clasped hands, “with your parents.” Tap, tap. “It's just all been on devices?” Tap. That struck you as strange. This was a fuck of a lot easier and more accessible than typing.

There’s specialty devices, but I hate them. Docs called me treatment resistant.

“Well, fuck them.” Tap. Dami smiles, finally. You knew Isabella and Matteo weren’t trying to punish or silence Damiano. They were terrified, too. They had to be. Doing everything by the book was their only way to cope.

“As long as we’re holding hands, we can talk like there’s no one else in the room. Okay?” He nods, looking weary, but more willing. “So I can either go get us lunch, dinner, whatever meal it is. Or you can come with me and we’ll feel like zoo animals together, because I guarantee I’m getting weird looks too.” Tap.

“Okay, so I got our meeting with the board pushed by, so you’ll be able to play on a temporary basis. Our appointment with Dr. Khatri is Monday morning. I’ll pick you up after your first class and we should have you back to school by lunch.” Tap, tap. “Of course, I’ve booked you in with your normal therapist –” Tap, tap. “But we should also see the specialist about more treatment options. I was thinking y/n could be somewhat involved this time.” Tap. “Dinner should give us time to strategize. As for what happened today –”

“Woah, that’s a lot of information!” Isabella had started hurtling words at Damiano the minute you turned the corner. “And none of it was phrased like a question,” you observe pointedly. Sandro has disappeared, but both Dami’s parents stand in the kitchen. No wonder he didn’t want to eat. Isabella looks floored, like she never thought to ask Dami instead of telling him what she perceived to be in his best interests. Matteo seems to be more receptive.

“Right, good point y/n. So, um…” He doesn’t know where to start, so you jump in. Physically putting yourself between Damiano and his parents, you speak gently.

“Do you want to continue playing soccer right now?” He nods, tapping your hand as well to confirm the answers. “Would you prefer waiting to meet with the collegiate board until you’re more verbal?” He shrugs his shoulders and taps three times. “Okay, let’s give you time to think about it. Are you okay with having a doctor’s appointment in the morning?” Damiano winces, but nods. “Do you feel ready to go to school on Monday?” He shakes his head and then commences a stare down between him and Isabella. You expect her to demand Dami go to school for appearances sake, but she folds. Meanwhile, Matteo looks terrified.

“Are you okay with meeting with your old therapist?” He shakes his head and Isabella moves to speak up, but Matteo raises a hand to stop her. “What about a different therapist?” He makes eye contact with his mother while nodding. This seems to calm her.

“Well when would you like to decide on a new therapist? I could pull everything up over dinner today and —” She’s interrupted by Damiano shaking his head. “But our past specialist is okay? Fine, alright,” she sighs. That seems to be an adequate amount of integration for the evening. Matteo herds her down the hall and into the bedroom. Luckily, it’s too far away to perceive any concerned whispering. Still, you poke your head around the corner and try to eavesdrop.

Damiano watches this and shakes his head in light-hearted disapproval. When you turn around he’s pulling cilantro and shallots out of the produce drawer.

“Are you cooking?” you gasp. Confidently, he fills a pot of water and puts it on the stove. Afterwards, he takes a container of pasta out of the refrigerator with a block of what you assume is parmesan.

“I’ve never had fresh pasta before.” Dami is absolutely scandalized, holding a hand to his heart in Italian offense. You try to chop the tomatoes, but he won’t let you near the knife. You argue for your competence and end up stuck on cilantro duty, picking leaves off the stem. Damiano sits you up on the counter right next to him while he slices, dices, and works over the stove. The domestic proximity is nice. It seems that this is a hobby he genuinely enjoys because he starts humming. Occasionally he’ll look up from stirring and smile when he sees himself being admired.

“This counts as our first date,” you decide. Dami cocks his head to the side. “Dates aren’t always at a restaurant. They can also be someone making you a nice dinner.” At the word nice, he rolls his eyes. “This is fancy!” Cue a secondary eye roll. “Oh, I’m sorry we’re not all Italians who can make sauce from scratch.” You reach a finger towards the sauce pan to taste and get your hand slapped away. He probably doesn’t want you to burn yourself, which is why you do the gesture again to annoy him. This time Dami growls a little while batting your hand away.

With a burdened sigh, he goes to the drawer, pulls out a spoon, and dips it in the pan. Damiano blows on the liquid to cool it before handing the utensil over. Deciding to annoy him further you try the sauce and gasp dramatically.

“Why didn’t you warn me this would be hot!?” He tries to glower, but it doesn’t work because he’s smiling at your dumbassery. Dami gives you a peck on the lips and you repeat yourself with much different inflection.

“Why didn’t you tell me this would be hot?” You wink, wiggling your eyebrows. Damiano mimes hitting his head on the oven hood, putting himself out of the misery that was your sense of humor.

Day 2 of Silence

It was barely Sunday when he woke you for the first time. The word codependence had crossed your mind when it was just assumed you’d spent the night again. You hoped the David’s were reasonable people who reasonably wouldn’t expect a 15 year old omega to do all the emotional labor of comforting Damiano. Upon reflection, they absolutely were. Isabella reminded you to prioritize your well being and gave you an out daily. However, she also lacked soothing maternal instinct, even for an alpha. While soothing, Matteo didn’t possess Dami’s intensity and couldn’t begin to understand it. So he could only provide well-meaning platitudes that he learned in the effective communication section of a parenting book.

Regardless of efficacy, they were there, they were committed, and they’d seen Damiano through to the other side of episodes before. If you felt over your head, you’d put yourself here, right? Except that giving Damiano their best wasn’t necessarily giving him everything he needed. So while you weren’t socially obligated, you did experience Dami’s suffering viscerally, in a way no one else did. There was simply no way to love him, feel pain that you could alleviate, and do nothing.

Which had landed you here, in Damiano’s bed at 12:36am. Wide-awake and contemplating it, because being marked by someone suffering so much emotional turmoil, was uncomfortable. How could Dami sleep was answered three minutes after you’d rolled away from to get some personal space. He woke up, anxious, about to say your name but the words got stuck. Instead he sought you out via that gravitational pull and exploratory hands.

His touch didn’t make you jump, because you’d heard Damiano shifting around by the rustling bedsheets. He was a pretty active sleeper, so you ignored the hand that came to rest on your arm, pulling on you weakly. When he tapped, you assumed his hand was trembling, moving in a dream. However, the repeated canine whines got you to check for a nightmare.

Damiano was awake, his eyes fluttering open and closed. He was panting, breath heavy like he might cry.

“Love, did you have a nightmare?” He shakes his head. His exploratory hand is lightly stroking your hair where it rests.

“Do you want to snuggle?” Dami nods, leaning in closer already. Based on him not pulling you over, you guess that he wants to be on your chest. With Dami’s upper body halfway on yours, his breathing returns to normal. His soft snores in your ear lull you to sleep. Trying to cool down, your unconscious body eventually creates room between itself and Damiano. This time you barely wake up. Your arms were already positioned tightly against you in sleep. Dami just pulls you against his chest, getting your head under his chin.

Only during the third time do you realize the issue, because Dami startles you awake. The sensation of someone touching your scent glands overpowers any other feelings of safety. You sit upright immediately, bleary eyed and scanning your surroundings. Two warm, smooth, and study arms wrap around your waist. The anxiety immediately plumates, body recognizing Damiano before your brain does a second later.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you pant. Damiano sits up as well, pulling your back against his chest. One hand goes to your hair. When he moves it to expose the right gland, your entire body tenses. Damiano scents you and your heart rate slows. You relax against him while he kisses everywhere but your scent gland for a couple moments. When his lips finally brush the area, you don’t jump, humming in delight at all these sensations.

Finally, you get your bearings. It’s 3:11am and this is the third wakeup because Damiano can’t sleep unless you’re physically touching him. How the fuck is he gonna sleep tomorrow? Also, how the fuck are you gonna sleep? This level of clinginess had gone from endearing to claustrophobic.

“Baby, I need you to tell me what's going on.” Dam grabs his computer from the nightstand and begins typing.

Afraid you’ll be gone.

“What kind of gone?” Admiring Dami’s profile he’s beautiful as ever, but he’s also tired. There are bags under his eyes, his skin looks older. You’re both squinting at the screen, painfully.

Everytime I wake up and we’re not touching, I panic that it became too much. When I try to fall asleep my anxiety goes “if you’re not holding her then you can’t be sure she’s still here.”

“Oh, love,” you sigh, holding him sideways, check pressed to his shoulder. “I can’t sleep here every night. I have to go home.”

I know. It’s more if you said you’d spend the night then disappeared, what that would mean. I’d also be so worried about your safety, but you might not answer my calls because you’re mad at me, so I’l never know if you’re okay. Maybe you’d never talk to me again or you wouldn’t be okay and I’d never know anything and I’d just have to wonder forever. Like I could help if I knew, but I don’t know, so what if

Damiano’s typing speed has become hysterical and his hands are shaking. You push the computer from his lap and take its place, kissing Dami with his face between your palms. He mewls and crushes your body against his. This could easily became sex, and maybe preventing it from doing so is a bad idea. However, Damiano’s nervous system needs solutions that last longer than a couple hours.

“Mm ‘kay,” you pull away. “Let's go through this.” You pull the computer up beside you. “I wouldn’t disappear in the middle of the night because I love you and I know how stressful that would be.” At some point you’d have to muster the courage to say the words on their own and not in a phrase. Dami rests his head on your clavicle and gazes up at you with wonder and adoration in his eyes. He’d smiling, just barely showing his perfect teeth. His hand comes to tuck the hair behind your ears, so he can see your whole face. Taking a breath, you bite your lip and continue on.

“As for ignoring communication, we can come up with a code word which means it's an emergency and we both promise that we’ll answer to that word no matter how angry we are.” Damiano loves that idea, nodding while adjusting your faces to be level. “And that word will be…we’ll figure it out later because I wanna go to sleep. Anything else?”

How are you?

Honestly

“I really need to sleep in my own bed tomorrow, but I don’t want to worry about you needing me to be here.”

I don’t, really.

“I’m worried that you’re not getting everything you need, but that you’re –”

But I love having you here, always. You’re always welcome.

“Thank you, dear. I wasn’t feeling rejected, but um…I worry that you can’t ask for the things you need,” you admit, stroking his cheek.

Really, I’m okay. Promise. If you knew the team of doctors I have behind me…

“Well, I mean…should I?” It’s something you’d considered, but didn’t want to overstep. “Because I plan to be here for the long haul.” Damiano squeezes you way too tight in response. “Oof! Alright.” He hums happily in your ear, more canine dialect than English. It's impossible to accurately translate because spoken language is dependent on a standardized system and the other is dependent on individual bonds.

You try to tap into your feral side to bridge the understanding gap, but it's not coming easy. Could be because you're sleep deprived.

“Sorry,” you shake your head. “I’ve never been good at this.” You sigh and lay back in bed. Damiano types something and shows it to you before plugging in his laptop to charge.

Don’t try to translate into words or emotions.

You look at him, confused and a little frustrated. Deriving sentiments has always been the way you understood canine dialect. How was a person supposed to glean any meaning from the sounds?

Feel it on your body only.

He slides the computer under the bed and lays beside you. You comfortably find a big spoon, little spoon shape. As solacing as the position may be, your inability to communicate with Damiano via the only language he presently spoke was distressing. It felt like failing him as a partner.

Dami made that rumbling hum from the back of his throat again and you tried to take his advice. The sound felt warm, soft…round. Gentle wasn’t the right word. It didn’t have any sharp corners or things that might poke you. It felt not gold, but silver…metallic? No, it shimmered in your mind’s eye. That shimmery feeling runs down your spine. The ball of warmth settled in the pit of your stomach as you yawned.

Damiano’s hands tried unfurling your balled fists and you went easily, relaxing. He made a second, similar sound to encourage this behavior. The muscles in your face moved, even as you tried to still them. You felt the sides of your mouth curl into a smile. Between your legs tingles, too. The soles of your feet and palms of your hands felt toasty warm. Enjoying the sensation, you rubbed your fingers and toes together.

Dami fondly asked what you were doing. Except he didn’t ask, and you didn’t need him to, understanding his canine vocalizations. You shrugged in response and yawned again. He accepted this as an answer. To someone else it’d sound gruff and aggressive, but Damiano was actually being quite affectionate. He even scents you and rubs his cheek against yours.

In this moment of shared peace, the significance of Dami’s communication sets in. He didn’t compliment you. It was so much more than that. He’d wanted you to feel good inside, good about yourself, content in your body, safe in his den. The way you’d made Damiano feel made him want you to experience all that in return.

You tried saying I love you but the noise was too guttural. You were doubtful it made any sense until Damino growled in return. With a sentiment that big, there was no translating it, but all those pleasant sensations flared up once again. Instead of that ball of warmth and shimmering feeling, it was as if a heavy quilt came to cover you. The fabric was made of sunlight. That should have blinded you, but it didn’t. Nothing would harm you. Everything inside felt so cherished that your significance in the world was nearly suffocating. Each organ, each bit of connective tissue, every drop of marrow was affirmed as being special. This typical, average body that you’d had for 15 years was made a temple, consequential to the entire universe. Dami wanted to show you how he felt about you.

Unsure if it's been a second or a full minute, you surfaced with tears in your eyes. Damiano’s thumb swept along your cheek in case, unable to properly see your profile in the dark. Still, he was deliberately observing, breathing relaxed and even. Relaxed perhaps because he felt all your gratitude and reciprocation. Dami kissed the back of your head and nuzzled to get comfortable. This indicated contentment and that he expected no further validation from you on this front. Each warm exhale tickled your healing mark.

Day 3 of Silence

“Is that a hickey!?” Watching the milk and coffee combine in a travel mug, you couldn’t help but wonder if the world couldn’t have waited another 10 minutes for this particular interaction.

“Uh…yeah?” Dad stomps across the kitchen’s laminate floor, but you dodge him. Thinking you have a hickey is probably the best case scenario, so you hide on the other side of the fridge. Unfortunately, he’s having none of your evasion.

“Don’t make me chase you around the goddamn kitchen, y/n.” With a sigh, you stand still. He yanks the collar of your pajama shirt aside and gasps in horror. The goal was to get your mark fully healed before he saw it. Without coffee, you’d forgotten all about that.

“Did he hurt you!?” your dad bellows. You swat his hand away and take a step back. Having someone yell in your face at 8am wasn’t exactly conducive to a positive state of well-being either.

“No. dad. Dami would never hurt me.” He’s shaking his head, face turning bright red.

“That – that thing is – is,” he stammers, enraged and pointing an accusatory finger at your precious mark. Seeing the anger and disgust directed at something sacred made you pull your shirt to cover it.

“It's not like that!” How you yearned to have a verbal Damiano, whose charisma could make this conversation so much easier. In an ideal world, you’d have told your dad together. Being accosted before you’d even caffeinated was perhaps one of the worst ways this could come about.

“What in the hell…” he turns you to the other side. Knowing the bruising on the right is going to be difficult to explain away, you cover it with your hand before he can get a good look.

“Stop that,” he orders, checking his pockets for something. “Where is my phone? We need to call and report –”

“NO!!” Your feral scream surprises even yourself. The sound reveals exactly how violated you feel even when your words don’t. You’d done a lot of yelling with your dad, but this outcry was a novel sound that made even him freeze. He looked over his shoulder in alarm, at least shocked into silence and inaction. Upstairs are sounds of hurried feet and doors opening.

“It’s my mark! Damiano marked me. It’s completely normal, dad.”

“That is not normal,” he seethes.

“Mom! Clio!” you call. “Do you want to understand or is your mind made up?” Stomping down the stairs is definitely not your mother’s measured physicality.

“Why the fuck are you yelling before 10am?” Clio demands, gesticulating dramatically. “Oh, that,” she winces, looking over her shoulder for backup. “Listen, dad, I know it looks bad, but Damiano actually took care of it really well. It’s like wearing his letterman jacket.”

“Are you out of your mind, Clio? Look at it!”

“Well, what did you expect? Everyone knows how marking works.” Even discussing the interaction with your father felt icky, and a wee bit treacherous.

“I’m sorry, what did I hear about reporting something?” Your mother rounded the corner, breathless and still in her sage green nightgown. After quickly surveying the situation she speaks.

“Oh, no, Kevin there's been a misunderstanding.” She places a delicate hand on his shoulder, like all her softness could quell such brute force. Clio slinks upstairs, happy to be free of the situation. How jealous you are of her.

“There’s no misunderstanding, he doesn’t want to understand. He doesn’t give a damn! Why’d you have kids with an omega, huh? Why not just adopt and spare us all the misery?”

“Y/n -”

“He was going to report Damiano for abuse!” You don’t feel the hot tears on your face, but your parents' faces change in the way they always do when you cry. It’d become such an uncommon occurrence that your dad has a satisfying amount of dismay in his expression. You lean against the counter while panic creates a tightening fist under your sternum.

“Let's all just sit down and lower our voices.” Somehow, the three of you end up at the dining table, yourself and dad at opposite ends, glaring. Taking a deep breath, you pledge to give the man in front of you exactly one chance.

“He didn’t hurt me. Damiano marked me to show his devotion, how much he cares about me. If you actually went to Supports you’d know that it doesn’t hurt when you do it right.”

“Oh, bullcrap!”

“Kevin!” An even tempered person would recognize that this was all out of fatherly concern, but he’d threatened Damiano when he was already vulnerable and wounded.

“Darling, I’m sorry to make you cry with all the shouting.” Mother squeezed your hand, but everyone knew that the yelling wasn’t the reason for your tears.

“How's this for the omega you never wanted? I asked for the mark and it's my favorite thing about myself. Because he’s always with me!” You choke on a sob and make an ugly sound.

“Y/n –”

“I just want him to be here,” you confess through the tears. “I want him here,” gasp, “with me. Because he’d – because he’d know the right thing to say.” Except he wouldn’t because he’s not speaking. Partially because of bigots like your own father. The look in mom’s eyes reveals that she hasn’t mentioned it. She hasn’t mentioned any of it, probably so dad doesn’t find out about Alpha Dysregulation and exile your boyfriend.

“Well, until we can get this figured out,” dad motions vaguely towards your neck, “you’re not gonna see him.” There are no words to articulate your infuriation, so you accidentally dip into canine dialect. Standing up, you try to push your chair away from the table, but end up just pushing the whole table. Coffee splashes everywhere, dad’s chair almost tips over, the fruit bowl flips, and all its contents scatter. The apples make dull thuds as they land on the floor.

“No. We won’t be forbidding our teenage daughter from seeing her alpha right after she’s been marked.”

“He’s not her alpha, they’re not mated!” Mother doesn’t design to acknowledge this petty outburst.

“You should know that is unacceptable and irresponsible.” Your father assesses the situation, looking between his wife and his youngest rapidly. He comes to the conclusion not to challenge mom.

“Right.” Kevin nods once, and it's a reminder of how miniscule proud men can look.

“I think I am partially to blame here.” Mother’s words are shocking, not just to yourself, but also to father. “As an omega who decided they were not bound for an alpha, I have given you an inaccurate idea of what should be expected.” She sighs heavily, looking vaguely in the direction of the far wall. “And I haven’t done enough to correct that.”

“Well Olivia, I don't know that that’s true,” your father splutters. He gets up and grabs the kitchen towel to begin mopping up the coffee.

“You shouldn’t be justifying yourself to him,” you bristle. The only person that should be undergoing self-actualization was your father. Never had her fickle submission to him been more arduous to watch.

“I’m not,” she replies curtly. “I’m apologizing to you. Your father is accustomed to a sanitized, genteel version of omega’s and I believe this is a direct result.” He straightens up slowly, then forcefully hucks the towel into the kitchen sink, insulted. For once, dad’s glowering doesn’t reduce her. Your mom isn’t quite standing up for you to your father, but she’s putting herself in the way. Every appraisal of your character has to pass through her first.

“It’s not your fault, mom.” You’re still flabbergasted at the turn this argument has taken.

“Maybe, but I allow the man I raised omegan children with to look at their world through a deficit lens. I should have shouldered that from the beginning.” You hear the floorboards creak and wonder if Clio is listening, just as enraptured, around the corner.

“Olivia, I’m right here,” dad exclaims, indignant. Your mothers gaze never wavers from yours. It feels like a promise.

Day 4 of Silence

53 hours was officially more than enough space. It was good that Damiano respected his own boundaries and didn’t show up for school. At the recommendation of his new therapist, he decided to take Tuesday off as well (after some reassurance on your part.) It’d also give the very colorful collection of rumors time to calm down. Still, you missed him like hell. Unknowingly, you’d become accustomed to Dami’s presence, months before you spoke. This building you’d driven past hundreds of times felt foreign without him.

Ever the protector, Damiano was trying to give you time to recover and recharge. It’d been a tremendous amount of emotional labor and now he had other competent people to support him. Apparently, the new therapist was great and the hormonal specialist was discussing new treatment options to prevent the episodes. Messing with Dami’s endocrine system made you extremely nervous. What if he didn’t smell the same?

Not hearing his voice puts a damper on your intimacy. You’d grown so accustomed to speaking almost daily. Whether it be on the phone or in person, the warm timbre of Dami’s voice was always soothing. After lunch, the missing him becomes too much. You send a text asking if it's alright to come over. It's mostly just courtesy. Two hours later he hasn’t responded and it's the end of the school day. You decide he must be napping and head over anyway. Maybe you could slide into bed next to him. A nap sounded pretty damn good right now, especially in the safety of your alpha’s room. What might occur after the nap was even more alluring.

It takes much longer than usual for the door to be answered. When you peek through the window, there's multiple figures having an unintelligible conversation. You’re about to leave since the David’s have company when Matteo finally opens the door and invites you inside. He looks uncharacteristically muddled, distracted even as he greets you. Standing formally in the foyer are two professionals with tablets in hand and analytic gazes.

“Sometimes there are drop in assessments after an episode to objectively evaluate home life,” he explains, obviously caught off guard.

“Oh, sorry! I texted Damiano, but he didn’t respond and I thought I’d just come over anyway.” You imagine that positive conclusions won’t be made about the pushy omega girlfriend who barges in. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I can leave.”

“No, that’s just fine,” a woman with intricate braids answers curtly. “It gives us a more holistic assessment.” She’s probably a psychologist and the balding man besides her you suspect to be a social worker, based on their uniforms.

“In cases of alpha-omega selective mutism, normalcy is good. Special treatment can actually make episodes longer,” he says. So act like nothing is wrong, reduce empathy, and hope the whole situation goes away. Great. After yesterday’s blow out, your capacity for holding your tongue with ignorant men is drastically reduced. It wasn’t very substantial to begin with. Giving the psychologist a pointed look, you decide to remove yourself from the situation.

“I think I’m just gonna go.” You awkwardly slink backwards towards the door, but before you can even reach it, you hear pounding footfalls coming from the direction of the kitchen. Damiano slides around the corner in socks, bites it on the hardwood floor, and catches himself, all while looking at you.

“Hey, crazy!” The rest of the room turns awkward while Dami’s face comes alive with a bright smile. Of course, they’d all been calling him crazy all day in veiled language, but no one would ever address it. You throw your arms around his neck and the embrace is so enthusiastic that it lifts you a few inches off the floor. He gives you a single, brief kiss, but in it is conveyed all the gratitude for forcing everyone to see that he wasn’t fragile.

Verifying that nothing has changed, you rest your face by his scent glands. Damiano does the same thing. The high bridge of his elegant nose presses into your trapezius muscle. You can feel his breaths quicken as he takes in your scent. Both by the sound of his sharp exhales and the quivering of his movement of his abdomen which is pressed against yours.You try to pull away after hugging for an already inappropriate amount of time, but he tightens the embrace. Damiano nuzzles your profile, a loving alpha who is unapologetic to the polite society that nearly asphyxiated him. If the room was empty, you’d close your eyes and treasure this moment where Dami uses your pheromones to self-soothe.

When someone clears their throat, he finally lets go, but keeps you in his personal space. As he kisses your head, temple, cheek, and back up again, you forget everything else. Smiling so wide that you feel shy, you hide your face against Dami’s chest, hugging again. This time the embrace is loose and more relaxed. The piling on his old sweatshirt is rough against your skin, but everything smells like him, so other senses lose their relevance in comparison.

When Dami presses his face to your hair, you realize it's been a few days since you’d washed it. There’s a moment of insecurity before reminding yourself that he’d far prefer the scent of natural oils to the fragrance of shampoo. It’s exactly what you’d prefer. Like in the car after soccer, when he was disgusting and sweaty and absolutely irresistible.

“Ahem,I just realized I haven’t properly introduced you. This is y/n, Damiano’s girlfriend.” Matteo not so subtly prompts the pair of you to let go. Damiano does so begrudgingly, keeping a hand wrapped around your waist.

“Great to meet you, I’m Clem, by the way.” Her eyes flit up to Damiano’s face, looking for permission to breach doctor-patient confidentiality. He nods, and her shoulders relax.

“I've been Damiano’s psychologist for over three years now. He’s a good one.” She clearly means it, despite seeing Dami at his worst. You like that about her.

“You’re a good judge of character. Oh, and it’s nice to meet you.” Before the other, less favorable, visitor can introduce himself, there's a new voice from the kitchen. A man with a scraggly beard, flimsy wire glasses, and a frumpy gray sweater leans against the doorway with his arms crossed. He’s judging you, but out of genuine interest, not critique.

“That’s the first smile I’ve seen all day,” he exclaims, warmly. They must have been speaking, or rather communicating, in the living room when you came inside.

“This is Dr. Laurel, Damiano’s new therapist.”

“Please, call me Jay.” He’s relaxed in a room of anxious people. While everyone is treating Dami’s silence as a crisis, he seems almost curious. He’s invested in getting to know him, not just in doing his job for the sake of it.

“Let's talk.” He beckons you over with a casual hand gesture and nonchalant nod towards the living room. It was all calibrated to not make the request scary, but it still was. Dami’s expression is reassuring, and he’s not all tensed up from stress. From the foyer, through the kitchen, and into the living room, you wondered about how sound would carry. Regardless, Jay got credit for not disrupting the safety of Dami’s den. Besides his bedroom, this was the most private place in the house because the living room was only accessible via the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about anyone overhearing,” assures Jay, as if he can read your mind. Damiano sits in the cushioned armchair, which you didn’t expect because it leaves you to sit on the couch alone. Bringing it up would just make the situation more awkward, so you cringe internally and go to take a seat. Dami makes a sound of indignation and grabs your wrist. He guides you towards him until he can get a grip on your forearm and tug. Surely he didn’t mean for you to sit on his lap in front of his therapist.

“Excuse me, young man? Young man, what are you doing?” you jest in a formal voice. Humor is the only thing you can think of. Jay chuckles, shuffling through papers with his eyes averted. Damiano puts the index finger of his free hand through a belt loop on your jeans. While you’re distracted reading the room, he manages to pull you close enough that he can lean forward, wrap his arms around your hips, and haul you onto his lap.

“Oof, okay.” You settle on sitting upright, knowing from the strength of Damiano’s embrace that you weren’t going to get away. He uncrosses his legs, hands hovering a couple inches away like guardrails while you adjust position. You roll your eyes at how overly cautious he was, as if falling two feet to the carpeted floor was going to hurt anything beyond your ego.

“However you’re comfortable is fine by me.” Jay seemed to get his forms in order and set them down on the coffee table. He sits with his feet on the sofa, facing you. It’s a strange dichotomy: such a youthful gesture, to take up the entire couch, but at the same time he meticulously arranges the pillows behind him, grumbling about his back.

“So y/n, you are not my patient and are under no obligation to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to.” He clears his throat and clasps his hands. “With that said, everything that happens in my sessions with Damiano is covered under doctor-patient confidentiality. This includes anything you say as well.”

“Okay…I’ve – I don’t know if this matters, but I’ve only ever been to family therapy. I didn’t talk much though, because I’m the most normal of my sisters. I don’t know how it works.” Dami opens his laptop.

You don’t have to be here if it makes you uncomfortable.

“No, no, I want to be involved. I just thought I’d meet your doctors at an office. I didn’t think I’d be part of it though.”

“Ah. You’re here to provide information, not receive treatment.”

“Oh, okay!” You relax back, leaning against Dami instead of sitting bolt upright.

“What do you want to know? We’ve only been together for…god, has it really only been three months?” You turn to Dami and he seems to be having an equally difficult time wrapping his head around how such a strong bond could be built so quickly.

“Fresh perspective,” Jay declares, cheerly. “Obviously old coping mechanisms aren’t working, so we need to find new ones. Dami feels you’re the only person who sees him for who he is.” Rather than meet your eyes, Damiano adjusts the position of his hands, one coming to rest just above the knee.

“So you want my opinion?” Jay gives a tight-lipped smile and gestures for you to continue. “Well, he’s not usually like this.” You tame Damiano’s hair as you speak, sweeping it away from his neck. “He has this cool, mysterious facade and under that is a confident, sporty exterior and under that is cocky alpha hard shell.”

“Sounds like a lot of defense mechanisms.”

“Oh, yeah and if you get past the hard shell he’ll pretend like he doesn’t really care to protect himself.” You fondly tuck a lock of hair behind his ear and Dami looks up at you through his lashes. He’s blushing and it distracts you completely until Jay reclaims your focus.

“Obviously, you’ve built a lot of trust. Which was the hardest layer to get past?”

“Oh, that would be the next layer.”

“There’s more?”

“Absolutely this man was a fortress.” You rest one arm on his shoulders and Dami uses the position to press his profile against your chest. “Once you get the bastard to actually feel something he freaks out and tries to control everything. But under that he’s afraid of himself.” Your smile drops and you press a long kiss to Dami’s forehead, breathing in deep through your nose.

“And is that fear of your Alpha Dysfunction?” Dami nods and Jay flips through some papers. “Well, it looks like you had one significant episode at..you were 11.”

I wasn’t diagnosed yet.

“Right, so that’s to be expected and you aren’t to be held responsible.” Jay gives Damiano a pointed look, reminding him to be forgiving of his childhood self.

“But he had to move schools.”

“After a series of minor incidents. Essentially, he just got too many strikes.” Jay shuffles the papers pensively and takes his time setting the stack behind him.

She knows I went into headspace while hooking up with a beta a couple years ago, about how they flipped out and involved their parents.

“Yet, clearly y/n knows you’re not dangerous.” He gestures to the way you’re tenderly cuddled up together. “Where does that fear come from? Is it fear of what you’re capable of or fear of Alpha Dysregulation itself?” The room falls silent, Dami drumming his fingers on his leg while he thinks.

I don’t know. Everyone acts like it's the worst thing in the world. They act like it's the end of the world that I have AD2. I probably internalized that.

“There's a lot of fear of abandonment.” Just saying the words makes you choke up a little. “It’s all to hide the AD2. Everyone needs to stop treating it like a dirty secret if they want Dami to get better.”

“I agree.” You look up at Jay in surprise. “Absolutely.”

“But it’s not, uh,” you take a deep breath, fighting for an amicable way to phrase this. When you can’t find one you decide to speak anyway.

“It's not like it's just some small group of alpha parents who hate that Dami is better at soccer than their kid. It’s everywhere. Even that asshole,” you point in the direction of the foyer. “It’s his job and he can’t extend a modicum of empathy. No one can! Fuck, even Isabella doesn’t know how to be soothing.”

“Isabella is Dami’s mother?” Jay starts typing. Perhaps ranting to your boyfriend's therapist about his own mother was over the line.

“Yeah, but maybe it’s because she’s burnt out. I don’t have some special skill set. I just take the time to be comforting and loving and fucking listen. The whole family has protocols, but none of them actually comfort Dami. They always skip right to the solution.” You glance at Damiano to see if you should hold your tongue, but he looks genuinely interested, and a little impressed.

“Go on,” Jay encouraged, accompanied by rapid tapping sounds.

“Basically, all the parents are ignorant and they raise ignorant children. They create stereotypes that aren’t even accurate for Dami. But they don’t actually care about the truth, it's all about feeling important. It's not like he’s a grown up either who's been hardened by life and can take this shit. He’s technically still a kid!” You can feel that you’re ranting, but no one’s ever asked and listened before.

“As long as he has to keep a secret, there’s stress. But the consequences of getting found out…how is a person supposed to function with that hanging over their heads? Why can’t we remove the stigma? Why can’t we just teach children how to interact with people that have developmental differences?”

“Excellent point,” Jay validates, gesturing at you to go on. It takes some of the wind from your sails, since you’re so used to fighting in these conversations.

“Yeah, everyone is doing what they think is right for his physical health, but what about his mental health? What about his autonomy? He should be consulted. He can’t be made responsible for whether he’s rejected or accepted by society. That’s not fair. That’s fucking unreasonable. He’s 17!”

“Asking these questions is important.”

“Yeah, but everyone is asking the wrong questions. ‘How do we get him talking again? How do we fix it faster?’ They should be asking why he stopped talking in the first place so it doesn’t happen again.” Jay must take a full minute to finish documenting. Or, at least, it feels like it. When he looks up, you realize you haven’t checked on Dami in a while. His face is still lent against you, pressed against your breast. Even partially concealed, you can see that his eyes are watering. It feels like a dagger to the heart.

“Wait, no!” you exclaim at the prospect of Dami enduring even more emotional hardship. The hand on your thigh comes to your face and he guides you into a passionate kiss. Even with your mouths closed, the public display of affection was entirely too personal. Knowing he’s only going to get this one kiss, Dami draws it way out, sliding his palm under your ear, fingers threaded into your hair. When he does allow it to end, he keeps your right there, forehead against his. Rather than pull back, you wait for him to release you, praying every moment that he’ll decide not yet.

Despite having barely an echo of public decency when it came to physical affection, he does have to let the moment go eventually. Your cheeks burn, but Dami doesn’t have an ounce of shame. He sits up tall, challenging Jay to take issue with the act. After all, he is an alpha too. Jay’s demeanor is constant, unprovoked. You’re horrified at the prospect of Dami ruining his relationship with a therapist that could do him some real good. Tapping twice on the back of the shoulder doesn’t work. Resorting to school yard tactics, you flick his ear, finally earning his attention. He’s surprised and a little bit ticked off, but at least he’s not intimidating Jay.

“It’s good that you two are so comfortable with each other,” he chuckles. Well that's one way to put it. You remove your arm from behind Dami’s neck, trying to create situationally appropriate space. That actually upsets him.

“Y/n, the vast majority of my clients are young alphas with behavioral issues. It takes a great deal to offend me.” He stands up with a groan, once again shuffling his papers. Jay does seem genuinely unbothered, bordering on serene.

“It’s good to see that Damiano is still feeling like himself. Tea, anyone?”

Notes: Expect chapter 11 much sooner! Thank you for reading my silly little fics <3 I always enjoy hearing your favorite parts and your thoughts. I know this isn't as spicy as past chapters but trust me it heats up very soon.

-XOXO Eden

Masterlist

@bieberhoodforever @blackberryblossom @butkutee @cuzimitaliano @elvirabelle @iamtashaquinn @icarodamiano @idyllicbutterfly @ilwiwbysmv @immrbrightsideeee @little-moonbeam-666 @maneslut @mortyandem @the-chaotic-cow @wasteddoubts @weareoddlydrawn @whore4damia @azertyhug @biancathecool @xweirdxsceletton @bohemianrainbow @boyswillbeexecutied @daisy0gf @dustyinkpages @katyldamusic @minnietmouse @obiw4n @persona1read1ng @gr8rainbowpunk @hiraetheral @iosonoarina @l0standn0tf0und @que--sera--sera @stardustingold @teenyweenynightghost @softmullet @solacestyles @thegeminisgirl @bobfood @slavicgoddess13

#daminao #damiano david #damiano maneskin #maneskin #måneskin #må #damiano david fanfiction #damiano david x reader #damiano david fluff #damiano david x you #damiano david fic #maneskin fanfiction #omega reader #alpha and omega #omegaverse #alpha beta omega

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misty-doodles · 1 year

Text

AIB Executive Board found family HC's

shout out to @bdanp, thank you for the lovely content, I wish to add my own.

Hehehe I love the idea of these fools being a dysfunctional family unit. I literally need semi-wholesome content on the beach members because otherwise I will lose it. The AIB fandom has really brought out my drive, bc I will be the change I wish to see in the fandom space. Uh, they are dysfunctional with a capital D, so this isn't entirely wholesome, but I'm writing this, so you can't be too surprised.

Today on the board; Aguni, Kuzuryuu, Mira, and Chishiya

-Aguni, Hatter, and Kuzuryuu are the father figures to the group. -Aguni and Hatter used to date but are still friends who maybe have lingering feelings. Who knows. -Aguni just fucking sighs and has to drag them around when they're being stupid, especially the militants. -Has a special soft spot for Arisu once he joins bc he's so hopeful and sweet, and he likes having a moral compass around. Arisu is also the only heart specialist who doesn't resort to murder -He's the only one Niragi listens to, which is why he's the only diamond orientated militant. -Hates the beach and everything it stands for, bc he knows it's a lie. He misses the Hatter before the beach ruined him, and his feelings for him are forever tainted. Tries not to make their history the beach's problem.

-Kuzuryuu didn't even realize he was a dad, he's just fucking there. He's the calm fatherly validation half the board craves, and he has 0 questions. -He has favorites, and it's the exec's diamond trio (Ann, Chishiya, and Niragi) -Fully supports Chishiya's tinkering hobby. Told him that if being a doctor didn't work out, then he should go into STEM. -Finds the entire beach to be a headache, but does genuinely care for the exec members. -Best friends with Mira, who's taken up the role as wine aunt. She's the one who convinced him to come check out the beach. They both help put the exec members into games they're good at.

-Mira interacts with everyone with a Gatekeep Gaslight Girlboss energy about her that freaks everyone else out. She's fully capable of making normal expressions, but chooses to smile her way through everything. -Unironically plays therapist to the exec board bc she was/is a licensed psychiatrist, and they're all so mentally fucked up. She does it in the 'I can't make you better or worse, but I can figure out what's so funky about you' kinda way. She mostly does this to Niragi and Arisu, and also maybe Hatter when he's around. -Casually threatens everyone's life subtly and offers 0 explanations. She's unironically the scariest person at the beach, bc she's so unsettling. -enjoys girls night with Ann, Kuina, and Usagi whenever she's invited, and gets her hair braided -She makes the most references to memes along with hatter, to the annoyance of literally everyone else.

-Chishiya stares in silent judgment whenever he has to fix up an injury, frequently pulls out the 'I'm just a med student' and 'i work with children' cards to get out of things. Makes jokes about just letting them die to scare them. -He wears hoodies everywhere he goes bc they're his comfort clothing item and no one comments on it. Uses big medical words in casual convo to irritate the execs. Autism creature #1, I'm right. -Hates being touched unless he initiates it or gives permission, and is very firm about this boundary. Arisu once tried to hug him and got tased. He didn't try again.

-Silent rage towards Ann for being so goddamn tall. Wears chunky sneakers to appear slightly taller (a/n no genuinely, look in the show those are 2-inch shoes) -He sees Niragi as the worst version of himself, and it honestly freaks him out sometimes. Entirely neutral on his existence most of the time, but finds bickering with him amusing. -Chishiya simply doesn't express himself like everyone else, but he does feel the normal range of human emotions. Mira mentioned him possibly being neurodivergent.

-Kuzuryuu is his dad and that's fine with him

Comeback next time for the rest, bc it's like 3 pages on my Google Docs, and that's too much for one post.

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nrdmssgs · 8 months

Note

Any advice in making a character

Oh, I`ve got so many, I actually had to restrain myself))

Be self-indulgent! This is the most important thing to do. If any of my further tips conflicts for you personally with this one - this must always win! The main purpose of your character is for you to have fun, to get a voice, to be able to talk about whatever is important to you! Pay no attention whatsoever to people accusing you of making Mary Sue or Bella Swan. It is ok to learn, make mistakes, make characters, that will make you cringe in a few years.

Make as much moodboards as you need! 5 pinterest boards for 1 character is ok, even great! Don't hesitate to make a full moodboard for their home, even if you are planning like 1 short scene in the house.

Moodboards are good not only for pictures! Feel free to add quotes, that remind you of your OC, make playlists for them, go to your favorite clothing online catalog and pick, what would they buy from it! I for example have a thing for scents and I make perfume moodboards for characters (just helps me to feel them better). I use Miro for multimedia moodboards, highly recommend it.

Try starting your character as an 'archetype'. What I like to do is to go to this page and take a test from a perspective of my character The results often help me understand, how would my character react to different people and manage different situations. There are different personality tests, you can use. I believe, this one is the most well known, but I find my first option more helping in writing.

Character 'growth' is not obliged to be something positive. Your character can always become a worse person and it is still a growth.

'Play' with your character constantly! Even if you made them for one short text - ask yourself questions about them every now and them! Would they pick the same type of cheese as you? What was their favorite music genre, when they were 10? And now? What was the most awkward date, they ever had? Dont be shy, use writing promts to come up with little stories about them. This all will give you an indepth understanding of your character.

One of my favorite games to play with my characters is '3 interviews'. I imagine my character taking part in: 1. a talk with a psychologist 2. a cross-examination in court 3. an interview with a journalist. These are 3 situations, that motivate the same person speak on very different topics and relive different emotions. So I like to just examine their behavior. You will be surprised, how many ideas this little game adds to your character.

Don't be shy to ask others to tell you about your character. Request little stories or headcannons about them. The goal here is not to have the same perspective on your OC as your friends do. The goal is to understand, how others see them and which detail (and why) work good or bad for you. There are some authors out there, that take requests and commissions for others OCs.

It is ok to make your characters look like an average person and it is absolutely ok to make them look incredibly beautiful. Don't force yourself to change anything in your OC just because their partner is very good-looking, or because some said to you, that such a beautiful person has no place in this fandom.

Give your OC friends, hobbies, interests outside their job and love-life. Please. You will be surprised, how useful it is to keep this emotional hideout for your character.

Killing your OCs parents is not the only way to make them move out of their parents house. (don't worry, I myself have 2 OCs, whose parents are dead).

Making your OC kill someone is not the end of your OC. Your readers wont start hating them.

The more power your character has - the less freedom they get. Life of a queen is planned to the minute, life of a peasant - endless pool of possibilities))

Watch video essays where therapists talk about different characters in popular culture! There are so many ideas, you can get there for your character. My favorite channel is cinema therapy they have so many wholesome, funny, serious vid on this topic!

By the way, never be afraid to borrow some ideas.

Wanna see a trick? Ok, I'll describe briefly a character to you and you will try to guess, who am I talking about. So our guy, a middle-aged man, lives in a depressing gray world, full of violence and indifference. He loses his job and escapes his constant suffering in fantasies, where he is famous, has his own show on TV, the audience loves him and even his favorite late night show host applauds him. But these are only his fantasies, when in reality nobody care about him except for his senior mom, who genuinely loves her son. Youre thinking something like "Arthur Fleck" or "Joker"? Well, I've just described you Rupert Pupkin, the main character of 1982 American comedy "The king of Comedy", which had a great impact on 2019 film Joker.

My message here: it is not bad to revisit your favorite stories and characters and let them form your OC.

Abandoning one OC and moving on to the next is not a betrayal. Having multiple OCs for one fandom is not an inability to concentrate. Your brain produces many ideas - it is ok to give yourself creative space.

Self insert can be fun and interesting. Just don't forget, that you are not obliged to insert yourself in one and only character - you can always give your thoughts and traits to multiple characters in the story!

Your character needs flaws, not because it is a shame to write somebody perfect. They need flaws, because that will actually help them navigate through their lives.

#nrdspeaks #nrdmssgs

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justanothersyscourse · 1 year

Note

Ah sorry I mistyped! I meant how do you know for sure it’s not possible for a system to NOT come from trauma? (So how you know endos, etc. can’t exist)

I thought so! Thank you for resending, it gives me a chance to talk a bit about how my views have evolved. I hope everyone will stick through to the end.

This got a lot longer and a bit more rambly than I thought? Sorry, guys.

So, short answer, I don't know that for sure.

No one can know because we're talking about a subjective, personal experience. When I first started syscoursing, I came in, guns blazing, believing endos just didn't exist. That it simply wasn't possible.

It was actually my therapist, a specialist, who opened my mind a bit.

I went to school for social services to become a therapist, but after I graduated and worked a bit in the field, I realized I was terrible at it. Not only was I still in a very bad situation, making me unable to effectively help people, but I just had zero patience for people working through trauma. I had to learn to handle my trauma reactions real fast and effectively, whether that was in a healthy way or not, and people moved way slower than I felt safe handling. That's neither here nor there, but explains the conversation I had with my therapist.

She told me, no, DID is a childhood, trauma-based disorder. That's not even up for debate, and research is only further proving that. Anyone who says otherwise is an idiot.

But she also spoke to me as a colleague, not a client (I've been out of her care for years, though we've kept in touch since I expressed an interest in returning to the field). She reminded me of all the ethics and compassion training I went through. She reminded me of how we're supposed to approach things we don't understand. She told me what she would do if she ever ended up with an endo as a client.

She would listen, be receptive, learn. People can be misguided and misinformed, but they can't be wrong about the way they're experiencing something. In other words, if a person is sad over something you find strange, they're not wrong about being sad. In the context of systems, if someone says they're experiencing their life through multiple lenses or as if they're a working group of parts or people, they're not wrong about that. It's their truth, and we can't prove or disapprove, only try to understand, and, as is the ultimate goal of therapy, do our best to help with what they've come to us for. For example, I didn't go to her for help with my system, I went to her for help with my anxiety and OCD.

I know she's right, but... This is why I didn't stay in the field. Clearly I'm still having trouble holding my tongue and being nice, though I'm doing my best and trying to be better.

But in my few years in syscourse, I've come across a couple commonalities, and come to one big, main conclusion.

Systems:

1) the philosophical concept of the self and endos - questions of the self, the interaction of self-parts and perception, personal experiences and self expression, and self training (There's no way to disprove perception, and I'm totally on board and learning to be supportive, but this usually further delves into supernatural concepts, at which point I check out-- you can ask me to believe your self expression but you can't expect me to believe things about alternate dimensions and ghosts, at that point you're pushing your luck and putting me in danger, because supernatural concepts and mental health disorders don't mix. imo, telling me there's a chance my alters are from another dimension when some of us already have a weak grasp on reality is shitty)

2) misattributed symptoms - symptoms of psychosis, autism, various personality disorders-- literally ANYTHING being mistaken for "systemhood" (I genuinely worry about these people because encouraging someone to further dissociate parts of themselves can be dangerous if they're actually experiencing something different, but I feel like it's impossible to talk about the comparison of experiences without someone calling for your death, because you're not allowed to question self expression at all, ever, especially in endogenic communities)

3) endos actually just experiencing DID - there's no denying that many endogenic systems eventually realize that they're "traumagenic" (I hate that term), or that many have a skewed opinion of what DID and being disordered "looks like" (people saying they're not "disordered" enough to have DID, despite the DSM saying you can be very highly functional and still have the disorder-- this is just ableism), or the whole mixed origin thing, as if those aren't normal experiences in DID, too

My conclusion and my current goals:

Endos are clearly experiencing something and I'm not here to argue with them anymore about whether it's possible. In fact, I would go so far as to say it is. No one will ever be able to definitely prove that endogenic systems do or don't exist, but what has so far been seen, and is being worked on now, is whether there's any similarities between those experiences and DID.

I firmly contend that they're very different, and I'm more confident that the research will show that truth than I am in remembering my age.

I have said, over and over again on this blog, and I'm betting people are tried of reading it.

Childhood trauma affects the brain so much that the very structure is changed. It's these "injuries" that allow us to dissociate in such a profound way that we can have alters. These injuries go above and beyond that, though. It affects the way we perceive, retain, and relate to memories, the way we handle and express emotions, the way we experience new things. It literally affects every aspect of my life, daily. This is something that endogenics will never understand or relate to.

That's not a negative thing, it's the same as saying that I'll never understand what it's like to have schizophrenia or delusions or NPD or autism. I also wouldn't go into those spaces, or expect to be allowed into them, or be upset that I'm experiencing something potentially tangentially related (for example, DID typically shows symptoms of multiple PDs, but it isn't ACTUALLY a PD), and that there isn't a mixed space.

There's also a profound difference between PTSD and CPTSD. I believe endogenics can experience later trauma, and become disordered. But they don't have DID. They are not disordered with DID.

It's just PTSD, and because treatment is different, they'd benefit more from PTSD than CPTSD spaces-- which is really what DID spaces are, at the base of it.

For the most part, endos really are just "vibing," and that's okay. I've joined a server with endos, and I consider them my friends now. Their patience as I navigate through different thoughts and ideas has made all the difference, and it's helpful to have their input on things I come across that I don't understand.

My goal now, then, is to correct misinformation on DID and OSDD, and to simply spread awareness about how the disorders can present, what's possible and what's not (for example, can those with DID create alters? Technically, yes, and it doesn't make you a mixed origin endo). That it doesn't have to be doom and gloom, and we're not helpless.

As I feel that there isn't much overlap in experiences with those communities, I have little interest in interacting with endogenic systems outside of conversations about DID, and I've specifically made a point to stop challenging self expression.

I would honestly really prefer a stronger division of language to help people differentiate between experiences better, but I don't feel like that's ever going to happen. We can see the damage caused by the mixing of IFS and DID language, and I see it happening again. Talking about that is like talking to a brick wall, though, and I feel like this is just going to continue to repeat, over and over again.

I think it'll be up to those with DID to give up their language and create new words, which is... very sad in my opinion.

And the only thing I feel like doing these days is trying to combat misinformation about DID.

There's just so much of it, though, and I'm so tired.

#answered asks #syscourse

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skymoral · 5 months

Text

🩵UNFORESEEN🩵

- Chapter 2 -

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: F/M

Fandom: Mortal Kombat (Video Games)

Relationship: Bi-Han | Sub-Zero/You

Characters: Liu KangJohnny CageTakahashi KenshiRaiden (Mortal Kombat)Kung LaoReaderOriginal Female Character(s)Original Male Character(s)Kitana (Mortal Kombat)Mileena (Mortal Kombat)Harumi ShiraiGeras (Mortal Kombat)Tanya (Mortal Kombat)Original Female Character(s) of ColorOriginal Male Character(s) of Color

Additional Tags: Black Character(s)Family FluffFamily FeelsChildhood FriendsFriendshipAngst and Hurt/ComfortBetrayalBroken FamiliesTournamentsFalling In LoveFirst LoveNear DeathRedemptionPeople Change PeopleLin Kuei Clan (Mortal Kombat)Game 12: Mortal Kombat 1 (2023)

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

It's been one week sense that event that took place with you. You didn't think it'd effect you in the long run, but it certainly was hitting you harder than ever. You didn't want to be anywhere alone, you preferred being around where people were. you were also super on edge when you couldn't help being alone, you were alert and looking around panicking. Anyone grab your own or touch you from behind you'd freak out.

You slowly develop high level of stress and would have an anxiety attack, you would go somewhere and hide locking yourself either your room closet of janitors closet till Rhonda found you to try and comfort you.

You hated the way you were acting, and felt as though it'll become a burden to your friends. Rhonda advised to possibly start seeing a therapist, which you did. It was helping a little, you told your therapist Judy everything that has happened. You thought you were going to be fine, but it seems it's just now hitting you.

"This man that saved you, are you still in contact with him?" Judy asked you, writing things down.

"Umm not per say, I know friend that knows a friend that hangs out with them. But I can't get in touch with Bi-han." You looked down blushing kicking your legs, She watched your every move and behavior.

She gave you a sweet smile, "Did you feel safe and comfortable with Bi-han?"

You looked up at her confused. She chuckled putting the board and pen down, crossing her legs and laying her hands neatly on top. "From what you told me everything that has happened, you didn't even know who he was and only just found out later he came because of your friends. But you didn't even question that he was there to save you and not another person kidnapping you. It must've been what he said that gave you the impression it was different?"

You listened to her closely, you didn't know yourself why you did. You would think after following the first guy willingly, you wouldn't be stupid enough to do it a second time.

"How about we experiment if your able to get in contact with him. Would you feel less scared and comfortable if you felt as though he was always around or even knowing he's watching you. So that nothing happens to you?" She smiled at you.

"Y-You mean something like a bodyguard?" You asked confused but curious as well.

"Yeah, if you would like to call it that and if that's how you see it. A personal bodyguard." She went and picked up her items again, "I won't force you sweetheart if you don't want to, we can find other methods to help ease your situation."

"I just don't think he'll do it... I don't want to inconvenience anyone... He may have more important duties then some traumatized college student." You felt nervous and embarrassed about this enough.

"It won't hurt to try and ask, the worst he can say is no. Plus it's just a simple test."

"For how long?"

"A week, and see how you feel in week during our next session."

You nodded and thank her for her time, she gave you a hug before saying goodbye to you. She was a very nice therapist and she seemed to genuinely care about you. compared to people that just doing this because it's there job and not that they care.

~~~

You and Rhonda visited the girls at the shop, it seem to be super busy today. Jamika and Tonya were busy washing there clients hair. Ashanti was crocheting hair, she looked up slightly and noticed you and Rhonda. "Hey Babes! How are you? Also how was your session today Y/N?"

"We're good, got a bunch of fucking homework, and we needed a break." Rhonda complained plopping next to Ashanti an open chair.

"Also the session was good as well... Although my therapist recommended a method I try for a week." You sat in Rhonda's lap as all the other sits were taken.

"Oh really? What she recommend?" Ashanti asked focused hard on her clients hair. You scooted closer whispering something in her ear, Ashanti froze her hands looking at you with a smirk.

"Yeah I know, I doubt it to. I told her I'd try and she said it wouldn't hurt to try."

"She seriously recommended that, I'm not sure Bi-han is the kind of person that'll do that. Unless it benefits the nigga, I can't imagine how'd that work Bi-han as your bodyguard." Ashanti went back to her clients hair.

"I kinda want to imagine it." Rhonda chuckled, You rolled your eyes at her.

"Although like you said it doesn't hurt to ask. I could talk to my baby for you if you'd like?" Ashanti looked at you with a smile.

"That'll be great of you sis." You thanked her.

"If that does happen, it'll be like that movie The Bodyguard with Whitney Houston." Jamika chimed in blow drying there clients hair.

"I fucking love that movie." Rhonda and Malcolm said at the same time, they looked at each other. A smirk on his face and a glare on Rhonda's.

"It'll be such a cute romance." Tonya said.

"How about we all not get ahead of ourselves. I honestly don't have any high hopes, Bi-han will most likely say no." You told them, you already know it's not going to happen

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It was late at night, and you couldn't sleep. You were having nightmares because of what happened, and it seemed like they only get worse. You sit up cursing yourself, as you were sweating profusely from it. As you were headed to the bathroom, your phone started ringing.

You saw it was Ashanti and answered it, "What's up girl?"

"I wasn't sure if you were up or not. Can't sleep again?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry that you're going through this babe, but I got some good news?"

You can hear the excitement in her voice, "What's the news?"

"Liu Kang told me that Bi-Han will be your personal bodyguard." There was a long silence after she said that.

"Hello...Y/N... Did I lose her?" Ashanti said on the other line.

"No you didn't fucking lose me! I'm sorry for shouting but are you fucking serious... No bullshit?" You didn't know how to feel about that news.

"Baby on my momma, I'm not lying. I'll tell you the deets tomorrow Pooki, He's arriving tomorrow. Get some rest good night!" Ashanti hung up.

You looked at yourself in the mirror smiling weird to yourself holding your head. How is she gonna drop a bomb like that on you at a time like this, you didn't know if you could sleep now. You quickly did your business in the bathroom and got back into the bed, to try and sleep. You did not know what to expect tomorrow.

~~~

You woke up, barely gotten any sleep. You took off your bonnet, letting your locs fall down. You quickly get ready and shock to see Rhonda wasn't here, you grab your phone from the night stand unplugging the charger.

You got a text from Ashanti letting you know to meet her outside on the campus, near the lunch area. You texted back you'll be on your way, you quickly freshened up to hurry and leave.

As you were rushing, you saw Ashanti and Rhonda sitting at one of the out door lunch tables. You waved to them, they noticed you and waved back. You saw Bi-han who only looked at you and scoffed, 'Rude' you thought to yourself. You didn't even notice Ashanti approaching you, which startled you a bit when she tapped you.

"Sorry I thought you saw me."

"Oh no it's fine I'm sorry, I was lost in thought... So how did ya'll get Bi-han to agree."

"Liu Kang told him that the Red Dragon may come back for vengeance on you, and sense the Lin Kuei came to rescue you. They may think you are affiliated with them and Bi-Han, so they may target you. So sense the Lin Keui and Red Dragon have bad history, it was in Bi-Han's interest to kill them if he sees them and protect you." Ashanti finished as they went to where the gang was.

"Wow that's, I mean I-"

"Girl I know that was all Liu Kang, he thought that shit out to a T. Also maybe Bi-Han didn't want whatever happen to you by them be on his conscious." Ashanti laughed with a smirk.

You both made it to the group, "Hey Bi-Han." You waved at him nervously.

"Y/N" He replied bluntly.

"Oh so you do know my name?"

"I told him." Rhonda raised her hand, "I also told the college chancellor your situation. Not everything but a bit here and there and a lil something I made up. He's allowing Bi-Han to accompany you, here's the letter he advise you to give to your professors." Rhonda handed you the information.

"Welp I did my job, so you ladies at the event this weekend!" Ashanti walked away throwing up the deuces.

You turned back at Bi-Han smiling nervously as you blushed, he just looked around alert as if something was going to happen. "Well... We should head to my first class." You lead the way with Rhonda already left as Monday's they have a different class at this time. You looked behind to see if Bi-Han was following you, which he was at a certain distance to where you couldn't sense him.

You made it to your class, Bi-Han followed behind. As you sat down, he was glaring at the classmate sitting next to you. "Move." He ordered the student next to you. "Umm... This is my seat bro?" The boy told him, Bi-Han stood in front of him with an intimidating gaze.

"Move, or BE MOVED." He lowered his voice in a scary tone. The dude quickly gathered his materials to find another available seat, he took the seat next to you. Folding his arms, you could hear certain students whispering. Before you could let it bother you, the professor came into the room. He began taking attendance, he reached to you.

"Hear." You waved, the professor notice the new face sitting next to you.

"Do I see a new student here." Your professor raised an eyebrow at him.

"Do I see a person not minding there BUSINESS HERE." Bi-Han retorted. Before it could escalate further you quickly got up and gave your professor the letter from the chancellor. She nodded informing you to make sure he does disrupt the lesson.

"Bi-Han could you perhaps refrain from arguing with my professors, the rest of the day." You whispered to him

"Then she should be more concerned about what she does instead of what I am doing here." Bi-Han responded in the same tone.

"I get that, but be less aggressive at least... For me?" You touched his arm, looking up at him. You did not want to let go of those strong arms, you knew he was built but damn.

He kept quiet, not responding to your plea. You didn't expect him to, but grateful nonetheless that he's quiet. As the lecture was going on, you took a glance at Bi-Han looked super focused on what your professor had on the board.

"How about you take a picture it'll last longer." As soon as he said that, he heard a snapshot sound come from your phone. He turned his head glaring at you, "Pfft you ain't said nothing but word snowman." You grinned wickedly at him, he definitely didn't like that nickname you gave him.

"Delete it if you value your life."

His voice always gave you chills, "You're the one that said I should take photo if I want it to last longer." You chuckled under your breath. "Do you find testing my patience funny?" He asked looking away from you

"No... I think you're cute." You confessed to him in a quieter sweet tone. He looked at you shocked and slightly flustered by your bold confession, luckily the professor had the lights turned off for the students to see the screen better.

"What's wrong?... Grandmaster isn't use to a woman's compliment?" You gave him a sweet smile, "Your compliment means nothing to me." He looked away from you examining the area. Although when you called him Grandmaster, it sparked a little something inside of him, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

"I'm sure, I know you don't like women." You turned your attention back to what was being discussed in the class.

"I never said I didn't."

"So you like Women."

"Never said I did either." He side-eye you with a smirk, You blushed pouting. You didn't like how he was messing with your emotions, but you were messing with him first.

"Then what do you like?" You asked writing down notes

"I don't like people who are nosey."

"You just don't care about no one or like anything, noted." You rolled your eyes, he grunted at your statement with irritation.

"I'm here, am I not." Bi-Han told you, the bell rung and the lights turned back on. Before you could ask what he meant, he lifted you out the chair by the arm to leave the room.

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Got through both classes with a breeze, the first one Bi-Han stayed outside of the classroom. You felt okay, but you definitely preferred him next to you. For comfort to keep you calm, but like your therapist said just knowing he's close by. refrained you from having an Episode.

The second class, you asked him kindly to be with you in these classes. He expressed strongly how he did not like being in these rooms, after pestering and annoying him. He sat through the second class, not without him constantly complaining. Asking a million questions and more.

As you were headed to lunch to meet up with your girl Rhonda, you turned around to ask Bi-Han something. You noticed he wasn't behind you anymore, "Bi-Han?" you said openly, you looked around and didn't see him. You saw how the area didn't really have anyone, only students coming hear and there. You began to panic, you head back to look for him.

Then someone grabbed your shoulders making you scream, hitting whoever touched you away. You began shaking looking at the person, that touched you. It was the one person that you wanted to see the least, especially with your situation was your Ex.

"Woah calm down babygirl, you acting like you've seen a ghost." Oscar was about to grab your arm, but before he could someone else grabbed him with a strong grip before yanking him back.

"What do you think you're doing."

You looked up and realized it was Bi-Han, your shaking subsided. As you scurry to his side. Bi-Han shoved him harder than you expected, making him fall. "WHAT THE FUCK IS YO-" He stopped talking when he saw a sharp ice dagger close to his eye.

"Are you apart of the red dragon?" Bi-Han asked him, but Oscar was too scared to say anything. The bell began to ring and people would be leaving there class.

"He's not apart of the clan, just someone I use to go out with... Let's go before people start looking, please Bi-Han." You pleaded this time, he dissolve the ice. Before turning away, with him on your track. Leaving Oscar confused, scared, and angry.

~~~

"Girl I wished I would've been there to see Oscar piss himself." Rhonda was laughing, it was definitely a sight to behold. You shook your head and looked at Bi-Han, "Where did you go?" You asked a bit more irritated than you were trying to, Bi-Han definitely picked up on it.

"I saw someone, I wanted to be sure it wasn't them. I wasn't that far, as I heard your scream." Bi-Han replied frustrated, you nodded. You forgot he's only here, because of the clan lie. If it wasn't that situation, he would've denied it and not waste his time here with you.

"Hey girl you okay?" Rhonda nudged you, you left your thoughts nodding with a smile. "Bi-Han you hungry?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

You shrugged and got up to get something, even though he said he wasn't hungry you got him some noddle soup. As you were about to grab it, someone bumped into you. Making you almost fall, but caught you.

"Sorry I wasn't paying attention." the strange boy helped you up, "Oh no it's alright, thank you." You told him getting your food on the tray.

"Hóng lóng zài kànzhe nǐ " He said before walking away, you don't know what that meant. But you headed back to where the two words, you put the bowl of soup in front of him and fork for his ramen.

"I already said I-"

"I don't care, you haven't eaten all day Bi-Han. You need nourishment if any kind of attack happened, thought that was ninja 101." You went to eat your food.

"I do not need your concern woman." Bi-Han spat, you grinned ignoring him enjoying your food. After sometime he did eat what you sat in front of him, actually enjoying. You were happy he was.

Rhonda just looked in awe, "You both just looks so cute together."

"We're not together!" You and Bi-Han shouted.

"Damn, my bad... Lil momma was just teasing...OHH! Bi-Han, what's the name of you brother in the grey?" Rhonda scooted you over sitting between ya'll

"Are you speaking of Tomas?" Bi-Han leaning away from her as she was invading his personal space.

"Tomas? So that's his name?" Rhonda smiled.

The bell rang, and everyone was preparing there next class. You had one last class and it was with Rhonda, you told Bi-Han he didn't have to come. Since she was with you, and you will inform him if anything does happen with the Red Dragon Clan. He nodded, not wasting time leaving. You can tell he was happy to leave.

"So what you don't like him anymore?" Rhonda asked as ya'll sat in class

"It's not that, I just know he's not interested... So I'm not going to waste my time. Also he has an attitude problem." You told her opening your textbook.

"Girl who doesn't, some just wear it on there sleeve than others. He seemed like he don't hate you."

"He didn't seem like he likes me either, this conversation isn't going anywhere Rhonda." You said plugging in your headphones.

"Fine, but I know one thing I'm on a manhunt for a brother named Tomas." Rhonda said excitedly taking a picture of herself and posting it online.

"You gonna scare him away like you do every other nigga in your vicinity."

"Baby that's not what happened, they just weren't ready for a real woman. Then it hit me, I only came across boys. Momma needs a MAN." Rhonda squished your face, smiling. You just stared at her confused, she let your face go continuing texting on her phone.

"And I believe Tomas is that man."

The professor finally came, you didn't know what plot Rhonda had with her new manhunt. But you glad the topic transitioned from you and Bi-Han, you didn't want to think about it and focused all your attention on the class in front of you. As you were focused on class you didn't realize you had many eyes watching you.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. "Hóng lóng zài kànzhe nǐ "(Translation: The red dragon is watching you)

Unforeseen (9444 words) by MoralSky Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Mortal Kombat (Video Games) A/N: So just a full disclosure I"m not a therapy expert and what not so don't judge me strongly. Now I added a bit of what experienced, so I don't know but I hope you like it anyways

#mortal kombat #bi han sub zero #reader insert #bi han mortal kombat #fanfic #fem reader #bi han mk #black reader #bi han fanfic #bi han x reader

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