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plush-rabbit · 1 year

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Nullified Quirk

Request: ASFGSGSHS IDEA!!!

Shigaraki fucking Aizawas daughter/student/someone v close to him, and having Aizawa be forced watch and use his quirk so Shigaraki can touch her fully without her truning into dust

Shameful anon time, too embarrassed =w=' TW: Noncon Word Count: 4K A/N: don't be ashamed here, i started this blog with shameful stuf so please feel free to be gross and never apologize for it here

A copycat quirk isn’t rare, but it isn’t common. Yours is particularly strong with you not only gaining access to quirks- mutants even- but also gaining their appearance. It’s a useful quirk when the situation turns sticky.

No one really expected the underground hero, Eraserhead, to take a new hero under his wing, much less make the so-called new hero his official sidekick, and yet, there you were, standing beside him, ready to be his sidekick.

You preen when he praises you, with each pat on the top of your head, and each and every small introduction further into his life makes you feel special. He treats you as his kid, and you love that, you love knowing that the Eraserhead is more than that to you. He’s your mentor, he’s the one who patches you up after missions, he’s the one that you can call for a ride at two in the morning. He’s Shota for you.

Of course, you aren’t the only one that finds him so much greater than others. You remember the U.S.J. incident, and how the villain there mentioned how cool Eraserhead was- or is. You aren’t sure where his feelings stand now. You remember how the villain looked at you when Shota protected you- how the villain’s eye that was visible behind the hand had widened with realization at who you were when your name was screamed. Ever since then, you’ve felt as if you've been watched, and no matter the amount of eyes that you took, you could never find whoever or whatever it was that was prying into your life.

Now, you run alongside Eraserhead, clad in your own hero outfit that resembles his. Your boots splash against the puddles of water left from the rain. Air whips beside you, a strong hand gripping at your forearm lifts you into the air and you turn to see Eraserhead use his binding cloth to swing you both over a dumpster that was shoved into the way by the escaping villain.

The villain with the blue hair turns sharply. You stumble into the ground when you’re drooped, hand indented and scratched with loose pebbles, and your nails scratch at the concrete as you give a sharp turn, watching the villain enter the building,

“Shota!” Your wrists hurt, and the smell of wet trash is sticking to your clothes. “He went inside!” You push yourself forward, opening the door, only hearing your mentor’s words a second too late to hold on.

The inside of the building is trashed- graffiti painted on the walls, empty boxes and flat cardboard littered across the floor, and surprisingly, a few of the fluorescent lights still work, giving the building an eerie glow. You turn yourself around, arms outstretched and balled into fists, eyes scanning the corners of the room, wishing that you had copied- you freeze. You see him, standing in the corner, concealed in the shadows.

You take off towards him, and in a second, something wraps around your ankles and drops you to the floor. Your head smacks into the floor, and you howl in pain with tears in your eyes. Whatever it is that is wrapped around your ankle drags you and you squirm, unable to lift yourself up to undo whatever it is. Behind you, the door bangs open, and you stretch your neck to see Shota rush towards you, only for something to latch onto him, and pull him down, his head smacking into the floor.

“Shota!” Yelling only worsens the pain in your head, and your twist you body. Your palms smack against the floor, and you’re desperate to stop yourself. You're only able to watch as he lifts his head, arms outstretched towards you as he tries to raise himself up. You aren’t sure why he’s saying no, and your vision is beginning to blur around the edges. Bile is on your tongue, and something warm trickles down the side of your face.

You barely register that it’s blood.

Hands grab at your head and jerk you back into looking at the ceiling. You gasp, and twist upon yourself and you see him standing above you, his eye looking down at you and in your haze of blood and nausea, he looks monstrous. The hand that covers his face is menacing, and it seems like it's warping around him, distorting his features and you can’t register what’s going on around you.

Something cold holds onto your body and you think it’s death approaching, that the hit to your head was too harsh- it already feels as if your brain is spilling out and turning into mush inside of you. Shigaraki is above you, grabbing at your body, and you’re going cold, goosebumps rising over your body, and nails scratching at your skin. Your calves are bare and cold, but your thighs are constricted and you lift your head. In a cruel world, this is when your body returns to itself, and you watch as the villain undoes your pants and pulls them off, letting them dust off beside him.

“No,” you mumble, lifting your hands and grabbing at the hem of your shirt and pulling it down. Your mind is catching up to what your eyes see, and you try to protect yourself, very much aware of how bare you’re becoming. “No, fuck,” you slur out, spit bubbling at the corner of your mouth as you start to take deep breaths. Something wraps around your ankle and drags you around the floor and you turn your head and kick out your legs, and you see Shota looking at you when you turn, and you freeze.

He looks away the moment that you catch his eyes.

“Look at me,” he hisses, and grabs you by the chin, making you look at him. “You only look away when I tell you to.” His hand wraps around your neck, and you take a sharp breath.

There’s a sharp pain that starts around your neck, it’s like your skin is being scraped slowly and painfully, each layer and centimeter pulled away quickly and it hurts. Tears are in your eyes and streaming down your face, and you’re calling for your mentor, nails on the concrete and blood dampening your hair. You scream, legs kicking into the ground and hands wrapped tight around a wrist, desperate to pull it away, and just like that, the harsh pain is numbed down, and your head is twisted to where Eraserhead is laid down, his hair standing on its ends, and eyes glowing.

He’s looking at him.

He’s looking at you.

He’s being forced to watch whatever is about to happen.

He’s going to watch.

The realization makes your intestines twist into a tight knot, and sweat forms under your arms and in the back of your knees. Your shirt is ripped from your body, the quality fabric torn as if it were nothing, made and held by weak stitches, and you try to cover the parts of yourself that you have only seen in the mirror. You try to fight and pull away, try to push yourself away from him, and in your injured body and weak mind, you are quickly overpowered by the villain above you.

His hands roam your body, all five fingers dragging over every inch of exposed skin. It pulls on your underwear, dragging them to your ankles, a hand on your ankle, and the other fisting cloth into his nose as he takes a deep breath with his eyes shut. “Setting up the trap wasn’t all that difficult you know?” He pulls down his pants, boxers going down. His cock is semi-hard and you’re realizing that this isn’t a scare, it’s him making a point. The head is red, a gossamer string of precum leaking from his slit and dripping onto the inside of your thigh. It bobs into a stand as he tucks your underwear into his pocket, fabric peeking out to mock you. You hope that you pass out. “You both have enough enemies that they were more than happy to help.” His hands are on your chest, nails scratching down the valley between your breasts, and stopping above your belly button. “I wonder if they knew what I was planning to do.” He moves the hand away from his face and his smile is stretched thin, teeth slick with saliva and pointed like a monster.

His teeth latch onto your nipple, and he rolls the bud around with his teeth, squishing it between the bone and tugging it away. It’s uncomfortable, and you try to push him off, hands shoving him away, but it only has him grabbing your hips and pulling you down onto his cock. Nails imbed themselves into his shoulders, flecks of red peeking between the skin and nail, and it does nothing to stop him from suckling so sweetly on your breasts.

Spit and tongue roll off your pert nipple, his cheeks hollow as he humps your body, the other hands pinching and groping the other breast. You can feel every roll and flex of the pink muscle, feel it be pushed and teased between teeth, and the stimulation between your breasts and the restless humping makes your cunt slick. He lets your breast go with a pop, and moves over to where the neglected teat is burning hot with blood and ache; his breath is hot over it, and you beg for him to stop.

“I love your tits so much,” he says. “I always jerk off to your photos, ya know.” And with that, he gives the same attention to the breast, suckling and teething, his cock hot and hard on the inside of your thigh.

Bruises coat your chest, a deep hue of blood that’s been rushed and flutters over to where he’s touched will serve as a reminder far past when you’ve cleaned his spit off of you. He licks your face, the tip of his tongue starting at your chin, and the flat of his tongue going up in a long stripe across his face. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way that his tongue felt on you.

You won’t forget how rough he was when he pushes his tongue into your mouth. It swipes across the roof of your mouth, across your teeth, and between your lips and teeth, running over the gums. His tongue is fat, spit pooling past the corner of your lips and running down your chin and over your jaw. Your heart beats fast in your chest, flutters like a captive bird, and you are aware of the eyes that are on you, how every second that you aren’t dead, is because you have an audience.

Hands paw and slap against his chest as he deepens the kiss, so desperate to taste you that his own taste and stench will never leave you. Your cunt drips and stains the floor beneath you. His tongue is still in your mouth, invading and seeking over every inch that he can claim, and his cock rubs between your cunt, spreading your lips apart to rub his cockhead over your hardened clit, and he moans into the kiss.

“I wanted to wait until you were begging for me to fuck you,” he whispers, lips wet against yours, “but I need to feel you. Wanna stick my dick deep in your pussy,” he mumbles.

He stretches you painfully, pushes his cockhead in and without waiting for you to adjust, slams his hips until they’re pressed against yours. You scream until your throat feels raw, and you cover your eyes, sniffling and crying, kicking your legs out and trying to think of anything other than the feeling of being ripped apart. “Fuck!” A string of curses taint the air between the three of you, and you’re left hearing him, how deep his voice goes, the way that it croaks and how desperate it is with every thrust that he gives to you.

“How do you think your mentor is going to look at you, huh?” His eyes are crazed and from his neck, a hue of red is blossoming, and he gives his entire being into pushing inside of you. “You think he’ll think of you the same as before? Or will- fuck-” He dips his head down and hides himself in the crook of your shoulder- “will he think of you as the slut sidekick who fucked a villain in front of him? Do you think he’ll jerk off and think about your tits being sucked on and hearing the sloppy noises that your pussy is making?”

You wheeze and gasp for air. He’s too heavy. He reeks of sweat and musk, and it’s filling your senses; your lungs are filled with him, he’s invading every inch of you, and no matter where you turn your head, you see him, and you feel him.

“Shigaraki-” you hiccup- the soles of your boots digging into the concrete below- “please stop, please.” It’s getting harder to breathe, and you don’t know if you’ll survive into the next day. You worry about how long you’ll be trapped under him, how long you’ll feel him.

There’s a sharp pain when he pulls back and slams his hips into you. There’s no pacing, it's quick and brutal, already searching for his own high and grunting above you like an animal. “Say my name again.” You can feel his cock stretch you, the girth of it feeling as if it’s going to rip you apart, but that could also be how unprepared you were to take him. “I wanna hear you say my name when I fill your pussy with my cum.” You feel something thick and warm slide down your neck and over your shoulder.

Your eyes widen, and you arch your back when his teeth bite at your neck. Your cunt squeezes around him, and you feel him shudder, moaning into you, stiffening and moaning loudly into your ear. You realize that he’s already finished, and yet he’s still inside of you, still erect and twitching his cock in you.

“‘M gonna fuck you over and over again till I’m drained,” he says so softly against the shell of your ears. “I want you to take my seed. Gonna push it so far up your cunt, wanna make sure that you always remember this day.” You cry, and he kisses away the tears, slowly pumping his cock into you- loud squelching sounds fill the room, and you feel his semen run down the inside of your thighs. “I don’t think I could ever forget this day. Every time I see you, I’m gonna think about your pussy and how wet you are.” He lifts his head and turns it over to face Eraserhead. “Can you hear them?” You refuse to look that way. “They’re clenching over my cock. I’m surprised you never laid them down and fucked them. You ever use your cloth on them? Bind their limbs and press them against a wall and use their pussy?” He’s gotten quicker, the mental image of your mentor doing something so perverse only adds to his arousal.

“When I escape, I swear I’ll-”

Eraserhead is cut off by you. You can’t stand to hear him, so you wail, and hide yourself behind your hands. “Stop- please.” Your voice is muffled behind your hands, thick and slurred, your plead for him to stop talking. He won’t stop fucking you until he’s had his full, untill you’ve been filled, but you just need him to stop talking. Slowly, your body reacts to the stimulation, and the opening of your cunt doesn’t sting as much.

The villain is monstrous, touching you softly, pinching at your nipples and stretching them until you yelp. His hands touch your body, and you’re surprised that Eraserhead has gone this long without blinking. “You feel so good,” he says, kissing you at the end, his tongue pushing into your mouth and swirling all over, pulling apart with a string of spit connecting the two of you. His face is flushed, and he looks down at you. “Fuck, I think I could fall in love with your pussy,” he says so earnestly. “So fucking glad that I got to fuck you.” You see the inside of his cheeks hollow, and he opens his mouth, a thick spring of drool pools out and is left on your cheek, sliding down to your hair. “If being a hero doesn’t work, ‘m sure someone will pay a fortune to sink their cock into your greedy pussy.”

You do your best to stop the growing arousal. You can’t muster up any coherent thoughts, other than a few babbling words that have you choking on your tears.

“Tell him that you’re a slut,” he spits out. “Look at him and tell him how much you loved being fucked.” You start to plead for him to stop, that you won’t do that- that you can’t- but then he wraps his hand around your throat. “I may not be able to use my quirk, but I can still kill you,” he says in a low voice. “So turn your head and tell Eraserhead how much of a whore you are.”

Reluctantly, you turn your head and you choke on your words, your chest sputtering and heart beating rapidly as if it were going to burst out of your chest. “I’m a-” you stutter- “I’m a slut. You focus on Earserhead’s forehead, trying to not pay attention at how strained and exhausted he looks from having his head slammed to the ground and having to keep his quirk active for so long. “I’m a whore,” you sob.

“Yell my name. Tell him how much you love having your pussy stuffed with my cock.”.

“I love having my-” you sob, turning and shaking your head, unable to keep going, but you’re met with a slap across your face that has your cheek pulsing and burning with blood. You wheeze and your head is forced to turn to face your mentor. “I love having my pussy stuffed with Shiaragki’s cock.”

“Say it again,” he moans, slamming his hips into yours, his movements slowly turning sloppy. “I want you to yell it out loud.”

“I love Shigaraki’s cock! I love his cock so much,” you wail, thighs clenching and legs kicking out.”

He gives your clit a sharp slap, making you wince and clench around him, jerking your hips to meet his. “Look at him and tell him that.” You look at him with wide eyes. “Tell your mentor how much you love my cock- how you love the feeling of it. Do it before I decide to choke you.”

You squint your eyes shut, and take a shuddering breath before turning over to look at Eraserhead. The tears in your eyes that stream down, only help so much to obscure your vision. “I love Shiagaraki’s cock! I love how it feels inside of me!”

“Fuck!” He curses out. He’s getting close and you hope that this will be the end. “Tell him how you’re a fucking slut. How you want me to fuck you like a whore. How you love villain cock and want my villain cum in your greedy pussy,” he commands, wrapping his hand around your throat.

You hesitate and his hand tightens around you, nails breaking your skin, until you’re choking and flailing your limbs. “I’m a slut,” you cough out, spitting wetting the floor beneath you. With each raggedy breath, you say a vile sentence out loud, hoping that he’ll ejaculate into you already. “I want Shigaraki to fuck me like a whore.” The knot in your stomach is starting to tighten, and you kick your legs out, clenching your cunt around his cock. “I love villain cock and I want Shigaraki to cum in my greedy pussy,” you bawl, biting down on your lip when you feel your high finally start to tear through your body.

Your body tenses and a rush of water spills out of you, spraying over him and your left crying on the floor as the villain pumps into you. “Ha!” He laughs manically. “Did you see that Earserhead? They’re a squirter!”

Left sensitive, your body shakes and twitches, the inside of your cunt, wet and squishy with your arousal and his seed. He kisses you again, and wet, sloppy kisses peppered over your face, as he moans out your name, and lets his weight fall above you. You’re crushed, and his hand squirms between the two of you, letting the flat of his hand rest over the soft swell of your stomach.

“Your pussy really is the best,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss against your cheek as his cock twitches it’s own arousal into you.

His weight is heavy above you, crushing your chest and suffocating you. With him still inside of you, you can feel his cock twitch and leak something inside of you. The fluorescent lights make your head hurt. You feel his lips press against the side of your face and tears slide down to wash where his lips have touched you. His hand cups over your breast, and pinches at the abused nipple. You feel him smile when you let out a whine.

“You felt so good,” he mumbles. “I wish I could keep you- fuck you whenever I wanted and kiss you whenever.” You feel heavy.

The weight disappears and he lifts you up, your body limp like a doll, and your mind empty, eyes staring into nothing. He drags you with him, nails digging into your wrist and there’s something leaking out of you, a thick warm trail sliding down the inside of your thigh as your feet stumble on the ground. His breath is warm beside the shell of your ear, and it makes your skin burn, feeling like a rash is breaking out and spreading itself down your neck and flaming your chest. You’re let go, and you fall without support and the pain on your knees and the slamming of the door brings you back to reality.

Your eyes dart around the room until you find your mentor, still staring at you, legs bound to the floor and nails scraped with crimson tinting at his fingertips. You’re not sure what to do. A breath fills your lungs, and it quickly leaves. Another enters, sharper and shakier, and your breaths are heavy, chest rising and falling, with tears welling in your eyes and dripping down your cheeks and landing on your chest. Your arms wrap around your body, nails scratching at the exposed skin and scratching down, desperate to peel away what he’s touched.

Screams are muffled by your hand, legs pinched tight and eyes staring at the ground that’s covered in grime. You can feel his heaviness on you, and you want the ground to swallow you, to open a cavern underneath you and let you fall into nothingness.

Time has passed and your throat is sore. There's a lump in your throat, and you can feel how raw it is, the iron thin on your tongue, and the queasiness that’s making itself known in your stomach is threatening to spill past your hand and onto your knees. You want to walk away, and wash the blood, grime, and spit off of you. You want to scoop out whatever it is that he’s filled you with and let it wash down the drain into the pipes and never see the light of day again.

But you can’t leave yet. With shaky legs, you stand and hold yourself against the wall for a moment, before walking towards your mentor where he lays trapped. His eyes have looked away, and they don’t look at you as you rest your hand on the makeshift trap. You shut your eyes tight when your hands turn pale and nails turn chipped and sharp as the trap disintegrates into ash. He finally turns to you, and you look away. You jump when his jacket is placed over you.

“Wait here.” His voice is quiet, and you can feel the heaviness of his hand pat at the top of your head and pull away when you shy away from his touch. He mumbles an apology that you don’t respond to. “I’m going to get you clothes and then I’ll take you home. Just wait here.” The door closes with a slam and you’re left alone.

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cuubism · 3 months

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emotional support part 3 of physical therapy au

It is not exactly a short walk to Dream's flat, but Hob drops him off at his door anyway. Dream can't remember the last time someone did something like that for him. Took so much time just to make him feel safer.

He should just thank Hob and go in, but instead he hesitates in the entryway. He can't deny how it makes him feel, Hob's kindness, and interest in Dream's art, and then him jumping to Dream's defense so viscerally and unapologetically. Hob is... good. Kind. Dream does not know if he deserves it, but for a moment he allows himself to want it.

"You going to be okay?" Hob asks. His eyes are so kind. And Dream wants. It's been so long since he's wanted.

He leans in to kiss Hob and--

--Hob catches him with a hand against his chest.

Dream jumps back, shame coiling hot in his throat. Even when he thinks someone kind might want him, he is still only misreading--

"Dream," Hob says. His expression is still kind, though his smile is a bit pained. "I can tell you're spiraling, love."

That word again. Why would Hob say it if he does not mean it?

"If I am wholly wrong and you do not feel anything then please just say so," Dream sniffs, trying and failing not to feel completely stupid.

"You're not," Hob says--which catches Dream before he can fall completely into the net of melancholy that had begun to entrap him. "I'm just--" he runs a hand through his hair with a self-deprecating laugh, his general self-assuredness slipping for the first time Dream has seen. "I'm trying to be sensible."

Dream doesn't understand. It's true that Dream is not exactly a sensible choice in partner, that's been proven, but--

"It just doesn't look very good does it?" Hob continues. "Chase off your asshole ex only to come onto you at your own home? That's real respectful, isn't it?"

"I came onto you," Dream points out. Hob wants to be respectful of Dream? The bar is currently low when it comes to respecting Dream. Dream thinks he would rather have the kindness than the respect. "And I do not mind."

"Well, that's the problem, isn't it?" Hob says. "Look, believe it or not, and you'll probably believe it, but I've been widely known to be impulsive as hell. But I still don't want to be the guy jumping on you the moment you get out of a bad relationship."

This... had not truly occurred to Dream. "I do not think you will be like him."

Hob takes his hand then, the bad one, the one he's fixed. He does it carefully. "No, I know. But I'd hazard you didn't think he'd be like that before you got together, either."

"I... suppose not." Hob is different, though. He knows it.

"Let's just finish our work with your hand first, yeah?" Hob says, squeezing his hand lightly. He seems genuine. He does not seem like he is just making up reasons to turn Dream down. "I think you need to get back to some normalcy, and then you'll know for sure if you really want this."

"I do want this," Dream says. He does not want to lose touch with that feeling. Of wanting something for himself.

"Then you'll still feel that way later on, hm?"

Dream can't find fault with his argument. Though he can't help but still feel that little curl of shame. Embarrassment.

Hob raises Dream's hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. Dream's breath catches.

"Goodnight, Dream," Hob says, letting his hand go again. "I'll see you next week."

And with that, and a smile, he leaves Dream standing in his entryway.

Dream presses his hand to his chest. Perhaps Hob is right. Perhaps he is too... fragile... for this right now. He certainly feels fragile. But Hob makes him feel less so. Not more.

But Hob is not the one who ended up in a relationship with someone who reacted to disappointment by smashing his hand with a hammer. So perhaps Dream should heed his relationship advice, and not his own.

He retreats into his empty flat. Shuts the door, locks it, deadbolts it, and shoves a heavy box of unpacked books in front of it for good measure. Then sits on the floor where there should be a couch and takes out his paints. It still hurts his hand to hold the brush for any length of time. But even to this day, it's the only thing that soothes him.

It's just typical that the time Hob really wants someone is the time he decides he needs to be responsible for once in his life. But he just... he needs time. He needs to know that Dream isn't just... fixating on him because Hob's actually treated him nicely when the last person who cared for him didn't. He doesn't want to do this if Dream is just using him as an emotional rebound from a bad relationship. He's become too enamored with him for that. And he's no king of ideal relationships himself, but he doesn't think it's the best time to be starting a relationship when Dream is still carrying the literal scars of the last one.

Damn if he doesn't regret turning him down, though. Just a little.

He hopes Dream doesn't decide to bail on their regular appointment. In fact, since dropping Dream home, he's been so fixated on the possibility that he fucked it all up that he's stress-cleaned his entire flat. Then he bought finger paints to see for himself how well it works as an exercise. All he's really succeeded in doing is proving that Dream is better at art with one and a half hands than Hob is with two, but maybe it'll make Dream feel better.

He brings his attempt at finger painting to their next appointment. And he's so relieved when Dream does show up. He looks a bit more balanced than he had the other day, too. The hurt in his expression when Hob had turned him down had been painful.

"I decided to try out your exercise," Hob tells him. "To prove to you how well you're doing, if nothing else." He shows him the painting.

And Dream bursts out laughing.

"Hey," Hob protests, but can't stop his smile at the joy on Dream's face. "Don't be mean about it or anything."

"What is this meant to be?" Dream asks, taking the painting and studying it.

"It's a landscape."

Dream turns it ninety degrees. Squints. "Ah, yes, I see that now."

"Well now you're just being a dick about it."

Dream only smiles, then puts the painting away in his bag.

"Oh, you're taking it with you, too?"

"You have mine," says Dream, pointing at the painting of cats that's still propped against the wall by Hob's desk. "So I will put yours on my fridge."

"Oh, great," Hob grumbles. But he can't be upset about the smile on Dream's face.

He's glad to see that putting a pause on things hasn't hurt their developing friendship. If anything it seems better. Perhaps Dream's had time to think things over, too.

"But you see, don't you?" Hob says. "Even while you're recovering, your skills are still way better."

"I... see, yes," Dream agrees, ducking his head. "I. I did try painting again. But it hurts."

Because you're probably overdoing it, Hob thinks. "How's your hand feel now?"

"...Sore," Dream admits.

"Can I see?"

Dream gives him his hand, and Hob feels victorious that it's with less hesitance than he had once done. He starts massaging Dream's palm where it feels the most tense, and watches Dream's wary expression--he must have thought Hob was just going to move his hand this way and that and make it hurt--melt into surprise.

"Do you do this with all of your clients, Hob?" he asks, weakly.

"Only the ones I really like," Hob says, and winks. Can't have Dream thinking he's not interested, after all.

Dream blushes, but lets Hob keep playing with his hand. He really does have such gorgeous hands. If Hob ever runs into that ex again he might have to do more than punch him.

"That helping?" Hob asks, and Dream nods, but he's still blushing so it's somewhat unclear in exactly what manner it's helping.

"Good," Hob says anyway. And finds he's truly hopeful that they'll get there. With Dream's dexterity, with... other things.

It's just going to take a bit of time.

#my brain is somewhere else this week and this is the only thing i feel capable of writing. not even because of fixating on it just because #it's so much simpler than my other fics 😂 this is all I am capable of handling brainpower wise #probably just need more sleep...#also dream in this universe needs sooo much therapy oh my god #dreamling #my writing #physical therapy fic #long post #cw abuse

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