#drug rehabilitation cw

[bamsara]

Local chaos god gets humbled, creates chaos over it. His aim still needs some work though

I really need to stop drawing Drunken Gods chapter stuff and actually finish the damn chapter lmao

#trod au #the rehabilitation of death #cult of the lamb #cotl leshy #cotl yellow cat #leshy x yellowcat #leshycat #slight narilamb if you squint there #doodles #cw alcohol #cw drug mention

[journeywithmorphinejournal]

Today, I resolved to resist, but anxiety overwhelms, leaving my hands restless. The need for constant movement, a shield against weakness, threatens a return to old habits. This daily goal is my lifeline—a chance to prove I can break free from the pull of rehab. Yet, thoughts of it consume me, casting doubt on my journey. The pursuit of freedom feels distant; its pursuit, a battle against shadows that linger, suggesting I may never truly be free.

#addicted #addiction #addict #rehabilitation #tw drugs #drugs cw #oxycontin morphine lsdoxycontin

[gremlingottoosilly]

The only thing you want to do is... [Price x fem!Reader]

Price broke his hand on the last mission. Fortunately for him, his caretaker is just as adorable as she is eager to help him in every way.

CW and tags: Legal age gap, power imbalance, daddy kink, pervert!Price, obsessive!Price, coercion into sex, handjob (m!receiving)

Word count: 3246

This work on AO3

You’re such a sunshine, it hurts. 

John Price never considered himself to be a good man. He did what he had to do to protect his country, to ensure that big bad terrorists are kept at bay, and foreign militaries are ending up where they belong – somewhere in the ditch, with reports stating KIA an anonymous bullet drugged out of their skulls. 

His job was just that – a job, something that had to be done because he knew that someone else, someone worse, would gladly take his place in case of retirement. The captain can be considered a fucking angel compared to some people he is working with – no one would ever dare call him evil when people like Graves still exist out there, hunting for innocents. 

But you’re so fucking sweet to him, he simply can’t handle it. 

When his arm got injured, and he was forced to get on leave for at least a month – he tried to argue for something less, but Lasswell silently pointed out that he hadn’t had a break in the past five years, and she would kick him out of his own Task Force if he’d continue to refuse – he got assigned a caretaker by Kate recommendation. 

John was fully expecting some old lady, probably a retired officer or field medic. Maybe some burly man with too much time on his hands and the ability to give really nice massages under flights of bullets. Perhaps, worst case scenario, he would be assigned an actual; nurse that wouldn’t buy any of his shit – that amount of whiskey he drinks is prescribed by his therapist, smoking cigars in the apartment is a nice form of relaxation, and he actually doesn’t need help and can go in service back again less than in two weeks. 

But, the Captain got wee ol’ you, all nice and warm, and adorable, and too fucking young to have anything to do with his apartment. 

You’re nice, warm, fresh out of college, where you got some recommendations about rehabilitating veterans back into normal lives. Probably was writing a Thesis about something as dumb as “Healing PTSD through flower crowns and little touches”. You chirp your way into his heart and refuse to go out – just like Kate promised to him, you really didn’t allow him to do anything on his own. 

God, it was infuriating – how much he wanted to simply grab your shoulders and kiss you. Or kick you out and find someone else to take care of him, someone boring, someone of appropriate age. Without dumb, bright eyes and cute smiles, without enthusiasm, that can only be seen in unpaid interns and college graduates who still believe that the world is fair and nice. 

You cook his dinners and clean up his apartment – as small as it is, never having a family or any other reason to make it even slightly bigger – and you do this with such a wide smile on your face it actually makes Price question basically everything he knows about young ladies doing charity work. You must be paid triple because you fold his underwear in neat little cubes and refuse to accept his help. Always chirped something about his hand like he can’t kill a man with his teeth only. 

— I can fold my own pants, love. 

He presses his body against the doorframe of the small bathroom – looks at your ass so shamelessly bent over the washing machine. You’re folding his dried clothes, and he can only pray that you aren’t slowly resenting him for being such a disgusting old man. He knew he looked good for his age, 37 years in this world molded him into something that many young women would consider hot – even though his beard is unkept and his hair grew a bit longer since he couldn’t be arsed to do anything about it, and his dominant hand is broken. 

— We don’t want to sprain your hand even more, right? — Everythin’ is alright with my bloody hand…

— Lady Lasswell said I shouldn’t listen to you like this, sir. Sorry. 

— Little minx. 

— Me or Lady Lasswell? 

John looks at you, so eager and cheerful, and he just wants to…he can’t, of course, he stops himself before he even forms the thought because it’s dirty and you don’t deserve this, and your shy smile as you laugh softly and push the last of the laundry in the neat pile on the washing machine. 

You look too eager to please, and he has an idea – the one he will never act upon. Maybe will entertain himself later, stroking himself in some abandoned base deep in the snowy tundra, trying to remember your warmth as if a sinner like him can even comprehend your light. 

God, you got him so bad, he starts thinking about good ol’ Jesus again. You really are a side to behold, aren’t ya. 

He looks at you again – you’re so easy to please. You cook for him, the smell of home cooking that he almost forgot, all the ingredients you invited yourself to buy when he left his card for you. You didn’t think it was weird, not a single mischievous bone in your body – if anything, he was casually prompting you to go and buy yourself something nice, something as compensation for all the trouble you endured for him. 

Instead, you went out of your way to cook for him, to make him tea like he wanted it – without sugar, but with a small amount of milk poured into a cup that is probably the most expensive thing in this whole place except for his weapons. 

The problem is – John Price doesn’t really like it when people are taking care of him. Not because he is shy or insecure, god forbid, but because he knows that if a pretty young thing like you is going to show him kindness, he will take a fucking mile and make you run from him as fast as you can. He has desires, he has needs, something that pretty good girls like you should know nothing about. 

You’re so eager to please that you’ll probably jerk him off if he were to whine about his arm being broken and his inability to get himself off because of it. Which, in turn, gives him an…idea. 

Price was never a good person – he isn’t the worst guy either. He sees your reactions, that adorable heat of your face when he brushes his knuckles over your cheek in an affectionate manner. How you are biting your lips every time you have to fold his underwear, when you cook for him, and he presses his body against yours, rocking his hips just gently enough to not make his arousal obvious. John knows you like him in more ways than just one – he doubts that such a lovegirl like you would ever agree to take care of a grumpy military man like him. 

He wonders where your father is – probably out of the picture if his precious daughter is almost crying from a desire to please a guy like him. He wonders if you have a boyfriend or if you’re seeing someone else – if you’re a virgin or you already had a series of disappointing sessions with blokes that have no idea how to behave with an angel like you. 

Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be taking care of a SAS captain – did your superiors forget to tell you just how girl-hungry men like him are? That he didn’t even bother to find a wife, and the loneliness of a single life will make him fucking explode if a girl as pretty as you were in the vicinity of that perverted old dog. You must be stupid – or so insanely naive, it’s not even funny. 

He licks his lips, staring at you again. He is certainly isn’t a good guy – not the worst either, but it’s up for debate. He wants to hold you close and say all of those pretty good things he knows you want to hear. He also wants to push you as close to him as possible and just fuck that pretty girl until you’re begging for him to make you his wife. He’d always laugh at the thought of other military commanders and higher rank soldiers having sugar babies – especially the mercs and their fucking inability to keep a girl who isn’t tied to their paychecks. But now…he might just pay for your adorable pout and eagerness. 

Might make a call to that one masked arsehole and ask how the hell he keeps his questionably young wife around without breaking her legs. Visibly, at least. 

— Sir? Planet calls for Captain Price. 

You giggle when you are waving your hand around him. Shit – looks like he zoned out for a hot minute, leaving you free to stare at his face, the fantom red spreading across his skin as if he is actually embarrassed to be caught like this. He isn’t, of course, he is stronger than some girl trying to get a rise out of him. He thinks he is stronger, at least. 

You wave your hand in front of his face again, and the insects are kicking in – captain grabs your hand, not even caring that his supposed helplessness stems from the fact his dominant hand is still broken. He has no problems keeping you in place with just his left hand – and you almost look scared when you understand that you literally can’t move. 

Your innocent smile turns into a pathetic whimper when he squeezes you even more. Bruises, no doubt, are starting to form already – well, it should be your fault. Good girls are usually smarter than teasing an old dog like him, even if you’re trying to play innocence. He knows what you are. 

His future special girl that is. A wife, if he plays his cards right…and the captain was always good at poker. 

— Shite, love. Sorry. 

His smile mirrors yours – an innocent display like he didn’t almost break your wrist in his hold. He is still squeezing your hand, but not he slowly presses his lips against your knuckles – thin, dry lips gently caressing your skin in a gesture that you should never accept from a guy who kills people as a job. Who saves people, too – but a good guy with a gun is barely an upgrade from a bad one. 

He kisses your fingers and finds heaven in the feeling of your soft skin against his lips. You are certainly embarrassed, and this is exactly what he wants – an old pervert trying to get in the pants of a cute girl who just wants to take care of him without any strings attached. He just has to make this whale thing complicated, isn’t he? 

— It’s okay, sir. Just thought I lost you for a second. 

— Not a chance. 

Your smile looks a tad bit mischievous – that is, or he is simply hallucinating from painkillers he is forced to drink every morning because you refuse to let him feel pain even though he is used to it. You are acting like he is a soft doll made out of pink ribbons and soft plushes, not a seasoned soldier with his own thoughts and ideas about what he can do about your desire to please him. He might just use your eagerness – his cock has been pitching for too long without female attention, and he usually doesn’t indulge in shitty one-night stands in some sketchy pubs, but he can make an exception for now. For you. 

You smile awkwardly, still trying to get your hand out of his grasp. Little minx, teasing him like he can’t just push you on this exact washing machine and fuck you like a slut you are. Poor girl, you probably don’t even know what kind of thoughts he has in his head – even though your eyes tell him something your lips cannot articulate. 

John acts on his instincts, and they usually don’t deceive him. 

— If you want to help so badly, I can think of another way. 

— Is that so, sir? You’re going to get him in so much shit with Lasswell, he doesn’t even know how he is going to get out of it after fucking her best little protege. Would have to marry you – like it’s not his end goal, like he doesn’t want to make your care for him a tad bit more permanent. He has done so many good things for humanity, why can’t he be a bit selfish and get himself a little something to make this place feel more like home? 

He thinks of a pretty thing like you, heavy with his kids, cooking something nice and hearty in his house – not this crappy apartment, of course, he’d buy you something in the countryside, away from terrorists and public squares, with good schools and greenery all around. 

You lick your lips and tilt your head to the side. He is daydreaming again. 

— If you want to make me relax so badly, love, there is something I need help with…

Beating around the bush like this isn’t in his character – but he knows that you’re a good girl, maybe way too good and proper. He can’t just shove his dick in your hand, it would be too unpolite. 

He has to prepare you, it’s a slow sniper mission where he needs to approach you as gently and quietly as possible – he still holds your hand in his, a phantom of his lips tucked away on the softness of your skin. 

Then he places his hand on his growing erection – as awkwardly as he can operate with only using his left arm as a helper. 

Price might not be the master of espionage, but he also didn’t get his rank for not being able to do cover missions under pressuring circumstances and lie in the faces of people who trust him. Not be the best person, of course, but he gives you a choice. You have all the power now – even with his weapons safely stashed in his bedroom, he knows he won’t ever try to force you. He won’t have to. 

— Help your captain, eh? 

You’re embarrassed, shy, scared even – your hands are trembling, fingers tracing the outline of his cock with morbid curiosity he never thought he’d find this adorable. You don’t stop and don’t try to fight him – like a little animal, nervous and terrified somewhat, you’re slowly indulging yourself in something that you actually shouldn’t. 

He lets go of your hand and allows you to continue on your own – like a good girl, you only nod and slowly duck your palm in his boxers. He’d say that the way he is rock-solid just from looking at your ass and pouting on your face is weak, but he can afford to be a bit pathetic after so many weeks without the ability to jerk off. With your watchful gaze, he just couldn’t find it in his heart – or the only remaining working hand – to do something to help with his raging crush on this adorable social worker who comes to help him. 

John is many things – a war hero, war criminal, the captain, and the butcher of many who may deem his actions irredeemable. He made peace with not being the poster good guy and often dirtying his hands just to keep the world clean – and he knows that, in the end, he deserves a pretty young thing to jerk him off while he kisses your hairline and whispers sweet nothing with that beautiful accent of his. 

— This is not very… appropriate, sir.

— Bullocks, love. You’re helpin’, that’s why you’re here. 

 You’re nervous when your hand, squeezing his shaft firmly, goes up and down on his cock. You’re trying to find the rhythm in his quiet grunts and little moans, not having too much experience with pleasuring men who you like this much. It’s fear of disappointing him that makes you go wild, that approving gaze of his every time you press your soft fingers against the head of his cock and squeeze a little. 

He is throbbing in your palm, pre-cum leaking on the small of your fingers – naturally, you lick it as slowly as possible, not breaking the eye contact. 

Price moans. 

— Bloody hell, luv…so good for daddy. 

The name makes your ears burn, the desire growing in your stomach – you fight the urge to drop on your knees and take him fully in your mouth. This isn’t what he wants, you think, so you just continue to squeeze him more, making sure he is satisfied with every little movement your hand makes. You lick your lips and continue, feeble attempts at containing the rhythm with shaky fingers. 

— I just wanted to help you with your life, not…this. 

He chuckles, unharmed hand presses on the small of your back to fix you in place. You lick your lips, understanding that he is not going to let you go this easily – you don’t want to behave like this, of course, it’s against the terms of your contract and your agreement to help him without feelings attached, but he moans so deeply for you, hips are buckling to fuck the firmness of your hand like he is ready to use your moist, prepared pussy. 

God, what are you even thinking about? 

You don’t know if you should be doing this, but the captain is not letting you go – and you can’t even do anything against his wishes, can you? 

— We really shouldn’t be doing this. 

— Quiet. I’ll help you out after my hand is healed, eh? — This isn’t what I’m talking about, sir. 

— Now, let’s not use that here. I’m sir in the field, not here. 

He is manipulating you as hard as he can – he can feel the tension in your eyes and the way you’re squeezing his cock, and he wants nothing more but to simply push you harder, make you fall apart in his hold like a precious porcelain vase. You’re sensitive and shy, just perfect for a bastard like him – his only regret is that the dumb cast on his right hand won’t really allow him to relax to have sex with you properly. 

He will pay you back later – on your back, on your knees, on your tummy, moaning his name as he plunges his seed deep into you. It was about time he’d settle down with a pretty wife of his own – he can afford you, certainly. 

— I can’t call you daddy, it’s embarrassing…

Your shy words are what send him over the edge. John Price was never a good guy to begin with, but your little pleas are enough to make him cum – and it’s certainly one of the biggest sins he has ever committed. Cute girl like you shouldn’t be so embarrassed about jerking him off, but here you are. 

Your hands are covered in cum as he continues to release his seed, only sad because he wasn’t able to breed you properly – that’s the agenda for the time when he finally is freed from this dumb cast. Might just ask Lasswell for extended leave. 

— You’ll just have to get used to this, love. Not letting you go after this. 

You can only whimper when he kisses you – possessive and tender at the same time. A silent promise of making you his dumb little wife. 

#cod #yandere price #price x reader #captain price #john price #captain john price #yandere cod #call of duty #cod imagine #cod fanfic

[tommysversion]

Electric Touch (Part 1; Santiago Garcia x AFAB!Reader)

Summary: For five years or longer, you’ve had a thing for your brother’s best friend. A chance opportunity brings you together at last. (it’s smut with very little plot.) CWs: mentions of drug use & addiction, mentions of rehabilitation, scars & gunshot wounds. Unsafe PIV sex (the pullout method is NOT reliable, folks), oral sex, reference to an implied age gap.

Word Count: 2.9k

Masterlist

He’s your brother’s best friend, which automatically makes him completely off limits. Maybe it’s that sense of being utterly forbidden that draws you to him, initially. That, and you have eyes, and Santiago Garcia is without a doubt one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. Beautiful, dangerous, everything you could ever want.

It’s a pity he has such a reputation; you’ve been present at enough cookouts, been the designated driver for your brother and his old friends enough times to hear every sordid detail, stories of how he used to seduce his informants, or, as Ben puts it?

“Fucked his way through half of Colombia.”

It shouldn’t bother you. It isn’t the body count - both metaphorical and literal - that bothers you. It’s the blatant tug of jealousy in your heart whenever you’re reminded that other people have been able to touch him. If only you were braver, but you’re afraid he’ll only ever see you as Frankie’s kid sister, the college girl who used to hide in her room and study whenever they got too rowdy.

That was years ago, and you’ve since grown up. Graduated. Outgrown the shy girl and blossomed into a confident woman. You don’t struggle for dates, for companionship, but it never lasts, inevitably comes to a grinding halt whenever whoever you’re seeing clues in to the not so subtle fact that you’re completely hung up on someone else. You’ve tried so damn hard not to be, but at this point? You’ve just accepted your fate.

It wouldn’t be so difficult, if you weren’t in such close proximity as of late. It’s just been you and Frankie for years, but now he has a wife, a baby daughter, and he’s trying to get clean. He’s accepted a plea deal to get his pilots license back, agreed to go to rehab. You’re pretty sure that’s more for baby Maria’s sake, than the license.

Still. Your brother is your best friend, and you miss him, miss him rocking up to your house with your niece while his wife is at work, because he’s your brother and he’s always there for you. Since he’s been in the rehab centre, Santi’s made it his business to look in on you. Sometimes he just comes and repairs things for you. Other times you just drink coffee and then go visit Frankie. He’s doing art therapy at the moment, sketching helicopters in surprisingly pristine detail. It must be working, that and the meds he’s on, he says it helps with the urge to use. You’re just glad he’s getting help.

It’s easy to keep a lid on things when you see Santi barely often, in the context of him being Frankie’s buddy. Less so when he’s standing in your kitchen in an olive green shirt that’s at least one size too small, clinging to his broad shoulders, the sunlight highlighting the silver streaks in his dark curls as he makes coffee.

You can’t help but stare, trying to be subtle about it but allowing your gaze to linger when his back is turned. Your home isn’t tiny, but the space feels constricted when he’s here, like the room shrinks and you’re distinctly aware of his presence. Like you don’t spend most nights laying awake thinking of him. Of a dozen different scenarios in which he could make you his. Sometimes, in your mind, he’s passionate and gentle. Other times, he’s degrading and rough; you think about him shoving his fingers in your mouth and taunting you, putting you on your hands and knees and fucking you until you cry, making you beg and plead for him.

It’s difficult not to think of those daydreams when he’s in close proximity, and you’re immensely fucking glad he can’t read minds.

You know what he is, what he’s done, so it’s incredibly strange to have him following you around the house like a guard dog while you fold laundry, go to put it away. Even stranger, the way he hesitates in the doorway of your room. Like coming in would cross some sort of line. Maybe it would.

“You can come in, you know. Or, I mean… you don’t have to stick around. I know you probably have way better shit to be doing than… I don’t know. This?”

There’s no bitterness in the way you say it. You aren’t sure why he’s stuck around longer than he has to; he’s done it a few times now, lingering in your house, helping you with odd jobs and such. You wonder if it’s some misplaced obligation to Frankie.

“You want me to fuck off?” He leans against the doorframe, a slight smile playing across his face as he says it.

“Not what I meant. Just don’t feel like you have to stick around, you know?”

He doesn’t answer, not straight away. Instead he very deliberately crosses into your room and sits down on the edge of your bed, watching as you put neatly folded clothes away into the dresser. You try not to think about the fact that he’s sitting on your bed. The bed that has fresh sheets on it because you’d soaked the old ones the night before, thinking of him, fucking yourself into a dazed stupor.

“It’s not an obligation. I know you’re thinking that, but it isn’t. Consider maybe I actually enjoy the normality of this routine.” He dips his head slightly as he says it, as though admitting it was almost… embarrassing.

You must be misreading things; wishful thinking is a hell of a drug.

“Very funny. I’m sure it’s the highlight of your week, checking in on your best friends kid sister.” You say it lightly, but the sarcasm is there.

“I’m very aware you aren’t a child, princesa. Haven’t been for a very long time. If I didn’t want to be around you, I wouldn’t. You know what I’m like. I’m not going to pretend to enjoy your company if I don’t.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s the precise opposite of what Benny says you were like in Colombia. Pretending to enjoy people’s company, charming people. All of that.”

He watches you for a moment, expression unreadable.

“Wasn’t aware you’d been keeping track of those details.”

“Hard not to. So either you’re being polite, or you’re trying to get laid.” Your tone makes it clear that you’re joking about the last part, toss the last of the laundry into the dresser and turn to face him. You probably shouldn’t have made the comment, worry you’ve told on yourself, that he might be uncomfortable by it. The look on his face surprises you. He’s watching you with a sort of intensity you’ve not seen before, at least, not directed at you.

“I’m not just being polite.”

The implication hangs between you as you stare at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to call your bluff.

“Very funny.” You get out, your throat dry.

He rolls his eyes, beckons you over. You hesitate for a moment, then move, cross the small distance so you’re standing in front of him, close enough to touch.

“I’m not joking.”

“Santi…” you’re not sure what to say; it comes out more like a warning, confused, knowing that if you cross this line there’s no going back. “You can’t expect me to believe that you actually want me.”

“Why not? I’ll admit, I waited until a point when Fish couldn’t beat my ass for it, which is probably shitty, but I never said I was a good man.”

You stare at him, processing the words for a moment before you level him with a challenging look.

“Prove it.” The words come out before you can consider whether or not it’s a good idea, intent on calling his bluff, regardless of whether or not it’ll hurt your feelings.

He’s on his feet in the time it takes you to blink, pulling you flush against him and devouring your mouth in a hungry kiss. You lean into him, let your hands wander freely for as long as he’ll allow it, fingers curling into his belt loops to pull yourself closer to him. He doesn’t stop you, curls his rough hand into your hair to keep you in the kiss, his other hand grabbing your ass for a moment before he’s releasing you, finding the zip of your dress and yanking it down.

Your hands find the hem of that too tight dark green shirt, pull it up over his head. He lets you do it, a smug smirk crossing his face at the way you stare. His torso is littered with scars, some old, some more fresh. Your fingertips skim across some of them, touching gently until he moves you so he can rid you of your underwear, turning you and backing you up.

The back of your knees hit the bed, and you fall backwards, pulling him with you, caged in by his arms bracing himself above you. Your hand twists into salt and pepper curls, dragging him into another greedy kiss, your other hand tracing along his chest, touching the dimples and ridges of every different scar. You’re not military, but you know a bullet wound from a knife wound, touch each one reverently, enjoying the way he practically purrs under your touch.

“These don’t hurt, do they?” You run your fingers across one of the fresher bullet wounds, where it looks like he was grazed by it, and he shakes his head.

“No. They’re numb, mostly.” He presses an open mouthed kiss to your collarbone, kisses down your sternum, across your hips. “Like it when you touch them, though.”

“Yeah?” Your hand is back in his hair, trailing up the back of his neck carefully and settling; you can feel the scar there, too, on your way up.

“Hmm.” He purrs it as he spreads your legs, nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You stare at him for a moment, committing the sight before you to memory, because fuck, you’ve wanted him for so long, and if this is a one time stroke of luck, you want to remember every moment of it.

Slowly, he keeps kissing up your thigh, pausing when he’s maybe an inch from your core; you can feel his hot breath against your sensitive skin, shiver under it.

“Tease.” You pout at him, watch him smirk at you from between your thighs, dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Oh, absolutely, princesa. I’m gonna take my time, gonna eat this sweet little pussy until you’re begging for my cock.” The tip of his tongue flicks out, circles your clit as his hands keep your legs spread wide for him, thighs draped over his broad shoulders. You wriggle slightly under his touch, drawing a pleased little hum from his throat as he moves down, and without warning, buries his face in your cunt, his nose brushing your clit as he devours you like he’s starving for you.

The sounds you make are nothing short of obscene, little gasps and moans, tugging on his hair, begging him to keep going, to keep touching you, a keening sound tearing from your lips when he slides two thick fingers into you, immediately curling them into your sweet spot.

“There we go, that’s it…” His eyes glitter with lust as he praises you, starts to work you open as he kisses his way back up your body, pausing to suck lazily on your nipples, biting them gently before he returns his attention to your throat, kissing sensitive skin, drawing more sweet little sounds from you. “Look at you, so tight round my fingers…”

You whimper, drag him into another desperate kiss, unable to resist touching him when he’s so willing. He pulls away reluctantly, smirking when you make a pathetic little noise of disappointment.

“So needy…” he draws his fingers out of you, groaning softly at the lewd wet sound of your cunt as he presses them back in, knuckle deep.

Santi trails open mouthed kisses along your throat again, sucking a mark into your collarbone, making you gasp and contract around his fingers. When he greedily sucks a nipple into his mouth again, still fucking you with his fingers, you cry out, a desperate little sound.

“C’mon, princesa, let go for me. Cum for me, then beg me for my cock,” his breath is warm against your flushed skin.

You can feel the hot, heavy length of his cock pressed against your thigh as he kisses you again, and it briefly occurs to you that his long string of informants never stood a goddamn chance. No wonder they all told him anything he wanted to hear. You’d sell your soul, too, if it meant he’d touch you like this again.

He bites down on your nipple gently, tugs it between his teeth, curling his fingers against your sweet spot, and you gush around him, shaking beneath him as you soak his still curling fingers, your slick dripping out of you onto the sheets.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he draws his fingers out of you slowly, presses them to your lips. Eagerly you part them, suck his fingers into your mouth greedily, clean your own release.

It’s not enough. You’re going to do exactly as he asked, beg him for it.

“Santi…” you whine his name, watch him grin at you smugly.

“Something you want?”

“Please…” you draw it out, uncaring how pathetic you sound, “please, I need you…”

He gives you a little smirk, cages you in beneath him once more, one big scarred hand moving to hike your thigh up around his waist. You keep it there automatically as that same hand guides his cock to your still dripping pussy, notches the tip at your entrance and pushes in slowly.

It takes all of his control not to just slam into you, but then your nails drag up his back and you give him a pleading look, and all of his control shatters. He presses in deep, bottoming out in a single fluid thrust that has you screaming his name, making him wonder why he didn’t do this sooner, because fuck if his name has ever sounded sweeter being moaned in sheer pleasure than it does on your lips.

He grinds against you, teasing, drawing more of those sweet sounds from you.

“So tight, just made for my cock, weren’t you?” The words are low, soft praise in your ear, soft and filthy and perfect when he grinds his hips steadily into yours. “Should have done this so much sooner, thought about you so often. Did you think of me?”

“So many times,” you admit, moaning for him as he rocks into you.

“Yeah? You touch this sweet little pussy and think of me?” His thumb moves to rub at your clit, in time with the steady roll of his hips, drawing circles on the sensitive little bud. You whimper for him, arch your back up and sigh.

“So often, wanted you so bad.”

“Oh, I can tell, sweetheart, I can feel how much this pretty cunt needed me.” He presses a wet kiss to your collarbone before he picks up the pace. “Desperate for me. So wet and tight. Absolutely fucking beautiful.” He trails off into a low growl as he slams into you, harder and faster with each rock of his hips, pressing deep, drawing obscene little mewls from your lips.

“Santi, I -“ you can’t get the words out, steadily becoming more and more overwhelmed as he slowly works you closer to the edge.

“I know, pretty girl, I can feel it. Cum for me.” The last three words are a demand, no matter how softly spoken it may be, and it’s enough to send you over. You cling to him, his name falling from your lips like a repeated prayer, over and over, moaned and desperate, feeling your cunt tighten around him and soak his cock as he drives himself deeper into you.

He knows he isn’t necessarily a good man; his hands have held weapons that have ended lives, his mouth spoken words that have sentenced people to death. Those same hands are exceedingly gentle in how he handles you, his lips soft and warm against your skin. He knows you aren’t fragile, but he handles you as if you are anyway.

The way you shake and whimper for him just drives him closer to the edge of his own release, no longer caring about anything except chasing it. His hips slam into yours, rough and uncontrolled, making no attempt to be precise anymore, finally pulling out of you at the last second, groaning and cursing as he spills onto your stomach.

“Fuck…” He groans, panting for breath as he stills, keeping himself off of you with one hand as the other moves to brush sweat damp curls from his eyes.

You grin at him from where you’re caged in beneath him, still trying to regulate your own breathing. Once he can breathe properly himself, he grins right back.

“Worth the wait?”

“Don’t be so arrogant.” You laugh and swat at him.

His grin widens as he glances at his watch, then shakes his head.

“Visitation’s over.”

“Fuck.” You chew your lip and then shrug, “I’ll tell Frankie I was sick. Very sick.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s my excuse?” Santi smirks down at you, clearly eager to humor you in his post climax state.

You consider it for a moment, or at least pretend to, before you lean up and kiss him.

“You had to take care of me.”

“Yeah? Might just have to do that again…” he leans down to devour your lips once more in another hungry kiss, any other activity for the day completely forgotten.

#my writing #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia #Oscar Isaac #triple frontier #triple frontier fic

[dialupmodern]

CW: Drug mentions, violence mentions, melancholic themes

Combat doll. It had heard the term plenty, spit toward them with plenty of venom from squads walking past, drunk and sober patrons of the local bar, even once by it's former handler. "Combat doll… it's a term not unlike a slur," she had said. "Pilots like you, that lose too much of yourselves, get 'burnt out,' and, well, we have to do something for them. The only thing we've found that works is putting you into heavily weaponized bodies, with artificially grown organics, steel and weapons aplenty. They simulate the experience of a pilot in the cockpit well enough to return some small sense of normalcy." Not normal by the standards of the "real" people that passed them by, but normal enough that they could get work and support themselves. The program was very high-profile, boatloads of military spending (drops in the bucket compared to the mech program itself,) went to rehabilitating pilots to cover up what would seem to the general public to be atrocities. Pilots were allowed to choose many aspects of their new bodies, in order to feel more comfortable with them. Perfect skin, weapons galore, size, shape, anything they wanted. Most were too far gone to really care about their bodies beyond the templates they were shown. To the former pilots, the true atrocity was being separated from the only true completeness they had ever known. Any body besides the machines they had come to know so intimately, to be, would never be good enough. The former pilot mused on the thought of the program, it's flaws and it's very existence as it walked out of the office building and into the frigid night. Looking down at itself, it saw the polished black latex skin stretched over it's cybernetic frame, concealed weapons twitching imperceptibly beneath the perfect surface. It's chassis was meant to mimic a body similar to what it had before, but it had enough presence of mind to fine-tune some of the details. Many ended up choosing similar chassis, it was no wonder the models built for sexual appeal were popular, given the things that pilots experienced within their machine vessels. Even with the weapons and the medications, most still ended up addicted to neurotransmitters, even the occasional combat stim they could find on the black market. Every so often you'd hear quiet reports of a rehabilitated pilot going on a killing spree, but those were always neatly swept under the rug. Many such cases were due to handlers being assigned new pilots, thus a large source of familiarity being taken away from them. The public wanted to see pilots as necessary sacrifices, heroes that would die valiantly in battle. When confronted with the reality of the broken shells that came out the other side, most had no sympathy, if not outright vitriol. The former pilot wandered the streets, it had nothing else to do except wait for the start of it's next shift, to keep going until the next meeting with it's handler. It didn't know how long the meetings would continue, until it would see it's handler's face for the last time. It strained, trying to consider, to think that far into the future, but it was pointless, the irreversible changes to it's mind made thinking too far ahead impossible. For now, then, wandering and staying upright was enough for it. It had to be, after all.

#my writing #empty spaces #combat doll #mech pilot #mech posting

[1eoness]

i literally cant stop thjnking abt joji ever since i got tickets to his concert so ... can i request an angst that's based on his song glimpse of us :') leon and reader are dating and all leon can think of is ada ( OR VICE VERSA IDEK )

okay flexing on me i see u anon.......... /stares condescendingly/ jk

and sure let me just put the song on repeat until i start convulsing and oh wow an actual title that is only mildly shitty? go me.

also, i received this request like probably over a month ago im sooo sorry about that TT

cw; angst, depressed re4remake!leon x gn!reader. shitty toxic relationship, super fucking short bc im uncreative.

blind glances

synopsis :

deep down, leon aches for his ex-girlfriend. you're the gauze of a heart that does not bleed for you. you're looking at him but his affection does not rouse at the sound of your name.

it's eating at him. he'll never escape the realization that even a lifetime of getting used to you won't ever amount to having a brief glimpse of ada wong.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

if guilt is a penalty then leon is a man for the guillotine. he wakes up beside you, warm skin on just skin when he reaches over to gently kiss you on the forehead for a love-empty greeting. does he like doing it?

no.

leon has a blurry count of how long it has been since he last felt the high of love.

he will never deny it. leon is a fool for tying tight strings for a woman that kissed him with lies but you just don't know anything. you don't know the raw care that lingers on ada's face, her stoic tendencies, her slender shoulders that carry the burden of a past he'll never know of. he's a fucking idiot for keeping scores with a bossy woman and finding love in her during a citywide bloodshed.

but because of the wrong of it all, shit, he felt the most human in the fucking world. leon deserving a healthy relationship after the incident in raccoon? bullshit, he doesn't deserve that; not when he's just going to end up hurting you with his pain. it won't ever change the fact that a part of him shudders at the sheer thought of ada.

and the naive look on your face will always remind him where it hurts.

during the first few weeks of trying to rehabilitate from a forsaken and true love, leon has already told you his issues and tendencies. you came with the guess that "it's most likely the trauma, leon.. you know i'm here. and let's hope ada is okay." and he nods quietly, kissing your cheek in mechanical reflex.

so you've had this discussion with him before—you were so open, so warm. but leon does not let himself relax around you. you're both a manifestation of his culpability and a cognitive drug to him— it drives him insane sometimes he cries at night and he doesn't even tell you why, just nuzzling into your skin and staining it wet with the depression that seeps in his nerves.

leon's never the smoker but you're a cigarette to him—he needs you when he feels like you're all he's got and he needs you to disconnect from a world that won't give him his ada back, even if it's just for a little while.

you wanted to be so mature but no, you're just a fucking human being as well. you desperately wanted to help leon but what if this is it? what if this is all you might be?

so, you both try to reconcile.

he's blind to the eager light in your eyes when you ramble about your day. he's smiling and playing with his straw while your words go from one ear out the other; because when he locks eyes with you he doesn't see you. he only sees a reflection of himself using you to his mending. and it's anything but your fault.

he somehow still has the audacity to feel some sort of affection towards you; but who will ever tell him he's just guilty and sympathetic? or, no. he just thinks that way.

is it possible? god, is it possible to care for someone you don't love? perhaps, but was that the care you needed?

you needed leon to care for you.

you wished ada was just here to whisk him away and maybe you wouldn't find yourself here. you know it, deep in your stomach. but you are bittersweet, you love to fucking convince yourself leon loves you. he loves you, doesn't he?

he felt like dying that night he saw your face drop when he opened his wallet to pay. he still had a picture of ada in his wallet. why was he so blind? why was he so careless?

...

"...i think i left the faucet open."

you utter begrudgingly after you stood up, calculating your share quickly and dumping it on the table with a rush. he stares at the table with horror gorging at his heart, watching his 'love' walk away from him with tear-blurring eyes. the faucet doesn't stop running when you reach the car. leon knew this, your heart was just too big for your own good.

you felt like a fool; you're the one trying to prove that leon loves you. how stupid does that fucking sound?

so later that night he's at home, inebriated out of his fucking mental while he's hunched over the sink. slightly sunken eyes stare back at him blurrily.

leon tries to rinse the guilt off his face but when he sees himself it's hard to even look—he doesn't know himself anymore, he's just the husk of a man that has his love taken away from him and stuffed in an abyss that stares back. and you don't have to guess which 'love' he's thinking of.

love. the word is so simply ridiculous, isn't it? one minute it's warm and gentle but it feels like a whole war when you try to conquer it. love always wins, it wins over him when he tries his fucking best to just be a better boyfriend for you.

it's like that one quote from that one book. "love is the only rational act."

what leon feels for you is right. he cares for you enough not to bring your hopes up anymore. he should just leave, but he doesn't want to abandon you. but what good is leon if he stays? if there was a god up there, leon pleas, tell me what to do to make it hurt less for them.

temptation is non-existent. his heart belonged to ada. ada ada ada. he's sorry but he can only think of her. even the name sounds right to him. it's a poisonous solace, the way his sombers connect with ada's.

he sleeps before you. you both stopped having the innocent intimacy before bed and now it's just restless individuals sharing the same comforters, desperately finding a warmth in the cold room you both soak in. it's so cold. you reach over to hold him. leon feels so cold.

it gnaws at your heart when you're constantly visualizing a scenario of him choosing whether to save you or ada if it ever came down to it. and you know who he would pick.

"..." leon turns over.

"bad dream?" he whispers but his voice is empty of projected care. but he still cares. he still fucking cares. but why should he?

you answer anyway.

"yeah."

you answer anyway because you still want to be wrapped in his safety. you find yourself pressed to his heart, the back of his hand on your head. soak in the comfort all you want,

but leon still feels cold.

#im eating fried rice while writing ths #MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM #leon kennedy angst

[hunterssm00n]

Beyond the Stars

Layla is a recovering heroin addict on a rehabilitation ship out in deep space; the mission is for the junkies in recovery to build housing for colonies on a new planet that is found to be safe for human existance, therefore giving them a second shot at life without sending them to prison. Basically killing two birds with one stone. However, Layla soon uncovers a secret that Weyland-Yutani Corp. is hiding from the public, and when there's an alien outbreak aboard the ship, she is unsure if she will make it back to Earth to share her gruesome discovery.

chapter 1 of ??

also on ao3: here

*cw include smut, interspecies relationship, canon typical violence/gore, explicit language, past drug use, offensive language, xenomorph things, past abuse, dark themes* MDNI - 18+

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧‎♡‧₊˚

hunterssm00n © All rights reserved by me. I do not allow this work to be used or adapted in any way without my permission.

"Broke! Inside / This life, you can never be reborn within / I came this far, erase my scars / Fight! This time / Inside, take a break from the lie you live / I came this far, erase my scars" ~ 'Erase my Scars' - Evans Blue

Chapter 1: Erase My Scars

The sound of birds chirping woke her up, along with a steady stream of warm light she was aware of even though her eyes were closed. She allowed one eye, the one closest to her pillow, to slowly crack open. The light was not blinding, but rather awakening, if that made any sense. Not harsh, but warm and inviting. Wake up, you are welcome here. Along with the birds and a faint gentle breeze causing leaves on the trees to rustle, it really was paradise.

Too bad it was fake.

She let her other eye open to observe the simulation of said paradise, the image of a sunny summer morning being shown back at her. The image, though a lie, was definitely crafted well. The whole idea of having scenery simulated on the walls of one's bedroom was a definite jackpot. It was both practical and impractical at the same time. Something crazy, but with just enough sense poured into it that it made the whole thing justifiable. The idea, of course, was to soothe the brain into thinking you were somewhere peaceful, serene, safe. She wondered then if there would be some sort of advanced setting upgrade where there was, like, a rock concert going on in the background, or a derby. That would most definitely defeat the whole 'soothing' purpose of the thing though, so probably not. Just another one of those weird little things she wondered. Hell, there wasn't much in here to do but wonder.

She was Layla Thomas, and here was a floating hunk of metal in deep space that housed junkies and recovering drug addicts. Who knew a few hundred years ago that there would be flying rehabilitation centers zooming through the sky, past planets? If they were zooming though, Layla thought, it would probably be much more fun. Not like any of them would really be able to tell anyways. Windows were limited to none, and most of the patients weren't allowed near them. Mainly because recovering druggies could be very dangerous, especially when coming down off of meds or still on the last gasp of their previous high. Druggies, like psychos, had very little concept of pain when doped up, and could display an incredible amount of strength, even if they were not but skin and bones. These corporate suits weren't going to take any chances. Not even on a 5'3 dirty blonde with curvy legs and big brown doe eyes.

Layla lifted her head off of her pillow to fully inspect the image of a maple tree to her right; it probably might've been a bit more believable had the floor also had some sort of simulated grass. It went from the beautiful flowery-grassy-lovely scenery on the wall straight to stark white, cold tile.

With a tired sigh, she shifted on the memory foam mattress to reach to the nightstand, conveniently next to the tree, for the remote. There were a few settings that she favored over the others - one of them being this sunny morning that was displayed right now. But her favorite was the ocean setting, which was what she switched to now. Immediately, the green grass melted away to become blue foaming waves, surrounding her with gentle crashing noises of the tide. The birds chirping became seagulls squalling in the distance, and the yellow streaming sunlight became a creamy pink, orange and blue tye-dye. The color of the sky when the sun rose. Layla settled back onto the bed with another sigh; this one of longing.

She missed Earth, missed her family, missed her freedom. And she missed the ocean. A phenomenon she'd only experience the beauty of a handful of times, but she visited it every day in her memory. Her obsession went so far that she had a mermaid tattoo on the back of her left shoulder. Sometimes she scoffed at herself; twenty-five years old and she still wanted to be a mermaid when she grew up.

The drug use hadn't done anything to dull her overactive imagination. If anything, it had increased it. Kind of what she'd been counting on when she'd taken her first hit. Heroin had been her poison of choice. God damn old bitch had caught her at her worst moments and had helped her to fly. She was glad it was gone, but missed it all the same. The withdrawal had been God awful; spewing from both ends, screaming and crying, night sweats, insomnia... If she ever thought she'd been close to death before, it was nothing compared to what she'd gone through then. She'd honestly thought she was dying; honestly had wanted to go rather than endure another day of the unbearable pain.

Finally sitting up in her bed, Layla looked down at her left arm, the inside of her elbow. The track marks were very visible still, even after three months. They would probably remain in sight for the rest of her life. She frowned at how purple/brown/ugly they looked, like ticks dotting her skin. They'd look much better if she still had her tan - too bad the simulated sunlight couldn't do that for her. It looks real, it sounds real, but it ain't real.

A keyboard note softly sounded out through the room, signifying the presence of somebody outside her door. There was no point in telling them to come in or fuck off. They couldn't hear her. This room was totally soundproof from the outside. The only means of contact was the little clear rectangular device on her nightstand. It would contact a nurse should she need something, and aid as a panic button for emergencies. Other than that, everyone could come and leave as they pleased freely through those doors. Everyone but her.

Layla wasn't exactly sure how many patients besides her there were on this ship. She knew it was big; as big as a commercial towing vehicle, or a medical facility. And they probably wouldn't be going through all this trouble for just her and a few other junkies, so she assumed there was more than a mere handful of them.

The entire point of her being on this floating hunk of junk was so that she could help build housing for colonies on another planet light years away from Earth. There were plenty of rehab centers on Earth that could have helped her, but none that would teach her whatever lesson she was about to be taught. Also, none that would have their own benefit of workers that didn't need to be paid. Layla, unfortunately, hadn't been a good girl back on Earth when it came to her drug problem. And upon being caught, she had run from the cops. Busted for heroin, evading arrest: all factors of the situation spelled bad news for her and her future. In court, she was given a choice: prison, multiple charges, her life ruined because of her own stupid mistake. Or, hopping aboard one of Weyland-Yutani's massive ships (since that company was the founding father of most of their technological advancements), and helping them build a few homes on a barren wasteland of a planet. Afterwards, they would let her off scott-free, clean slate. It almost sounded too good to be true, aside from the fact that they would have to be gone for more than a year from their homes back on Earth.

Sparing herself and her family the messiness and pain of prison, plus all of the combined contributions, Layla took the chance she was offered. Honestly, both options sucked, but plan C, aka. not getting caught, hadn't worked out too well either. She'd brought it upon herself; addiction was truly a disease. So many times she had thought about quitting, but as destructive as the drugs had been, they'd also been the only thing that actually calmed her, soothed her mind. That needle in her arm had brought her solace, even though it was destroying her. Lustrous golden hair was now dull and stringy. Tan skin was now pale with track marks and bruises, veiny and death-like. She had dark circles under her eyes that hadn't gone away in months. At least now though she could sleep - when she had first gone off the drugs, sleep had been non-existent.

The doors slid open to reveal a female nurse, Janine, she thought her name was. Janine, Jenny, Geraldine? She couldn't remember, nor did she really care. It sounded awful, but she had stopped caring about a lot ever since she had gotten into heroin. Things that used to matter didn't seem to anymore. That was one of the many reasons why she had wanted to quit, but the fear of things going back to how they had been completely scared her into putting down the spoon and the syringe.

"Morning doll, how ya doin' this mornin'?" the nurse, Jeanette, she could now read on the nametag, said in a southern twang.

"Just great," Layla grumbled. How the fuck did she think she was doing? She immediately felt bad for her grumpiness. It wasn't this woman's fault she was in this situation. It was her own fault. She was even tired of blaming herself though. She did it all day, and especially when she tried to sleep. Did it in her dreams. It was a shitty situation all around. There had been reasons for why she did what she did. Good reasons. But she didn't want to think about them now. Now it was time to start the day.

"Brought you some new pants, figured you was gettin' tired of the old ones," Jeanette held out another pair of pants identical to the ones Layla was wearing. Layla refrained from rolling her eyes/giving a death glare. Humoring the nurse, she took the pants and made her way to the restroom near the exit. If one more person tries to be funny, someone's gonna get punched, swear to God.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧‎♡‧₊˚

AN: I do not own the Alien franchise or any of its characters, but Layla is my own OC, as well as a few others in this story.

The header above was made by me**

chapter 2

#alien #xenomorph #aliens #alien 3 #alien resurrection #alien covenant #prometheus #my writing #avp #alien vs predator #mine** #my work #interspecies romance #interspecies relationships #teratophillia #exophelia #hunterssm00n #ao3 #fanfiction #fanfic #xenomorph x original female character #alien isolation #beyond the stars

[embossross]

From His Mind to Yours

Chapter 1 >> Chapter 2

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: very very bad therapeutic practice; sexual harassment; references to masturbation; references to murder/drugs/violence

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, torture (not of y/n), and many more that I don't know yet

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~5k

A row of crude teeth marks mangles the shape of your pen. Do you nibble when you’re distracted? Agitated? Hanma waits for you to reveal the particulars of this tell. It’s Chekhov’s gun. Yet in the fifteen minutes since he first catalogued this weakness of yours, your pen has never strayed towards your menacingly, orthodontically straight teeth. It’s Chekhov’s gun but filled with blanks.

Hanma credits himself with a particular skill in reading people. He doesn’t worm his way into their head like Kisaki might or intuit how to inspire blind loyalty like Mikey. No, Hanma’s superpower is picking apart a person’s weaknesses. One. By. One.

You, however, are constructed so carefully, the gummy rim of pen is the only sign you have a beating pulse.

When Kisaki ordered him to see a shrink, Hanma obliged because obeying Kisaki is second nature after a decade as his number two. Time and again, Hanma has followed Kisaki blindly into battle or business. Nearly every time – especially in those early years – he was rewarded for it. So here he is.

Maybe filling the hours with the sound of his own voice in a sterile office is not going to relieve his demons, but orders are orders. Today’s order is to attend therapy.

While you explain to Hanma the particulars of your credentials – blah blah, top university, blah – he sizes you, his shiny new therapist, up and finds you lacking. You are young, probably overeager to prove you can rehabilitate one of Tokyo’s most wanted. An impersonal office to match your bland, impersonal clothing; conservative, probably to appease the sex freaks that frequent your office. Over-groomed with bobby pins digging into your scalp and threatening a migraine, nylons that would never dare tear, manicured nails with clear polish. You are pretty despite your best efforts to hide it. Still, there is something about the way you move, performative in your restraint.

You are either the most confident person Hanma has ever encountered or the most wildly insecure.

If you would just nibble on the damned pen, he would have his answer.

“I prefer to speak with the friends and family of my patients before sitting down with them for the first time,” you say – maybe the fourth time you’ve impressed this fact upon him in his brief time in your office. “And Kisaki-san told me that you haven’t been sleeping well. Have you ever visited a doctor for insomnia?”

“No.”

One-word answers. Just enough that Kisaki can’t accuse him of refusing to cooperate.

“Do you take anything prescribed for insomnia?”

“No.”

“What about self-medicating? Or…does your trouble sleeping correspond to the use of any stimulants? Maybe Methamphetamines?”

Hanma refuses to give you credit for a lucky guess. The meth could be classified as a pleasant mistake. The temporary brain bliss is almost as pleasurable as feeling his fist collide with skin, or the rush when a person’s skull turns concave under the force of his knuckles. It’s why he started using.

It also happens to make him trigger happy, neurotic and perpetually late to meetings. Hanma suspects the latter was the last straw for Kisaki. Overkill is one thing but tardiness? Kisaki is running a business after all.

“Mostly meth but also cocaine, Diazepam, weed, LSD. I could go on. I sell it by the kilo, might as well dip a finger in on occasion,” Hanma says.

You raise an eyebrow at his use of the word ‘occasion.’ The vast undersell of his drug use is visible in the effects from just last night’s bender. A suit and coiffed hair may fool the average person, but the telltale signs are there. Even now, he feels a stab of alertness from a popped Ritalin downed with vodka to dull out the edges.

“What about appetite? I heard mixed opinions from your colleagues. Some swear you should be dead from starvation at this point, others that you eat like a horse,” you say.

“You’re an educated woman, so you know the proverb: ‘eighth-tenths full keeps the doctor away,” Hanma says, only realizing afterward that he’d intended not to respond to your questioning.

“And methamphetamines suppress the appetite,” you say dryly. “How often do you drink?”

Hanma notes that you haven’t written anything he says down in the notebook resting on your knee. The pen is not just unchewed but unused. Paranoid, he does a quick scan for any bugs that might be recording this session instead. That would be a fatal mistake on your part.

“I drink as much and often as you think,” Hanma says.

You don’t comment at Hanma’s lack of answer or at his strange behavior as he pats beneath his chair to confirm a bug isn’t glued to the bottom. Satisfied that there’s no other place to hide in your practically empty office, he relaxes back in his seat.

“How would you describe your sex drive?”

The barrage of questions bring to mind a flood memories. Remembers his cheek bruising against a police desk and wrists chafed raw from handcuffs as his freedom is dangled like a toy. Hanma despises the arrogance and ritual of interrogations; the interrogator asking the wrong questions, smug on a god-complex that promises Hanma will break and spill his guts under glaring lamplight. Shut up and lawyer up is what Toman advises. Except, Hanma always leans into his interrogations, snapping and seething at the police and prosecutor until their questions trip frightened off their tongue and the power is thoroughly reversed in his direction. Therapy, it seems, will be no different.

Hanma adjusts his long legs wider, a manspread that immediately drew the eye straight to his groin and grins.

“Looking for a first-hand demonstration, doc?”

Your eyes flicker briefly to his crotch, and Hanma’s cock answers with a twitch. The victory arouses every part of him. It does not hurt that you are a meal for the eyes either. If he saw you at one of Toman’s many clubs, Hanma would not hesitate to press you to your knees for him. Cold as your eyes are now, Hanma suspects they would liven up when pooling with tears and panic.

“It’s a basic diagnostic question,” you respond coolly.

“See, but I don’t appreciate you wasting my time on questions when you know the answers. You spoke to Kisaki before, yeah? Which means you know full well that I fuck and kill and shoot up and all the rest,” Hanma drones, unfeeling even on the verge of speechifying. “You have a rulebook you’re following. I get it. You’re young. Maybe Kisaki should have found someone more experienced because I have better things to do than cry to you about how hard my childhood was. I was a bad boy, and now, I’m a bad man.”

“My age bothers you?” you say, glomming onto the question of your competency and leaving the rest behind as if it means nothing. Typical. “I’m only one year younger than you are. Do you believe you need another dozen years’ of experience to excel at your job?”

“I’ve left a trail of cold cases to prove just how good I am at my job, sweetheart.”

“And I’ve left a trail of happy patients to show how good I am at mine. Hanma-san, tell me, why do you think we’re here today?”

The clock above your desk shows another fifteen minutes in the day’s session, and Kisaki will be up his ass if he leaves early. None of the staples of a therapist’s office – bonsai tree, swinging balls, abstract art – are present to distract him. For the next quarter hour, Hanma will be trapped in a room as bland as a prison cell with a hot but painfully boring therapist.

And Hanma hates to be bored.

There’s nothing better to do than lean into the cat-and-mouse game, see if he can lure his sweet therapist into a trap.

“A trick question? The mind games are beginning already, huh, doc?” Hanma sneers. “I suppose I’m here so that you can finally put a diagnosis on what everyone already knows. Name what makes me such a monster to polite, tax-paying citizens like you.”

“Except, you’ve been working for more than a decade with Kisaki-san and never once has he suggested you see a therapist before, correct? I’ve heard in depth from your colleagues about your behavior. They call you belligerent, impulsive, manipulative, cold. Basically, they sing your praises. Say you’re a natural at your job, one of the best in Tokyo. Why would your boss decide those traits are a problem now?” you counter.

“I’m blushing,” Hanma says, mostly to save time as he thinks through your analysis. There is a reason he saw such immediate success when he joined the delinquent world, and even as Kisaki led Toman into the realm of organized crime, the skillset remained the same. “If you have all the answers, then share them with the class. What is wrong with me?”

“Wrong with you? Well, I suppose that’s a matter of perspective. It’s too early to diagnose you with anything, but informally, I’d say you’re a closed and shut case of Anti-Social Personality Disorder.”

“You’re diagnosing me with psychopath?”

“I’m leaning sociopath based on the interviews I conducted with your colleagues. But the distinction isn’t as relevant as the TV shows pretend. I’d say you meet the criteria if ASPD, just about a text-book case,” you say, matter of fact in a way that other patients might appreciate hearing bad news.

The label followed Hanma throughout the years. A rotating retinue of losers have called him a psychopath and then met the unlucky side of his gun or the punishment of his knuckles. The appellation doesn’t offend him, but neither does it resonate with him. Hanma never did care for TV or movies, but the serial killers and stalkers that haunted the public’s collective imagination are familiar to him, and he can’t relate. He has never once considered dismembering a civilian just for the sake of it or stalking a co-ed for the thrill of her screams. What he loves most is a fight against an opponent worthy of him, the risk to his own life that gets his blood rushing.

Still, Hanma knows that he sees the world differently than other people. It is almost like he walks through life wearing sunglasses. He and the average person see the same shapes, same sizes, but there is a distortion to the color, something only Hanma can see, and others miss. In his darkest hours, he admits it could be the reverse. Maybe he is missing what others find so obvious.

“The clinical definition of someone with ASPD has changed significantly over the years. How I like to think of it is sociopaths have a muted ability to empathize with other people. Not necessarily a complete inability – and in fact, your colleagues seem to believe you do hold care for a select few – but you don’t feel it as intensely or in the same way as most people. As a result, you engage in behaviors that make you struggle to fit into society. That’s actually a part of the diagnostic criteria. Criminality, manipulation, risk-taking or other behaviors that make you struggle to become say an office worker but make you excellent at…whatever you’d call your job. The destructive becomes constructive. We could spend weeks in this office trying to lessen your violent impulses, but for what? So you can be slower to kill for the Tokyo Manji gang? I don’t think Kisaki-san would thank me for that.”

Broadcast news and preschool teachers delude the masses with the promise that violence and criminality are the playground of a small, chronically ostracized group of poors and crookeds. The button-ups that go to the office every day, the housewives, and store clerks, they all trade in empathy and love and rainbow kisses or some shit. Hanma knows this is a lie. He has seen time and again the sadism of the everyman.

So, your mercenary assessment of sociopathy does not surprise Hanma, but it does intrigue him. He wonders how you would score on a psychopath test. Whether there is any feeling harbored behind your icy veneer.

If he slid his hand beneath your blouse and kneaded his finger over your breast, would you have a heart?

“So, I’m a high-functioning sociopath, and you wouldn’t change a thing about me. I’m flattered. That still leaves us with the mystery of why I’m here.”

“Is it really a mystery? You seem to have an idea.”

“Well, there was an…incident four months ago. I don’t want to sully your pure ears with the details,” Hanma purrs. He hopes your imagination fills in the blanks with the most savage scene imaginable. Even then it probably wouldn’t be as gruesome as the damage he left behind. It was sloppy and cost Toman a fortune to bribe the right officials to ignore.

“Anything you say to me here is covered by doctor-patient confidentiality. I am mandated to report if you present an immediate danger to yourself or others, so I would prefer you not tell me if you intend to leave her and commit a murder presently. That said, these walls don’t talk and neither do I, regardless. It’s just a preference,” you say, pointlessly.

Hanma knows full well you won’t talk. He will personally make sure of it.

“I’ve heard of mob lawyers, now get ready for mob therapists! How very new millennia of you,” Hanma guffaws. “Without going into the details, I saw an opportunity to win a negotiation with a powerful business partner. They had offered a deal that Kisaki accepted. The terms were set. I saw an opportunity with a little candid discussion to further sweeten the terms. I was right, of course. Our deal today is far more generous in our favor. But the aftermath of the conversation was a bitch to clean up and attracted some unwarranted attention from our friends at the Tokyo police department.”

To your discredit, you don’t react with a hint of fear to this confession. So far, his only success provoking you was when he questioned your credentials. He won’t forget that useful information.

“Impulsivity and risk-taking are typical in people diagnosed with ASPD. The research is actually interesting on the subject. It suggests that you could feel regret for the choice, especially if you face negative consequences, but you likely couldn’t use that regret to prevent yourself from making the same mistake again.”

“Like a toddler that burns his hand on the stove Monday and is dumb enough to do it again on Tuesday?” Hanma demands.

You don’t realize how closely you’ve danced to the edge with him. He meets people like you every day. You aren’t half so interesting as to excuse an insult, and he would have you crying for your life before you insulted him again.

“In over-simplified terms? Sure. There are two primary theories to explain the impulsivity and risk-taking behaviors of someone diagnosed with ASPD. The first is that your brain is just wired differently. The same brain rewiring that damages your empathy is also dampening your self-control.”

Hanma scoffs.

“I see you don’t care for that theory. My feelings exactly,” you agree. “I think there’s a simple explanation, and it’s why we’re here today. I think people diagnosed with ASPD – I think you, Hanma-san – are bored.”

Eagerly, you lean forward. Here, at the big reveal, you tip your hand and show your excitement. Your eyes are brighter than he’s ever seen them. Professional victory has thawed you and revealed the young woman, the human.

“Bored…is that a professional diagnosis?” Hanma asks.

“Funny,” you say, and it sounds like you mean it. “The other side of the boredom coin is depression. We’d need to run through the diagnostic criteria before I can diagnose you officially, but I bet you qualify. In fact, I bet that when you wake up on a lazy day, one where you have no morning appointments, nothing to organize your morning, you lay in bed for minutes at a time, unsure what to do. Should you take a shower? Watch porn? Make breakfast? Shoot up? Call someone? Who? How do you decide what to do with your day, when every option promises the same yawning boredom as the next? How am I doing so far?”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Follow me, Kisaki had promised. Follow me and I’ll make your life exciting. At fifteen years old, Hanma had almost given up on life. A high school dropout, he watched boys his age jerking off to cartoons and crowing over the trials and tribulations of their school club, and wondered what universe they were living in. Hardly anyone could reach him. Even the other delinquents offered only the occasional challenge.

Kisaki entered his life and presented something valuable: stimulation. He taught Hanma to slow down and appreciate the build up to the big moment. The calculated staging of a plot to destroy someone else, culminating in the delicious high of battle, the last-minute pivot as your enemy reacted in ways you couldn’t predict. It kept him alive and entertained for years. But now…

…Now, Toman sits atop the criminal world as the uncontested conqueror of Tokyo. All of their enemies have long since been crushed. The occasional upstart contender is defeated within a month of entering the ring. Their work is focused on fine-tuning an already smooth criminal operation, optimizing profits.

What is the point?

There are so many hours in a week, in a day! And there are so few activities that bring the rush he needs.

Hanma doesn’t care for money. Stealing something feels better anyway. He doesn’t stake his pride on the success of Toman. Time has made him fond of a number of the top executives – Kisaki and Hakki particularly – but their company only interests him for a few hours a week.

Sex helps. Drugs help. Underground boxing rings help. But none of these things inspire him to get out of bed every morning.

He is unanchored. He is an addict whose supply is dwindling. Or, more accurately, who has adjusted to the product and can no longer achieve the same highs as before.

Sitting across from your pretty, blank face, and confronting the truth, Hanma feels split in half. He wants to slap you for seeing him so clearly when no one else has ever dared look.

Yet another part roars in celebration. He feels hyper-present. The fog of boredom is in retreat.

“Well, I’m certainly not bored now,” Hanma drawls with a smile. “You know, I’ve read in the papers tragic stories of some poor sap falling out of bed, bumping his head, and waking up a full-blown psychopath. Is that true? Do you think that’s what happened to me?”

You shrug. “Have you ever suffered a traumatic brain injury?”

“Sure, dozens,” Hanma smiles. His fighting style is all offense. Getting concussed is a non-event to him.

“Has there ever been a significant change in your behavior, personality, or perspective following one of these brain events?” you clarify.

“No.”

“Well, then, I’m inclined to put this more on your childhood,” you say.

“Spoken like a true shrink, though you might be onto something. Mommy was an alcoholic, Daddy was a diddler, and all the neighborhood kids picked on me. It was real said,” Hanma intones in a tragic whisper.

“We can save your childhood confessions for when we’ve built up more of a rapport,” you say, leaving the bait untouched.

“Boo! Who’s boring now? Actually, going back to that brain injury thing. I think that would be pretty entertaining. Could I take a decent citizen, no a step beyond, a monk, bonk them on the head and turn them into a violent psychopath? That would be pretty fun to watch. I may just have to try it out.”

Hakkai’s sister owns a spa outside Tokyo, in the mountains not far from a shrine. There ought to be one or two stray monks he could abduct for an experiment. All in the name of science, of course.

Again, you prove unbaitable. You don’t chastise him for his evil ways or wiggle in your seat. Instead, you ponder the logistics of the scenario every bit as seriously.

“Hmm…let me think about that for a moment. The challenge is it’s common for people to change dramatically after a traumatic experience, not from brain injury but from the adrenaline and the psychological impact. So, if you attacked a temple of monks, you would expect drastic behavioral changes, even if their brains weren’t rewired to psychopathy. You’d have to know about their daily patterns beforehand as well for comparison, so you’d have to surveil the place for weeks if not months. And even then, it’s more of a one in one thousand chance.”

“That’s not a problem. One thousand monks it is!”

“I’ll be on the lookout for that headline. One thousand monks mysteriously bashed on the head,” you banter.

Hanma isn’t joking. In fact, he’s trying to unbalance you, but you laugh like what he’s said is genuinely hilarious. In that brief moment, everything about you relaxes. Your posture slackens, ankles crossing to reveal a scandalous sliver of ankle. Modestly, your hand flutters to cover your mouth, but he can still see the stretch of your lips. Best of all, you tap your pen briefly to your lips, a second short of a little nibble.

Hanma sees the real you in a burst of unrestrained honesty. The same way you saw him earlier.

There is a temptation to let the moment linger with this foreign version of you, but your momentary flash of vulnerability is too valuable to pass up. Hanma leans forward to mirror your posture.

“Let’s say I agree with your hypothesis, and say yes, I’m bored. What then? Do you teach me how to appreciate the little things in life?”

You sober, resuming the professional veil.

“No. There may be some medications – a mood stabilizer or anti-depressant – that help. And, we could certainly work on developing some tools for when you are bored, so that you don’t do something destructive to break the monotony, but the main priority would be to help you find things that stimulate and entertain your need for an adrenaline high. That way, you don’t wake up wishing yourself or others dead. Instead, you would go out and stimulate yourself. Something like…car racing maybe? I will have to think on it a bit.”

How…droll. Disappointment crashes into Hanma like said racing car – of which he already owns two. After teasing him with your uncanny insight into his brain, you followed up with mundanity.

He despises you. Yes, he hates people like you. You could offer him no more than a monkey dancing on a string. Well…you were pretty. You could have one additional use.

Vindictive at having his hopes dashed, Hanma snaps back, “Car racing? Your cure for me is car racing? You know there are plenty of other ways I could start getting my kicks. What do other sociopaths do to get off? I could start stalking women, maybe start with a pretty, little therapist? That could keep me plenty entertained. I wonder how you’d scream when I’m breaking through your window.”

“Loudly. I live on the eighth floor. Regardless, you already get the thrill of holding power over others as part of your job, and you have plenty of sexual stimulation. I don’t think terrorizing me would offer you much novelty. My scream would sound no different than anyone else’s,” you say, brutally dispassionate.

“Spoil sport,” Hanma mutters.

There are a handful of people in the world who could rebut him so casually. He senses no fear in you, and against his better judgment, his interest piques once again.

“You wanted to scare me, and you didn’t. How does it make you feel when you don’t get the reaction you want?” you ask.

“Hard.”

For good measure, Hanma thrusts his hips up. Your eyes dart down before you remember yourself and redirect your gaze to your notepad. You scribble something down. Maybe too ashamed to meet his gaze?

“Our time is up,” you say. “I think this was a strong start. We’re agreed on the problem, which is always the first challenge. Now, it’s just a matter of coming up with a therapeutic solution. Can I show you out?”

Something hisses through Hanma’s brain, not quite angry but close. With the session over, he realizes how effortlessly you controlled the tone and topic even as he tried to disrupt or stonewall you at every turn. He had been reduced to a naughty schoolboy throwing paper airplanes at the teacher’s back.

Hanma can’t let you end this session on your terms as well.

“You’re just going to throw me out into the cold after making my cock hard like this? You’re in the services industry. My service should end with a happy ending,” Hanma mocks.

He palms his own thigh, drawing attention to the magnitude of his person. The threat is ninety percent air, but Hanma thinks he might cum immediately if you watch him touch himself. Or better yet, if you jerk him off with your delicate, moisturized hands. He loves putting a woman’s manicure to good use.

“I need to speak to Kisaki-san for a few minutes about your therapy anyway. Feel free to sit here as long as you like,” you say dismissively.

“You tease.”

As your heels click out the door, Hanma sinks further back into the plush of the armchair and thinks. He has always been excellent at picking out others’ weaknesses. So, while it could be his imagination, he believes his gut when it tells him your parting expression at his antics…it was fond.

When you close the door behind your office and Hanma, it’s not like you breath some great sigh of relief, but you can’t deny your breathing comes easier. The air in the room had been oppressive, like Hanma took three great gulps of oxygen for every one you managed to steal.

There is no time to celebrate, however, because in the waiting area awaits yet another predator.

“Kisaki-san! I apologize for keeping you waiting. Can I offer you anything to drink?” you say in your softest voice. You pegged Kisaki as a man with limited expectations of women and no appetite to expand his worldview.

Possibly the most dangerous man in Tokyo sits in a narrow, plastic chair in your waiting room. It feels wrong to greet him from a position of height, and you wait for him to stand before drawing closer. Like Hanma, he is dressed well, though with less flare than your potential patient.

“No, your receptionist handled that,” Kisaki waves away your drink offer. “You’ve had the opportunity to meet him now. Will you take on his case?”

Unbeknownst to Hanma, that had been less therapy session than interview. Work like this pays well but presents particular risks, and you never rush into a potential mistake. You would rather gather information until you saw every angle, and then act accordingly. Today’s meeting with Hanma is the final step in your risk assessment.

“I think I understand him and how to help him. That said, he showed more aggression towards me as a person than I expected,” you said, taking special care in your choice of the word ‘aggression.’

“He can be intimidating,” Kisaki says on a ghost of a smile.

“If I’m going to take on his treatment, I’ll need double.”

There. The final piece in your negotiation. Naturally, you intended to raise your prices at the last moment, but double is a legitimate reaction to Hanma.

You hadn’t expected him to be so…charismatic. His voice did half the work, deep in a way that made your gut clench and teasing in a way that made your pussy clench with it. He showed less of the superficial charm you expected from sociopaths, likely because he didn’t seek your validation. He toyed with you, yes, but like you were still on the shelf, a toy he hadn’t committed to buying. In his disinterest, he held nothing back, bantering so fast you struggled to keep up the entire session. Clinging to your professional script, you could barely keep up with his questions.

It excites you.

Then, there is the threat from the end of the session. Even now, he remains in your office. Is he actually jerking off? Or was that a taunt to strike fear into you? Probably the latter. If the former, you ought to hire a locksmith to add a third set of locks to your door.

Transference is always something you guard against and shut down at the earliest signals. You are not a friend, lover, or mother to your patients, and you can be callous in knocking that reminder into the deluded.

Yet with Hanma, how are you supposed to make any progress if you can’t engage his attention? He repeatedly tried to introduce a tit-for-tat into the conversation, showing the most interest when the conversation turned back on you. A little transference, just a little, might make him more susceptible to therapy.

All of this plays out in your head as you negotiate terms with Kisaki. Finally, he concedes to your price.

“I expect results,” Kisaki says. Unlike Hanma, he doesn’t need theatrics to make the threat heard loud and clear.

You hold his murderous gaze unflinchingly and reply, “My professional career would be destroyed if word ever reached the psychiatric board that I took this case. So, you have collateral in the event you’re unhappy with my work. But you won’t need it. You’ll see results.”

“I better.”

When you fall asleep rereading your case files that night, Kisaki’s words echo in your ear and invade your sweetest dreams. Failure is not an option.

#tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #hanma smut #hanma x reader #tokyo rev smut #from his mind to hers #embossross masterlist #read the warnings please #harassment tw #improper medical practice tw

[kaiisers]

BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA ꒰ dabi ꒱

none of the following works belong to me. credits to rightful authors. contains mature content, aimed for +18 audiences. reader discretion is advised. most of these works are f! or afab! reader. ALSO! minors + blank + ageless blogs will be blocked.

⿻ last updated: jan. 09, ‘23

⌕ LEGEND

personal favorites : ♡

reader discretion advised, read content warnings : ✧ 

a burnt rose. ──── complete

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ You and Touya parted on bad terms. Six years later, he spots you visiting his father, a red-headed kid in tow. He’s determined to find out what you’ve been up to while he’s been gone.

cw. angst. single parent au. single parent, angst, violence, child loss, implied drug use

an ode to winter. ──── 14.1k

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ touya todoroki had broken a lot of things, your heart, promises, your window a few times, but you swore he’d never leave your child feeling that way. but when he wants back into your life, will he take no for an answer? And do you even want to say it?

cw. angst, fluff, smut. MANGA SPOILERS IN THE EXTENDED ENDING. manga war arc!au, single-parent!au, unplanned pregnancy!au. heavy smut, ( literally 5k of it ),  mentions of pregnancy, mentions of semi-toxic!relationships, struggling with parenting, blackmail ??,  unprotected sex ( wrap it before you tap it, losers ), handjobs, oral sex ( female receiving ), fingering ( female receiving ),  choking, branding, squirting, spit!kink, needy touya

♡ antecedent. ──── 16k+

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ following Touya’s arrest you try to navigate the world as it is flipped on its head. torn between your loyalty to him and what’s best for your son, new family is formed and hope is found.

cw. angst, hurt/comfort, sorta fluff. single (?) parent au. canon divergence:spoilers for touya backstory and chapters 349 onwards. AFAB reader (referred to as ‘mama’), established (kinda toxic) relationship,secret family au (post arrest), original child character (‘Kaiyo’; he is your shared biological child), parent todoroki touya, mentions of canon attempted suicide and canon child abuse, themes of generational trauma, family feels, todoroki family centric, villain rehabilitation, dealing with trauma and recovery, second chances

autumn chill. ──── complete

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ You find yourself needing a place to stay after setting an apartment on fire.

cw. angst, smut. villain au, blood, panic attack, death (not main characters), 18+

biting down. ──── 5.3k

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ He’s fast as he weaves through the trees, breath hot against your neck as he runs as if he has any need for breathing at all. You feel your shoulders drop in relief, tucking your head into the crook of his neck, the texture of his skin a comfort to you as you think about what could have happened if he hadn’t found you. Dabi is a vampire, a real, live (debatable), blood-sucking, sunlight-repulsed, creature of the night. You think you might be in love with him.

cw. f!reader, explicit content, some angst, violence, vampires, Dabi picks reader up, detailed descriptions of blood and gore (lots and lots of blood), blood kink, self inflicted harm (reader cuts her palm open), Dabi is a little mean sometimes, biting (he bites ur neck, thighs, chest he drinks ur blood he’s a vampire), pain play (biting to puncture skin, biting and drinking from already open wounds), drinking each other’s blood, fingering, (bloody) oral f!receiving, bloody sex, unprotected sex, marking, bruising, corny vamp dialogue

touya dabi isn't as smooth as he thinks he is.

can you feel my heart beating like a hammer? ──── 5k

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ You watch from your spot, shoulders tense as you anticipate the arrival of yet another creepy clown or zombie when you see him.

He’s not like the other actors. He’s not quick with his movements and doesn’t yell or jump at anyone. His terror lies in the fact that he does none of those things, that he stands across from you and stares.

And then he grins.

Your stomach turns but not in fear.

cw. f!reader, explicit content, scare actor!dabi, Dabi is touya (quite literally he is not called Dabi in this at all ajhssjsjjss), sex in public, fearplay (kind of), multiple orgasms, overstimulation (very brief), oral f!receiving, fingering, multiple instances where Dabi rests his hand on ur neck but never chokes u, biting (shoulder, neck), ‘baby’ and ‘angel’ as pet names, use of ‘good girl’, frightening (debatable im not that good) depictions of scare actors and haunts, one description of gory makeup, fake weapons

✧ count for me. ──── 3.8k

cw. punishments, shibari, blowjob, face fucking, rough sex, squirting, degrading, some praise, dabi is mean to reader, spanking, minor burning/branding, it's all consensual.

hardly human. ──── 3.2k

cw. Touya x Cisfem Selkie!Reader. degradation (slut etc), praise, fingering, unprotected sex, maybe slight coercion but not really, maybe a little angst but mostly smut, bit of plot.

♡ heaven for nonbelievers. ──── 11k

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ Fire is many things – forgiving is not one of them. Dabi finds absolution elsewhere. Allusions to domestic abuse(not to y/n), mentions of sexual abuse (not to y/n), mentions periods, mentions of food, explicit content, y/n can’t catch a break; sharing space, strange domesticity, gray morality to less gray morality, sometimes grief has teeth

cw. angst, smut, hurt/comfort. villain au + strangers to lovers

♡ I’m melting in your eyes, like my first time that I caught fire. ──── 13k+ (½)

cw. pro hero!au. explicit language, fluff, angst, shouto is a menace, touya has tattoos instead of scars

kingdom of ashes. ──── 12k

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟When you are suddenly uprooted from your life to enter an arranged marriage with Prince Touya you are unprepared for how greatly he defies your expectations, nor for how quickly you fall for him.

cw. AFAB FEM reader (referred to as ‘wife’ ‘daughter’ and 'my lady’), royalty au, prince todoroki touya, arranged marriage, no quirks, historical setting, perceived unrequited love, fictional contraceptives, horseback riding, fluff, angst, protected vaginal sex, vaginal oral sex (reader receiving), dubcon, strangers to lovers, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, canonical child abuse, bathing together, outdoor sex, talk of not having children/preventing pregnancy

leather cushions. ──── 6.7k

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ touya hates the couch in the living room, but for you, he’d sit on it every second of the day.

cw. smut. quirkless au, college au, roommates au, best friends to lovers. shitty frat/rich boy!keigo, reader tells keigo no & he ignores it, soft, sweet, consensual sex w touya.

♡ legacy of hurt. ──── 4.5k

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ touya has enclosed his heart behind a thick wall with refusal to let anyone see it. but you are an unrelenting storm, and damned by your persistence, even the strongest cliff can break if weathered enough.

cw. NSFT, GN reader, friends to lovers, Dabi POV, pre-LOV, implied PTSD, mention of child abuse, angst, hurt/comfort, blood (he cries during sex), spit, unprotected sex, emotional sex, no power dynamic

secrets. ──── complete

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ Life isn’t a fairy-tale and you find your soulmate through unconventional means.

cw. angst, smut. soulmate au. death mention, violence, spoilers (?) – set in PLF arc, abuse mention (not directed at reader)

she washes all of my wounds for me. ──── 15.2k

⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ “I called you by your name. Is that okay?”

“I don’t know.”

And it isn’t because he doesn’t want you to know his name. He’s already announced it to the world. Of course, you’re going to know it. It certainly isn’t because he hates the way your lips so easily form the two syllables. It isn’t because he no longer wants to associate himself with the name.

He’s simply afraid of his greedy soul becoming attached to the way you somehow manage to make something that used to cause his skin to crawl to now bring his heart a peace he’s never known before he saw your face.

cw. fem!reader. Smut (18+ only, minors DNI), fem reader (AFAB anatomy, femme pet names/pronouns), major spoilers for manga chapter 290, heavy religious imagery of angels/gods/heaven, one (1) instance of sir kink, so so much hurt/comfort, several mentions of past family abuse and trauma, mild blood and gore (Dabi tending to new burns/scars), verbal argument that has Dabi breaking furniture (reader does not get hurt) and being an overall asshole, alcohol use (Dabi is drunk and emotional), soft desperate-to-be-loved-but-too-scared-to-ask Dabi, oral and fingering (f!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, very soft and emotional smut

soft interlude. ──── 1.4k

cw. AFAB GN reader (called ‘angel’ once), NSFT, established relationship, fluff and smut, bath sex, vaginal fingering (mostly clit stimulation; reader receiving), heavy petting, quirk use

unprofessional. ──── 5.1k

cw. smut. modern / business au. fem! reader, blow jobs, cum swallowing, humping, natsuo walking in on yall lmao, unprofessional work relationships, ceo’s son! dabi aka touya

#⨳ 𓏲˖ 📓 ˖ ࣪ recs archive ָ࣪ 𓏲⋆. #⨳ 𓏲˖ 🖋️ ˖ ࣪ recs ָ࣪ 𓏲⋆. #🖇️ ˑ ִ ֗ my hero ! #﹙ ❀ ﹚— touya #dabi #todoroki touya #todoroki toya #dabi x reader #dabi x female reader #dabi x afab reader #dabi todoroki

[merakiui]

Imagine if Azul ended up with a yandere researcher mc.

(cw: yandere!reader, drugging, kidnapping/captivity, obsession)

What if you're working at a rehabilitation center for injured merfolk? When Azul's brought in, wounded and just barely clinging to life, you're one of the first marine doctors to offer assistance. He's very nervous around humans, scrunching himself into a tight ball or cowering in the shadows of his tank. It's when you suggest putting a few things inside (like rocks, a ceramic pot, sea grasses, etc) that he begins to slowly grow accustomed to his temporary habitat. You seem to have made the right choice, for he adores hiding within the ceramic pot.

Azul learns rather quickly that the humans aren't going to hurt him. Your voice is soft and soothing as you snip the fishing line from his body, one hand stroking his tentacle in order to coax him into relaxing. And, miraculously, it curls around your wrist. You offer him your sweetest smile and explain that it's going to be okay. You and your colleagues are here to help him get better, and when he's healthy again he'll be released back into the sea.

You spend a lot of time with Azul. Things progressed slowly at first as he gradually learned to trust the humans he saw every day. He seems particularly attached to you, but that could just be because you're the one he sees the most. You're also the first human he saw when he opened his eyes after nearly drying out on the shoreline. He's a gloomy creature for the first month and a half of captivity, but once he befriends you he brightens a considerable amount. Azul recognizes that you're helping him, not hurting him, and when that distinction is made clear he's not as averse to you or the other doctors in the facility as he was when he first came here.

Looking after and nursing Azul back to health has given new meaning to your life. You look forward to work and you've even started working overtime just to stay with him longer. Azul isn't very familiar with human speech, but he picks words up rather quickly. When he learns how to pronounce your name, he says it in a delighted coo when he catches sight of you approaching his enclosure. The both of you have developed a daily greeting. You'll place your hand upon the glass and he'll do the same on the other side but with a tentacle. It's like a handshake and you always feel happier when Azul smiles at you through the glass. You really like him. He's such a sweet mer. How anyone could ignore him while he dried up on that beach is beyond you. People are too cruel sometimes.

He's been here for a year now and preparations have been made to release him once the winter season has given way to spring. His release always dwelled in the back of your mind and you've had to remind yourself over the months that this is just temporary. Once he's properly healed and can swim on his own, he'll be released back into the ocean. That's a good thing, isn't it? So why do you feel so empty when you overhear your colleagues discussing preparations for his upcoming release?

Azul notices your changing demeanor. He tries to console you in every way he can think of: curling his tentacles around your arm and squeezing gently, nuzzling into your palm when you pat his head, and attempting (though very awkwardly) to speak your language. You force a smile for his sake, but he can tell you're unhappy. He knows something's not right, but he pretends like it is.

It's the night before the morning of his release, and you've had plenty of time to mull over what it is you're about to do. You realize it's not right and that you'll only hurt him in the process. You know it's selfish and unfair. But you can't lose Azul. You can't let them take him away from you. You've had such a wonderful time helping him, bonding with him, protecting him from other ignorant humans. You won't let them take your Azul from you.

Since he trusts you so much, he freely swims to the surface to greet you. You're dressed differently. You're not in your usual white coat. Azul senses something amiss in the way you're cloaked in shadows and in the way you act. For the first time in a year, he's scared. But he knows he shouldn't be frightened of you. You'd never hurt him, right? But when you sedate him and he feels himself slipping, falling, sinking, his every limb heavy and useless, and he spies your contented expression, your sweet smile, and he hears you tell him it'll be okay... Azul isn't given time to think or defend himself or keep you away from him when the drug finally kicks in and takes him under.

And when he wakes, his first thoughts are that the scenery is all wrong and strange, that this place smells different, that this isn't the rehabilitation center he's spent so long in. And when you push the door open and greet him, holding your hand up so that he can place his tentacle against your palm without any obstructing glass, he shrinks away from you.

He's so scared that he's trembling. Everything about you, this new environment, his cramped (though you said it's only temporary for now) enclosure sparks terror in him. You assure him with shushes and a quiet voice, telling him that you're just relocating him. You're not going to hurt him. You're sorry for tricking him and sedating him, but these things had to be done. You're going to help him.

And for the first time since Azul was captured by humans, he sees that familiar dark side emerging. The same one that was present when he found himself tied up in fishing lines and no one bothered to come to his rescue. And what's more is that he doesn't know what's going to happen. The familiarity of routine has faded away, and now he's not so sure your smile is all that sweet.

#twisted chit chat #yandere twst

[whump-a-la-mode]

Hey, could you please continue waking up? thanks in advance

Sure thing! This one is just fluff. Just pure, tooth-rotting fluff. Maybe some plot next time, but I felt like Villain deserved a little comfort. Thanks for the ask!

Masterlist for this series is here.

CW//IVs, food, paralysis

Sleep and bread.

That was what Nurse was focusing on-- Sleep and bread.

Perhaps the most disgusting thing of the whole affair was the IV at Villain’s bedside, administering to them the same, horrible drugs that they had been in in the Chronic Behavior Issues Ward. Nurse had been taking small amounts of them from their workplace ever since they had been transferred to the Ward, and now had quite the supply.

They hated to use it, but there was no choice in the matter. Villain had to be weaned off of the medication, slowly but surely. Stopping it entirely would most likely kill them, their body going into terrible shock.

Yet, every day, in the ward, the dosage had been lowered. Today, it would go lower, too. And, more importantly? Now, Villain was free.

Sleep and bread.

Nurse pushed their way into Villain’s bedroom backwards, their hands full with a wicker tray, atop which various foodstuffs were precariously balanced. They had a whole array of things to try-- water, of course, with a straw, alongside bits of bread, fruit, veggies, and some little pieces of candy as encouragement.

“Villain?” They announced their presence as they entered. There was no movement, but Nurse was used to that. They turned around, allowing the door to drift closed behind them as they viewed their ward-

No. They didn’t like that word. Not their ward, their charge.

Villain was still sleeping. It used to be very difficult to tell, given that they could not blink. Now, however, their eyes were closed, and they looked almost restful.

Almost.

Nurse made an effort to be quiet as they placed the tray on a bedside table. They hated to interrupt Villain’s rest, but getting them back onto a regular pattern of sleep would be very important in their rehabilitation, and the sun had long since risen. With a sigh, they placed a hand upon Villain’s shoulder, watching as heavy eyelids fluttered open.

“Good morning.” Nurse spoke.

Villain’s gaze moved to greet them. They blinked twice in acknowledgement-- Their code for ‘yes’.

Yes, it is a good morning.

“Let’s sit up.”

That was how they always phrased things, when they were encouraging the prisoners in the Ward to work towards movement, to free up the internal stiffness in their body. They did not order, did not even request-- Rather, they invited. Invited their patients to sit up. Let’s.

Villain gave a discontented expression.

Nurse smiled and gave a chiding tsk, followed by a cluck of the tongue.

“I know you don’t want to, I know. Just sit up one time, then I’ll put some pillows behind you, and you can lean against those, how’s that?”

Villain’s expression softened.

“See? Yeah! And, I even have a surprise for you, when you sit up. Now...”

Nurse braced a hand against Villain’s back, arm weaving deftly under the IV line. Though they provided much of the support, Villain was still moving under their own power, muscles shifting where they had once been stone.

It took three minutes. 180 seconds, merely to perform a simple action. Yet, not one did Nurse show impatience. When the task was at last finished, their face lit up with a smile.

“There you go!”

Pillows were stacked behind Villain’s back, providing them support to lean against as Nurse’s strong hand disappeared.

Villain stared firmly at Nurse, narrowing their eyes. That was a question.

“You want to know what the surprise is?”

Two blinks for yes.

“Alright, then, I won’t keep you waiting any longer.”

From the bedside table, Nurse procured the tray of food. Villain’s eyes positively lit up.

“I know you won’t be up for eating a lot, yet, but I wanted to give you a chance to try everything. So, I just took some little pieces...

Let’s try water, first. Do you want some water?”

Two blinks.

“Alright. Do you think you can manage using the straw?”

Hesitation, then two blinks.

Nurse gave an encouraging smile, placing the straw between Villain’s lips. They took a few sips before pulling away, indicating that they were finished.

“Alright, then...”

Nurse took to carefully arranging the options upon the tray.

“One is bread. Two is fruit-- It’s strawberry. Three is cooked carrot. Which do you want.”

Villain blinked four times. Nurse gave a little laugh as they looked at the fourth option on the tray-- Candy.

“Real food first, then that. That’ll be your treat for eating.”

They stuck their tongue out at Nurse, but tried again.

One blink.

Bread.

“Bread it is, then.” Nurse smiled as they picked up the little piece.

Sleep and bread. It could fix anything, as far as they were concerned.

#villain whumpee #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whumper #caretaker #doctor caretaker #nurse caretaker #hero villain whump #only the eyes #hero villain trope #hero villain prompt

[writereleaserepeat]

Information + Writing Masterlists

This blog is 18+ and contains explicit sexual and violent content. It is centered on whump, hurt/comfort, and some ocassional smut. Includes original content and fanfiction. Recovery and rescue stories are my main squeeze.

I'm more of a whump-adjacent blog than a whump blog because I really just love writing recovery arcs.

Requests: I am open to requests, for either fanfiction or original content. There is no guarantee I will write something for the requests I receive.

Fanfiction: I enjoy writing fanfiction for popular media and small artists. I won't write fanfiction for any Tumblr user or whump artist without explicit permission from the creator.

Feedback: I am always open to receiving feedback, either positive or negative, as to both grammar and substance. Feel free to comment or leave an ask if you feel so inclined.

Writing Masterlists: Below the "Read More."

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One-Shot and Prompt Response Masterlist

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Hear No Evil (Updated on Tuesdays)

Rowan is an activist with the Pet Liberation Front. He has spent the better part of a decade assisting the cause as a multimedia specialist, but never spends much time with the victims he is so intent on saving. After going undercover as a buyer to capture abuse on film, he finds a broken boy that steals his heart. Before Rowan knows it, he has a rescue pet at home. Both Rowan and his new houseguest must take steps to heal and adjust to their new normal.

CW: BBU recovery-focused whump. General warning for dehumanization, ableism, BBU and its associated dynamics.

FFO: overwhelmed but well-meaning caretakers, sweet whumpees just doing their best, permanently disabled whumpee

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // to be continued

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Gnashing of Teeth (Updated on Saturdays)

Two years ago, Sasha signed away his humanity in exchange for paying off his debts to the mob. Now he’s not just subhuman, but a prize fighter, set against other unfortunate souls in no-holds-barred matches. Each win earns his new masters cash, and each fight gets him a few days closer to the end of his contract. But this is a brutal industry, and death has long awaited him at the whim of his masters and his competition in the ring. What chance does a monster like him have at rescue and rehabilitation? 

CW: non-BBU pet whump, with both a whump-focused arc and recovery-focused arc. General warnings for dehumanization, body modification, drug use, and violence.

FFO: semi-defiant whumpees, caretakers way out of their depth, whumpee who is aggressive from conditioning, body modifications, whump arcs and recovery arcs

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // to be continued

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Blood of the Sun (Updated as My Muse Allows)

After 16 months as a living blood bank, Shiloh finally makes his escape. There’s just one problem: he escaped into the endless Alaskan tundra, where the sun won't rise for another six weeks, and where hungry vampires rove in packs. Fortunately for Shiloh, a coven is willing to keep him safe until the sun finally rises, and try to heal his many wounds along the way. That is, if Shiloh doesn’t kill them first.

CW: permanent injury, mentions of gore and blood, bloodbag whumpee, hypothermia, frostbite

FFO: vampire caretakers, human whumpee, angry whumpee, spiteful whumpee, whumpees who are fighters (except those times when they're not)

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // to be continued

#masterpost #masterlist #pinned post #pinned

[mishkwaagegekwereads]

The Outside Circle Review

The Outside Circle really forces the reader to look inward. It does not sugar coat anything, and the author and artist do an amazing job conveying the emotional journey of the main character, Pete, while he works to become a warrior.

“Pete, a young Aboriginal man wrapped up in gang violence, lives with his younger brother, Joey, and his mother who is a heroin addict. After returning home one evening, Pete and his mother's boyfriend, Dennis, get into a violent struggle, which sends Dennis to the morgue and Pete to jail. Initially maintaining his gang ties, a jail brawl forces Pete to realize the negative influence he has become on Joey and encourages him to begin a process of rehabilitation through a traditional Native healing circle.”

This book set out to remind us that no matter where you begin, you can always heal. It may not be an easy journey, and you may have to make sacrifices along the way, but with the help of others and through traditional teachings, we can learn to live The Good Life and walk the Red Road. 4/5 stars. I will definitely be adding this book to my shelf!

CW:  Drug abuse, Gun violence, Addiction, Child abuse, Death, Death of parent, Physical abuse, Forced institutionalization, Murder, and Racism

#indigenous #book review #ojibwe #graphic novel #reconnecting #native #the red road #the good life #own voice #JanuaryPagesChallenge

[bubbiegumprincess]

If you need a request here goes: Heather chandler (musical version) has died and winds up in the hazbin hotel universe. She meets the main cast and whacky hijinks ensue.

HEATHER ENDS UP IN HELL

cw // alcohol, swearing, mentions of drug use, blood

note : this is after pentious, hope you don't mind please and thank you !!!

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The tug of Heather's nightwear was the first thing she felt. As her eyes slowly opened to the crimson sky, her brows furrowed in an expected form. She let out a single groan and muttered a curse under her breath.

With a drop of boiled up rage, she screams loudly and aggressively rips the silk of her nightwear out from the 2 heavy rocks it was stuck under. She stands with wobbly knees and takes in the world around her with a sharp inhale. As Heather creeps down the bloody rubble she woke up on, she sees a large, bright building. "Hazbin Hotel" it read. Her face twists into confusion itself and she grimaced briefly before walking toward the attraction.

The doors were grand. Although she was very much expecting her fate here, she had inevitably been upset about it. I mean, Heather would probably end up in hell with her during some time, but Heather would go to heaven for sure, she was too pure. The thoughts of what she could do here consumed her mind. Getting involved in drugs, heavy alcohol, and crazy trouble if hell did have police.

Heather's thoughts are interrupted by the doors opening to reveal a tall lady, wearing a red suit and a smile that sat by her blonde, tied up hair. "Hi, my name is Charlie Morningstar, I'm so so so excited to meet you!! What's your name, and how did you get here?" She grabs Heather by the arm and gently pulls her into the hotel.

"Excuse me?" Heather snaps. "Well, this is the Hazbin Hotel, I'm assuming you're here for redemption?" Charlie says back. "Why would I-" She's interrupted by a shorter woman, holding a spear. "It seems like you need some help, I would accept it." Chandler rolls her eyes. "It's like- a free house, right?" Charlie winced at this remark. "Well- yes, but it's more than that!! I believe we can help you have the ability to rehabilitate you and-" "Fine. If it's a free place to stay I could make half an effort. Don't count on it."

Charlie jumps up and down and goes to hug her girlfriend, who pats her back.

Heather goes to sit on the stiff couch. "Why, hello, my dear!!" Am extremely tall man asks, with a wide smile and staff in hand. She quickly squirms away and into another resident. He's tall and pink. "Hey there, cakes, what are you up to? Names Angel Dust, most talented coke where they've got!!" He points at himself with his sets of arms. Heather doesn't say a word and stands up to walk around the lobby.

She spots a small bar and sits on one of the stools to be met by a grey cat with wings and tired eyes. He pours a drink, not even asking what she'd want, nor paying attention to the fact that she had been new. "Husk, what's your name?" He broke the silence and earned a confused glare from another resident. He was not one to initiate conversation. "Heather Chandler." She downs the drink and Husk let's out a short chuckle. "Another one." He nods and pours another glass for her. Angel comes up and sits next to her before getting a glass himself. "Cheers." She says, watching her surroundings. "Okay!!" Charlie interrupts.

The crowd turns to her. "We're gonna do some trust exercises!!!" She squeaks. "OKAY!! Everybody line up right here, we are gonna do trust falls!! Here, I'll go first." After a 2 minute long heartfelt speech, Charlie finally leans off the platform and let's the crowd sloppily catch her. Turn after turn, Heather only realized the hint of dedication these souls had in them. It wasn't motivating, it was hooking. Even to Heather fucking Chandler, I mean, that's a big feat.

Finally, it came to Heather. She was bitter, still. But she reminded herself that it was a place to stay.

"Okay, hoes. I know you admire me. You don't have to say it. I know this is a place to restart but you seem like some wicked people to get wasted with. I can tolerate you group for the being of myself." She let's herself fall and gets caught stiffly.

She raises a glass and drinks.

"Cheers to me, am I right?"

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thank you for the request!! Sorry if this was out of character, but I hope it was still somewhat enjoyable ^^ stay safe and eat your vegetables!!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin #heathers #heather chandler #Musicals #Crossover #Writing #send requests #bleeeuugh

[endlesscuriosity95]

How Get rid off one of most addictive drug "heroin (diacetylmorphine)"???

Physical Appearance

Usually heroin is white colour and in some countries of Asia it is may be white or brown colour , also it is solid or powder form.

Method of inhale

There are 3 ways to take heroin, out of which most commonly used are injection 💉 and heat up on aluminium foil paper, which produce dense smoke and junkie used to inhale smoke like cigarette 🚬.

Now according to study scientists discovered that consuming heroin is most addictive and dangerous drug. In India and Pakistan almost about 60-70% youth addicted to heroin. In India specially in northern part e.g. Punjab, Haryana , Himachal etc and almost Pakistan.

Methods adopted

Most of parents used many types of method to get there child rid of this addictive drug. Among of which is de-addiction centers and medical treatment are commonly adopt by there parents.

By Medicine 💊 provide by Government rehabilitation centres

I seen huge rush over government de-addiction centers, where they treat them with the help of medicines

"buprenorphine" pill mainly used for treatment of addiction in India.

In this method the treatment started after examine the patient, examine that how much quantity of drug taken by patient ? From how long patient addict to drug ? Which method patient adopted for taking drug ?

All this study is done under the supervision of psychiatrists. And proper documentation prepare for the treatment of patient. In this they give some sort of derivative of heroin to patient. Firstly they start with minor doseage, and within few days the setup patients with final quantity of dose , so that patient will be stable both mentally and physically as this is withdrawal period . In this period most of patients do polish things . As much I know this treatment continues for long period. Because it is also difficult for patients to get rid of medicine (buprenorphine) gives for treatment.

Another method is isolating patient at Rehabilitation centre!

In this method patient send to Rehabilitation centre and isolating him for long period

Minimum 3 months to 2 years program

In this patient is getted cut off from outside

Experience staff help them get out of withdrawal period which tends to several months

On international platform N.A program is very popular

Care takers are appointment for patients to take care for first 10 days

After that everything go on normal day by day.

Patient get rid of drug in first 10 days , but extra time take there so that patient get new good habits

Good habits included awake early, proper diet , sleep on time e.g. making patient punctuality strictly follow.

Treatment at home with help of love ones

Love and caring is best method for de-addiction. In this firstly patient have to get ready themselves get rid off addictive element. As it is quite hard for patients get rid of drug themselves, so they will ask there love ones and dear ones to help them out. Get rid off this hell. In this simply concern firstly with psychiatrists, and they will consult you do's and don't. Patient should firstly disconnect himself from outside world 🌎 for period of treatment, important thing to disconnect all persons who so ever are partner in addiction activity e.g. friends , place , peddler etc. Using no mobile is good option. Stay busy , busy in any kind of activity which will help out to distract mind from worng things. Let Patient busy from awake to sleep. Avoid being free , don't think much and calm mind. Do exercise, take healthy diet , juices and liquid consumables are play vital role in recovery. Never loose hope. Avoid going outside without any emergency condition. Stay with loves ones and may go for trip or religious places to fresh mind. And consult psychiatrists time to time.

#education #heroin #girls who like drugs #drugs #snorting drugs #drugs cw #girls who do drugs #rehabilitation #national news #punjab #physcology #physiology #physiotherapy #physique #drug free #drugged #drug and drop #drug and device safety #drug and alcohol rehab #drug and alcohol addiction #drug aesthetic #drug5m #gutter cleaning #drug crimes #drug charges #drug legalization #drug smuggling #drug stores #drug syndicate #drug safety