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snowdice · 10 months

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Face the Music (Sometimes Labels Shift Series)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton, (background) Patton & Virgil, Logan & Virgil

Characters:

Main: Patton, Logan

Mentioned: Virgil

Summary: Patton and Logan have a small chat about healing between Wind Symphony and Wind Symphony: The Sequel.

This is a dealing with events set after my story Sometimes Labels Fail.

Notes: Superhero AU (not that it matters), past emotional abuse, references to a nontypical trigger, though said trigger has been dealt with in therapy and is mostly under control though not gone

“You don’t have to go,” Logan said when Patton was halfway through pulling off his shirt. Patton finished pulling off the shirt to squint at him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so Logan’s form was blurry, but he was sitting on their bed looking at him.

“I know I don’t have to go,” said Patton. He turned to grab the sleeping shirt he’d set out and pulled it over his head.

“Virgil wouldn’t care,” Logan said. “I would be the more likely candidate to take him shopping for such a thing considering the research I’ve done into the topic anyway. I doubt he has any expectations that you will come.”

Patton frowned as he slipped his glasses back onto his face, turning Logan from a blurry mess of blue into a man wearing a blue t-shirt. “Maybe he wouldn’t,” Patton said, “but you don’t know that.”

“Patton,” Logan said, his brow creased in the way that it did only when he was attempting to do a very difficult math equation or was trying to process emotions on the fly. “You once almost had a panic attack because a musician attempted to hand you a violin.”

“That was years ago,” Patton bristled, “and I’d been having a bad day. The violin was not the problem.”

“Perhaps not,” Logan agreed, “but it was a problem.”

“A music shop is not a house of horrors for me,” Patton said. It was the truth even if it felt just a bit like a lie. What he remembered from the music shop of his childhood, the one he’d have to go to for new music books every time he completed his old ones, was an old man who would freeze Patton in place with his gaze (even when he wasn’t actually doing so with his powers), ancient instruments on the walls that Patton’s young mind had imagined being used in blood rituals, and an overwhelming sense of foreboding. He thought normal music shops probably were not like that.

Logan was still frowning, so Patton crossed to the bed and reached for his face. He kissed him on the nose.

“I want to be there,” he told Logan. “Playing the clarinet is something that Virgil loves, and I want to support him in every way I can. I will not be like my mother and that both means not making him play an instrument if he doesn’t want to and encouraging him to do so if he does want to.”

It was easier said than done. If Patton had ever gotten joy from playing a violin, he did not remember it. Thoughts of playing a musical instrument filled him with an uncomfortable squirming sensation even after all of these years. It was a knee-jerk reaction to not want Virgil to experience the same thing, but he was not his knee-jerk reactions. He’d been very careful to keep his instinctual thoughts to himself (and occasionally to Logan when it felt unhealthy to keep them bottled up).

Virgil liked playing music. It made him happy. Sometimes Patton had to remind himself of that in order to react appropriately, but that was okay. It was a little more effort in an area most people wouldn’t even have to think about, but it was worth it.

“He does want to,” Patton continued, “so even if that desire isn’t something I will ever be able to relate to, I still need to show up.”

The face between Patton’s hands still seemed unsure. “This is just a small thing,” Logan said. “We already know you’ll be going to all of his performances. You can show up for him without going on this specific outing.”

“Life is made up of small things,” Patton said, shaking his head, “and it’s also short. I am a 56-year-old man. I refuse to live my life in fear of a string instrument. Anymore.”

“Still,” Logan said, reaching up to cup Patton’s hand still on his cheek.

Patton just rolled his eyes fondly. “I appreciate the concern,” he said, “but I’m going.”

Logan opened his mouth to speak.

“No more talking,” Patton said, using his hands to gently push Logan back onto the bed. He leaned most of his weight on him, though his toes still touched the floor. “Just cuddles.”

Logan hesitated, but then gave in. “Very well,” he agreed and then paused a moment. “Could we perhaps cuddle in a more reasonable position?”

“No,” said Patton, tucking his head into Logan’s chest with a smile. Logan sighed under him and reached up to pat his hair.

Patton knew he’d be able to face any music store as long as Logan was with him.

“Face the music,” Patton whispered with a giggle. Logan groaned.

Want to read more? Click below!

Labeled Master Post.

My Masterpost.

#sanders sides #patton sanders #logan sanders #mentioned virgil sanders #labeled universe #sometimes labels shift #platonic moxiety #past child abuse #past emotional abuse #adriana writes #not pieces fic

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sassinake · 2 years

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Chapters: 9/9 Fandom: No Fandom, Original Work, Reylo Modern-AU Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Summary:

Rachel Johnson is a college student that gets in trouble and is sentenced to 60hrs community service in a soup kitchen. A new class of people is revealed to her through the work, and in particular through a budding relation with one war vet. Montreal, Winter 2007-08.

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#Original Fiction #class disparity #compassion #vet ptsd #past emotional abuse #unexpected romance

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fletcherwilbury · 2 years

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@themerrywhumpofmay Day 7: Comfort

Warning for Self-esteem issues and past emotional abuse

#the merry whump of may #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2012 leo #tmnt 2012 raph #tmnt 2012 donnie #the kraang #comfort #self esteem issues #past emotional abuse

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 10 days

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chapter 3: a desperate revelation

Find the masterlist here!

CW: Astarion talks about his abuse.

W/C: 2,795

A/N: My dog had heart surgery last week... please send all the good vibes for her recovery!

After the arduous fight with the Hag, Astarion wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bedroll. Shadowheart had mended the worst of their wounds with a healing prayer, and your quiet songs of rest had bolstered their energy for the trek back to camp. Once out of the bog, the fading rays of the sun’s light were visible once more.

He paused a moment to marvel at the way they painted the sky in various hues of pinks and oranges, a sight he had long since given up hope of ever seeing again. He tried to convince himself that any day spent in the sun was a day worth having, no matter how fleeting a retreat it might be.

A plaintive sigh escaped him at the prospect of returning to the shadows after being blessed by the warmth of the light.

“Copper for your thoughts?” you intoned from behind him, startling him out of his quiet reverie.

“For nearly two centuries, I’ve known nothing but darkness and pain. To stand in the sun, after so much tragedy and despair, is nothing short of a miracle,” he whispered, afraid that if he spoke any louder, it would shatter the beautiful illusion he’d come to know and he’d instead find himself a psychotic wreck, locked in a mausoleum somewhere at Cazador’s behest again.

He tracked your approach in his peripheral vision, mentally preparing himself to broach the topic of his past, of his Master’s cruelty. You stopped at his side and gazed out into the encroaching darkness with him, listening along as the song of birds gave way to the chirp of crickets. The stars began their winking, and the ambiance of rural night crept over them in a subdued melody.

“Without darkness, there would be no light,” you said quietly.

He peered over at you, watching as the moon started its trek across the indigo sky just above your head. You glanced at him, and your eyes met his for a moment. He did not expect the sorrow that he found in their depths. He opened his mouth, but no sound left his lips, the icy fingers of fear choking him. He closed his eyes and steadied himself, preparing to spill his darkest secrets upon reopening them.

“Come, friend,” your hushed voice met his ears. “We are not far from camp. We may speak there.”

With that, the moment was broken. Astarion opened his eyes to see your retreating form, and silently thanked whatever gods still were for the extra time to gather his strength. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion sat alone in his tent, lost in his thoughts. He could hear the chatter and laughter of his companions just beyond its thin walls, but he didn’t even have the heart to observe from afar tonight. He waited in trepidation for you to come find him, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the closed cover of the book in his lap. Even reading had proven to be an unhelpful distraction.

“Astarion?”

He recognized the lilt of your soft voice and cleared his throat.

“In here, darling,” he called, unwilling to move, lest his legs were to carry him far from this conversation, far from camp in cowardice.

You parted the flaps of his tent with a small smile, a question in your eyes. He waved at the space in front of him, a silent go ahead to enter and sit. You nodded imperceptibly and sat down, crossing your legs and setting your lyre in your lap.

Astarion raised a brow at the instrument.

“Do you ever go anywhere without that?” he asked, curiosity coloring his voice.

“Never,” you grinned. “It’s the source of my connection to the Weave.”

He scoffed, “A lyre?”

“Well, not the lyre specifically,” you blushed, “but the music it creates. Any instrument will do, but this is my instrument of choice.”

“I see,” he said, though he really didn’t.

“Would you like me to give you an example?” you asked kindly.

“Please, be my guest.”

He watched as your delicate fingers plucked a soft melody on the instrument, caressing the tune from them with practiced ease and fondness. The mellifluous sound of your voice began its harmony, and a sense of peace like he had never known washed over him. He was enchanted by your performance, finding it a strangely intimate experience with no one else to accompany the two of you.

All too soon, the final chord resonated in the cavern of his chest with a quiet hum.

Astarion opened his eyes - not remembering having closed them - and gazed at you. The warm feeling from earlier had returned at the start of the song, and had slowly spread its way through his limbs with each progression until he felt light and fuzzy, an unusual and somewhat dizzying sensation. A slight flush had spread across your cheeks and into the bodice of your nightclothes as he regarded you with a soft expression.

“That was lovely,” he murmured, loath to break the tranquil quiet of the moment.

“A Song of Calm for my tense, toothsome friend,” you smiled, voice lowered to match his own.

“Ah! Well that explains the sudden silence in my mind.”

He cracked a wry smile and delighted in your answering giggle. Stillness enveloped the tent once more, and your expression morphed into one of concerned sincerity.

Here we go.

“Are you ready to talk?”

“I don’t want to say a damned thing,” he bit out, rage and fear laced in his voice. You recoiled at his tone, and it took conscious effort for him to soften it. “But that won’t do anyone any good.”

You remained silent, waiting patiently for him to continue. He heaved a great, mournful sigh, and began.

“Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur’s Gate. The patriarch of his coven and a monster obsessed with power. Not political power or military power - I mean power over people,” he said with carefully construed apathy, “The power to control them completely. He turned me nearly two hundred years ago. I became his spawn and he became my tormentor.”

His eyes had fallen to the space separating him from you, avoiding the questions he knew he was sure to find in yours.

“How were you turned?” you asked in a whisper. “Did he attack you?”

Astarion sighed again.

“Not him, no. A gang of thugs, the Gur,” he sneered, “attacked me, angry about a ruling that I’d handed down as a magistrate.”

“I see. Is that why you were on edge with the hunter today?”

“Indeed. They’d beaten me to death’s door when Cazador appeared. He chased them off and offered to save me. To give me eternal life. Given that my choices were ‘eternal life’ or ‘bleed to death on the street’, I took him up on the offer.”

He repressed a violent shudder at the memory and ploughed ahead, “It was only afterward that I realized just how long ‘eternity’ could be.”

“I take it he was rather lacking as a master,” you intoned gravely.

“He had me go out into Baldur’s Gate and fetch him the most beautiful souls I could find by whatever means necessary. It was a fun little ritual of his - I’d bring them back and he’d ask me if I wanted to dine with him. And if I said yes, he’d serve me a dead, putrid rat.”

He could still taste it even now, the fetid blood of overripe rodent corpses. He wanted to gag and retch at the thought.

“Of course, if I said no, he’d have me flayed. Hard to say which was worse,” he shrugged matter-of-factly.

“Astarion, that’s terrible. I’m so bloody sorry,” you sniffled.

He looked up at the sound to see the glistening tracks of tears running down your face in the glow of the oil lamp, more yet unshed making your eyes glassy. He didn’t know what he expected your reaction to be, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Thank you, but this isn’t about the sympathy,” he continued uncomfortably, “it’s about knowing what we might be up against. The Gur hunter won’t be the only one looking for me, what with his favorite plaything being misplaced.”

“Plaything?” you nearly choked.

“Yes, he always did say that my screams sounded sweetest,” he intoned bitterly.

He did not raise his eyes at the sound of your sharp gasp, fearful of what your face would betray.

“Vampire spawn are less than slaves - we’re puppets. All he need do is speak and our bodies obey. The things I’ve done, seen… felt. Well, there are some things better left unsaid,” he finished, voice hollow.

He looked up again to find tears streaming freely down your cheeks, eyes puffy and nose running with your sorrow, the whimpers and sniffles of your sobs echoing in the silence. He was unsure of how to console you, so he simply looked away, giving you time to gather yourself.

“Fuck, m’sorry,” you garbled, and he looked back to see you dashing tears from your eyes. “How insensitive of me. You don’t need my tears to make this wretched retelling any worse.”

“It’s quite alright, dear. It isn’t called a sob story for nothing, after all,” he chuckled, trying for levity to lift the stifling gloom of the atmosphere. His attempt wrested a watery giggle from you, so he considered it a success.

Once your sniffling had died down, a comfortable silence settled over the tent. He had gone back to staring at the empty space of his bedroll between you and him, and a new plan slowly began to unfurl in his mind. You seemed to like him well enough, but was well enough going to keep him safe in the dire straits ahead?

He was broken from his musing by the gentle strings of your lyre, a different melody this time but with a similar effect. The dulcet tones of your harmony flooded him with that strange, tingly warmth again, and he made up his mind in that moment. You were an unalienable ally with your charisma and quiet authority, and he needed to do whatever necessary to stay in your good graces.

Resolute in his decision, he listened intently to your music, laying back on his hands and closing his eyes to bask in the beauty of it. Your songs transitioned smoothly from one into the next, and he soon found himself drifting into his nightly meditation with unprecedented ease. He didn’t even register when the music had stopped, only noticing when your hushed voice temporarily disrupted the blissfully quiet calm of his mind.

“Goodnight, Astarion.” ______________________________________________________________

He rose early the next morning and was pleased to find you already awake. You were breaking your fast with some sludgy gruel the wizard was stirring while Wyll regaled you with animated tales of his heroics. He rolled his eyes at the warlock’s prideful display, but noticed you listening intently, gasping and asking questions at all the perfect intervals. The warlock regarded you with a smile far too fond for his liking, and he found himself calling out to you before he was even sure of what he was going to say.

“Darling, a moment, if you please?”

You gave Wyll a sheepish grin and excused yourself, setting the bowl of lumpy porridge on your stool and sauntering over to him. Astarion snickered to himself at the way the warlock’s face twisted.

“Good morning, Astarion,” you said brightly, smile more radiant than the morning sun.

“Good morning, my sweet. How did you sleep?” he asked, laying the charm on thick.

“Alright, I s’pose. You?”

“Vampires don’t sleep, dear, though I’ll say that last night was the closest I’ve come to it in two centuries,” he replied, trying for his most disarming smile.

“I’m glad to hear it,” you responded softly. “If you’d like to dine with me tonight, I’d be happy to lend my neck.”

Astarion could swear he felt his undead heart give a flutter of a beat before going dormant again.

“Why, there’s nothing I’d love more darling! But, are you sure you’re feeling up to it so soon after the first time?” he asked, his portrayal of concern surprisingly effortless.

He watched as you pulled a pendant out of your decolletage, holding it up so that it glinted in the light. He could feel the faint thrum of the Weave surrounding it.

“I went hunting through my things last night when I remembered I had this. It’s an amulet of restoration. Shadowheart confirmed for me that it will counteract the effects of blood loss,” you beamed.

“My, my. Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, as you noticeably retreated into yourself.

“I only wanted to help,” you mumbled, eyes downcast.

In a desperate attempt to salvage the conversation, Astarion shifted the subject back to the amulet.

“And wherever did you find such a pretty bauble?”

Your answering grimace and accompanying flush was an unexpected reaction.

Oh, this must be good.

“I nicked it from the druid grove,” you said sheepishly.

“Aren’t you full of surprises, my dear,” he responded with a hearty laugh.

“Shut it, Rogue,” you grumbled at him good-naturedly.

“Never! And in answer to your earlier question, I would be more than delighted to dine with you.” He bowed dramatically, earning him a few bright peals of laughter.

“Your tent, or mine?” he purred. He made a show of watching the way your flush deepened and crept its way down into the plunging neckline of your nightclothes.

“Erm, I’d assume you’d be most comfortable in your tent,” you responded, wringing your hands with eyes downcast once more.

Well, that won’t do.

He reached forward slowly so as not to spook you and tucked a finger under your chin, gently raising your face so he could catch your eyes.

“I can make myself comfortable anywhere for you, dear,” he breathed, watching closely as your lips parted in a silent gasp and pupils dilated infinitesimally wider.

Just as he was about to celebrate this small victory, your eyes cinched shut and a pained expression flitted across your face. He dropped his hand instantly, taken aback by the dramatic shift in your reaction.

“S’not you,” you gritted out, confusing him further. You opened your eyes and took a steadying breath.

“Just a bad memory,” you clarified, standing tall in a display of faux confidence.

It was a tactic he knew all too well, and he could see right through it to the rigid way you held yourself. He felt his face fall with a doleful kind of understanding.

She, too, has endured much torment.

“Ah yes, those I am quite familiar with. We all have skeletons in the closet. An unfortunate side effect of living…” he paused, “and unliving, I suppose.”

You chuckled, easing up again.

“I’m taking Lae’zel, Wyll and Gale with me today to look for the missing druid. We’ll let you know what we find,” you changed the subject, meeting his gaze.

He felt a pang of disappointment with the chill of fear quick on its heels and fought to keep his face neutral, but was ultimately unsuccessful. You caught a glimpse of something, however fleeting, in his eyes that turned your countenance steely.

“He won’t have you, Astarion. You don’t need to go back to him,” you said, suddenly vehement in your determination. It only increased his panic.

“You don’t know Cazador,” he relented in a whisper, “He could have spies anywhere. I could be gone long before you make it back. If he finds me, I will have no choice but to return.”

“He won’t find you. You’re safe with me,” you murmured back, reaching out to take his hands. It was an odd sensation, being held, made odder still by your initiation of the contact.

“Then take me with you,” he begged, just shy of desperate.

He could feel your thumbs sweeping over the backs of his hands, no doubt a placating gesture to ease the burn of your next words.

“Not today. You need to rest after yesterday’s events.”

“How rich, coming from you,” he snapped, withdrawing his hands from your grasp abruptly.

He caught the hurt that flashed across your delicate features before you managed to school your expression, straightening your spine and squaring your shoulders.

He sighed in defeat, “I suppose I will see you tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” you nodded and turned to leave.

You took a few steps away from him and paused, turning halfway back toward him.

“And I mean it, Astarion. You are safe with me. I will watch your back, so long as you watch mine.”

With nothing but your parting words for reassurance, Astarion returned to his tent, succumbing to the biting cold of dread’s barbed claws.

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citricacidprince · 7 months

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Thinking about Psychonauts and how much I love the Aquato family once again

They mean the world to me your honor

#They are a strange little family with so many issues and generational trauma and YET they still LOVE EACHOTHER #DO YOU KNOW HOW IMPORTANT THAT IS TO ME???#Nona; Augustus; Donatella; Dion; Frazie; Rasputin; Mirtala; Queepie-#I love you all and I owe you my life #DION AND DONATELLA ESPECIALLY; Y’ALL GET SO MUCH HATE FOR HAVING UNDERSTANDABLE NEGATIVE EMOTIONS AND IT DRIVES ME UP THE WALL :(#Aquatos get behind me; I’ll protect you from the people who think you abuse Raz and should just get adopted by Sasha and Milla #that’s a bad take and they should feel bad. like; he can still see Sasha and Milla and alternate parental figures; that’s fine-#But Raz; CANONICALLY; would NEVER give up his family; EVER #That boy would force everyone to have a heart on heart with him until everything is better because he DOES that in the GAME #When you talk to you family in Psychonauts 2 you can tell how much he loves them and how much they love him; even if it’s strained at the-#moment from how stressful the past THREE DAYS have been #YES EVEN DION AND DONATELLA #They love Raz so much!!! They’re both just going through it™️ atm and need time to clear their head: remember; everything that has happened-#has been in the span of 3 DAYS and their whole lives have been completely flipped upside down #I think they’re allowed to be upset; in fact; it would be weird if they weren’t #sorry this is word garbage I just love that family so much it makes me wanna drink paint #prince rambles in this chilies tonight #aquato family #psychonauts aquatos #psychonauts 2 #psychonauts

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5ilentw0rds · 10 days

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And the moment we saw each other again.

I forgot the pain you put me in.

I laughed, I remembered our happy moment.

I remembered love;

I remembered friendship;

I remembered the happiest time of my life.

And even though this was smaller than the abuse, it stays longer on my mind.

Because yeah, you made me cry and suffer.

But you gave me new feelings that i could discover.

You made me unable to ever love another.

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aalghul · 13 days

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I don’t think it makes sense to assume that Jason was mocking Mia’s past. At all. The thing that got jason painted as violent back in the 80s was his anger against rapists…how does that turn into mocking a victim? and that entire story was written by winick. Do we honestly think winick intended to communicate that? The same writer who made Jason’s first kill a man who was trafficking children? Who had Jason pause in his mission of madness to make sure those kids were found by the right people so they wouldn’t be in further danger?

#let’s knock on our skulls and kick our brains back into gear okay?#you can maintain that it wasn’t well executed or that the role mia played here bothers you #but you can’t say jason was mocking her for that or even seriously trying to hurt her physically #he was bsing like 90% of the story with his constant ‘we should all kill anyone who inconveniences us! speedy and GA should try to kill me #if they want to win’ like we understand that yes?#but that last part of his convo with Mia was the one serious part #he was wrong! of course he was wrong about ollie. but this was also Jason’s first time meeting ollie #it was ridiculous and unnecessary on his end and it put mia thru the emotional wringer for nothing #but that wasn’t the Intention. it was a stupid thing done by someone who never expected anything to come of it but still said what *to him*#was a way of offering advice #and as for the ppl who go ‘stop reaching abt jason being a victim and just read Mia instead’#a) there’s more to Mia’s character than her past. anyone who thinks that fits Jason’s past wouldn’t necessarily like mia bc they’re not the #same character #it’s the same way that if jason was confirmed to have been a victim of SA as a kid then all of Mia’s fans wouldn’t love him like they love #her? this is common sense. anyways stop being assholes online and just recommend characters too ppl nicely #b) more than one character can have experienced a similar form of abuse. also common sense #c) it’s not an unreasonable hc #d) it doesn’t hurt you personally. none of this killed your grandma #once again: hate whoever you like but choosing the interpretation that doesn’t make sense just to make up a #‘valid’ reason is serious loser behaviour

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baldurs-gate-official · 5 months

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Thinking about Astarion and trauma again (shocking)

He really is the first character I've seen that depicts PTSD/C-PTSD the way he does. He's angry. He's collecting the pieces of himself he had to chip away over the years and figuring out how to fit them back together again, and it's hard.

I rarely see good PTSD rep in media (and C-PTSD is even less depicted/understood). And when I do, it's always the soft pitiable side of it. The side of it that's more palatable and easy to accept. But the reality is that the trauma that stems from such abuse can be vicious, and messy. It can lash out and push people away. Bring out the worst in you, at times. It can be so, so angry.

I love that we see that in Astarion. Both because it's good representation, and because I'm a survivor too. I'm angry. I'm upset. I want to kick and scream about it, but I can't. I feel like I must always remain in control, or that displaying those feelings will only hurt those around me and push them away. I don't want that. I don't want to hurt others or be alone.

Seeing Astarion do those things, being angry and messy over it all... It makes me so happy. He says things to Cazador I wish I could say to my own abusers, with no regard to how others perceive it. He doesn't hold back. And I get to see a character with a very similar kind of trauma do/say the things I only dream about, and not be abandoned for it. He's given the chance to heal and grow as a person, and feel loved. He gets to have a happy ending.

And he gets to be mad. And that's ok.

#bg3 #astarion #text post #cw trauma #cw ptsd #ive never seen a character before with such a similarish past to mine #i feel so seen and understood #i hate that ive had to be silent about it #i hate it so much #it means SO much to see a character with such good CPTSD rep #and see so many people love his character #i recently escaped my own abusers so this sort of thing makes me very emotional #the way he talks about torture too and doesnt try to sugar coat it #i was tortured too. my bones were broken repeatedly for someone elses amusement and it was fucking horrible #years of that #and starvation #among other things #and ive never seen a character before thats been through something similar #ive never even seen a character before this that specifically has CPTSD #ive seen characters who *should* have been written with CPTSD but its as if the writers just googled PTSD and went with that #(C-PTSD comes from continued exposure to trauma over the course of months or years where PTSD is often from a singular event)#(the symptoms differ a bit. and Astarion is a very good example of C-PTSD)#it just makes me really happy. and it makes me feel like people might understand and not blame me for what happened #well. some people do anyway. but. this kind of representation helps a lot with helping people understand #seriously though ive had people act like theyd have fared better in my situation. or blamed me for what happened #how fucked is that???? i want to chew glass whenever it happens #its always people whove never had any experience with abuse too #but they have the audacity to tell me theyre built different or something #q

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prolibytherium · 20 days

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I don't care about ""romance"" or """hurt and comfort""" where issues are (temporarily or otherwise) resolved via effusive declarations of love and devotion and praise I want to read more fucked up people fumbling their way through their best approximations of intimacy and human vulnerability like "What are you doing. Oh ew wtf are you crying? Are you good? Don't get snot on my shirt" etc but no one understand smy visions

#I have to do everything MYSELF #Genuinely I love writing about interpersonal dynamics between low empathy people with weird attachment styles it is probably my #key historical trend in OC dynamics and etc #Both with platonic friendship and/or romance it's very endearing to me. Love people who sincerely care about each #other and do it in ways that suck so fucking bad #The ways having low empathy and/or disordered personality can affect relationships when you genuinely care about someone but are #woefully unequipped to deal w/ some emotions and etc can be very interesting and something I wish I saw in Media more often #but unfortunately it's already hard enough to get people past step fucking one of 'low empathy and/or cluster b does not mean evil abuser'#Am not expressing myself very well rn I have a really bad headache and yet I hit the post button

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analgravee · 5 months

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i love danero man

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc4 #dmc headcanons #im really bad at explaining and writing things so #this is what i have so far #nero is just a typical punk/rebel and he pierced himself for shock value #his color is yellow because...i like yellow HAUDBFU #also he has brown eyes and freckles from his mom! his eyes glow a faintly yellow most of the time tho #I really got influenced by the concept art here #also nero has alot of religious trauma passed from kyries parents #they abused him kinda #the moment nero saw dante his daddy issues started to pop #dante is this 7 foot menace with really bad alcohol problems due to his past #very very overprotective over nero #id like to think he doesnt seem so bad at first but oh boy. theres alot of layers #dante gets drunk to the point he sees vergil in nero and gets super mad at himself and he just turns into an emotional wreck #he also gaslights nero alot because well. family right #ill write sumn better when i get the chance to but thats all i have

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 9 months

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Whump Prompt #1195

Submitted by Anon - thanks!

Tw: Abuse

Two sibling whumpee’s were adopted by another family. The eldest was adopted at birth, but the younger one was adopted at around three/four years old.

The prior family was an incredibly abusive royal family that for some reason or another, deemed both unworthy.

Now, as fully grown adults and trying to take down the empire, the younger sibling never really talks about their time with their bio family.

The two break into the castle to get a specific relic or something needed to help turn the tide in the war and almost get caught before the youngest frantically leads the eldest to a secret hiding place.

Inside is covered in dusty drawings and toys from where the youngest sibling spent most of their time hiding all those years back.

All the while both whumpee’s can hear their bio dad, the whumper, outside threatening them and revealing more about youngest sibling’s past. Whumper knows that they’re in the castle but doesn’t know where, so after awhile of getting insanely close to the hiding place, whumper leaves to look elsewhere.

Eldest sibling feels guilty for ever asking the youngest about their bio family now. And while they sit there for a few hours to let the heat go down to escape, they sift through the old drawings and the youngest sibling finally opens up.

#i like it!#whump #writing #prompts #angst #tw: abuse #tw: childhood trauma #past trauma #hiding places #opening up #emotional whump #fear

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scratchandplaster · 2 months

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FEBUWHUMP DAY 6 - "You lied to me"

CW: parental Whumper, hypnosis, emotional manipulation, interrogation, conditioning

Previous | [Masterlist] | Next

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

"There are still plenty of thoughts inside your head, so let's get them in order."

Shepard was intently focused on his son. Above now dried tear tracks, his unblinking attention denied Ben to be unguarded for even one second, whilst his assertive but nevertheless mellow tone carried him along a carved-out path.

Possessive strokes down his back dragged him further: "Down, just down, always deeper down. We can't choose our sorrows, but you can choose to let them go for a moment, to let me help forget them. Follow my lead."

In and out, it was impossible to resist the pace he was taught so well.

"I would count you down, but you know all my old tricks."

Shepard was not naive, he had to be extremely lucky that his charade still worked after all these months Reuben spent on his own, poisoning his mind and spirit out in the world. That he still responded obediently to the suggestions of the past was a goddamn miracle. One he would gladly use to its full potential.

"Remember all the times we did this before," Shepard repeated for good measure. So many, many times, half of which Ben couldn't even recall. Today was far from the first instance he helped to quiet his ward's nettled thoughts.

It was about time to rectify old lies.

"You always knew where Lukas was, though we both know you claimed otherwise," Shepard sighed low, "Will you tell me now?"

The soft face on his shoulder began to stir back to wakefulness, his bottom lip scrunched up in painful guilt. Rough start.

"Shh, forget that, it was a stupid question. You did nothing wrong." Comforting reassurance and soft circles drawn onto his temples helped to smooth out any risen qualm. "I know it's difficult for you to stay alert during this state, so I'm keeping this easy for us. Just Yes or No from now on, you don't even have to say a word."

Reuben showed himself more agreeable and leaned back against him.

"Is Lukas doing well?"

A small nod. Good.

"Is he eating enough? You know how he always skips breakfast."

Again, Ben nodded against the rough wool of Shepard's sweater while the same tediously tried to keep this interview on track: he could embrace his success later, when both of his sons were near him again. However, the abandoned father was ready to reap the fruits of his endeavor.

"Do you want to tell me where he is?"

Ben quickly shook his head. No, not yet.

"Mhh, I understand."

It felt horrible how easy it was to make him tell the truth, but Shepard had no interest nor intention to question his parenting methods at the moment. He knew exactly what limits confined them: he couldn't make Reuben do or forget anything he didn't want to, at least if he failed to be persuasive enough.

Shepard's boy was easy to read and just as simple as he was loyal to both his brother and father. But not in equal parts, Shepard was at a certain disadvantage he ought to correct.

Children like them were too inept for the world outside the settlement, so it was no wonder Reuben merely crumpled under the first selfless act of affection in a long time. If his forgiveness was not given freely, Shepherd could just rip it from his fragile heart. For both their peace of mind, nothing else.

"You know how much I love you, both of you."

The shake of Ben's head said it all. It hadn't even been a question, but the blunt answer pricked nonetheless.

"Oh, well, I love you more than the world. I did everything to get you back!" Shepard mused softly, "If not me, what about the rest of our family?"

Kind memories of the people who waited for him outside rinsed Ben of any stray thoughts and drifted with him into the depths. He never wanted to hurt any of them with his decisions.

"Did you miss us?"

Ben affirmed this shyly, grabbing a corner of Shepard's sweater.

"You are safe here, right?"

A nod.

"You are safe with me."

At the claim, Ben's head rolled around aimlessly, as if he was trying to stir awake again. Shepard tutted; this was a tricky one.

"You are here with me and the others, all together. We watch out for each other, we keep each other secure."

Yes, this made sense. Through the pleasant, thick fog that filled his head, Ben knew it to be sincere.

"Here, you are safe. With us, you are safe."

Safe...together. He couldn't possibly disagree with these smooth words.

"You are safe and loved by us all, we were awaiting your return. Always putting an extra plate on the dinner table for when you decide to come back."

Shepard had to endure countless days of waiting before accepting that his youngest would stay gone. He had searched for him for so long it made him sick with fear, not knowing if his sons were hurt or fraternizing with God knows what kind of people. Yet, he didn't want for Reuben to realize the damage he had caused, not when he was so calm and open for the right input.

"And today our wishes were granted!"

Warmth, safety, love. Encased by these sensations, Ben's mind caught itself slipping into easy relaxation once again.

"Can you say it for me, can you tell me that you're safe and loved?"

"'m safe and loved," he slurred quietly against the wool. It felt good to be here in his dad's arms, it felt right.

"That's my boy, I knew we could stand above the past."

Shepard's sweet promises hugged his exhausted soul, he was too tired of hiding, adapting, changing. They tried to teach Ben what to say and what to hide out there, but the only thing he understood was to never be himself; another truth nobody could ever tell his brother. He remembered exactly how angry and disappointed Luke loved to get with him.

Cupping his face carefully, Shepard pushed him to sit straight up: "Open your eyes."

With a wide, empty stare but not awake in the slightest, Ben continued to sway back and forth. He was unsure what Dad wanted from him and too dizzy to care, silently begging to be allowed back into the stream of soft, dark dreaminess. Tears collected at the corners of his eyes, but Shepard was far from done with him: "Ben, tell me what you are when you're with us."

"I'm safe and I'm loved," tumbled from his lips without thinking twice about it.

"Yes, you are." Relief washed over Ben like a tsunami: he didn't do anything wrong after all, nobody hated him here.

"Now close these heavy eyes and relax."

As he sagged back down, the inward pull doubled its force. He felt that the soap bubble his brain had become threatened to pop. Too much to focus on, nothing to think about, clutching onto the inner peace Dad had so kindly given him.

"We all love you so much. Missing is too weak a word to explain how desperately we wanted you back. You are always wanted here."

Every word was law.

Shepard should feel dirty at using Reuben's obvious weaknesses so bluntly against him, but not today. Today they would celebrate his return and plan the one they enjoyed as soon as the other prodigal son decided to come home. A selfish sting inside Shepard's heart forced the next question out: "Did you miss me?"

A final nod made tears run down Ben's face. Shepard hugged him tighter, as if he never intended to let go again:

"I missed you too, starshine, it's going to be alright. Everything falls into place when we are together."

Numb with joy, Ben felt too tired to hold on to the present any longer, a problem his father gladly helped him with: "Sleep now, sleep and let my words manifest as truth in your mind."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Febuwhump 2024 Masterlist]

@febuwhump

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wangxianficrecs · 10 months

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💙 shelter by hauntedotamatone

💙 shelter

by hauntedotamatone

T, 5k, Wangxian

Summary: “They are gone,” a low voice sounds from above him, joined by the warm weight of a hand on his back. “It’s safe now.” A-Ying carefully removes his hands from the soft fabric bunched up in his grip and proceeds to wipe away the tears and snot from his face. It’s only now that he realizes he’s smeared bright red blood all over the stranger’s nice, white robes. The thing about people in nice robes is that they don’t take kindly to dirty hands grasping at them, let alone hands dirty with blood. “S-sorry,” he says around the thick lump that still sits in his throat. “A-Ying is sorry.” The hand at his back grows stiff. “There is no need for ‘sorry’,” the stranger tells him. “Robes can be cleaned.” Kay's comments: Listed as one of those fanfics that never fail to make me bawl my eyes out. Here we have little A-Ying, during his time of the streets, escaping from dogs and running to someone for help and that someone turns out to be grown-up Wangxian, who then take care of him, treating his wounds, feeding him some proper food and comforting him and it's all very heart-breaking. Healing your inner child by taking care of your child-self, kind of. The fic takes place post-canon though and Wangxian were thrown into one of Wei Wuxian's memories. Fics that take a real look at those years that Wei Wuxian lived on the street always get me and this one is my absolute favourite. No sugar-coating and yet still so true to Wei Wuxian as a character. Excerpt: “Oh,” he says, climbing down from his perch to kneel right in front of A-Ying in the street. “Oh, little one.” He doesn’t know either of these people, but it’s been so long since anyone has spoken to him like this, since anyone has treated him like a child and not a pest. The man in front of him wears a red ribbon in his hair, just like his mother used to. Perhaps he should know better after all the time he’s spent alone at the mercy of others, but all of his carefully honed wariness and caution shatters in an instant. He crumples up, pitching forward with the single sob he hasn’t managed to hold back. A-Ying all but falls into the man’s arms, but he doesn’t truly expect to be caught until he finds himself held tight. No one has held him in a very long time. He knows that he must have been held at least once, but he can’t remember what it felt like in the slightest. “I’m scared of them too,” the man says. “But, this pretty gege in white is very good at keeping them away, they won’t come around again.”

pov wei wuxian, canon compliant, post-canon, established relationship, homelessness, food insecurity, childhood trauma, character study, past child abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, memory related, loss of parents, wei wuxian has a fear of dogs, child wei wuxian, sad, angst, blood and injury, night hunts, ghosts, protective lan wangji, caring lan wangji, angst with a happy ending, @hauntotamatone

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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moe-broey · 6 months

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I was maybe halfway into this when I realized this could have been an edit but. Can anyone hear me

#fire emblem #feh #LIKE YEAH THAT WHOLE MONOLOGUE WAS AN ACT. BUT THIS IS MORE TO DEMONSTRATE #how triandra REFUSES to look past her guilt at all costs. she is ALWAYS so quick to condemn herself #meanwhile alfonse given the right circumstances under the right pressure.#he will go full sicko mode.#LIKE .... AUGHHHHH i can't fully capture it but. they have complete opposite mental/emotional approaches to what they had to do.#AND complete opposite attitudes about it. like alfonse is absolutely remorseful over gustav #and the abuse/neglect he got from gustav is way more nuanced than triandra's father adding even more complexity to it #but like. alfonse's greatest strength and weakness (i like to believe anyway lmfao) is he is practical.#LIKE. TO ALFONSE. the ends justify the means. meanwhile triandra did what she had to and yet #still WHOLEHEARTEDLY believes she's in the wrong for it. like two wrongs don't make a right.#even though her and peony's situation WAS life or death. she still sees what she had to do as #a crime she can never be absolved from.#am i making sense. i am unmedicated.#fe alfonse #fe triandra #my art

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 6 days

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chapter 4: a reflection in another's eyes

Find the masterlist here!

CW: Unintentional and nonconsensual voyeurism

W/C: 2,579

A/N: Have another simply because I've been writing so prolifically!

Astarion spent the better part of the day curled up in his tent with all of his belongings. He figured that if anyone else were to come looking for him, it’d be best if he didn’t have any obvious indications of his whereabouts on display. For as much as he wanted to bask in the sunshine like a lazy cat, it seemed safer to stay huddled in the cramped shadows of his tent, surrounded by all of the pilfered trinkets he associated with his freedom. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything to call his own, and each item, no matter its usefulness or lack thereof, had earned a sentimental place in his undead heart.

As the light shifted toward dusk, his mind grew restless and he felt suffocated by the heat and darkness of the small space. He crawled to the mouth of the tent and hesitantly lifted one of the flaps to peer out. His eyes quickly found Karlach and Shadowheart preparing the fire, but saw no sign of the morning’s adventuring party. He exhaled slowly through his nose and stood, gathering his things and tenderly placing them outside once more.

He caught the curious eyes of Shadowheart watching him enter and exit repeatedly and scowled menacingly at her, fighting the urge to giggle as he watched her face scrunch up in distaste. Karlach only smiled at him, nothing but kindness in her eyes, so he obliged her with his own in return.

The last rays of twilight streaked the sky by the time he finished re-orienting his belongings, and there was still no sign of the rest of the group. He became fidgety with distress at the thought of you injured or dead somewhere far from his reach, and chose not to analyze the feeling further. Surely, you were fine. Surely the other three had kept you safe, so that you might come back and provide him with security in turn.

He stared absently at the book in his lap, poring over the same paragraph far too many times as his agonized thoughts ran away with him. With a frustrated growl, he snapped the book shut and tossed it none too gently into his tent, snagging his toiletries off the little table next to him and stalking away from camp to the riverbank nearby. He hoped bathing would prove a more helpful distraction.

He shucked his clothes and swiftly waded waist-deep into the water, unaffected by the frigid temperature. He allowed his body to sink beneath the rippled surface, soaking himself from head to toe for a good wash. He worked his rosemary soap into a rich lather and scrubbed the layers of road dust from his silver hair and ivory skin until he glowed in the pale light of the moon. Deeming himself thoroughly cleansed, he dipped below the water one more time to rinse all of the suds away before making a hasty retreat to its edge. He donned his smalls in a rush, pulling his breeches on shortly after and lacing them shut.

Stepping into his camp shoes, he rubbed a spicy and citrusy oil through his curls and across the planes of his chest absentmindedly, his thoughts wandering once more. As he sucked in a breath for a heavy sigh, he caught your scent on the breeze and heard the tinkling sound of your laughter. He scrambled for his things and made a mad dash back to camp, pulling his worn, ruffled chemise over his head as he went.

Once he caught sight of you, the chilly tendrils of fear that had been slowly constricting his chest all day receded in an instant, replaced rapidly by the fuzzy warmth he’d come to associate with you - until he noticed the person opposite you.

Gale.

He watched in abject fury as the wizard laughed at your clumsy hand gestures and repeated his motions for you, his praise at your correction driving a breathy giggle from you. Something hot and green took over him as the Weave sparkled around the two of you, the look of wondrous fascination in your eyes too much for him to bear. This was another unfamiliar feeling, one that left a vile churning in his gut and a rancid taste in his mouth. A feeling he decidedly did not like one bit, and he skulked away to his tent to avoid feeding it further.

Little good it did, for the seed of doubt had been sown.

Well enough is certainly not good enough.

He placed his toiletries back on the table outside his tent and took up the ornate silver hand mirror in their stead, ducking into the bleak darkness of his sleeping quarters. ______________________________________________________________

He heard the padding of your bare feet and the telltale swish of his tent opening before he saw you, delicate face reflected in the many fractured facets of the hand mirror.

“Looking at something?” he drawled in greeting, smirking at the surprise marring your fine features.

“How did you…?”

“The only benefit to a mirror when you have my condition,” he answered without turning to look at you, afraid of what his expression might betray. “It doesn’t quite make up for the lack of a reflection, mind you.”

“I came looking for you when we got back, but I couldn’t find you anywhere,” you began, letting the flap of his tent fall shut.

“I had gone for a bath,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Why didn’t you come get me when you were done?”

He scrutinized your face in the cracked mirror, eyes round with sadness and lips drawn in a slight frown. You wrung your hands in the muslin material of your sleep dress.

“I had every intention of inviting you for dinner when I returned, but you seemed… otherwise engaged,” he sneered, grateful you could not see his face in the reflection of the mirror.

“Ah, that. Gale was showing me how to harness the Weave without my lyre. He said I had a natural talent for the arcane arts,” you responded with a flush, arms drawn tight around your middle in defensive bashfulness.

“I think I rather prefer the magic of your music, darling,” he snarked before he could stop himself. The silence that followed was awkward at best.

Clearing your throat, you nodded at the mirror in his hand.

“Do you miss it?”

“Do I miss what?” he snapped, mood foul and patience running thin.

“Seeing your own face,” you answered in a small voice.

He swiveled to face you, jeering, “Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity? Of course I miss it.”

You remained standing just in the threshold of his tent, looking down at his no doubt disdainful expression.

“I’ve never even seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.” He could feel his lip curl in contempt.

“What color were they before?” you asked quietly.

He was taken aback, unable to recall the answer.

“I…I don’t know. I can’t remember,” he replied, voice now solemn, “My face is just some dark shape in my past.”

He was quickly overcome with white hot rage at the reminder of everything Cazador had taken from him, the memory of himself included.

“Another thing I’ve lost,” he snarled, hurling the hand mirror across the tent with unnecessary ferocity. The already-fractured surface shattered on impact, spraying shards of glass haphazardly in all directions.

You jumped back with a gasp, hand flying to grasp at your chest. He could hear the rapid, unsteady rhythm of your heart and felt a pang of remorse for startling you. He hung his head and buried his face in his hands with a groan, trembling with the rage and loathing that coursed through him.

He couldn’t hear your tentative footsteps or the soft sounds of your breath over the ringing in his ears, but he could smell you coming closer. He felt the gentle swoosh of your skirt and the impression in his bedroll as you knelt in front of him, and had to suppress a shudder when the warmth of your small hands encircled his wrists, drawing his own away from his face. Even still, he did not raise it to look at you.

You gave a little tut of disapproval, and he soon felt your calloused fingertips skate along his jawline, soft palms guiding him to meet your eyes. He watched intently as your eyes flitted over his features, drinking in the sight of him.

“What?” he rumbled.

He felt the pads of your thumbs trace gently over his cheekbones, and he closed his eyes at the feathery sensation. The warmth he associated with your presence morphed into a blazing inferno in the hollow of his chest, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I see you,” you breathed.

He opened his eyes to find yours heavy lidded, soft features rosy in the warm glow of the oil lamp. He could count the freckles across the bridge of your nose with your proximity, your intoxicating scent drawing him ever closer.

“And what do you see, exactly?”

“Strong, piercing eyes,” you whispered, your own flitting from one to the other of his.

“Go on…” he exhaled.

“That dangerous smile,” you replied, lips quirking up as if in example.

All I’d have to do is lean in.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a tempest of disgust and bitter hatred whirled through him, sullying the fragile moment. It was too much. Too gentle.

More kindness than he deserved.

He reached up and grasped your wrists, not missing your shiver at his touch, though whether it was borne of the chill of his skin or the heat of your desire, he couldn’t say. All it did was fuel the maelstrom of his self-loathing. He deftly, albeit cautiously, removed your hands from his face and leaned away.

“Very good,” he purred, slipping back into the comfortable familiarity of his persona and taking control of the conversation again, “Now just tell me I’m beautiful and we can call it a day.”

The dramatic change in your expression would have been funny if it didn’t also hurt, snuffing out the fire and the warmth in one fell swoop and leaving an ache of regret in its place.

“Is that all you want? Shallow praise?” you gritted out, mouth set in a hard line.

“Hardly! There’s also gold, sex, revenge - quite the list really,” he laughed, though it sounded false even to his ears. “But failing any of those, I will always settle for shallow praise.”

“I can’t believe you,” you snapped, yanking your wrists from his grip. “Would it kill you to be vulnerable?”

You sat back, swinging your legs around and pushing yourself up to stand.

“It very well could, darling,” he sniffed, turning his head in profile to regard you haughtily.

“Go find your own dinner, Astarion,” you muttered, expression thunderous and limbs rigid with hurt and fury.

He watched as you stormed away, mind working overtime to catch up with how quickly the situation had turned south, and found himself staring at the swinging flaps of his tent for longer than he cared to admit.

For the first time in two centuries, it was not fear that kept him awake. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion surfaced from his fitful trance with a groan, blinking in the diffused glow of the oil lamp. He rolled over and pushed his tent open, surprised to find the blanket of night still stretched across the sky. He couldn’t remember how long it took to slip into his meditation, nor when it had happened, but it had been restless and plagued with the spindly remnants of memories best left forgotten.

He stretched and took a deep breath, an unnecessary but still calming practice, and weighed the benefit of slipping back into his trance against going out to hunt. He stared at the fabric ceiling swaying in the breeze for a few moments before deciding to get up. It had been a day or more since he’d last fed, and he supposed a full belly might help ease the pain of emptiness in his chest.

He slipped from his tent in silence, prowling in the direction of the forest, when he heard humming coming from the direction of the riverbank. He diverged from his original path and crept toward the sound, the haunting melody piquing his curiosity.

He smelled you before he saw you, and halted his approach in the shadow of a great oak tree close by. His skin prickled with the wariness of unanticipated voyeurism, but he could not draw himself away from the sight of you.

There you were, waist deep in the river, moonlight glistening off your bare, sudsy skin. Water ran in enticing rivulets from the ends of your hair, cutting trails through the lather in the valley of your breasts and over their soft mounds, droplets falling from the full curvature of their undersides into the rippling current swirling around you. You continued to hum your melancholy tune as you worked the fragrant floral soap through your hair.

Astarion was grateful for his lack of a pulse and need to breathe; had he been a mortal man, his regular bodily functions would have been sure to give him up.

He watched with rapt fascination as you propped your foot up on an invisible platform, no doubt a stone beneath the water’s surface, and ran the soap up your leg in a tantalizing display, the other following suit some time after. You took your time cleansing yourself despite the obvious chill of the water, skin dimpled with gooseflesh. His darkvision allowed him to pick out the finer details of your form, finding the silvery flash of old scars in the most unlikely of places.

The pleasant warmth your beauty incited warred with the cold discomfort of his abhorrent behavior. You were sure to skin him alive if you ever found him out, but you remained blissfully unaware of his presence for the moment, content to take pleasure in the act of washing yourself. He heard you suck in a great lungful of air and the telltale plunk of you sinking beneath the water’s surface to rinse yourself. He should have used the opportunity to slink away, but he was curiously rooted to the spot.

You resurfaced with heavy, panting breaths, hands slicking your hair back from your face and wringing the excess water from it. You undulated with the current as you waded back to the bank.

The pale light of the moon glinting off your wet skin as you hummed your poignant melody gave you a siren-like quality that stoked the embers of that tingly warmth into a burning need that sat low in his belly. He was familiar with lust, knew the look of it in others and the inevitable feeling of it in himself when forced to perform. Never, before now, had it been a welcome sensation.

I wonder how she’d look, bare in the glow of candlelight.

Just as quickly as the feeling came, it left in a rush of confused disturbance. He was knowingly violating your privacy, and taking enjoyment in it. He felt the overwhelming burden of shame consume him. With one last glance at your lithe form perched on a rock as your skin dried in the warm breeze, he fled into the hush of the darkened forest and far from the conflicted thoughts of an excitement long assumed dead.

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