#and if you already dissociate it is WILD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peaches2217 · 11 months ago

Text

Everything's Okay

TW: PTSD, Dissociation, Brief Description of Vomiting

AO3 link! And a massive thank you to @squagel for your feedback and help!

~~~

“Peach?! Peach!”

The fire Peach dozed by may well have extinguished itself for how quickly her blood ran cold. Blissfully sleepy just moments ago, every nerve and neuron now blared alarm bells that forced her to move before she could even form a coherent thought.

She clambered her way out of the drawing room chaise as quickly as the extra weight she carried would permit, but even so, the ten steps to the bedroom door felt impossibly vast. It would feel no different even if she could sprint with the speed of a Yoshi racing through summer fields.

She was no stranger to hearing that voice call her name. She’d never heard it cried like that.

Just as she reached the door, it flew open, forcing her to clutch her belly protectively as she dodged its outward swing — and there stood Mario on the opposite side.

They stared at one another in shocked silence, and Peach took the opportunity to assess him before making her next move. Outwardly he appeared unharmed. He was still in his daytime attire, though the right strap of his overalls was undone and the adjacent bib corner hung limp from his chest. His hair was mussed, his eyes wild, boring into her with some mix of raw terror and disbelief; glancing over his head, she saw his cap resting on their bed near the far wall, its blankets still made up but visibly rumpled, the sheer canopy still drawn as it had been that morning.

A nightmare. He’d simply had another nightmare. Though she loathed to see him so frightened, Peach breathed a private sigh of relief. She had been so certain he was in legitimate danger from his tone of voice alone.

Honestly, she hadn’t even known he was in their quarters already. He must have snuck in sometime after dinner while she shared evening tea with Toadsworth and laid down to rest, crashing before he could even finish getting out of his clothes and snoozing soundly until his rude awakening.

“Peach…?” This utterance of her name was much quieter, almost quivering, and the weight that had lifted from her chest seeing him unharmed slowly resettled. Even newly awake, she could tell that this nightmare had been more intense than usual.

Indeed, he dealt with dark dreams somewhat regularly, dreams of attacks or disasters which jolted him awake and left him restless unless Peach was awake and available to distract him with lighthearted whispers across the pillow. Yet such dreams paled in comparison to the worst of his nightmares, in which he oftentimes lost her. Never any less painful in their familiarity, he woke from those dreams crying her name, and no amount of chatting could put him at ease; he would remain shaken and a little distant even as Peach fed him reassurances, resting his ear against her chest and listening to her heartbeat until he drifted off again.

The subject of tonight’s nightmare, therefore, was all too easy to discern. He must have panicked harder than usual upon waking to an empty bed.

“I’m right here,” she soothed, dropping her hands from her abdomen to hold him lightly by the shoulders. When he didn’t relax beneath her touch, she stroked his cheek, startlingly pale beneath her fingertips. Perhaps he was still half-asleep as well; maybe he still had trouble in discerning reality from another dream.

That happened sometimes on nights like this, so Peach didn’t panic. She guided him with gentle movements back into their room, leaving the door open so the heat from the fireplace could warm the dark bedroom. When she reached their bed, she situated herself on the mattress’ edge, urging Mario to sit beside her.

He didn’t sit. He remained standing before her, his expression dazed and his breath unsteady, but his eyes at least began to clear. At least she thought they were clearing. The moonlight that filtered in through the curtains was just adequate enough to see and not much more.

Adorning her gentlest smile, Peach took his hands. The rough skin that was normally a touch too dry was now clammy. “It’s alright, love,” she said. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is okay.”

Mario blinked a few times, glancing down at their hands. He made no attempt to hold hers in return.

“Everything’s…” he muttered vaguely. After a moment, he nodded. “Y… yeah. Everything’s… okay.”

Before she could utter another reassurance or encourage him again to join her, he withdrew his hands, the bulb in his throat bouncing as he swallowed thickly. “J-just a minute.”

“Of course,” Peach said in her same soft tone. With that, he nodded once more before lumbering away, towards the bathroom door; he flipped the lightswitch on as he entered but didn’t bother closing the door behind him. A jab low in her stomach drew Peach’s attention away from the empty door frame, and she smoothed her palm over that area of movement.

Your father, she sighed to her baby, letting her disorganized thoughts finish the sentence. Between the everyday pressures of being a hero and a consort, the apprehension over the rapidly approaching birth of their daughter, and the thousand royal tasks he insisted upon shouldering for her because “We can’t take any chances, Peachy, stress is bad for the baby! So you let Mario do all the stressing for you, okie-dokie?”, Peach had begun to wonder how he hadn’t fallen into a coma from sheer strain. A high-intensity nightmare was the last thing he needed.

But it would be okay, she assured herself. Mario was hardly invincible, but he could still handle more than most. He would feel better once he splashed some cold water onto his face, took a moment to breathe, and when he was ready to return she would give him a safe haven within her arms. By morning his nightmare would be a hazy memory and he’d live to fight another day.

Exhaling sadly and slowly, she relaxed her posture and fetched her husband’s cap where it lay just behind her, tracing the familiar coarse stitching with her index finger. The seams along the brim showed signs of fraying. Perhaps she could convince him to go bareheaded tomorrow, and she could busy herself repairing the beloved article. Give his spirits a much-needed lift. Already she could imagine him beaming and kissing her cheeks over and over as though she had performed some monumental act of charity, and the thought brought a grin to her face once more.

Clank!

Peach looked up. The noise came from within the bathroom, the unconcerning sound of a bottle being knocked over or perhaps a bar of soap being dropped. It wouldn’t have worried her in the slightest, if not for what followed: silence. Perfect, pure silence, no running of water, no padding of footsteps, nothing except for Mario’s breath, still far too labored for her liking.

“…Mario?” she called softly.

Mario’s response: a quiet, strained groan.

The dread blossoming within Peach’s chest burst violently into bloom at the commotion that followed, a sudden cacophony of distressed noises and the thud of something heavy hitting the floor, and now it was her turn to cry her beloved’s name.

“Mario?!” Abandoning the cap on the covers once more, she leapt to her feet with unprecedented vigor and rushed to where he was, hastened by a strangled cry and the sharp clank of porcelain on porcelain and—

And the unmistakable, nauseating sound of retching.

The sight that met Peach past the doorway froze her to the spot in horror. Mario, on his knees and clinging tightly to the latrine, coughed so violently into the bowl that his whole body shook, his few breaths between coming in pained gasps, and just as soon as he’d filled his lungs he was gagging again. His tongue lolled from his mouth and thick drool dripped from his bottom lip; tears streamed from his eyes, screwed tightly shut; and only when he lurched forward once more was Peach able to come to her senses.

“Mario—” She hurried to him as he vomited again, standing uselessly over his hunched form and running her options through her brain. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and coated every inch of visible skin in a thin sheen. Okay. First order of business: cool him off and help him calm down. Then they’d go from there.

He went into another coughing fit as she yanked the top drawer of the cabinet open, though it was far weaker now, phlegmy and punctuated with meek gasping. “Breathe, sweetie,” she said, praying he couldn’t hear the panic that bled into her tone despite her best efforts. “Just breathe. You’ll be alright.”

Running the first rag she could find beneath a stream of cold water, Peach tried to focus on the rush of the faucet, and that was almost enough to drown out the agonizing sounds that still spilled from his throat.

“Breathe,” she repeated as she wrung the drenched rag, returning to him to drape it over his exposed nape. This got a reaction from him at least; he shivered at the cloth’s ice touch, and his death grip on the porcelain loosened, and his shoulders sagged as he did his best to follow her order, and that was all good, she decided. As good as a situation like this could get, anyway.

Next order of business: water.

With the promise of her swift return, Peach beelined to the kitchen to fetch a glass and some sort of sickly syrup made to combat nausea. Nurse Toadessa wouldn’t be in bed for a few more hours. That would give Peach plenty of time to get Mario somewhat comfortable and then have him checked over. And it would probably be wise to receive a checkup herself, just in case…

But there had been no reports of any sort of stomach bug outbreak, and Mario was far too hardy to be among the first to catch an illness. Thinking back through the day, she couldn’t recall detecting any signs that he was feeling poorly, or at least anything other than overworked; she could, however, remember thinking poorly of the mutton served at dinner and politely refusing it, offering her portion to Mario under the (not entirely untrue) guise of wanting to save room for extra cake. He had practically licked both plates clean. (And then he’d belched loudly by complete accident, over which they shared a fit of laughter, albeit with much embarrassed fluster on Mario’s end.)

A sudden pang of guilt struck Peach, not helped by the sharp kick below her ribs she received at the same time. She’d only meant to spare the feelings of the castle’s hardworking cooks. Perhaps, she thought now, it would have been best to speak up.

But that might also explain his extreme reaction to his nightmare. The few times Peach had experienced food poisoning, her own dreams were uncomfortably vivid. Still, content that she knew the source of his illness, she held her head higher as she returned to the bathroom, medicine in one hand and glass of fresh water in the other.

Mario lay curled on the tiles, his head cushioned on his extended left arm, and now his breath was shallow but fairly steady. The toilet lid had been closed and the cloth Peach had provided him with was clutched loosely in his outstretched hand. Though her heart hurt for him, she couldn’t help but be taken by a sad but fond affection.

She had become well-acquainted with the bathroom floor during her episodes of morning sickness, and whenever she felt in good enough humor, she would promise to repay Mario’s attentive care if ever a similar sickness befell him. On those days he would challenge that promise, sprawling out on the tile beside her and listing off the endless stream of luxuries he expected to be showered with the next time he so much as ran a slight fever; only when she was giggling too hard to forget about her own misery would he kiss her forehead and assure her that it would be enough just to know that she was there.

Now was her chance to carry out that promise, at least.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to endure a bit of torture now,” she warned, equal parts teasing and sympathetic, setting the water on the vanity so she could pour said torture into the plastic cup that fit over the bottle’s lid. “But I assure you, it’s for your own good.”

The room remained silent as she measured out the syrup. Odd. Mario never passed up an opportunity to complain whenever he was forced to take medicine. She had at least expected a disapproving groan. For a moment she thought he might have fallen asleep, but looking again once the cup was prepared, his eyes appeared to be open.

“Mario…?”

He didn’t so much as twitch. If not for the quick rise and fall of his sides, he could have easily passed for a corpse.

Peach felt her hands begin to shake even before she could register her own emotions, and she set both the bottle and cup of syrup on the vanity lest they slip from her grasp. She knew this. There were occasions, very rare occasions, in which Mario remained awake yet became unresponsive. But it only happened when…

In a few swift movements, she joined him on the floor, shuffling towards him on her knees and reaching over her swollen stomach to jostle him — and eventually, with some difficulty, roll him onto his back.

He must have wiped his face with the cloth, because it was damp but fairly clean save a few residual tears that trickled down his cheeks, almost normal in appearance. But his eyes… they looked straight up and right through her. Aware, sort of, but glazed and dull, like ocean marble gone cloudy with age, like he could see her but didn’t actually know she was there.

Food poisoning and cloying syrups were suddenly the farthest thoughts from her mind.

“Hey.” She stroked his cheek with an uncertain hand; she felt a minute twitch of muscles in response to her touch, but Mario himself did not react. “C-come back to me, alright? We’re safe, love, everything’s okay! Everything’s…” Her words faltered, her throat closing off and her eyes stinging, staring into his blank gaze and searching for some sign, any sign, that he was with her.

Nothing. He blinked, maybe from her voice and maybe just automatically, but his stare remained as lifeless a stare as someone otherwise alive and well could possess.

The terror with which he’d screamed her name, terror reflected in his face even after seeing her… the daze he’d fallen into then, impenetrable no matter how sweetly she spoke to or touched him…

That was it then. This wasn’t the result of undercooked food or anything of the sort. Whatever images had been conjured up and presented to him in his sleep, they had triggered some sort of trauma response, and the only way his brain could protect itself from the onslaught of anguish, so sudden and unendurable that it had driven him to physical sickness, was to shut itself down.

Peach’s vision went unfocused, and she sat back on her heels. This hadn’t happened in years. What could she do?

Anyone who thought rationally on the matter for more than a few seconds could easily infer that Mario suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, or something like it. One doesn’t become a war hero without going through a handful of near-death experiences and witnessing more destruction and suffering in a single day than anyone should have to see in a lifetime.

Even so, the semi-frequent nightmares were usually the worst that trauma manifested, and the very worst of those never triggered this. No, these out-of-body (or maybe locked-in-body, he was never sure how to describe it to her) experiences only happened in the wake of considerable events: being crushed or burned until he stood inches from the gates of the Overthere, witnessing the near-death of the universe up close, things of that nature.

But Mario, through a combination of sheer stubbornness and an insatiable love for life, refused to let even that much take him down. In due time, he always came to peace with these events, or at least learned to leave them in the past where they belonged, at which point nightmares would once more be the worst of his concerns.

Sniffling and swiping her knuckles across her eyes, Peach took in his still-unmoving form, those blank blue eyes still trained on the ceiling. What in the Eight Realms had he dreamed of? A reaction this strong suggested it had been far worse than just losing her.

Or maybe there was more at play than a one-off dream. At present, Mario spent every day giving every last ounce of energy he had to spare (which, mind, is a lot), and for the past few weeks he’d barely even made it into bed before crashing. But he still seemed so happy, and though Peach had her suspicions that he was beginning to struggle, she had never stopped to wonder if he was already crumbling.

Of course. Of course he would hide the extent of his struggles from her more fervently now than ever, content in the knowledge that, for once, she would be too distracted with personal and shared concerns to see the usual signs. Of course he’d happily waste away to spare her concern, until his mental state was so eroded that one bad dream was enough to break him.

The tears she had cleared from her eyes were back just as quickly, accompanied by guilt so immense she could see it like storm clouds in her peripheral vision, but she swiped at her face once more and fought against it with whatever might she possessed. This was no one’s fault, or it was both of their faults; regardless of who was or wasn’t to blame, the only fix was to move forward. Wallowing in regret would help no one.

She considered redoubling her efforts, maybe using her magic to fill his brain with comforting images to coax him back. But what if the fear and hopelessness she felt was too strong to withhold from him? What if she only made it worse? Those thoughts compelled her to scoot across the floor on her backend — awkward, perhaps, but less taxing and risky than trying to hoist herself to her feet — and from the cabinet against the opposite corner she retrieved a rolled towel, the softest in their possession.

Maybe letting this episode run its course was the best option. Dark a thought as it was, Peach wondered, settling the towel beneath her husband’s head, if this forced shutdown of his mind might be exactly the reprieve it needed.

Mario blinked again. Still no focus in his eyes. Peach combed her fingers through his curls, still damp with sweat, and did her best to smile at him, just in case he could register it. Just in case her presence really was enough, just as he’d once said it would be.

A powerful kick to her side made her inhale sharply, and she turned her attention from Mario briefly to soothe their baby. She wasn’t in any mood to be soothed, so it seemed; she kicked again, somehow even harder, and this was followed by a flurry of tossing and turning tantamount to a full-fledged tantrum. Peach held her belly steady in both hands and winced at the barrage of sensation.

“Maybe we could tone it down a bit tonight?” she murmured, more to fill the silence than out of any real hope that she would be heard. Already her little girl threatened to match her father’s boundless energy, and Peach had long since resigned to taking the brunt of it (though Mario sometimes fell victim too — the memory of his expression the first time his unborn daughter had kicked him in the face, eyes wide with the most authentic shock she’d seen from him in ages, elicited a fleeting giggle from Peach). But tonight…

Come to think of it, it was well past storytime by now, wasn’t it? Of course she would throw a fit over the unexpected change in routine. Peach sat back and huffed in sorrowful amusement.

Every night without fail — at least until tonight — Mario made a point to devote time to bonding with their daughter. Most nights it was a casual affair, humming little lullabies or telling stories in either of his tongues while he and Peach lay in bed together. But the closer her due date drew, the more elaborate those bonding sessions had grown. Last night, he’d laid Peach down on the couch with a mug of spiced cocoa, surrounded her with pillows and blankets, then knelt on the floor and read a colorful picture book to her stomach, complete with over-the-top faces and hand gestures and unique voices for all of the characters and frequent interjections of “How exciting!” and “Ooh, what do you think happens next, albicoccetta?”

Their baby had kicked and moved about as if bouncing in excitement, just as she did each time she heard her father’s voice before bed, and Mario had chastised Peach for interrupting the sacred ritual of storytime with her delighted laughter, his voice thick with playfulness and his tired face alight with glee.

In the present, the warm fondness of recent memories was chilled by a dark, dawning realization.

He had dreamed of losing a lot more than just her.

“Peach…”

Peach’s head snapped down with such speed that it made the room spin.

Mario was making a feeble effort to raise up on his elbows, though he groaned quietly and his face screwed in discomfort from the effort. The tightness in Peach’s throat returned with a vengeance.

“Relax,” she somehow managed to squeak, one hand finding his hair and the other resting on his chest, where the unhooked denim bib exposed his shirt. “Lie back down, love. Gather your bearings.”

He followed her guidance without protest, which was as comforting as it was disquieting.

The attempt at getting up drained whatever energy he had left, and once more his breath came in labored pants, his eyes shut tightly, sweat beading at his forehead. Peach glanced at the vanity, next to which sat a small refuse bin, and her hands reluctantly left Mario so she could retrieve it. Best be prepared in case he needed to vomit again.

He caught her hand before she could move away.

“Peach,” he whispered again, and even that whisper sounded as if it took a great deal of effort to summon. She had always been entranced by his hands, large and impossibly strong yet warm and careful. But now the hand holding hers trembled, cool to the touch, and Peach knew she could easily break free from his frail grasp if she felt so inclined.

She was not inclined in the slightest. She wanted nothing more than to hold on even tighter and tell her love that everything would be okay — and she wanted just as badly for him to do the same for her.

When he opened his eyes, they finally focused on her, and they looked much the same as they had in the drawing room: terrified, pitiful, pleading.

“Non andare,” he mouthed. If any sound passed his lips within those two words, Peach couldn’t hear it.

She clasped her free hand atop his and willed herself to give him her most comforting smile, even as her bottom lip quivered, even as she lost the battle against her own tears. “I’m right here,” she promised him. “Mario, we’re not going anywhere. We’re safe.”

Mario nodded with small, rapid movements and shakily pulled their conjoined hands to his chest, covering them with his remaining hand and mouthing something like Okay, okay, okay. His pulse hammered away beneath Peach’s touch, yet he released a deep sigh and closed his eyes once more.

And still nothing felt right, not at all, but he was back with her at last, so that gave Peach the strength to feed him the little white lie that it was all okay.

~~~

Peach woke to a Mario-sized indent in the mattress beside her and the sweet smell of melted chocolate and caramel. Still enveloped in the fog of sleep, everything felt disarmingly normal. Dreamy, even.

Ten seconds into her struggle to sit up, she caught sight of Mario exiting their quarters’ small kitchen, his hair and nightclothes dusted in flour and a platter of something that looked like pancakes and a fork balanced in his hands; the cheerful smile he flashed when their eyes met initially gladdened Peach, but uneasiness settled over her just as quickly, and much more strongly at that.

“Morning,” he greeted as he reached her, setting the platter on her bedside table before slipping an arm behind her back. “Here, here, don’t exert yourself. I gotcha.”

Once she was upright, he quickly fluffed her pillow and set it against the headboard, helping her scoot back so she could sit more comfortably. Then he handed her the platter with a quip of “Buon appetito!”, and after brushing the residual flour from his body, he set straight to work smoothing the bedcover over her legs.

Peach paid no mind to the platter in her hands at first. She simply watched as her husband busied himself, humming a familiar tune, and the casual atmosphere only served to heighten her discomfort.

This wasn’t the same Mario she had fallen asleep with. That Mario had eventually been able to pry himself from the bathroom floor and join her in bed, but his eyes remained distant and his movements heavy and stilted. They’d laid together for maybe an hour before Peach drifted off, his ear firmly planted over her heart and his palm following each and every little (and not-so-little) movement from within her belly, her fingers combing his hair and her voice carrying increasingly drowsy whispers of affirmation.

Maybe she should have been relieved, she thought, seeing him move so easily and act so cheerfully after such a troubled night. Anyone else might assume the experience had lifted some great weight from his shoulders and restored his drive. Yet he’d spent far too long fussing over the bedcover, and the longer she watched, the longer she realized he was pointedly avoiding her gaze. Almost like he was hiding from her, hiding in plain sight…

Peach was thus not nearly as excited over the breakfast offering as she wanted to be. A real shame, given said offering was chocolate pancakes with chocolate chips drizzled in chocolate and caramel sauce. Any other morning, she would have happily obeyed her cravings and scarfed the stack down, showering her personal pastry chef in compliments the whole while. Indeed, this was the cleanest, most attractive plate he had ever presented to her… and that told her everything she needed to know.

Mario was no pâtissier — more of a pastassier, really — so the uncharacteristically perfect presentation confirmed that he had been awake and at work since well before sunrise. She sighed heavily.

“What’s wrong?” She could hear the dismay in his voice, hidden beneath a thick layer of partially-feigned concern. “Not, uh, not feeling up to chocolate today? Well don’t you worry! Mario’s here to make you anything you—”

“We can’t just pretend last night didn’t happen, Mario,” Peach said, lifting her head from the plate — and finally catching his eyes.

She caught him unguarded just long enough to see it all in his face: guilt. Embarrassment. Regret. Crushing, crippling exhaustion, the sort that any average person simply wouldn’t be able to function under. And just as soon as she saw it, his guard went right back up, a few milliseconds too late.

“...Peach—”

“Please,” she cut in, because she couldn’t bear to watch him sweep it all under the rug, not after seeing him in such a despondent state. “Darling, I know you. These episodes don’t just happen out of nowhere. Won’t you please just… talk to me? I’m worried about you.”

Mario perked up a bit at those last four words, and immediately she realized, with no small level of annoyance, that she’d given him a perfect springboard for diverting the topic.

“Ah, amore,” he crooned with painful sincerity, drawing closer to lay a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got enough on your plate, yeah? Let’s leave all the worrying to Toadsworth! You just worry about yourself…” he released her shoulder to tap her cheek affectionately. “...and our albicoccetta…” He brought his hand down to repeat the gesture to her bump, but stopped when he saw the pancake platter Peach still held atop it.

“And getting you something to drink.” He clapped his hands and smiled brightly, almost brightly enough to outshine the dark circles beneath his eyes and disguise the frown lines barely hidden by his hair. “Mamma mia, how could I forget? What do you want? Tea? Juice? More of that spiced cocoa from the other night? Ooh! Or maybe—”

“I want you to rest, ” Peach interjected, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended, judging by the way his face dropped and he briefly flinched away. But she couldn’t entertain this a moment longer. “I fear you’ve taken on more than you can handle right now. The pressure is breaking you. And I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner, but now that I know, I won’t let it go on any longer.”

Mario stuttered uselessly, his mouth opening and closing around nonsense sounds and unfinished words. Peach took the opportunity to recenter herself while he searched for his words; clearly he didn’t disagree with her assessment. Perhaps she could still talk some sense into him.

“Here,” she continued more gently, setting her still-untouched breakfast back on the bedside table and shimmying from beneath the blanket. “Trade me places.”

That kicked him into gear. “You can’t,” he said quickly. “You-you really shouldn’t, Peachy. The baby—”

“Some mental stimulation will be refreshing, and the change of pace will be healthy!” Mario’s meticulous blanket-smoothing work now ruined, Peach carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I promise I won’t overdo it. And, of course, I’ll stay until you can get back to sleep, and I’ll check in with you throughout the day. But trust that Toadsworth and I are more than capable—”

“No!”

Now it was Peach’s turn to flinch, her heart stuttering in her chest and her words dying on her tongue. Mario had never raised his voice at her. Not like that.

She saw her shock reflected in his face. No, it was far more than shock on his face; it was a rush of those same emotions she saw earlier, guilt and shame and humiliation, all interwoven with understated but blatant horror.

“J-just…” He reached out hesitantly, not daring to make direct contact, like he feared his touch might bruise her. Suddenly Peach wanted nothing more than to feel the full strength of his arms around her. “Here.” His left hand ghosted over her side and his right gestured to her legs, urging her to pull them back up. “Lay back down, okay? Lay down.”

Peach numbly complied, pulling her legs back onto the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to lay down fully. She watched as Mario tentatively pulled the cover back over her legs and forced the wheels in her head to spin, give her the answers for how to make everything right.

Mario eventually found the nerve to glance back up at her. “I’ll just… get you some water, yeah?” He smiled, and maybe it was supposed to look calming or reassuring, but it just made Peach want to cry. He looked so miserable.

The words came to her as he made his way to the kitchen, though they weren’t the words she was expecting.

“Come here.”

He stopped in his tracks, twisting his torso to look back at her. “L-lemme just get—”

“Come here, Mario,” Peach repeated, firm but not cold, patting the empty space on the bed beside her. He eyed that spot reluctantly, but he relented quickly enough; in half a minute’s time he settled in beside her, body angled towards hers, close but not quite touching.

A small noise of surprise slipped his throat as she pulled him into her arms, forcing him to lean forward or else collapse against her.

Trying to talk sense into Mario was as effective as trying to eat a brick. He didn’t need a lecture. He needed safety. He needed to know he could be vulnerable, even when his every last sense told him otherwise.

“Talk to me,” Peach whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. He remained rigid in her arms, but she could hear his breath quicken, and she laid heavily against the headboard to encourage him to relax as well.

At long last, after several tense seconds, he melted into her. He carefully slotted himself against her side, burying his face into her sternum, encircling his arms around her so that not a single centimeter of space remained between their bodies, and for the first time since the previous evening, everything truly felt okay.

For a while, Mario didn’t say anything. He held onto her and breathed in her scent in silence, though his breath was uneven, and Peach suspected that at any point she’d feel hot tears seep into her nightgown’s fabric. For better or worse, this never came to pass, but eventually he did break the silence.

“I have to protect you,” he said.

“I know.” Peach rubbed small circles over his spine, and he responded not by relaxing further, but by tightening his grasp on her.

“No, Peach, I…” He gathered handfuls of her nightgown tightly enough to constrict the garment around her chest — tightly enough that his arms began to shake from the strain of his muscles. “I have to— I have to keep you safe,” he continued, unable to even raise his voice above a whisper. “Both of you. I-I have to. I have to, don’t you get it?”

Peach continued with her ministrations in silence as she processed his words. He wasn’t talking about any literal obligation, his duty as her guard and her king, her husband and the father of her child. The need he spoke of was pathological.

Mario had always taken the safety of those he loved upon himself. That innate need to protect had predictably escalated tenfold in the past months, and normally Peach found it terribly endearing, the pains he took to ensure that she faced nothing worse than achy muscles and mood swings for the duration of her pregnancy. But he feared for far more than her comfort or even her health, didn’t he?

Already Peach had deduced that his psychological state was in far worse shape than he’d let on. Now he trembled in her arms, silent once more, and the question of what had triggered his breaking point was answered in full.

He hadn’t just dreamed about losing his wife and daughter. He’d dreamed that he had tried to protect them and failed. He’d dreamed that they were dead, and it was all his fault. And Peach would stake every last coin in the royal treasury that he had seen it happen, in graphic, all-too-realistic detail.

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighed, and she felt useless to say anything beyond that. She could try to match his fears with facts — that the one entity with any plans for her downfall had pointedly steered clear of the kingdom’s borders for years now, with spies confirming no plans existed for retaliation or ambush, that she also had the protection of the full Royal Guard, stronger and more courageous than any Guard before them with Mario as their commander-in-chief, that anywho who could get through the Guard or even Mario would still have to get past Toadsworth, and no one got past Toadsworth — but she knew it would make little difference, if any.

Facts rarely quelled fear, especially a fear with its barbs sunk deep into an overworked, horrifically stressed, sleep deprived mind.

“Oh sweetie,” she repeated softly, sinking lower against the headboard so she could cradle Mario’s head against her chest. He went with her easily, sighing shakily beneath her touch, his death grip on her gown easing up.

A feeble kick nudged against Peach’s side, and then she felt a puff of air against her clavicle, Mario’s lips curling into a small smile against her. Seeing the opportunity for a diversion of her own, Peach suddenly felt a bit lighter.

“She doesn’t like hearing you so sad,” she said, her right hand fishing for Mario’s left and bringing it to the point of movement. “She wants her papa to be happy.”

Another puff of air. “Pretty sure she’s trying to beat me up, actually.” He laced their fingers together over that spot, and where Peach expected him to grip her hand for dear life, he gently squeezed it instead. “We didn’t have storytime last night.”

Peach hummed in consideration. He was being lighthearted about it, but she knew he genuinely felt bad, and that would be one more weight he’d have to carry through the day. Knowing now just how greatly he toiled to keep himself together, she couldn’t help but fear even that small burden might be too much. If only she could take that weight from him, every last bit of it…

Maybe she couldn’t take it from him, but she could at least convince him to let go of it all for a while.

“I’m sure she can find it in her little heart to forgive you,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You tell Toadsworth you’re taking the day off. Ask him to move as many of today’s tasks as he can to tomorrow and to take care of the rest himself.”

Mario pulled back at this, just far enough to look her in the face. Was that relief she saw, hidden half-heartedly beneath weary concern? “But—”

“You did say we should leave the worrying to him,” Peach teased, returning his earlier squeeze of their conjoined hands. Toadsworth knew as well as Peach how willingly Mario would run himself into the ground before ever considering a day off. He would know the request was at Peach’s behest, and he’d be all too happy to comply, as much for Mario’s sake as for hers.

And if he wasn’t happy, well, he could take that up with Peach. The old Toad may well have been her father. She was hardly intimidated.

Mario drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly through his lips, and that was most certainly relief she saw in his features. “Alright. I, uh… I’ll get presentable.”

A similar relief flooded Peach’s chest, relief mixed with pride, and she rewarded her husband with a kiss to the nose. Accepting a break when there was work to be done was one of the few challenges he couldn’t face easily. “Hurry back,” she said. “I think we both deserve to sleep in.”

The tired contentment Mario wore lightened into something more upbeat, a familiar wide grin spreading beneath his mustache. “Ah! And you know what sleep means, yeah?” He pulled away fully now, letting go of her hand so he could rest his palm against her belly. “Papà ti darà due storie, oggi! Che te ne pare?”

Peach giggled as he leaned over to kiss her bump. A chance to relax and a chance to make amends for a missed bonding session. Today would be a therapeutic day for Mario indeed.

“...and I’ll grab something from the kitchens for you to eat,” he added as he climbed off the bed, and only then did Peach remember the immaculate-looking pancakes she’d abandoned on the nightstand, now cold and likely going stale.

“Don’t even think about it.” She brought the platter to herself once more, because now that she wasn’t bogged down with worry, her cravings were already rearing their head once more. “You put too much work into these for them to go to waste.” And they were still really good, she discovered and divulged after her first forkful, even at room temperature.

By the time Mario was dressed and gave Peach her parting kiss (after taking her plate into the kitchen, because she had demolished the pancakes with a speed and passion one might consider embarrassing), he looked so much more like the Mario he had tried and failed to emulate an hour ago: the Mario who was truly happy, truly unbothered by even the worst of his problems, because the joy and love he felt for his life and those within it outweighed all else. Her Mario.

Yet once he left and the room fell back into silence, that creeping uneasiness settled over Peach again.

In the end, this was little more than a distraction. Maybe Mario would feel refreshed after today, and maybe he would be more willing, however slightly, to lean on his wife for support. But he would still carry everything that got them to this point in the first place: all of his traumas, all of his duties, all of his fears, his insatiable need to remain a beacon of stability even when he himself was on the verge of collapse.

Maybe he would hold their baby in his arms in a month’s time and remember the images he’d seen in his nightmare. The thought struck Peach with such force that it caused her physical pain, like a dagger plunging into her heart. She took in a sharp breath and forced it from her mind at once.

But even if today was merely a distraction… it was still a distraction. A chance to regroup. A much-needed reminder that, in the end, it would all be okay, somehow. The best they could do was take it day by day. Tomorrow could throw out any challenge it wanted; just for today, they could put their worries on hold. Everything would be okay, even if only for a short time.

And maybe, for now, that was good enough.

#so! this was SUPPOSED to be a ficlet...#super mario bros #smb #mario #princess peach #mareach #mario x peach #peaches' fancy fics #tw pregnancy #tw emeto #tw vomiting #not sure which one's best to use... forgive me #tw ptsd #tw dissociation #daddy marioposting

119 notes · View notes

candy-cloud-system · 6 months ago

Note

I have Never seen an endo shit on traumagenic systems - i have seen them shit on people discrediting their experiences but its wild that ur acting like a victim when ur the one being weird. Psychology largely agrees that we do not know enough abt the human brain - specific dissociative disorders - to claim they can Only be caused one way. Also forcing people to reflect on if they're traumatized or not just for them to be "allowed" to use system terminology is Wild - even if every single system is caused by trauma, so many traumatized people have no recollection of the trauma. This isnt black and white and youre silly for caring so much abt internet strangers repressed memories or lack thereof 🩷

First off, learn to read . D N I. Means DO NOT INTERACT! I don’t understand what’s so hard about that, literally you have to go through the effort to read a whole message that’s literally saying don’t interact, go to my account, which tells you not to interact, and then type a whole message and never once do you think “oh! I’m breaking DNI! I’m crossing boundaries! Hm! Maybe I shouldn’t do that!”

So I’m gonna be a bitch to you now cus you broke my DNI and I’ve already stated I’d start being a bitch to people who do that

“I’ve never seen endos shit on traumagenic systems 🥺🥺🥺” okay explain the constant death threats we get. Explain the people LIKE YOU! Who break DNI to tell us shit we literally do not want to hear, explain the people who go into our comment and tell us to off ourselves, call us names, make up slurs. Tell us no one loves us and everyone will leave. Do you understand how fucking stupid you sound?

Traumagenic systems get SOOOO much bullshit from endos and that’s why it’s such a problem. They bully trauma survivors and victims, making them spiral and feel like fucking shit because they didn’t want people mocking a disorder that makes their lives harder. The amount of times I’ve seen endos telling traumagenic systems to die simply because they fucking EXISTED is fucking insane.

Even if you could be a system without trauma, you wouldn’t be in the same groups as us, you wouldn’t have the same terms you wouldn’t be classified with the disorder. Because our disorder stems from TRAUMA! You have to have trauma.

You can have trauma you don’t remember, BUT THAT DOESNT MAKE YOU AN ENDO. It makes you a traumagenic system who doesn’t remember their trauma! You guys fucking groom people into believing their trauma isnt enough or that they’re endo because they can’t remember and it fucking disgusts me.

I’m not making people reflect on their fucking trauma, IM TRYING NOT TO GET HARASSED FOR MINE.

FUNFACT. I AM A VICTIM! I GET HARRASED BY ENDOS FUCKING ALMOST DAILY AT THIS POINT! IM ACTIVELY TELLING YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE CONSTANTLY BECAUSE YOU GUYS CANT FUCKING READ THREE LETTERS !

I AM TIRED OF COMING ON THIS APP AFTER WISHING I DIDNT GO THROUGH THE SHIT I GO THROUGH BECAUSE OF THIS DISORDER AND SEEING SOME RANDOM ASS KID SAYING HOW THEYRE GONNA MANIFEST A SYSTEM FOR THEMSELF. IF YOU FUCKING “CREATE” A “SYSTEM” BECAUSE YOU WANT ONE. FUCK YOU. ACTUALLY FUCK YOU. WORDS CANNOT DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I HATE YOU. AND I HAVE ALL RIGHTS TO HATE YOU.

“You’re so silly for caring 🥺🥺🥺🥺” I CARE BECAUSE I GET HARRASSED TO THE POINT OF SPLITTING OR HAVING CRASHES DUE TO OUR BPD AND NPD. I GET FUCKING HARASSED UNTIL I CANT TAKE IT. THATS WHY I TELL YOU TO NOT FUCKING INTERACT.

Get off my fucking blog. Never come back. Endos and their supporters are NOT fucking welcome here. Respect my fucking DNI.

#anti endo #endos dni #systempunk #traumagenic system #tw syscourse #tw vent #vent #endos don’t fucking interact #endos aren't real #endos do not interact #endos are ableist #endos fuck off #syscourse

70 notes · View notes

sysmedsaresexist · 9 months ago

Note

I do not mean to sound stupid, but I read your post "dissociation is not solely trauma-based", and I was wondering if you knew of any sources or books about it? I think I don't fully understand what dissociation is. For exemple, no matter how I look at it, I don't understand how meditation could be considered like anything close to dissociation, simply because it's also used as a grounding technique.

I'm combining two asks here, because I'm going to cover both in one go :) you don't sound stupid.

You've got to start with the understanding that dissociation is a continuum from normal (aka nonpathological) to "abnormal" (I hate that word, but aka pathological). I finally dropped the wild existence of Dr Jamie Marich, clinical trauma specialist and a pro endo, CDD system, who wrote Dissociation Made Simple. Let me quote because the book is actually good.

Yes, dissociation is so hard to understand that she wrote an entire book about the concept.

"The English word dissociation comes from the Latin root dissociātiō, meaning “to sever” or “to separate.” At this point when lecturing, I usually ask my students: What are we severing or separating from when we dissociate? You may take a moment, before reading on, to ask this question of yourself. Try not to think on it too rationally. Listen to your gut-level response...

For the purposes of this opening chapter, let’s focus on the form of separation that every human being can likely relate to —severing or separating from the present moment—especially when the present moment becomes unpleasant, overwhelming, or otherwise painful."

Dissociation is a disconnect from something-- this can be memories, thoughts, emotions, or, in worst cases, reality. The present moment.

Not all meditation is dissociative, but most is. For example, emptiness meditation is about disconnecting from everything in the moment. You are literally fine-tuning your dissociative techniques. This is also true when you're using grounding meditation to disconnect from overwhelming emotions or thoughts to get back into the moment.

There are a variety of tasks that we either develop naturally or learn as a way to achieve some degree of separation (e.g., enough to stay somewhat present but still get some relief, or going further into totally cutting oneself off from in-the-moment presence). Dissociation of this nature is not all or nothing—it generally happens in degrees and can depend upon how much distress you feel in any given context. We can do this by daydreaming, drifting off, zoning out, zoning inward, disengaging eye contact with people, losing focus (especially when driving), or getting a little floaty in many other life circumstances. Some people frame this “floatiness” as similar to hypnotic trance and others feel it is quite distinct. We may even take deliberate steps to enhance the experience of separation. How often have you escaped into a book or a movie, into your phone or computer, or into some activity, because it makes the harshness of dealing with the present moment and the emotions it can elicit somewhat more bearable?

Let me be very clear, if you said yes to this question, this answer does not mean that there is anything wrong with you! All of these can be quite ordinary forms of dissociation that every human being is capable of experiencing.

A really, really good way to understand this concept is actually through maladaptive daydreaming (MADD), a highly addictive form of dissociation.

Indeed for many of us, substances or other behaviors that cause major surges of dopamine (e.g., spending, computer games, sexually acting out) can become the accelerant of dissociation...

Whenever we become accustomed to dissociating, especially as children growing up in complex trauma, our brain becomes bonded or some would even say addicted to that state of escape. Once chemical or other reinforcing behaviors are introduced to us, they can accelerate that already familiar experience and we become further bonded to that behavior.

Daydreaming itself is dissociative. Point blank. It is both the most normal kind of dissociation, and yet the most common maladaptive dissociation.

Daydreaming and journeying into my head’s imaginative scenarios is another series of behaviors that can have both adaptive and maladaptive qualities. As a kid, they kept me safe. As an adult, they are the source of so much of my creative power—yet if I engage them too long, too hard, or too much, I run the risk of getting lost and not being able to attend to what helping professionals might call my activities of daily living (e.g., eating properly, sleeping, taking good care of myself, getting to work, attending to loved ones appropriately and with good boundaries).

Let's cut away from the book really quickly to look at Eli Somer, the guy who came up with MADD.

Maladaptive daydreaming is a dissociative disorder: Supporting evidence and theory.

The only real thing I want to quote is:

Although trauma may be one causal factor, we indicate several other etiological pathways to the development of MD. We discuss associations with related concepts and suggest directions for future research.

And

MD is strongly related to dissociation and seems to rely on an innate tendency for absorptive and imaginative fantasy. Through its rewarding properties, this form of immersive daydreaming becomes abnormal. MD may thus be viewed as a disordered form of dissociative absorption.

While Somer talks about how it can be a behavioral addiction in that paper, I find this is a more succinct description.

Maladaptive Daydreaming: Epidemiological Data on a Newly Identified Syndrome

Maladaptive Daydreaming (MD) is a proposed mental disorder characterized by excessive, compulsive immersion in vivid and complex fantastical daydreamed plots, generating intense emotional involvement, often accompanied by stereotypical movements. This addictive absorption in daydreaming becomes maladaptive as it consumes many hours a day, generates shame or guilt, hinders achievement of short- and long-term goals or tasks, and overall causes clinically significant distress and/or interferes with functioning in social or occupational realms. Maladaptive Daydreamers (MDers) report a strong urge to daydream whenever they can and annoyance whenever they cannot, and, repeated unsuccessful efforts to control, cut back, or stop daydreaming, like other behavioral addictions.

And that's the best way to look at DID and other maladaptive, pathological forms of dissociation. It's a behavioral addiction, an escape that we not only crave, but can no longer live without. Just like you can get addicted to working out and gambling, you can become addicted to severing ties with reality through pleasurable (and in some cases, necessary) forms of escape.

I don't know if this is going to make sense, but I've found looking at dissociation like an upside-down iceberg helps me.

At the top, the widest part, is everyone on the planet, and the basic, general concept of dissociation. Severing from the present moment, be it through your phone, book, daydreaming, meditation, zoning out.

As you go down, and it gets narrower, it becomes more important to put names to specific types and forms of dissociation, and fewer people struggle with these forms. In the middle is a confusing mix of seemingly normal and pathological dissociation. You have mediumship, authors with living characters, OCD (yup), ADHD (shocking, I know), MADD, DPDR, (C)PTSD, people on the edge of forming behavioral addictions.

At the bottom, the smallest point, only pathological dissociation, with a much smaller population experiencing it. DID, OSDD, severe and chronic DPDR, DA.

For people that struggle with dissociation... they fell down a hole and travelled all the way to the bottom of the iceberg. What was once a general, normal, human experience became a very specific problem. Over the years, as they travelled deeper, they used and developed a complex mix of various normal dissociative reactions until it eventually became a named, pathological experience.

I sincerely hope that this helps explain and answers both questions ):

Here's another really interesting paper (from none other than, DUNDUNDUN, Colin Ross).

Maladaptive Daydreaming, Dissociation, and the Dissociative Disorders

76 notes · View notes

itsybitsylemonsqueezy · 1 year ago

Text

You know what, fuck it: Baldur's Gate 3 Thoughts.

(The world is so so bad right now, can't even name all the bad things, so fuck it, no more bad feels, just some nice garbage right now)

I really love that the big 3 pairings all kinda arrive together:

Lae'zel and Shadowheart are already trapped on the ship together, like they are both trapped by their beliefs. They both know more about what's happening than anyone else and are also perhaps the most frightened.

Astarion and Gale show up stuck and as potential bait. They're both concealing some pretty big problems. The only way to succeed with them is to trust them despite this. And they both badly need to bond with others so they can survive their ordeals.

Karlach and Wyll actually already have a relationship, just one founded on misunderstanding. They can each empathize with each other in ways the others can't and adjust quickly to thinking of a previous adversary as a friend. They both have so much going on that when they arrive on the Sword Coast, they just resettle into business as usual. They've both been misused by those with control over them and seek to break that control, even if that doesn't fix everything, even if it means more loss.

They're all good ships, I love them. And all the other combos are good too, there are no bad options here, but I'm a bit of a sucker for these. Honestly, really appreciate having an entire party of bisexuals. I love that so much <3

Gale and I are the same person ha ha ha FUCK

I do have fic ideas, potentially for Gale & Astarion and Lae'zel & Shadowheart (spoilers below)

Like, I actually have a lot of feelings about Shadowheart being a complete dick to Lae'zel while she goes through a crisis of faith, only to eat pigeon pie later when she gets a crisis of her own.

And I'm obsessed with the idea of Lae'zel learning how to be comforting as she watches Shadowheart crumble apart, as she loses all sense of identity. Because at least Lae'zel has that. Lae'zel lost a lot in parting from Vlaakith, but she didn't lose who she was. Indeed, she left in defense of who she was, in defense of what she knew to be right. Shadowheart doesn't even have that. And it's a wild thing that comes over you, to feel like you've fucked up and lost and to find someone you can actually help. I think it would be a really cool and beautiful thing to see, Lae'zel helping Shadowheart find the pieces of herself. That would just be really, really good.

And then there's Problematic Old Man Yaoi over here

Maybe what I love best about Gale and Astarion is how much fucking WOULD NOT solve it

Like, some people just need to fuck it out and then it's all good, you fixed the issue

And 100% fucking would not solve their shit. Like, it would help, or it certainly wouldn't not help. But it'd only help like... max 20% The rest has to be solved by Talking, Using Your Words, Talking To Other People No Not The Imaginary Conversations, and Admitting When You're Wrong.

I also love that this is true no matter where you think they get together.

Like, let's take Act I: I cannot IMAGINE how Astarion could talk Gale into bed that early. Gale "Never Nude" Dekarios who's never had a crush on anyone who wasn't Mystra. He'd be shaking and fumbling just trying to ask Astarion on a date. And Mr. Emotionally Available over here, who is not ready to be vulnerable in any sense, who uses sex as a crutch because it's so familiar and so easy to dissociate from... yikes, what a combo. Poor Gale would be sent reeling by the hot-cold of it, he'd act insane those first few days after sex as he tries to make sense of how Astarion said yes to everything, but didn't mean it, but also he did? So should he pursue that or leave it be? Is the best choice to let Astarion thaw in his own good time or obsessively work on cracking this because Astarion clearly needs help and just doesn't want to ask for it? Stupid question, OBVIOUSLY the second! I... instant explosion. God, it would go so bad. Honestly, the good version is Gale resists the invitations and instead Astarion sulks for a few days over his blue balls or just fucks someone else, thus giving Gale a new case of mixed signals to obsess over. Jesus, we're just never going to escape that are we? Wizards gotta fixate.

Act II: In which Astarion chooses to ignore his own problems by instead arguing with Gale about his. Not because he's invested, merely because Gale is clearly being an idiot. Gale at first demurs, refusing to be argued out of his guilt, but then when Astarion becomes more insistent, counters with why Astarion cares so much? This would inevitably erupt in some kind of sexual encounter, but the fighting wouldn't stop because despite getting laid, Gale is still sure he's right and Astarion is still sure he's right. Dick actually can't solve this today. The camp mournful of ever finding a solution, they would like to sleep peacefully again someday.

Act III: Make or break time. Both Gale and Astarion escalate as the threat of death or destruction looms ever nearer. Gale now just as dead set on stopping Astarion from destroying himself as Astarion is on stopping Gale from destroying himself. Same threat, very different outcomes. Gale keeps looking at him with those damn puppy eyes and whining about "he'll regret it instantly" and "hate who he becomes" and "I can't stand to see that happen to you" or whatever. Obnoxious. And Astarion keeps trying to convince him that Mystra was wrong, that she "manipulated and groomed" him and "didn't even give an explanation" which he's owed, or some such nonsense. As if an inhuman, all-powerful goddess was out of line for being afraid of mortal actions... wait, was that a logical inconsistency? Damn. I think Gale would convince Astarion first. I think deep down Astarion would hate to be a full vampire too much, I think they both know it, and when Gale promises to stand by him, to take care of him, to always protect him... As much as Astarion doesn't want to trust, knows he's a fool for trusting, he agrees. He won't do it. He won't take the power. Because, damn him, he believes Gale. And what would suck is Gale would go "Cool! I'mma become a god, I can protect you way better then!" like entirely missing the point. And Astarion would be galled, deservedly so, by the hypocrisy. But Gale's so caught up in how sure he's right and how sure he's wrong, he's not even listening. I think it'd piss Astarion off so much, he'd convince the whole camp to kidnap Gale so he can't go sacrifice himself, full "He won't get the chance to kill himself because I'll do it first!" Until we finally get to the Nether Brain and... Astarion lets him go. Because that's the point. Trust isn't real if there isn't a choice. And as much as he hates the fact that Gale might choose what he doesn't want, he has to let him do it on his own. And I think that'd finally break through. That simple act of trust and sacrifice and playing willing to lose would finally make Gale go "Oh... oh god, what was I thinking? This isn't right." The fact that Astarion loves him more for the flawed and fallible person he is than for the heartless god he could become... That would finally make Gale see, Mystra was wrong all along and she never loved you because she can't really love. Not like that. Yeah. That's a personal favorite of mine.

But there's also a lot to be said for post-end, Astarion with nowhere to go and Gale going "You know... I've heard of spells that allow creatures form the Underdark to safely experience sunlight. We could try some of those, I don't see why they shouldn't work on you." and Astarion being floored and not even having the words for everything he feels at that offer. And then the raw sexual tension of living in his tower together as "friends" as Astarion mercilessly pines and Gale blissfully carries on, unaware until Tara finally goes "That's it! I can't take it any more! I'm going to live with your mother until you two sort this out!" and flies off. Leaving Gale to go "Huh... wonder what she meant by that?" Meanwhile, Astarion can hardly stand to be in the same room with Gale because he ends up basically drooling and yet, he can hardly stay away, staring obsessively from the shadows, creeping around wherever he is, looking exactly like the jealous lover he longs to be. Also, Astarion and Gale's mother! Oh, I can't wait! Too funny!

Oh, tower days with Astarion would be so good as he tries to adjust to having a life again. A slow, painful process, but very deserved. He'd need an occupation, he can't have nothing to do. Maybe he can look into magistrating again?

Anyway, there's some thoughts. I haven't finished Act III yet, but I'm close so I guess careful with those Act III spoilers.

Also, for anyone still reading, if you want to do me a solid: There exists somewhere a Bloodweave fic where Astarion walks in on Gale with a construct of himself only there's a twist... and the author is Very Correct about this twist. if you know, you know. But I can't find this fic anywhere! Please help a girl out if you've read the one I'm thinking of.

#bg3 #Baldur's Gate 3 #Bloodweave #some thoughts for y'all

116 notes · View notes

d3adlyromb3ar · 10 months ago

Text

✰ sinking lily pads

— synopsis. he thrived in the sorcerer world, she was forced into it. how could two people that strayed so differently from each other become so close?

— pairing. gojo x oc!fem!reader (main), toji fushiguro x oc!fem!reader

— word count. 5.1k

— contents. mentions of child abuse, neglect, abandonment, angsty asf, injuries, blood/gore, depressing thoughts, dissociation, mentions of death, jjk violence/fighting

— notes. first post ♡

series masterlist

✰ chapter one. moon dair

March 10th, 1999

The young girl had been gripping her Father’s pants, the fabric balling up in her tiny fist as she observed the group of people standing in front of her. All of them glaring down at her, some faces scowling, some with sinister smiles. She shivered underneath all their gazes, the pounding of her heart the only thing she could hear. The conversation above blocked out by her own fear.

“We are holding up our end of the deal, now it’s time for you to do the same.”

The girl’s Father sighed in relief, muscles untensing as he realized that his family were finally free. Finally safe. Well, at least the family he cared about. His gaze shifted down to the shaking girl beside him, his eyes narrowing at her tight grip on him. He reached down, gripping the girl’s hand and peeling it from his pants. The girl whimpered, trying to reach for him again, but he had crouched down and held her shoulders. Keeping her a safe distance away from him.

Despite her glossy eyes, the way her bottom lip quivered– he stared at her with no emotion. No words were spoken at first, only the sound of heavy breathing as the young girl searched desperately into her Father’s eyes for an answer to the end of this nightmare.

“Do you love this family?” He asked her, his stare intimidating as to warn her that there was only a right answer.

The girl switched from eye to eye, her heavy pants filling the moments of silence. It was a simple question, one that could be easily answered. Of course she did. Despite the years of abuse, the torturous nights of correctment. Her heart would have room for her family, something that she couldn’t control. Even in the moment that she realized what her Father was doing, she still had room in her heart for him. For her Mother, her siblings. Everyone.

“Yes Father.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it was loud enough for him to hear.

“Then you’ll make us proud. You’ll do this family right by doing your part.” He told her, leaving no room for her to interrupt.

Your part.

The sound of someone clearing their throat had the girl jumping, forgetting that there was an audience. Sneaking a glance to her left, she shrunk into herself at the stares from the group. Her Father didn’t say another word to her as he stood upright, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her to the groups feet. The young girl didn’t have time to react, didn’t have time to utter a sound as she was already being gripped by the strangers hands.

The whole ordeal, she hadn’t shed a tear. Her lash line desperately collecting them, holding them back as she tried to keep it together. Her strength vanished though the second she saw her Father’s backside getting farther away, the way he didn’t look back once. Despite her sick assumption that he wouldn’t turn around, she kept her eyes unblinking– watching his form all the way until he was no longer in sight.

It was then, the first tear was finally shed.

She felt paralyzed in a weird position. She wasn’t sure whether to do it for herself, prove to herself, that she was worthy— that she could make her family proud. She also didn’t know if making her family proud would even matter by the end, clearly evident that they had left her and were never going to come back for her.

Had things really come down to it? Where she had to be the one that carried the burden of this impossible task, this wild deal. Was she really the one that could bring her family peace?

But at what expense, her happiness? Was she a filler for everybody else’s lives?

What was her purpose? She wondered.

Was her only purpose, proving to only the ghost of her family now— that she could do it?

The room she was kept in was dull— blank of any personality. The rationing of food was little, but she learned quickly not to complain to take anything that she got. The air was always thick with tension like she had to tiptoe around these people— these strangers.

It wasn’t often when people would speak to her, days going by without anybody even recognizing her existence. I guess in a way she was glad for that, as she also learned quickly that too much attention ended in bad endings.

Despite her age, she knew full well that she was being used for something greater than she could understand.

She had known that she was different all her life, her family, mocking and reminding her every day that she wasn’t like the rest. Rather than reassurance, she was taunted for it— for being different. For being powerful.

For that, she was powerful— one of the most powerful that would ever walk the Earth. Though, she didn’t know it yet.

It was on a rainy Tuesday after she received her minuscule lunch— that she recognized a young boy around her age sitting on a bench outside. Immediately he had peaked her interest, as she recognized, he was letting the rain drench him without a care in the world.

Who was he? She wondered.

The lack of children that wandered this place, it added to the magnetic pull she felt towards him— she had to know him.

But despite her curiosity, she stayed put in her room, only watching him from her window.

The boy was pale, jet black hair covering his head. She could tell he was built, which was odd, considering he was only a child— just like she was.

She was curious as to what his face looked like, what his expression was. But all the times that she would see him outside, sitting on the same bench, whether it was raining or sunny— she never got a decent look. Perhaps that was the push that she needed— the push to seek him out one day.

She had lost track of what day it was, her chaotic mind and her thoughts, taking up all her headspace.

It was fairly a nice day when she wandered outside, and, despite her allowed to do that— she was tense and on edge. She waited to be punished for doing absolutely nothing wrong.

A bad habit perhaps.

She didn’t try to quiet her steps as she approached the boy on the bench, giving him sound queues to know that she was approaching. She wondered if he heard her approaching, giving that he didn’t care to turn to investigate.

The closer she got, the more evident it became that he was lost in his own thoughts.

“Go away.” The boy mumbled, surprising the girl with how gentle his voice sounded.

Her curiosity ignored his comment, deepening her interest with him.

The boy must have sensed her lack of understanding, as he turned to see her rooted in the same spot. It was his turn to furrow his brows in curiosity, studying her watchful gaze.

He known of someone new arriving, wondering deep down if she had come willingly— or rather than. But he hadn’t found himself to care enough to seek her out— meet her. He assumed she’d be like the rest that had come and gone, never to leave their trace again. All while he stayed trapped here. But despite his inner voice telling him to walk away, he spoke to her again.

Her silence was intriguing.

“You’re new here.” He stated, not needing her confirmation.

The girl nodded, ignoring his discomfort and taking a seat on the bench next to him— but sitting far apart, almost falling off the edge.

The boy noticed her effort to not touch him, and whether it was because she was hesitant of him— or rather trying to respect his space. His heart couldn’t help but beat a little faster, kind gestures foreign to him.

“What do they call you?” He asked.

She thought for a moment how odd of wording it was to ask for one’s name.

“Moon dair.” She whispered, her tone unsure.

The boy tried to smile, but found himself exhausted to do so. All he could manage was a nod of recognition.

“Cool name,” he commented, “I’m Toji.”

Toji.

The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, happy to finally put a name to the boy.

The boy watched her face light up, and he wondered what the cause of that was. Did he dare ask? Did he care?

“You’re quiet.” He said instead.

She made no reaction that his comment bothered her, suppose she was quiet. It wasn’t often she was asked to speak, or that she was spoken to. With her family, she was practically a ghost. Even now in this foreign environment, she didn’t feel the need to talk– nor did she feel like she should.

“I’m not used to it.” She admitted quietly.

Toji furrowed his brows, studying her expression as he noticed her small smile had vanished.

“Not used to what? Talking?” He asked.

She nodded, shrugging her shoulders– fiddling with her fingers in her lap.

“That’s weird.” He said, not caring about his bluntness.

She frowned this time, crossing her arms.

“It’s not my fault.” She defended herself.

Toji chuckled, surprising her with the sudden sound.

“Hey, that's the loudest I’ve heard you yet.” He joked, running a hand through his hair.

She rolled her eyes and tried to hide her smile, admitting to herself that it was kinda funny.

It was quiet for a bit, the relaxing ambience of the outside calming the two. The wind caressed their faces, as their hair floated in the breeze.

It was a comfortable silence, they both thought.

It was the silence that gave Moon time to get lost in her thoughts.

“What are you doing out here?” She asked quietly.

Toji turned to her with furrowed brows, and despite his confusion– his expression was gentle. She could almost get a read of him, the longer she looked into his eyes. He seemed… tired.

“I didn’t know sitting here wasn’t allowed.” He uttered.

“You are, I just see you out here a lot,” She stated, “Guess I’m just curious.”

Toji chuckled again, and he wondered when the last time he laughed so much– let alone crack a smile.

“Oh, you’ve been stalking me?” He joked again, chcukling again when he watched her cheeks flush red in embarrassment.

“N-no–I just– my window looks out to this bench so… I’ve seen you here before. A lot actually.” She stumbled over her words, trying not to seem creepy.

It was too late though, she realized how weird her words sounded.

While it was entertaining to see Moon so flustered, he couldn’t keep torturing her.

“It’s quiet and calming here,” He told her truthfully, “A little escape from… things.”

She listened and tilted her head at the end, the vague answer peeking her interest even more.

“Escape from what things?” She wondered.

Toji looked away from her this time, instead focusing on the trees swaying from the wind. Truthfully he didn’t care too much about the view, he was just afraid that she’d see the answer within his eyes. He noticed her observant gaze immediately, and despite him oddly trusting her already– he knew better than to disobey his family.

“Family drama.” He told her instead, risking a glance at her.

Despite his unsure tone, she seemed to believe him and took her turn to gaze at the trees. He noticed her face losing its light, the mention of his family hitting a nerve within her.

Why? He wondered.

“I’m sorry, I get it.” She said instead.

Toji leaned forward and tried to get a good look of her face, and he was shocked to find such a vulnerable expression upon her features.

While his family drama wasn’t a complete lie, he felt a little bad that she was trying to relate.

“What happened?” He asked, curiosity eating at him.

She took a deep breath before facing him again, but her eyes couldn’t hold his gaze for too long. He noticed.

“I’m here. That’s what happened.” She whispered, relaxing her awful situation once again.

Toji didn’t quite understand what she meant by that, but also found himself staying quiet as he felt bad. He didn’t want to push her, and didn't want to upset her further.

Why do I care? He thought. Odd.

“Toji. Come now.” A stern voice called from the building doors.

She watched as Toji stiffened up at the sound of his name falling from the man. She couldn’t help her own body tensing up, feeling like she’d been caught doing something– when it was the complete opposite. She was doing nothing wrong, so why did she feel ashamed for sitting here.

Toji sent her a look that she couldn’t understand in the moment, and watched as he said nothing else and left. Walking with his head down into the building, avoiding the harsh glare from the man.

All too soon, she was left alone with her thoughts. Gazing at the trees, it didn’t feel relaxing anymore– and she wondered why.

It felt colder all of a sudden, the wind biting into her cheeks. The bench felt harder, more uncomfortable than before. It wasn’t relaxing at all– but why now?

All these thoughts quickly got overpowered, the only thought running through her mind being Toji. He was the first person to recognize her existence, to show even a sliver of kindness. It was nice to finally talk to someone, without worrying about their judgmental stare.

She didn’t know why she missed him as much as she did, she had just met him.

It was easy to grow attached to the nice things in life when surrounded by bad. She figured.

Where did you go Toji?

8 years later…

The feeling of her lungs burning, begging for untouched air was the first thing that came to her. The rubble of the fractured wall weighed down on her, her legs trapped underneath destruction. She whined in frustration, her mind hazy– her body exhausted.

9 lives was an incredibly powerful technique, letting her cheat death even in moments where she shouldn't of. But of course, with the good always comes the bad. The outside perspective only saw the person coming back to life, but to her– it was the most excruciating feeling she’d ever experience. Yes, she would be alive once again– but she was forced to feel her body heal. All the hurt she endured to lead to her first death, she could now feel reversing– she almost wished she could die at this point. Her enemy hadn’t realized she had the 9 lives technique, unaware that the cause of her death would happen to them as well– a mirror defense.

Slowly she was able to crawl out from under the rubble, using her growing strength to lift the wall off of her body. Her lungs squeezed painfully, gulping in the dusted air– desperate for breaths. Her body wracked with violent coughs as she was on her hands and knees, hunched over and retching blood clumps out of her system. It was quite a nasty technique– but it was rare that anyone was around to witness her healing process.

8 lives left.

The realization wasn’t as rewarding as she thought– quite the opposite. She was closer to her permanent death that she knew would eventually come. Her eyes stayed unfocused on the ground in front of her, her nose burning and her throat tightening with the harsh reality of it all. Although she was immortal to an extent, the mental toll of dying didn’t lessen as she hoped it would. She was stuck in this odd transition, her mind not catching up with the truth that she was indeed still alive. She didn’t feel connected to herself, she felt as if a part of her soul had truly been destroyed– as if a piece of her was left behind.

Her phone buzzed within the rubble, the distorted sound snapping her back to the present. She reached under a piece of the fractured wall, pulling her phone out to see who was calling.

Gojo.

The name lit up her dull features, before the phone gave up– the screen shutting off. She didn’t have time to answer, letting the broken phone fall back into the rubble. Not letting herself give him another thought, she stood finally– doing her best to guide her way out of the destruction. She knew he’d be confused as to why she didn’t answer, but she didn’t care– not right now.

To her, the relationship between Gojo and herself– it was confusing. Despite her obvious distaste for the man, he continued to stick around. She thought he was incredibly annoying, getting on her nerves quicker than anyone she’d ever met before. She couldn’t stand him, just the thought of past teasing and mocking he had done, it had her blood boiling. She learned quickly that her efforts to push him away– they were pointless. It was evident that he didn’t listen to a thing she said anyway. Her pleads for him to leave her alone were practically said to deaf ears.

Taking a deep breath, she felt frustrated with herself. Although she had just promised to not think about him– that's all she was doing. Even when he wasn’t around, he still managed to bother her. She didn’t like being so hateful, but after everything she had been through– she refused to let herself get close to anyone ever again.

She also couldn’t deny her raging jealousy she had for the white haired sorcerer. She was jealous of his upbringing, the way he had everything he ever wanted growing up. How he was born from riches, living in luxury to this very day– never worrying about the struggles to survive.

She continued walking, in no rush to make it back home. She didn’t want her peers to see her so disconnected. She was alive and well now, body healed– no evidence that she had ever gotten killed.

So why did she still feel dead inside?

“Why the sad face?” Geto’s voice had startled her out of her, not realizing she arrived back at the school. “The mission was successful, was it not?”

He sat all relaxed on the stairs, where he usually was after a long day. She assumed it was to watch the sun set, she really didn’t know.

She nodded, making her way over to him and sitting down on the stairs near him— but careful to not sit too close. Geto narrowed his gaze, always wondering why she did that.

“Then why the long face?” He pushed.

She sighed, letting her elbows rest on her knees— holding her face in her hands.

“Just tired.” She mumbled through her palms.

Geto hummed, but wasn’t buying it.

“Seems like you’re always tired, hm?” He pointed out.

She raised her head from her hands, glancing over to him with a really look.

“Maybe I’m just a tired person.” She came up with.

Geto just stared at her, slightly offended that she would think he’d believe these lies— and trust him. He knew she was a terrible liar— the worst actually. Yet, she continued to try.

“You know, it’s okay to not be okay.” He started, his features softer. “You don’t have to be so strong all the time. You’re still a person underneath being a sorcerer. You’re allowed to feel.”

Geto’s words had struck within Moon. She knew he was right but she didn’t want to admit that to herself. Sure, she could show how she was truly feeling underneath the act— but then she’d be vulnerable. Weakness only ends up with people getting hurt. She couldn’t do that.

She wouldn’t.

“I appreciate whatever you’re trying to prove here, but like I said— I’m just tired.” She told him, standing up and leaving to her room.

Leaving Geto on the stairs, missing the concerned look he sent her as she walked away.

What’s happening in that head of yours Miss Dair? He thought hopelessly.

She knew it would’ve been too easy to make it back to her room without anymore interactions. She had thought she did however, until she heard the all too familiar voice calling out for her.

The sound making her ears ring, the exhaustion causing any noise at all to make her wince.

“Look who’s found their way back home.” The white haired sorcerer called out.

Home.

It was funny to her that he referred to this place as such. Was it? If so— why didn’t she feel the same way?

She hummed in response, digging her hand in her pants pocket, searching for her keys.

“Heard the mission was a success. I’m impressed really, thought you would’ve struggled a bit more.” He told her, trying to get under her skin.

Instead of feeling offended from his words, she wondered how the hell the word spread so fast that she completed the mission. She had just gotten home— the only person she told and not on purpose, being Geto.

“Geto told you that, huh?” Moon asked quietly, not really interested in an answer.

“Told me, maybe I asked— who knows. All I know is that you’re alive and well.” He shrugged his shoulders, walking closer to her until he was at her doorframe.

One thing about Gojo: he didn’t respect personal space. Boundaries? Didn’t know it.

Her fingers finally grasped her key ring, pulling it out and swiftly unlocking her door. Without giving him another glance she entered her room, moving to shut the door with her foot— but of course Gojo snuck in before she could shut him out.

“Gojo, I’m tired— don’t want company right now.” She mumbled, throwing her bag down and shimming off her jacket.

He tilted his head down, letting his eyes peek over his glasses that sat low on his nose.

“Hmm, why does it feel like you’re trying to get rid of me?” He wondered, already knowing the answer.

Throwing down her jacket, she made her way to the small kitchen area— pouring herself a glass of water. Not realizing until now that her throat was incredibly dry, aching dully.

After taking a moment and letting the cool liquid soothe her throat, she glanced back to the lanky man.

She was caught off guard when she was met with such a concerned look. She only got a quick glance of his furrowed brows, the way he was almost studying her— that was until he straightened back up, putting back on his teasing expression.

“What are you thinking about Nines?” He wondered out loud.

Nines.

A causal nickname that didn’t hold its true meaning anymore. It was then Moon wondered when she should tell him— or anyone for that matter, that she now only had eight lives left.

She chewed on her bottom lip, getting stuck in her head. Should’ve been an easy question to answer, but her mind wasn’t kind.

Gojo of course noticed, he noticed almost everything about her. The tics she’d fall to when stuck in her head, the way she could almost forget someone else was in the room with her. Her micro expressions that she thought nobody saw— he did. He always did. Even then, he found her the hardest person to read— thus why he was always asking the question.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He asked again, quieter— more sincere.

She ignored his attempt at flirting almost instantly, knowing he would try again and again to get some kind of reaction. She saw nothing significant about the pet name— he did it with practically anyone.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She whispered, turning her glass upside down and placing in the sink.

His six eyes followed her movements, glancing back up to her eyes.

“I asked didn’t I?” He teased, but frowned when you still hadn’t cracked a smile.

Not that you ever did anyway— but every now and then he could.

One thing that Moon despised, was being vulnerable in front of others– especially Gojo. Although there was something about his aura that made her want to lay everything out, really tell him that she was suffering in the hell that was her head– confess everything that kept her up at night. The doubts, the horrors that plagued her when she closed her eyes. But if she was anything– she was stubborn. She wouldn’t allow the words to pass through her lips– not without difficulty that is.

“I…” She started, staring at a random spot in the sink, “I don’t know.”

Moon heard the familiar sound of glasses folding, the metal scraping the sides of his pockets. Glancing up, she was met with the incredible glow of his blue eyes. She had to take a deep breath, blinking rapidly to avoid getting hypnotized. It was often she’d get lost in his eyes, the way they could almost speak for themself. If Gojo didn’t have words to speak– his eyes certainly did that for him.

“Ah, but you do know. You’re just really bad at this whole… talking thing. Wouldn’t you agree?” He called her out, blunt as ever.

She couldn’t bring herself to care– or be offended by any means. He was right, as always. She thought quickly that maybe that’s another reason for her hatred for him– he seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

She hummed in agreement, walking past him to get to her couch. She felt exhausted the longer she stood– needing to sit down to relax her muscles.

Gojo eyes her figure, all the way to the couch– before moving to follow and taking a seat next to her.

Moon thought suddenly, the eight lives that she had left. Surely, Gojo deserved to know. Not because of his worry for her well being– because yeah right. The right that he know strictly professional– she worked with him. It was important he knew.

The white haired sorcerer sat, body facing her– waiting patiently and quietly for her to speak. For someone for easily labeled as annoying– he was pretty silent at the moment. Only because he was so lost in thought, trying to figure Moon out if she wasn't going to talk. That was why he often found himself mute, too focused to strike up conversation.

“Eight.” She whispered, finally breaking the silence.

His blue eyes examined her expression, trying to understand such a vague statement. His brows pulled together, his tongue jutting out to wet his lips.

“Huh?” He wondered, “Nines, what are you tal–”

“You need to stop calling me Nines.” She told him, her voice louder than the last time she spoke.

For a moment she watched his face grow more lost, his expression confusion. But with the long look at her pain stricken face– he knew almost instantly what she meant. His body suddenly tensed, and his hands felt colder. It was odd that the first emotion he finally felt was anger, his hands tightening into fists. His eyes narrowed at her, his jaw clenched tightly– almost positive she could see the flexing from her spot.

He adjusted himself, leaning forward with his elbows supported by his thighs, still facing her small form.

“So what the fuck happened on the mission?” He growled out.

She swallowed, and stared at her hands down on her lap. She didn’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes– and she knew she would. His eyes were so expressive, it might as well be written in them.

“Things happen, you know that.” She defended, still staring at her lap, “I have The Nine Lives Technique for a reason.”

Gojo kept quiet, his teeth grinding together in attempt to keep his true thoughts inside. He nodded his head, despite him not agreeing or being okay with this situation.

“Answer this for me then,” He started, his voice still stern, “Were you ever gonna tell anyone?”

She looked up finally, surprised when she saw nothing but concern painted in his eyes– despite his angry expression. She felt guilty knowing her answer, but her intentions weren’t to hurt anyone– she just didn’t think anyone would care. She didn’t think anyone should care.

She shook her head, too tired to voice her response.

He lowered his gaze to his lap now, seeming to get lost in thought for a moment before he glanced back up– the anger slowly vanishing from his features.

“Are you okay?” He asked, taking Moon by surprise with the sudden switch up.

She glanced from eye to eye, swallowing through the thickness in her throat. She waved a hand to herself lazily.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” She whispered.

Gojo was silent after that, her tone so unsure it made him uneasy. Yes, he saw her sitting in front of him– seeming to be in perfect condition. But it wasn’t the physical aspect that he was worried about.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He pointed out.

Moon narrowed her eyes towards him, hating the way he was trying to pick apart her brain. The way he was trying to pretend he cared so much. She couldn’t be easily fooled like that— not anymore.

She’d give him this, he was very convincing.

“I’m fine.” She rushed out, her voice tired yet stern.

Gojo couldn’t help the roll of his eyes, not understanding just how bad someone could be at lying. Despite her efforts, she’d never be able to lie to him. Almost everytime she did— he never asked her why she thought she had to lie.

He could feel the familiar twitch in his cheekbone, the frustration moving its way to his face.

“Get some rest… Nines.” He mumbled, walking to the door without another glance in her direction.

Moon opened her mouth to say something, but found herself silent until he had disappeared through the door. The familiar click of the lock and then the eerie silence of her room. The only sound being her slow breathing.

The sorcerer confused her with the amount of effort he put in to see her, talk to her. She couldn’t understand how someone could be so drawn towards someone else that clearly had a distaste for them. Did he see the signs?

She knew she was being difficult at best— but it was only the way she grew up that had her acting as such. She’d never let anyone hurt her ever again. People couldn’t leave her life, if she never let them in.

The thought should’ve been comforting, but it never was.

— ending notes. feedback is appreciated 🤍

75 notes · View notes

enden-k · 2 months ago

Note

ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ cat brought a gift

(it's still not what i had quite in mind, but it's a good start imo)

the funny thing about drawing either saran or vika is how different the challenge settings are for me.

saran is a type of character that is familiar to me - be it my, funnily enough, aversion of eye motifs irl that instead becomes a fascination in drawn media, his ghostly/evil entity self that is right up my alley of enjoyment, his cat-gremlin-menace presence that goes soft around vika... saran simply gives me a lot to work with that i know where to start already and am comfortable with (and it can go wild, be it in a horror-esque way, or something soft and silly).

vika on the other hand is too vast for me to capture yet - he's detached from everything, be it his senses or the world; he is a living ghost that barely is tethered to reality, and that is hard for me to capture, even if i can personally relate to that (maybe that is why it's so hard, dissociating irl is already hard to track, now trying to put it down visually, in a way, makes it a fun challenge). but there is also a softness, this yearning that fills this emptiness around him that has a small line to walk on to capture it correctly, and not add too much.

what i'm trying to say is, both of them are very fun characters to capture in moments, but they have different levels of challenge that don't really overlap, and with saran being a more of an eye-catching presence (heh), it's the easier choice to draw...and also he keeps haunting me during the night, it feels like i need to speed up my vika skills to appease him (so worth it).

both of them are imbedded in my brain now, and it's delightful, 10/10, will keep losing my mind again and again. eventually i will bring a whole body vika with what i had in mind, as an offering from my delight that you accidentally brought me /ᐠ˵- ⩊ -˵マ

WAHHHHHH HE LOOKS SO CUTE LOOK AT MY (grown ass) FLUFFY BABY AAAAAAA

also i get what you mean with vika being a challenge to draw (not as in hes hard to draw but as in for others to capture him since its different for me ofc with him being my OC etcetc)

saran still keeps haunting you at night? 😭 whats my mans doing he rlly needs to behave smh my head

again pls dont feel obligated to draw him but ill still look forward if you draw him again HAZGDHXH he looks so lovely in ur style aaaa im eating this....thanku sm 🙏🙏🙏🙏

(omg u included the spiderlilies bc they remind him of saran .... i cry 🖤)

#reply #oc fanart #oc vika #saved #fav #amygdala stuff #aaaa cherishing this 💕💕💕

34 notes · View notes

martincrushcameback · 1 month ago

Note

You know, I don't mind my fears being reflected in the fic I read.

Still, I didn't think that a fic that reminded me of my fears of forgetting everything about everyone I love if not seen for more than a year, leaving me with no memories of time we spent together or their faces, and only the soft, vague feelings of "I like this person :3", ripping the fear from the soft place in the back of my head to the forefront of my mind, well I didn't expect a Wild Kratts fanfic of all fandoms to be the one that forced me to look my fear in its eyes.

I'm not mad at all, and it really goes to show the power of your fic. I genuinely love this au, and I'm very glad I found it.

(Also, very intrigued with the swap AU of the sea and the sky, if you have any more concepts for it?)

Anyways, just a big thank you for that fic, and make sure you drink water, take breaks, and eat and sleep well!

I might post more art for the swap but genuinely the fic I think tackles that fear so intimately because I HAVE that fear. I have the memory problems and that fear that I will lose it all when I am old because I already can't hold onto a lot of it now even when I'm young.

People often mistake ADHD as "that stupid loud 8 year old boy disease" and they dismiss the actual problems with focus, memory retention, rejection sensitivity, sensory overload. Having those memory issues I just... wanted to write about them and I ended up pouring my heart out into it with some of my own experiences.

That's WHY Chris is so frustrated when Martin can't remember- people around you WANT you to remember even when you can't. Having that safe space for Martin also show how frustrated he is and the heartbreak of Martin just wishing he could fix things but having no idea how.... It hits close to home because it's something people with memory problems have. People around you want to be supportive but what happens if you forget their birthday one too many times? Do you REALLY care? And you DO but dates and time and names and places are SO difficult.

And then there's amnesia- people often like the happy tale of amnesia patients making full memory recoveries but I researched it- there's often never "full" recovery. Some memories will be hazy, some never come back. Often a large portion never returns.

And trauma can make your memory shit too! If you were going through trauma you might forget events altogether even with a neurotypical brain. You might only have a hazy memory- you might remember it from an outside perspective- third person. And if you dissociate your memory will be a fog.

I'm really glad I wrote TSFTSR..... I have had a few personal DMs thanking me for writing it because they felt so seen and honestly I am holding your hand, we are in this together, we are here and we will be scared together.

20 notes · View notes

many-but-one · 4 months ago

Note

Hi, I'm a ramcoa system. I wanted to ask a small question. It's hard to find resources for this sort of stuff, but have you ever heard anything relating to cicadas? Programs, symbols for aomthing, etc? /genq

I haven't personally heard anything about cicadas, but I can see why programmers might use cicada terminology or try to program a kid to believe they *are* a cicada. They live underground and hidden for a certain number of years and only come out to complete one task (procreate and then die) which could be something abusers would want in a particular alter. We have alters who are programmed to believe they are certain types of bugs, animals, or mythical creatures based on what is most understood about that bug/animal/creature to shape that alter's perception of the world and how they act when they front. Some examples I can provide based on multiple programmed systems I've met:

Note: not all of this will be the same for every programmed system, this is just what I've observed.

angels often relate to being bound to a "god" and being unable to disobey, the god being the programmer.

foxes are considered both hunters and hunted, and so fox related programming can go in many directions, whether it is teaching children that they must be cunning and smart "hunters" or teaching them that no matter how far or fast they try to run, they will never be able to escape. The latter is very common for prey animal related programming, which can include rabbits, deer, and other commonly hunted animals.

cats also have a wide variety of programming modalities, as cats can be both small (domesticated) and weak as well as large (wild) and fierce. Sex kitten programming is common, as it's a common fetish among people who watch CSEM and almost all programming is for the purposes of making CSEM or sex trafficking children.

spider related programming often relates to being "trapped in a web" and "never being able to escape." Spider programmed parts also often relate to perpetrated violence because of their negative connotation. It's also easy to procure spiders to traumatize children with.

computers or robots are already "programmed" so if you can convince a kid that they are a robot or computer, it can be pretty easy to convince them that they have no free will and cannot think for themselves, only do what they are programmed to do.

object alters in general are very common, as objects cannot think for themselves, and programmers don't want kids to think for themselves, because if they can think for themselves, that means they have free will and that's the last thing the programmers want kids to believe.

soldiers follow the commands of their superiors, and the punishments for not doing so can be dangerous in the child's eyes, so they will default to following the orders of their commanders (the programmers)

and many, many more. Literally anything that exists in the world a programmer can figure out a way to manipulate a kid to believe they are that thing (via costumes and props, dissociation, torture, drugging, hypnotic suggestion, etc). There's common ones like discussed above, but there can be any range of thing out there.

I hope this answers your question at least a little bit. Unfortunately, programming techniques change frequently over time with the addition of things like AR/VR and other technical and mechanical things that have improved over the years, so the books and information you see about programming that are out now often don't encompass what programming looks like in this day in age. The stuff in books like Alison Miller's are considered "old age programming" and current day "new age programming" looks much different and has different motives, of which there hasn't been much information written about it because survivors haven't had the chance to heal enough to be able to write about it and share their experiences, and not many therapists are willing to put their licenses on the line to talk about the stuff their clients talk about.

That's all I've got for this ask. Take care, anon.

-Many

#answered ask #anon ask #programming #programming tw #ramcoa tw #ramcoa #hcdid #manybutone

33 notes · View notes

deathmybride · 9 months ago

Text

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ a hazy shade of winter | angus tully (part 2) *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Part 1 | Part 2

ship: Angus Tully x fem!OC

warnings: Discussions of loss and grief, descriptions of dissociation.

summary: Carol gears up for her first night at Barton.

word count: 1767

a/n: Thanks so much for all the love on part one! I hope you enjoy this one. More to come soon.

Carol Hunham

Carol’s fingers felt thick and unruly as she dug through her suitcase, scattering her belongings over one of the spare beds that she had designated as the closet. She fumbled with her hairbrush for a moment, the smooth plastic slipped through her fingers and scuttled across the floor. With a rush of loathing, she dove at it and threw it against the wall where it thumped weakly and fell onto the blankets. Underwhelmed by the result and full up with a bone deep weariness, she stooped over the bed and rested her weight on her open palms, trembling at the elbows. As she caught sight of herself in the hand mirror that laid at the bottom of her case, a stray tear slapped against the surface of her glasses, casting a wobbling splotch across her vision. Perhaps that was how the old man saw through his bad eye. Something must have gone wrong in the womb, she thought; some pressure that misshaped it. Maybe it was the same pressure that popped the connection in her brain that would have allowed her hands to work in tandem with her eyes.

She took off her glasses and set them aside, laying back on the prison mattress with her hand mirror above her. She watched herself with vision slightly blurred without her glasses, but still in focus. The face staring back was familiar, but she felt no ownership of it. Half hidden under the shag haircut she chose on her last out-day to Portland, streaked with tears, flushed at the extremities, hollow brown eyes glaring in defiance to the brokenness inside. It was the way she should look, but it wasn’t her. It was too pretty and too human. These days she was a fractionation, barely managing to act like a fully formed person in front of those boys. Grief clouded around her like moths, eating up her brain like a forgotten overcoat and tying the loose strings around the back of her tongue to stifle her speech. Jason had made her feel something like her old self for a few precious minutes, then Angus paid her the favour of shoving that part of her back into the box. Perhaps she should thank him. After all, she was closest to Elias this way.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She pushed herself up and took a shivering breath, and spoke in a voice that grated in her throat.

“I-it’s open.”

In waddled Mr Hunham, his unfocussed eyes clouded with pity. He adjusted his bowtie, then let his hands rest awkwardly by his round body, like a little brown penguin.

“Hello, Carol.” His smile was stilted, and overly toothy.

“Hi, um… Mr Hunham.”

“Please.” He hesitantly stepped toward her. “We’re in private. Just call me Paul.”

“Oh.” She paused. “U-uncle Paul?”

His eyes widened, and for a moment Carol thought he must be horrified at the suggestion, but soon he clasped his hands in front of him and smiled more genuinely than before.

“Sure. Uncle Paul.”

He just stood there for a long, awkward moment.

“Can-” She cleared her throat, willing the warble in her voice to still. “Can I help you?” She bit the inside of her cheek as punishment for stumbling on her words.

“Ah. Well, I was just seeing how you’re holding up.”

“I’m fine.” Her hand moved against her will to wipe a stray tear that tickled her cheek.

“You’re crying!” He hurried over, already wild as a bull. “If one of those reprobates said something to-”

“No!” She said, though her ribs still stung as though Angus had punched her right in the spleen. “No, nothing like that. I-I’m just… thinking about… Eli.”

“Ah.” Tentatively, he lowered himself onto the end of the bed. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through-”

“Please.” She put her hand up to absolve him, not sure if she would handle hearing any more sorries. “You don’t need to say anything.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a while. Carol contemplated apologising, though she was not sure for what, so she stayed silent.

“I can’t imagine what you must be going through,” He repeated, eyeing her dubiously. “But I may know someone who can. After dinner tonight- if you want to, that is- I’d like to introduce you to Mary, our head of catering. She lost her son.”

“Oh.” She pinched her forearm, avoiding his line of sight as guilt chewed her up. “Sorry. I-I thought you were going to say… I don’t know, um-”

“I know what you meant.” Paul said gently.

“Hm.” She wiped at her face and finally met his cross-eyed gaze, darting her eyes between each of his before settling on the one that focussed on her. “Losing a child must be the hardest thing in the world.”

“I would imagine so.” He sighed. Hesitantly, he reached out to her and let his hand rest on her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Carol. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to entertain a guest, let alone family. Now, I know the circumstances are not ideal, and that we said we’d be staying in Boston, but-” He let out a frustrated huff. “I’ve been unfairly targeted by my pompous asshat of a superior, so we’ll just have to play the hand we’ve been dealt.”

“I don’t mind.” She said, minding it very much. “I’m not sure now is the right time for Boston.”

“I understand.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and stood up to leave.

“Uncle Paul?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Thank you, for-”

Paul bolted upright like a meerkat as a loud thud came from the boys’ rooms, followed by the squeaking and shuffling of rubber soles on linoleum and the unmistakable grunting of two teenage boys locked in battle. He cast a wide eyed glance at her, stuttered an apology and dashed away. Carol sighed, gathering her strength and her glasses, and followed. She kept her distance as she approached, holding her arms around her waist in the old familiar protective stance.

“They weren’t fighting!” She heard Alex exclaim unconvincingly.

Peering past the younger boys she caught sight of Angus, his back pressed to the wall like a caged animal. He met her eyes with a look of such wild desperation that it knocked her off kilter with an overwhelming wave of sympathy, untempered even by her disdain for him. Then, she saw Teddy, standing with feet apart and arms raised from his sides as if poised to pounce back into the scrap. It made her skin crawl to see such malice written bold across his face, and felt validated in her immediate suspicion of him. There had been a strange glint in his eye when he rushed to shake her hand that afternoon, like sunlight on black ice. Jason stood between them, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and hair ruffled. The eye contact between them was brief; his eyes darted between her and her uncle, she raised a questioning eyebrow, he shrugged almost imperceptibly, and then it was over.

“I see.” Her uncle deadpanned. “And who started it, the ‘not fighting?’ Mm? Mr Tully? Perhaps you could shed some light on the subject?”

Carol stepped forward, intrigued. The boys stayed quiet, as she expected. All teenagers adhered to an unspoken code: don’t fink. Fink and you’re dead. Angus and Teddy’s eyes met in a silent challenge. Teddy jutted his jaw and glared like a petulant child.

“Mr Kountze? Mr Smith? Mr Ollerman? Mr Park? Alright then, we’ll do it like the Roman Legions.” Carol picked up a tinge of delight in her uncle’s voice. “Absent a confession, one man’s sin is every man’s suffering. For every minute the truth is withheld, you will all receive a detention.”

“I thought all the Nazis were hiding in Argentina.” Angus muttered. A barely contained laugh threatened to spill from Carol’s mouth, to her horror and confusion.

“Stifle it, Tully!” Mr Hunham checked his watch. “Now, in the first of said detentions, you will…” He paused as if thinking on his feet. “...clean the library. Top to bottom. Scraping the underside of the desks, which are caked with snot and gum, and all manner of unspeakable proteins.” Jason met her eyes, pleading silently ‘do something!’ “Ahh, on your hands and knees, down in the dust.” She felt a protest bubbling up in her chest. “Breathing in the dead skin of generations of students, and dessicated cockroaches-”

“Mr Hunham!”

“It was Kountze!” Little Alex blurted out, drowning her own exclamation. As he pointed desperately at Teddy, she caught Angus throwing him a look that landed somewhere between pity and disgust.

“Bravo, Mr Ollerman. Bravo!” Mr Hunham exclaimed sardonically, eyes shimmering with malignant joy. “As it stands, you've all had two hearty meals today, so I’m sure going without supper won’t hurt Mr Kountze too badly. We’ll be meeting in the dining hall in one hour, where you-” He waggled his finger at Teddy. “Will sit aside and watch us. I suggest you all take this time as an opportunity to study, and, uh, gentlemen? Break it up.”

With that, he waddled out past Park and Ollerman, raising his eyebrows as he caught sight of Carol waiting for him.

“Ah. You caught that, I assume?” She said nothing, just nodded and fell in step beside him. “I’m sensing some disapproval?”

“Well.” She bit her lip, unsure of how bold she should be. But then again, this Christmas couldn’t get any worse, right? “As a history teacher, I’m sure you’re familiar with the Geneva Convention.”

“Yes, I am.” Paul chuckled. “And I know what you’re getting at, too.”

“Well, personally, I’d rather not be subjected to any war crimes over my Christmas break. Plus, I’d rather not be in the position to agree with Angus Tully on something.”

“You’re off to a rocky start with him?”

“You could say that.”

“He’s a bright kid, in spite of his determination to act out and destroy his own potential.”

“I believe you.” She contemplated his words for a moment. “Maybe, and don’t take this the wrong way, if you, say… cut them some slack, the morale would be higher and everyone would get along a whole lot better. It’s Christmas.”

“Trust me, Carol, the last thing those boys need is leniency. They already think they can get away with murder, and I’d hate to see what comes after that. If you’re ever in the sorry position of a teacher, you’ll understand what I mean.”

“I suppose so.” She sighed, feeling thoroughly deflated. “See you at dinner.”

#angus tully #angus tully x reader #dominic sessa #dominic sessa x reader #the holdovers

66 notes · View notes