#and if you already dissociate it is WILD

[silentalltheseyearsnomore]

Every single year in October we go silent, stop being able to talk to anyone no matter what happens, stop eating and lose weight dramatically fast, and every fucking year I'm like ??????

Until someone (multiple people now lol) in my life is like oh hey we just had the 13th and a huge eclipse and halloween is coming and um is that maybe affecting you

Or drops in to conversation that we did xyz exactly the same this time last year and don't we remember this and this and this and

Just. Can we not? I'd rather not.

[kyofsonder]

We don't often make up-front posts about our system or the people in it, but we have a sudden desire to say this into the Tumblr void and no good arguments against doing so.

Having your speaking and/or thinking accent suddenly shift at a random moment for no apparent reason is a hell of a specific experience, isn't it? Suddenly, your mouth just wants to take a different shape and your words comes out in a different way and it's not even necessarily an accent you're regularly exposed to or have a reason to mirror or want to practice. It's just there, all of the sudden, and you ride it out until you either feel it fade or have to mask it around others. It's. A hell of a thing, is all we can think to say.

We're always co-con to some degree, too, so we'll feel the ebb and flow of it as the accent-holder is closer to and further from our shared consciousness. It'll warp our accent into something between our usual/default one and whatever the accent-holder has.

Maybe we've posted about this before and forgotten, but it's weird and fascinating to us every time. Speaking patterns changing is already both those things, but whole accent shifts are... another level.

Being plural is wild, truly. We'll probably never stop being surprised, even by aspects/experiences of it we've known a thousand times over.

[neverendingford]

.

[hiveswap]

"I am the only human alive" you're literally a redditor why the fuck would the cosmos create a redditor as the only sentient life

Solipsism is dumb as shit lowkey

[peaches2217]

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.

[candy-cloud-system]

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.

[sysmedsaresexist]

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

[itsybitsylemonsqueezy]

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.

[d3adlyromb3ar]

✰ 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 🤍

[many-but-one]

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

[asurrogateblog]

what do we know about Nobody Home?

like...in general?

well, for starters, the origins of the song is that during the later sessions for the wall in fall of 1979, david challenged roger to write a new song for the album. never one to turn down a bet, roger wrote nobody home overnight and brought it to the studio the next day. and unfortunately for david it was really good. roger employed his tried-and-true tactic: "just list a whole bunch of things", and it worked.

the actual lyrical content of the song is – if you are aware of any pink floyd lore – fairly objectively about syd. for instance, there are several references to his unique style of dress during the bands early days ("obligatory hendrix perm", "elastic bands keeping my shoes on", "gohills boots"). other imagery references syd's mental condition after his departure (the drone of the TV in the background, the "bag with a toothbrush and a comb in"...long explanations just trust me). in this context, "nobody home" can be interpreted in two ways. either it's referencing how syd was silently iced out by the band, or, it's referencing syd's dissociation – the idea of there being "nobody home" behind his "wild, staring eyes".

*(footnote: many people also interpret the lines "i've got a silver spoon on a chain / i've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains" as being about rick and his cocaine addiction at the time of the album's recording. I go back and forth on my thoughts on this)

however, obviously this song isn't just a standalone – it's a part of the wall. in that context, at this point in the story pink (the character) has locked himself up in a hotel room, in a prison of his own fame and self-imposed isolation. it's an especially sad song imo, because the "plot" of the lyrics is that he's trying to call someone (presumably his wife), and despite that real attempt to peer over the wall and reach out, no one answers him. he's already pushed away everyone who loves him. :(

of course, the syd interpretation and the fictional interpretation are not at all mutually exclusive. the character of pink is an amalgam of roger and syd – and this song feels to me like an attempt of roger's to show the parallels between them. although under very different conditions, roger too has come to feel like his success is like having a lead role in a cage, and that he's lost the ability to show his true self to the outside world.

(this is entering tinhat territory, but I am personally convinced that roger is directly and purposefully paralleling syd's song "bob dylan blues". listen to them back to back and tell me I'm wrong)

I hope that's enough!

[a-killer-obsession]

Wavelengths [Killer x Reader, Heat x Reader]

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

A search for a rumored Vegapunk weapon leads the Kid Pirates to an unexpected new crewmate, with a bloodlust that rivals their own and an incredible power.

CW: Please check AO3 for all current warnings, but general warning for smut, slow burn, serious gore, and really dark themes. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns.

Masterlist || AO3 || Chapter 1

Chapter 19 - Lost and Found

Everything really goes to shit. Please heed the A03 tag warnings, this one is going to be dark.

WC: ~4k

Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @iggy5055

It was hard to even remember that you'd ever had a life outside of a cell by the time you woke up on what must have been at least day ten of your new imprisonment. The seastone cuffs were forming new rings of red on your wrists and the bullet burned like a wild fire inside you. Breathing was difficult, on one part because of the broken rib, on the other from the daily beatings you'd received as the marines tried to put you back in your place and gain information on the Kid Pirates. You'd never talk, of course. They were the only friends you had, even if you felt in your heart that they'd abandoned you. It was fitting, really. You'd told Killer to run, you'd said your goodbyes, but secretly you'd hoped that maybe he did love you enough to come back. After ten days of rotting and starving in a cold cell, your hope had faded. They weren't coming back, and you were alone again.

It was a small miracle that you'd been given antibiotics for your wounds, but you knew it was only to keep you alive. If you died of infection they'd actually have to put in effort to finding your fruit before an enemy could eat it. It was easier this way, and they were well practiced with keeping their torture victims alive. You hadn't been able to sleep on your back for several days now, the result of the weeping wounds that covered your already scarred skin, the lashings dished out as a punishment for ‘going AWOL’, like you hadn't been thrown away by the marines years ago when you'd proven yourself to be untameable. Maybe Kid had come to the same conclusion, maybe you'd talked back one too many times to be worth the effort it would take to rescue you. Maybe if you'd spread your legs for him you would have at least had some use that was worth rescuing. But as always, nobody wanted you. Your father had the right idea, leaving before you were even born. He must have known all along how worthless you would come to be.

You felt yourself giving up. Nobody was coming for you, and your body ached and stung from the cuts and bruises that covered it. If you just gave in, stopped eating what little they offered you, let yourself succumb to your injuries, it would all be over. Nobody could hurt you anymore if you were dead. The feeling gave you a little hope, this would be over soon. Your body would stop hurting, your heart would stop hurting, and you would no longer be a burden on every person you met. You only had yourself in this world, but even you didn't want you.

Today was going no different than it had every day since your capture. The only small comfort you had was Killer's sash, now wrapped around your own waist. It was covered in your blood, but it was all you had, so at night you held it close to your heart, mourning what could have been if you'd made it back to the ship. You hoped above all else that he still wanted you, that the love you'd felt through the kiss still held true, even if he hadn't come for you yet. Maybe he wanted to, maybe he was just following an order from Kid to forget you. You played with a loose end as you laid on your side, the door to the cell opening as it had every morning so you could be dragged upright your daily torture session. You let yourself dissociate as you were pulled up by your hair, your cuffs attached above your head to a chain that hung from the ceiling. Your cuffs rubbed raw against your wrists as your weak legs struggled to keep you on your feet, but you dare not cry out in pain. Years of abuse had conditioned you to keep quiet.

The mindless goons who had strung you up remained on guard as their commodore entered the room, a disgustingly smug look on his face. You did your best to stare right through him, but couldn't deny that his expression made you ill. There was something different about it today, something darker and more knowing. It made you feel exposed and anxious as he stomped towards you in heavy boots. He was a larger man, someone who looked like they'd gotten where they were in life through intimidating those smaller than him. He smelt of cigars and cheap cologne that made your nose burn.

“How are we feeling today, little mouse?” He purred, forcing your chin up with a hard grasp to look at him. You spat in his face against your better judgement and he quickly retaliated with a hard backhand across your cheek. He wiped the spit from his face before continuing, “You'll never guess who I've just been speaking to on the den-den,” he gave you a cold smile that made you want to gag, “none other than your old pal Vice-Admiral Thompson”

A shiver ran through you and your eyes widened in fear as memories best kept forgotten began to bubble to the surface. Thompson had been the first to take charge of you after being discarded, back when he was still a commodore, and he had raped you mercilessly on a almost daily basis. The man had a pension for blood, and enjoyed cutting you as he fucked you. Your torture had only come to an end when he was given a promotion, and you were passed along to the next enthusiastic rapist, the one you had killed when Kid had found you. Your back featured many scars from his blade, since taking you from behind had been his preference. He didn't like to see your face, he preferred to just concentrate on the sound of your screams to get off. He'd grown bored when you stopped screaming for him, probably why he chose to pawn you off to someone else when he got his big promotion. It had been a blessing in disguise, and had taught you a valuable lesson about staying quiet. The new commodore had still raped you every chance he got, and taunted you daily, but at least he was a small-dicked three pump chump.

“He gave me some very valuable tips on how to tame you, little mouse,” he circled your body, and you winced as his calloused hand ran over the fresh cuts on your back from yesterday's whipping. “He had some very interesting techniques to share that I am quite interested in testing out for myself”

He nodded to the other men in the room, and they grabbed you from either side, making sure you couldn't do anything to kick or fight back, not that you had the energy. They pulled your skirt up and your panties down roughly, and the commodore kicked your legs further apart to make room for himself. It put more pressure on your painful wrists, and tears pricked at your eyes. You heard the distinct sound of his pants unzipping and he began to palm himself behind you.

“Are you going to talk mouse, or am I going to have to fuck it out of you?” He growled.

Tears began to fall against your will as you prepared yourself for the inevitable. You blanked everything out, swallowing your mind till it sat deep inside yourself, your eyes blank as the tears flowed freely from them, your body lose as you gave over any control to your hindbrain, which focused only on breathing and keeping your heart beating. Nothing else was necessary, and for a sweet moment you felt no pain as you dissociated. The world went white and silent, you had given up.

The last ten days had been torture for Killer, pacing back and forth in the navigation room while Kid pinched the bridge of his nose. They'd wanted to go after you, all the commanders had, but they'd lost the element of surprise. Kid had been ready to turn the ship around and wage war, but at Wire's sage advice he had held back. Killer hated that Wire was right. They needed to wait, they needed the base to think they had abandoned you, because without the element of surprise they might not make it to you without heavy losses on their side.

“Kid, you promised,” Killer growled, “why are we still waiting? Has it not been long enough?”

Wire sighed from his seat, Heat next to him in the same unwavering haze of sadness he'd been in since Killer had gotten back. It was the island all over again. “We agreed two weeks, Killer, that was the decision. It's only four more days. She's strong, she'll make it”

“But what if she doesn't?” Killer yelled back. His mask had been abandoned on the table hours ago, he felt like he was suffocating in it under the stress of the situation. Kid's chest hurt watching the way Killer's face morphed with pain whenever he spoke of you. “Her vivre has been burning for days now, she's dying!”

The last ten days had been hell for everyone on board, and Killer's body was wrecked with self-inflicted cuts under his clothing from multiple manic episodes. Kid didn't know what to do anymore, he feared his friend would lose his mind all together if they didn't get you back. The only reason his room was inhabitable at all was because they'd spent the last six days docked at a nearby island; his furniture had been replaced multiple times at this point.

“Wire, a few days less won't kill the plan,” he finally surrendered, “if we set sail today, we'll be there in two days from now. I agree with Killer, two weeks was a good plan to begin with, but I don't like the way her vivre is looking. We may be too late if we don't act soon”

Wire sighed in defeat, but was relieved to not be the one to give in. He may not be as close to you as the others, but Heat was his best friend, and the man hadn't been the same since they lost you. Everyone needed you home, it wasn't the same on the ship without you. “I'll give the orders,” he declared, taking his leave to head to the deck, followed by a sulking Heat.

“We're gonna get her back Kil,” Kid assured, “When have I ever broken a promise to you?”

“You haven't,” Killer mumbled, replacing his mask to head out.

“Exactly, so just rest your fears with me, I'll get her back, whatever it takes,” he pressed his flesh hand to Killer's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. “Well make plans tomorrow, for now just stay strong. We'll bring her home Kil”

As expected, the commodore had been less than gentle with you, and after he was done pumping you with his thick load, he'd let the other two men have their turn as well. You were naked by the time they left you, and you laid on the floor crying and holding Killer's sash to your face, your pussy aching and torn from their abuse. The next day, when you still hadn't talked, he repeated the process. This time he brought a blade with him, cutting into the small of your back. The blood had at least acted as a lubricant as he fucked you mercilessly, but you still ached from the previous day's abuse. He'd brought more men with him this time as well, the collective cum of five men slipping out of your abused hole as you lay on the floor. You didn't cry today, there was nothing left in you. You were entirely devoid of any emotion, resigned to letting yourself starve until it was over. The lashing wounds from several days ago were growing infected from the commodore playing with them, he'd purposefully reopened your wounds as he raped you to add to your misery. You still hadn't talked, at this point you weren't sure if you were capable of speaking.

By the twelfth day you were just a shell. A ragdoll of a body, burning with fever and devoid of any feeling or thoughts. You hadn't slept, just stared blankly at the wall, unmoving from where they had dumped you on the floor after using you. You laid in your own blood, the wounds they had left still trickling for many hours after they had finished with you till they finally clotted to stop the bleeding. Your clothes had been taken from you, except for the sash. You considered hanging yourself with it, but you weren't sure it would even work. You had nothing to allow for a short jump to snap your neck, you would have to rely on strangulation, but that would mean the already heavily damaged sash would have to endure your weight for long enough to kill you. You didn't have the energy to do it right now anyway, it would require standing and your legs were far too weak for that. You'd pissed yourself at some point, unable to find the will to get up even to squat over the bucket in the corner.

There was thick silence around you, as there had been every day since your capture. The walls of the cell were particularly thick, blocking out any sound from outside, blank and dirty and grey, the only light being a single flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling that was never switched off. It was all carefully crafted to break you, to drive you insane till you gave up your secrets and spilled everything you knew about the Kid Pirates. The joke was on them, this wasn't your first experience with a cell like this, you learned last time how to sink inside yourself to hide from it all.

The door opened as it had every morning, and like every other morning your body was manipulated to wherever they wanted it to be. You didn't register how or where they moved you, your eyes continued to stare blankly ahead. You didn't register the cuffs being removed, the scarred arm or striped mask, the change of scenery as you were carried away. Daylight hit you, burning your eyes, so you closed them, your last connection to the outside world severed as your protective shell finished building up around you, fully encompassing you as you fell to a deep, exhausted sleep.

The Kid Pirates had started their wanton destruction the second they made landfall. The base had in fact been caught off guard, wrongly assuming that after twelve days of not making any attempt to rescue you, that you had been written off as not worth the effort. It couldn't be further from the truth as they slashed and burned and smashed their way through the base, killing every man and woman they encountered. Every building was checked, and if you weren't inside, immediately destroyed. Kid welded his gigantic metal arm, sweeping through the marines and sending decimating blows through every building, followed by Heat who set fire to any remains and any marine who got close enough. Wire was running ahead with Killer, the two of them being the fastest on the crew as they scouted every building for you, following your vivre on a warpath.

Double hadn't been able to locate the cells on the map, and suspected they were underground somewhere. His suspicion proved to be correct when they found a set of stairs hidden in the back of a small building, leaning to a short hall of dire looking cells. Killer's haki told him someone was alive down here, and the burning sliver that remained of your burning vivre card agreed. Killer sliced the lock off the door on the only occupied room, opening it with his heart in his throat as he dreaded what he would find inside.

He and Wire stood in shocked silence as the door swung open. You were there, naked on the floor, laying in a pool of blood and piss and clutching something close to your face like it was a lifeline. It took him a moment to register that it was his sash, it was so soaked with dark, dried blood that there was barely any blue left. Your eyes were open, but you didn't see them, not even when he waved a hand in front of your face. He touched your shoulder gingerly, and you didn't react at all, not even a shiver or painful wince. There was just nothing, you were just a shell, and he felt like they'd come too late. You were alive, but you were no longer living.

Wire took off his long hooded coat and handed it to Killer, who swaddled you in it before lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Your body was littered with bruises and wounds, several of which were weeping pus. You were hot to the touch, near scalding, and your skin was clammy, damp with sweat from your fever. The two men said nothing to each other, there was nothing to be said that wasn't already painfully obvious to both of them. The second he had you in his arms, he was running.

He ran as fast as his legs would take him, his solitary mission to get you to Mohawk as quickly as possible while Wire covered his back from enemies. Kid opened his mouth to speak as they passed, but Wire just shook his head at him as he ran behind Killer. Kid roared in anger and lifted every piece of metal he could get into the air, forming a giant hammer and crushing everything in sight. The rest of the crew retreated, they knew better than to get in the way of Kid's fury.

As soon as Kid was satisfied that the base was sufficiently destroyed, any remains set alight by Heat, the Victoria Punk had set sail, with the intention of getting as far away from this awful place as possible. Mohawk had spent the last several hours working diligently on your wounds. Only Wire had been allowed access to the infirmary, being that he was the least emotional right now, and Mohawk needed unaffected assistance to help considering your state, which teetered dangerously at the edge of life and death. With some struggle he'd managed to surgically reopen the wounds that had begun closing, including the gunshot, so he could remove the bullet and any contaminants, and disinfect them all properly before stitching them closed. There wasn't much he could do for your broken rib other than make sure there were no shards of bone threatening to pierce your lung, and pump you with sufficient pain medication. You would likely be asleep for several more days given the extremely high dose he had you on, but that was for the best.

The worst of it had come though as he and Wire carefully cleaned your body, and Wire had discovered the blood between your legs. They felt awful about having to spread you open, but Mohawk was a doctor, and he was concerned about the damage that had been done to you. He cursed himself for never having bought a speculum now that there was a woman on the ship, he could only do so much to check your internal wounds without feeling like he was violating you. He did what he could for the outside though, stitching you delicately with dissolvable thread so you wouldn't have to go through the trauma of having him remove them, and making sure to add every anti-STI medication he had on hand to the cocktail of drugs he already had you on.

With Wire's help, they had cleaned and closed and dressed every wound on your body, and they carefully slipped a set of comfortable underwear and shorts on to you, along with a medical gown so Mohawk could still easily access the worst of the wounds on your torso until you woke up. It had taken over five hours to attend to you, all the while Killer had been pacing nervously outside the door, his sash balled up in his hand. He'd rushed to your side the second Wire opened the door, taking your hand gingerly and holding it firmly between both of his as he sat in a chair Mohawk had pulled over for him.

“She's going to be asleep for a few days at least,” Mohawk reported, standing on the other side of the cot as he pulled a blanket over you to finish up his work. “She still had the bullet inside her, so I suggest getting her bracelet back on soon before she wakes now that she's free of the seastone. She's got a broken rib, and too many wounds to count. It looks like many of them were from a whip, a handful from a blade. She's got a black eye, a swollen cheek, and most of her torso is covered in bruises in different stages of healing that look like they go back as far as when we lost her. Her wrists are also rubbed raw, I'm assuming they hung her by her wrists and the cuffs cut into her that way. She's definitely emaciated so I've got her on a lot of supplements right now, as well as a lot of antibiotics and pain meds. The pain meds themselves will have her out for a few days till I feel confident that she'd be okay on a lower dose, but that won't be until her fever breaks”

Killer wanted to cry hearing the doctor's report on your condition, and he held your hand close to his mask as he struggled to hold back tears. “Killer, there's one other thing,” Mohawk continued. Killer looked up at him with deep concern. “She's been raped, multiple times if I had to guess from her injuries. It was bad enough to need stitches. I've got her on every STI preventative I have on hand but I'll need to run some tests in a few weeks to make sure she didn't catch anything”

Killer let out a single wheezing sob as he failed to keep his composure. It was no wonder you were so lifeless when they found you, the worst had happened and he only had himself to blame for it. Mohawk gave him a pat on the shoulder and took his leave, giving the Massacre Soldier the space he needed to get his feelings out. Killer began to sob, tears leaking through the holes of his mask as it rested against your shoulder till he caved and tore it off. At some point Kid and Heat joined him, the three of them sitting in silence watching over you, save for the occasional sniff or new bouts of sobs from Killer.

[NEXT CHAPTER]

[hergrandplan]

WIP appreciation

I was tagged ages ago by @bigalockwood and @skibasyndrome but didnt have anything to share back then HOWEVER as a way to dissociate so I don’t get overstimulated I may have accidentally started a new WIP while on New York and um. Idk how many words but there’s a good chunk of chapter 1 written already (be prepared for messy bad boy wille and fake dating)

Wille looked around the club again, the throng of people, the mass of bodies dancing to the same beat, in the same rhythm.

A little away from the bar, there was a man, black curly hair, a little messy and frizzy from sweat and dancing, and wild eyed.

He was beautiful. Unreal almost, the way he moved his body, completely lost in the music. Wille thought he also looked vaguely familiar, but Wille couldn’t place his face. It didn’t really matter anyways.

Wille watched entranced as the man threw his head back in laughter, exposing the curve of a perfectly-shaped neck. Wille was standing too far away to hear the sound of his laughter, but if he could have heard it he just knew it’d be beautiful, boisterous. This man was radiant.

Thank you for the tag!! No pressure tags: @gulliblelemon @prince-simon @dreamyelectronicmusic (and anyone else who wants to do this)

[nrdmssgs]

The dropouts (part 6)

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5 I you are here

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, action, slow burn.

Pairing: Olga 'Zhar' Samoilova (OC) x Nikto

Summary: The hunter and the hunted

TWs: This chapter starts with a description of a sexual intercourse without a clear consent! If you wish to skip it - I marked the end of this scene with a red line! This whole series will be revolving around a person living with an acute dissociative disorder. Swearing.

AN: Anya belongs to @sofasoap.

Morning brightens the room with yet unsteady pale light. Nikto winces and hides his face, searching for a shelter on her soft chest. Her scent is all over him again. Wild, deep, teasing, intoxicating. Andre inhales, takes her in until his lungs are full. 

His. After chasing and humiliation, after the seemingly never ending sick game of hide and seek… She is his at last. And she enjoys it.

Long fingers brush a line from his shoulder blade, up the back of the neck to the top of his head. This sends shivers down his body. A touch, Nikto was hunting for all this time. A lightning beats his body, makes every muscle tense up for a moment and then gradually retreats, leaving hungry for more.

“Do this again,” he grunts, and she yields.

Not only does Olga run her fingers through his hair this time - she arches her back so deliciously, that it would be a crime to not taste a soft pale skin right under a hardening nipple. His teeth draw a sharp inhale from her and Nikto rushes to calm her down, pressing the hot flat of his tongue against the place, he just bit and lick all the way up. 

“Sh-h, sh-h, be still, don't move.” He looks up and notices a red flush blooming under foggy green eyes.

She finally looks at him instead of searching for a way to escape. And Nikto will make sure to be all around so that no matter where Zhar looks - she keeps looking at him. His hands wander down her sides, kneading, massaging and gripping every curve. Despite her squirms and gasps, he shifts his weigh, pressing Olga deeper into the mattress and pinning her down with his body. Andre tries to ignore it, but her uneven breath, this tangy delicious scent, her shivers - everything about her drive him crazy. 

He flicks his tongue against her collarbone, his fingers sliding down her belly to drown in the pulsing-hot wet flesh. 

“Don't move,” he murmurs, hiding his growing irritation. But she just can't keep still - her hands skim over his shoulders, her hips tremble after each slow thrust of his fingers.

He tried to be gentle, he really did. 

“But the goddamn thing just won't listen, teasing us over and over!”

With a guttural growl, Nikto collects her wrists in an iron grip and presses them into the pillow over her head. She doesn't open her eyes, seemingly blissed out by his caresses. Her face is enough to send his blood rushing. So he doesn't think too long before spreading her wetness along his shaft and pushing in.

A cry leaves her lips. Their size difference doesn't play well for Zhar. Hoarse whines grow louder as poor thing tries to endure this. 

He's not even halfway in, and she already lost all her cold and detached mannerism? Nikto clicks his tongue.

“I will help."

"And I."

"Me too. Show her some compassion. Teach her, how one should take care of another in need.”

Andre's teeth graze up her shoulder until he finds that sweet spot, where it ends and her neck begins. At this point he's so pent-up - it takes all his self-control to keep steady, before he helps. Before he makes this ache from his cock stretching her this mercilessly non-existent. 

He breaks her skin, biting deep and hard. It's not an element of play - Nikto is not trying to get dominant. He consumes her pain, takes her body fully. Her flesh becoming a part of him, and his flesh merging with her in return. Wherever she looks - she will be looking at him.

A sweet metal taste on his tongue. A warm wetness spreading in his mouth. Whatever she touches - he will make sure, that she touches only him. Hears only him, even when out of them two it is her who cries. 

Because he's in her body, in her very skin, he's around, all over, he's with her. She is finally-

Nikto wakes up with a muffled moan, jerking his head above the pillow. Not yet completely realizing, what has just happened, he instinctively pushes his body up and crawls back away from his pillow until his head hits the wall. Aching pleasure mixes with a sharp pain and an all consuming dread.

Andre extends his arm, trembling fingers fumbling clumsily across the mattress.

Empty. Thank all the gods, he's alone. 

Visions of unspeakable things, he did in a nightmare, are still vibrant before his eyes. Nikto can almost feel her body still in his hands, and the feeling suffocates him. He hates this night, despises himself for even having such a dream.

He was never a saint. Andre could be unfair, he could cause pain, degrade, threaten his partner, but that would only happen if every party wanted it. And this nightmare was something new. Not the usual him. He spent an ungodly amount of time and energy to make sure, he is familiar enough with every voice, every face of his. But everywhere he searches now - there is no trace of desire that dark in him.

Nikto darts his hand to a nightstand and grabs a bottle of water. In a desperate attempt to get rid of a disgusting taste in his mouth, he takes a sip, but this only worsens the situation. Water spreads the sickening iron taste all over, and Andre spits it out, not able to swallow. Eyes accustomed to the dark discern an unusually dark spot immediately spreading on the sheet. Blood mixed with water. Nikto touches his lip with a tongue and winces. Must have bitten it hard while he slept.

For a few long minutes, he sits in deafening silence, interrupted only by the echo of his heartbeat, observing the slowly growing wet spots. So many voices, yet none of them is here for him, when he desperately needs anyone to just reassure him, this was all just a bad dream. Her scent is still there with him - Nikto seems to have memorized it. His hand automatically reaches for the phone, the cold light of a small screen flashes in the room.

Back at Chimera on base, on his second day of the stay, Andre managed to have a little chat with Krueger, that even ended with the latter grinning widely and handing him a piece of paper with Olga's phone number.

“I take it, you love pain. Good luck getting that one's attention, unless you're her job…” Sebastian looked equally surprised and amused.

Nikto doesn't know what he counted on, when he finally wrote her. It was nothing too intrusive, not even an attempt to flirt. She just left him on read. Checking their chat for the hundredth time wouldn't change anything, but he still opens it just to see his lonely message.

‘Read’

He's not worthy of a “don't write me” or “I don't want to interact”. No. Just ‘read’.

Andre gets out of his bed, splashes his face in the sink and exists the room. KorTac base is silent at this late hour, so he just wanders around aimlessly. He would do anything instead of going back to sleep right now, because he's too afraid to return to that dream ever again.

At one point, a faint line of light under the Colonels door catches his attention. It's not uncommon for König to work on documents all night long. It is also not uncommon for a random soldier to receive a bunch of urgent tasks simply because he was hanging around idle in front of his superiors - a good old tradition, that was present not exclusively in official military, but also in their company. The decision is made automatically, and Andre enters the office without knocking.

“No, Nikto.” Colonel doesn't even look up from his papers.

“C`mon, nothing? Not even the tiniest useless activity left to spare for an old friend?”

“You're a grown boy. I'm your field commander, not your boss, nor a nanny. Verpiss dich!*” König briefly raises his head and immediately returns to writing something. 

Andre sighs, but deep inside he realizes, that making his headache - Colonels headache is not fair. So he turns away and takes a step back to the door.

“Wait,” König beckons to Nikto with a finger, “before you go… You never told me, how it went with Chimeras.”

“Ahem, fine, I guess. They were happy with the course.” Andre comes back to Colonels desk, not sure, what else to tell. “Their base is pretty old, I heard they're building a new one-”

“To hell their base. Did they try to hire you? Did their second in command ask you for anything?”

“Oh yes, asked us to never show again!”

Nikto swallows the angry answer, that his frustration gave right away, and just slowly shakes his head. Fuck, he would be glad if she needed anything from him. 

König looks him in the eyes searchingly, seemingly not happy with Andre's answer, but then nods. And Nikto realizes, that the Colonel knows something, Andre doesn't know yet. Something is happening. Something big enough to pick on König's attention. 

“Why do you ask?” Nikto asks in a plain voice, hiding his growing frustration.

The colonel leans back in his seat, but just as Andre starts to think, that he won't drag a word out of him, König pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to Nikto with a short commentary.

“This appeared at databases of open contracts a few days after you returned from them. She is fucked, Nikto. Even with a private army by her side, I wouldn't give fer more than a few months before she disappears.”

Andre feverishly reads through the fine print. Known locations, possible travel routes, contacts, dates, names. And it all ends with her name and the amount of the reward. The numbers blur before his eyes, Andre curses and shakes the paper, pointing it under the light of the table lamp.

Every significant contractor in KorTac has his own “price tag”. This is not the amount he or she will take for the job, it is the amount of the largest reward promised on their head. Both Nikto and König have their price tags. Andre was proud of his sum. It inspired respect bordering on fear. However, what he sees now... His head could be served on a silver plate simply as a free bonus on the house in comparison to what he reads under her name.

What have you done, Olga? How many people you crossed?

This is a death penalty. There will be soon a hunt after her, and even her shadow might turn into another hunter or a trap. 

König extends his hand, but Nikto is in no hurry to return the sheet. “Give it back and forget,” starts Colonel, but Andre cuts him off.

“I'm taking the contract.”

“The only thing, you're taking today is your meds.” König's voice drops to a deep growl. “KotTac doesn't have problems with Chimeras-”

“Then I'm taking it not as a KorTac!” Nikto snaps back. When it comes to something he really wants - he's just like a fighting dog squeezing his teeth around the prize until he's certain, he has it. “You have a problem with that - you can try to fire me, field commander.”

“I don't know, what are you two at odds over,” Colonels silver eyes pierce right through Nikto, “but you better drop this. This is not a regular contract, not an easy money, this is an invitation to war, and you're not ready to step in alone.”

“Me?” An uncanny smile spreads out on Andre's face, his gaze becomes unfocused, unfazed. “Alone?”

***

Nikto loses track of time, finding himself waking up in new cities, on the road between Olga's supposed stops and just in the middle of nowhere. Three weeks in the chase, and his life already fades, becomes non-existent. But the thrill of the hunt pays off. What difference does it make when he last ate, when Andre can enjoy running with her? What difference does it make whether he slept today if at any moment he can stop, turn around to the others and growl “this is not your prey”? What difference does it make if she knows about his role, if this sick tag-game makes him feel present and significant finally?

Several times he finds himself on the verge of exposure when Zhar herself tries to defeat her pursuers, only to find them already dealt with.

Nikto will never forget her face, when it first happened. Not a drop of relief in the green eyes of the one, he once considered his death - only mistrust and rage. She walked around the surveillance car he had set on fire, and took a few hesitant steps towards the darkening square, from where he watched the unfolding scene.

“Come find us,” he said only with his lips.

There was no way, she could see past dense bushes, yet she looked right where he stood. And it felt damn good. Her eyes were on him finally. That time, she didn't dare step further.

As if punishing Nikto for almost getting caught, Olga disappears from the radars for some time. For a reason unknown to Andre, Chimera has its secret routes and safe houses all over London, so once Zhar arrives there - it seems like the city swallows her. 

Sometimes he checks comm convos of mercenaries, that decided to team up to catch her. They all are as irritated by losing her as he is. Encrypted correspondence is full of pissed messages. One phrase catches Niktos attention: “This time we burn the bitch for good.”

“This time”?

He often goes back to that sentence and tries to come up with an interpretation, that would satisfy him. As tempting as it seems - going straight to the guy, who wrote it and ask him, would start a great shitshow and might only escalate the hunt. So Andre keeps guessing on his own.

He finds her at the last place, where the one, running from headhunters, should appear. Vibrant colors, cheerful sounds of laughter and festive music, brightly colored tents and booths, the aroma of freshly baked goods and the joyful shouts of children playing games. A town fair. Zhar is hiding at a plain sight, while the number of her pursuers grows each day. 

Nikto circles the surrounding area, making sure, he is the only one, who found her, when a loud high laughter reaches his ears. He turns back and freezes. A little girl, not older than six, jumps in Olga's arms and clings to her collar with all the force, her little fingers have. Zhar catches her and peppers her face with small kisses.

Suddenly everything is making sense: that huge plush shark in her bed, her never answering his messages. 

“Who even told you, she was alone in the first place?”

“By our age, we either have a family or dump the idea for good.”

“You keep jerking off to memories of an empty bed, she gave you, bloody moron.”

Nikto shakes his head, silencing the voices, and looks at Olga once again. His breath catches in his throat as the sight of Zhar laughing, her eyes soft and warm as she looks at the little girl. It feels as if he sees her for the first time, and the contrast was jarring. The fierce commander he knew seems worlds apart from this caring and loving figure.

For a while, Andre simply follows them at a distance. He watches as Olga kneels to tie the girl's shoelace, as she brings her a colorful balloon, and as they share a bag of popcorn.

This should pain him, but Nikto is captivated by how much love can be found in her eyes. He doesn't care if it's not meant for him - he silently absorbs the warmth beaming in her face.

The child tugs at Zhar's hand, pointing excitedly at a carousel. Andre takes off his mask, opting for the balaclava and hood, to better blend with the crowd. When he's done - Olga is nowhere to be found, but the girl is giggling, holding to an ornate horse.

Nikto steps to the fence around the marry-go-round and leans on it slightly, his eyes never leaving a little figure. The girl doesn't look like Olga, must be more a papa's daughter. Little one waves her hand at everyone around a carousel and once even Andre raises his hand slightly, answering to her gesture. Maybe he shouldn't be, but he is happy in this very moment.

It all ends with a soft metal click right behind him, and a cold point of a silencer pressed against his back.

“One move, and I'm putting a bullet in your head!” Zhar's clunk hiss is a complete opposite to a pure concentration of love, Andre just witnessed. 

Verpiss dich! - piss off.

[findmeinthefallair]

Retraumatization vs. Self-Soothing (Part 2)

Part 1 is here.

As is expected when I talk in depth about this skrunkly, the usual warnings apply i.e. heavy discussion surrounding how trauma works, mentions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, death, effects of abuse and discussions about therapy from my perspective as a practicing therapist.

The lengthy meta I have pinned on my blog (link) is the general overview of Hunter's pre-epilogue recovery, whereas this meta will have more observations I hadn't yet made when writing any previous metas, and importantly, using other characters - especially King - as a comparison: because King has been raised by Eda with secure attachment - to better handle traumatic incidents, at only half of Hunter's (supposed) age. Lilith was in the Emperor's Coven for a long time, and while I'm in no way discounting her own deep wounds, her proximity to Belos was not the same as that of Hunter's.

Thanks to the Youtube channel Cinema Therapy, there will be one brief reference of other media: a scene from the movie Big Hero 6, to better highlight a couple of points in this meta. So, spoiler warning for that movie too~

Here we go with Part 2, the second and final piece of this particular series!

Retraumatization:

Belos was such an abusive control freak that he would've wanted to leave a mark on every area in Hunter's life. And he would have left many marks.

Before Hunter would've been able to learn how to carve palismen under Dell's mentorship, it's highly likely that it was problematic for him to even think about or interact with palismen. We already see signs of that in this short scene:

For all you know, after everyone leaves The Collector's Palace, Stringbean (or the other palismen) being their silly playful selves and flying in front of his face or jumping on his shoulder or lap...would be enough to jolt him into a flashback. Not unlike this:

or he might accidentally step on Ghost's tail while carrying heavy loads helping the CaTTs move into new makeshift offices, and Ghost would hiss at him, and he might have a short fuse like in FtF. With this kind of physical risk, it'd be too early for him to begin the carving lessons.

So I think quite a few little bouts of being retraumatized - like aftershocks of an earthquake - await the poor kiddo.

During the course of the show, we have seen him in a state of what's called "hyperarousal" multiple times: e.g. flinching, panic attacks, sweating, shaking, even widening his eyes in rage. This involves the body's sympathetic nervous system to fire up, preparing him to either flee or attack. But in the offscreen pre-timeskip period, he would have swung to the other end - "hypoarousal" - which involved shutting down, numbing out, being lethargic and bored, dissociating from being present, and slowing down to sleep more. It involves the parasympathetic nervous system which prepares a person to shut down: if physically fleeing or attacking is only going to be futile. There would be a new enemies for him to face such as survivor's guilt, moral injury, and loss of meaning and identity at a more serious level than what he faced in Hollow Mind or King's Tide.

It's heartbreaking that by killing Flapjack, Belos inflicted enough pain upon Hunter to sort of send him back to square one. To explain, Belos prevented Hunter from connecting with the outside world and trusting in it: doing this in order to keep Hunter as compliant as possible. The themes of connection vs. isolation seem to be visually represented by 1. palismen and 2. the Golden Guard uniform, especially the helmet covering the face and gloves covering the hands. On a wider scale in the show's lore, you could say that there's a clash between the themes of freedom and captivity, represented by wild magic, and the coven system with the Emperor's Coven at its helm.

Once Belos knew that Hunter was willing to rebel against him by leaving the Emperor's Coven, snatching the boy's palisman as well as his bodily autonomy away, made Hunter believe that he himself could only do harm. It's the same damage that he inflicted upon Luz, and by removing Flapjack from Hunter's life, arguably that would impact Hunter in a way that he had gloves on all over again. Invisible gloves this time, preventing the sense of connection with the world, that would eventually come off once again - like the visual symbolism of him removing his signature gloves when he arrives in the human realm. I go off on this specific tangent (the motif of hands in his arc) in this post: (x)

Evading capture and fighting off a physical threat? Hunter has had much preparation for that, via military training. But that is still more familiar territory compared to the battleground he would've faced pre-epilogue, which involved having to utilize new skills such as emotional regulation, distress tolerance, radical acceptance, and reframing in the context of trauma: to combat the pervading state of hypoarousal. He hasn't been equipped with these in the years of his upbringing.

With his needs and desires being discarded by Belos and the castle's residents for most of his life, he has been primed to believe that any of his true feelings deserve no space. Even in the finale, this old habit dies hard.

He was a parentified kid, conditioned to make sure that he was not inconveniencing his family (and god...his family, only consisted of one cruel deceptive person, before he fled the coven). Yet, he pushed and compartmentalized to survive.

But he would've had to pick those new skills up while navigating a whole new world that had no more Belos and Flapjack in it. In the right environment, he could be himself.

Comparing the three different smiles he has above is just, arghhh. C-PTSD is a roller coaster ride which makes one's world topsy turvy. Healing from that is grueling work, after you realize that what you thought was safe/normal is in fact insidious and dangerous,

while the actually good and actually healthy stuff will initially be scary and painful: before you trust that it will do the opposite of killing you.

In Labyrinth Runners, we saw more of a flight response from him, while in For the Future it was largely a fight response. Both of which were comfort zones at those times, compared to the much scarier act of quietly and mindfully sitting with the pain of bereavement, holding it front and center in his mind, trusting that it wouldn't destroy him to sit with such pain.

What then, after Belos's death?

His physicality would be affected. The gravitational centre of his body would have changed,

since he is without any staff and magical bond now. This vital piece of info comes from reading two metas about his fight scenes in Eclipse Lake, which feature some shared firsthand experience in martial arts and in using a staff to fight: - Meta by @ashanimus (x) - Meta by @polyhexian (x)

In Flapjack's absence,

he will not get back to regularly using a staff until Waffles comes to life...my guess is he takes around 2 years till he completes her carving process. And this is after years of using the artificial staff, even before Flapjack came along.

After being manipulated like putty in Belos's hands through intimidation for years, leading up to being directly and physically controlled via possession...his relationship with his body, not just his emotions, would be altered. And we can't ignore the mind-body link either; there is an overlap here.

He has deep abandonment wounds from Hollow Mind, compounded by being on the receiving end of active harm in Thanks to Them.

When it comes to his treatment plan as a client in therapy, there are frameworks to consider. Risk factors (whatever can aggravate his condition) vs. protective factors (whatever can help to improve his condition), the values that he as a unique person would like to believe in, taking note of his unique strengths, and assessing the rules he grew up with that were extreme, inflexible, and no longer serving him now that he is free from the Emperor's Coven.

There will be the overarching conflict of his temptation towards isolation vs. needing to connect with emotion to carve palismen. I suppose this is the clearest theme because the proof is in Belos isolating him to remove his personhood vs. the Bat Queen's explanation that palismen bond through emotion, and bonding therefore requires connection: not isolation.

In the throes of depression after Belos's death, the danger is that Hunter would want to give up, and he'd find it easier to fall into the antitheses of what he stood up for in his Thanks to Them speech.

Feeling like he can never truly be free of the Emperor's Coven's hold on him.

Feeling like he'd never (emotionally) leave that throne room.

Being tempted towards the belief that...in his pursuits of studying wild magic, learning to carve palismen, learning at Hexside, spending time with his friends, and in erasing Belos's harmful influence on the world.....that all his efforts would be futile, and that he can only bring harm and not good. Just like how during Luz's own depression, she told Stringbean, while the palisman was still unhatched, "Maybe you'll never hatch, and I messed up your life too."

This belief that he can only bring harm and that he didn't deserve the gift of being brought back to life, would be fused with what is obviously his worst darkest memory:

and for a very long time, he'll feel that he could've changed something to prevent this. If only he had been smarter, more vigilant...if only he were not having so much fun being engrossed in creating things in the human realm. This is Belos's hold on him, as he relives that night many times over the years. Even after Belos dies.

The foundation and main driving force of Hunter's therapy sessions will be the rapport built up between him and the therapist. This is a parallel to the trust he has already built up in his non-therapy relationships, and having both of those together would have a wonderful effectiveness.

And the therapy sessions would gently help him to defuse and untangle himself from that very unhelpful belief.

It's also about him thawing out from a childhood of very repressed emotional expression. As his arc progresses, he grows more into expressing his feelings, needs and desires. We start to see him express what feels like such a natural excitement for his personality, once he's in the human realm. And it's crucial for him to believe that he can voice out his needs without the worry of negative repercussions...Repercussions that he's been conditioned to believe are 'healthy'/'normal', and that it's him who is the issue (ewww...). As he has been unlearning that in the course of his arc, he is discovering that it is a basic right for him to have ownership over whatever he thinks and feels.

A major obstacle would be the guilt about leaving Flapjack behind: the worry that the more new things he tries out, the more morally wrong it would feel...because he is not commemorating Flapjack. There would be that fear that Flapjack is taking up less and less space in his thoughts. This is very common when it comes to bereavement. Luz's own version of this, playing out effectively onscreen, was the wave of fear and sadness she felt as she let go of the glyph sheet in the finale and let the wind carry it away. In the moments right after that, as Stringbean gave her the Azura hat to put back on, I'm sure she still had the fear of the unknown ahead. But she could also trust in herself to be able to brave that unchartered territory: together with her sweet palisman and her found family.

We don't know whether Hunter used the same method as Luz and carved an egg that would hatch on its own, or whether he really did make Waffles from scratch. Either way, he could still have Flapjack in his life in a new way: the Hexsquad's new tattoos, the palisman shop sign, Flapjack's gravestone.

But before he could enter that place in his heart and soul, he would first have to agree in both mind and heart that he wouldn't hear the happy chirps of his best friend ever again.

We see him still talking to Flap here:

whereby in his logical mind he can definitely see that Flapjack is gone...but emotionally (subconsciously) he is frozen, not yet able to feel in his heart that his best friend is gone.

And something to note is how quickly he interjected here:

when Gus was about to spell it outright that "Flapjack is gone"/similar sentence.

And Hunter himself couldn't directly name it. He has to skirt around it with "I already know", because it would hurt too much and be too frightening to directly describe what just happened.

I suspect this would sort of repeat over time: he may come across reminders in the human realm, as he tries to attend school, etc. For some time, he wouldn't want to hear it directly said that his best friend faded away. Because Flapjack was after all...slain by Hunter's own right hand. Hearing it would mean being retraumatized, potentially feeling as though the incident were repeating vividly, all over again.

Sometimes in grief, especially sudden loss via bereavement, it will be a long time before the grieving person can fully state, let alone see, that the one they lost isn't coming back.

The movie Big Hero 6 shows what it's like for its protagonist, a bereaved character, to hear himself verbally expressing the words that he can't avoid anymore: "[Name of the person I lost] is gone."

Plus sitting with the effects of doing so, without avoidance. Choosing to sit with the pain that has come to the surface, since it has been heard, since he has acknowledged that it's time to try something new instead of avoiding it or pushing it away.

Hiro hears himself telling Baymax (and also himself) that "Tadashi is gone", months after he has felt a deep sense of unrest from the loss of his brother. It's a beautiful scene because just a moment later, by accident, Baymax then plays a video log of Tadashi being himself and leading a meaningful life by working hard to help others. And Hiro is able to reach this new emotional place, seeing that beauty of the life his brother lived:

and Hunter will need time to reach this new mental space.

For some months, he'll have frustration, irritability and numbness - i.e. both hyperarousal and hypoarousal - shielding him. That is, until his heart is ready to allow whatever Hiro felt above, to enter and transform him. His own grief walk would have a different rhythm, since every loss in this world has the uniqueness of a fingerprint. But he would be hitting very similar story beats as Hiro's example above, in his recovery process.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Self-soothing:

Becoming familiar with this is going to help him ride the waves of emotions in a smoother way, as he alternates between hyperarousal and hypoarousal.

And when he feels loved or connects with his own personhood, he has visible nervous tendencies. You can see it when he twiddles his fingers while Luz gives him her attention in Hunting Palismen, and he touches his opposite shoulder and grins shyly in Any Sport in A Storm after Willow snaps the team photo, and you see him rub the left side of his face in Hollow Mind when he fondly looks back on inheriting his staff.

But the later example I wanted to show is him gripping at his left sleeve with his right hand here:

which happens just after Luz affirms him with "Can't blame you for being paranoid after everything we've been through".

C-PTSD flips your world upside down, as I mentioned earlier. The stuff that is good for him - in this case, having his emotions being affirmed - feels awkward and not natural yet. Feeling loved feels uncomfortable, instead of being naturally expected. So in fact, he tugs at his sleeve like this to self-soothe: because being listened to like this (Titan bless you, Luz!) is just that foreign to him. Over time, he'll discover more ways of self-soothing and can have a sort of toolkit ready to pull out whenever self-care is needed. And being actually loved won't be such a foreign experience for him anymore T___T

Below is an outline of C-PTSD from Medical News Today shows possible options for his treatment plan. The first is therapy itself, which I have touched on in quite a few of my metas:

Next, EMDR which is a focused and specific intervention technique: If he had his own version of Eda's scenes where she accepts the Owl Beast in Knock Knock Knockin' on Hooty's Door, that would be a great way of having this particular intervention playing out in an animated show with fantasy elements. The difference would be that a therapist would be present to guide him towards that powerful breakthrough.

And exposure therapy: This is a gradual exposure to any sensations that are similar to the horrible feeling of injuring his own palismen - so that Hunter can form new positive associations with those physical feelings in his hands.

He could help Camila in her vet as a good start, since many of those animals seem larger than palismen:

He can then try interacting with smaller-sized creatures. He could eventually play more often with his friends' palismen, and that would be a cute positive way to associate touching them and connecting with them with new memories beyond his one worst memory. After all, it's canon that they have tried reaching out to him i.e. Clover and Emmi following him around outside Eda's house.

Him borrowing Stringbean for flyer derby would be fantastic. When he starts carving lessons, Dell and Eda could be there as company to supervise him and give small demonstrations bit by bit. Even better, he could start out by just holding the wood with one hand while the other person performs the carving strokes with their hand. If Hunter is comfortable, his friends/family could sometimes hang out, watch with interest, and provide small but vital encouragements. He shouldn't be carving all alone, if there is the chance that he'd be retraumatized by spooky phantom feelings that feel like being possessed all over again.

He shouldn't be in the workshop alone until he has built up some new associations and is getting familiar with the strokes. But once he can, it's beautiful to imagine him making that space truly his own. By then, his self-soothing skills would be more polished.

In Part 1 of this little series, I talked about skills like containment and distress tolerance. He needs an environment where he is offered a balance of having his own autonomy and also a sense of safety. Sometimes, the line between those two things may become blurry e.g. me mentioning in this meta related to the grimwalker graveyard (link) that Camila and Darius may have to allow some room for him to "fall", and they'd fall together with him so he doesn't feel alone.

And as he forms closer bonds with new parental figures, his attachment style can change from disorganized attachment (which results from having a very unpredictable caregiver growing up...god, the stress in being a young kid in that environment) to secure attachment. This in turn will give his self-soothing skills a further boost.

This is where King comes in as a comparison:

He is a kid who is securely attached to their caregiver, and he has natural emotional responses to things that upset him or cross the boundaries he has put up. Instead of what Hunter has done for a long time i.e. repressing feelings to minimize harm done to him and to literally survive, along with the tendency to rationalize and intellectualize whatever upsets him, to create so much distance from the hurt that he can keep going.

King also has a good sense of personal autonomy and safety, thanks to the environment Eda raised him in. Eda's parenting style involves offering him choices, laying out the consequences for whatever choices he makes, yet unconditionally being there to protect and support him no matter how bad any past conflicts have been.

This screenshot above, showing him hugging her leg, is a foundational building block of good parenting and a healthy home. I hope Hunter gets to experience this at some level with Camila and Darius. Let him be a kid in his last few years prior to turning 18 T___T

And well...we have seen the impact that physical and emotional neglect has had on the Bad But Sad Boy: to the point that he has to reframe it as either a fun experience, or blame himself, in order to keep going. Because he wouldn't have been able to carry on if he was aware that his 'parent' had 100% bad intentions.

Perhaps the most jarring comparison between King and Hunter would be the non-verbal signs here:

King can be assertive, having his non-verbal body language be congruent with his choice of words: that he's firmly asserting himself and voicing his opinions, and I doubt he worries that Eda will cause him physical harm. His posture is tall and leaning forward. While Hunter...has to gather up immense courage to just say the words (the verbal element) while his non-verbal body language is telling us so much about the effort he's putting in to be assertive. He is shrinking into himself even as he utters those words.

King could flare up in anger and fight back, asserting himself, upon being traumatized in his Collector nightmare:

but it's not going to be this way when Hunter learns about the grimwalker graveyard...

The good news is: Hunter can still build up secure attachments with the adults in his found family whom he'll be spending the most time with. He needs it more than ever.

If Lilith - a kid who was emotionally neglected - began to feel worse after she left the Emperor's Coven:

with her long repressed painful emotions resurfacing and leaving her frightened, Hunter will go through similar as the memories of his past actions come flooding in.

The meadow where we saw Hunter carving a palisman in the finale...and any location which Dell works at, seem like they would be pleasant quiet places where anyone would feel soothed. In addition to getting more comfortable with the peaceful hopeful atmosphere of Dell's workshop, Hunter could bring his works in progress or any non-palismen creations to therapy, if he is willing to entrust the therapist with updates on how he's doing. That would be good because he'd have an additional safe space like that to share and bounce off his thoughts and ideas. Not just the space of friends/family, to do the same thing. All this is needed after years of Belos denying and dismissing any open sharing.

Last but not least, in the real world: grief and bereavement is being viewed less and less as a problematic condition to be gotten rid of, the more time passes. Which is a good sign! Because we shouldn't be expected to view mourning and remembering as a form of pathology.

Here is a tool that grief therapist and expert Dr. Joanne Cacciatore (author of a book called Bearing the Unbearable) came up with, for her clients:

It is a grief number line that doesn't pressure a client to even reduce how much they are grieving, and she lets any client have as many sessions as they want with her, to honour lost loved ones. Even if they keep coming to see her for many years. She focuses on honouring losses instead of viewing them as inconveniences or hurdles, and she doesn't even rely on the normal kind of healthcare model of setting up treatment plans. By doing this, no expectations are set for any sort of linear recovery from the pain of loss. Ultimately, she is trying to show that grief is natural, however painful it is.

The Owl House is a show with a central theme of remembering those whom we have lost, and the variety of ways in which the characters process those experiences. One of the last few scenes were 1) Luz's grief changing into a different form - I wouldn't say her grief was "reduced" - as she bid the Titan farewell and lost her use of the glyphs, and 2) around four years later, finding a new glyph from a whole new system, as King's own magical glyph system has recently awoken.

After Belos was gone for good, Hunter's life was no longer a big test in which he had his worth and survival determined by someone who had power over him. He has inherent worth, has always been good enough, and he can rest easy. Like what Luz experienced with her dad and Papa Titan, his relationship with Flapjack is changed and not lost. While remembering and honouring someone we lost can hurt, in and of itself those actions aren't "wrong".

[bone-shaped-shadows]

Jesper finds out about Wylan’s true identity- Show Version fic

Jesper wanted to roll his eyes as Kaz went on and on about their newest heist. Sometimes that man could really go off on a tangent in the name of dramatics, saying a whole lot without saying much at all.

Jesper knew he should be paying better attention to Kaz but as the man droned on, he shrugged off the thought, choosing instead to play with Wylan’s fingers.

Besides, he was listening for the key points and knew his favorite partner in crime would fill him in on any details he had missed.

Wylan would tease him gently for it as he did so but Jesper didn’t mind, delighted by Wylan’s dazzling memory as he would recite word for word what Kaz had said when Jesper found it difficult to focus.

He smiled, not caring how besotted he must look, as his thumb brushed over the ring he had given Wylan in order to track him during a previous heist and then had refused to take back, enjoying the weight of it whenever they held hands and having an easy way to pick him out in a crowd, especially in instances where he had gotten lost amongst people taller than him, Jesper thought with a gentle smirk.

Wylan lightly pinched him and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was distracted or because he somehow knew what Jesper was thinking.

Suddenly he came back to himself as Kaz paused in his speech to loom over the others, who were all sitting down, “Meet Wylan Van Eck… Jan Van Eck’s son and our guarantee on thirty million kruge.”

Kaz had an almost wild look in his eye and he spoke somewhere harshly as he smirked down at Wylan, asking a question Jesper hadn’t even register Nina asking, “He can’t double cross us if we have his firstborn as collateral.”

Jesper saw Wylan flinch out of the corner of eye and frowned as Wylan dropped his hand like he was burned.

“Look, Kaz I don’t know what’s going on here but-”

“No, you don’t know.” Kaz said, but as he stared down at the youngest Crow, who shoulder’s started to shake slightly, his tone softened, very very slightly.

Wylan gripped the fabric of his pants tightly, clearly trying to regulate his breathing, and refusing to look up at Kaz or sideways, despite Jesper trying to catch his eye.

He was sure he had an interesting mix of confusion and frustration flittering across his face but he tried to force a neutral expression despite some anger building in his chest.

Now was not the time, despite how he might feel about it, his focus on Wylan who looked like he was beginning to dissociate.

“It won’t work, I’m not leverage, I’m a liability.” He said softly, almost off-handedly.

Kaz opened his mouth, but Wylan cut him off, “I can’t guarantee you anything, unfortunately, much less thirty million kruge. See, I’m no Allby Rollins, Kaz, my father will not beg for me. If you attempt to use me as leverage all you will be doing is serving him a second chance to kill me on a silver platter and he will gladly take it,” Wylan laughed mournfully.

Suddenly Wylan forced himself to stand, eyes blazing, “Might even use his own hands, this time, really make sure it sticks.” Wylan spat out and then turned heel, bolting away from everyone else in the room.

Jesper’s eyes trailed after him and he expected… for something, anything. For Wylan to look, or even just glance, at him. For him to head up the stairs to their room, for Wylan to call out to Jesper or hold out a hand, a silent request for comfort - any proof that the two of them were a team, that he trusted Jesper to be on his side, always, even amongst their crew.

But Jesper watched, with a awful heavy feeling in his chest, as Wylan did none of those things.

Instead the younger man threw open the door to the Crow Club and ran out into the shadows of night.

By the time Jesper shook off the shock, and ran after him, Wylan was already long out of sight.

Jesper wasn’t sure how to feel about everything that had just happened.

He felt bitter about Wylan keeping this secret, when the other had felt so strongly about Jesper’s own secrets…

He paced their room, waiting for Wylan to return.

Why had Wylan kept this from him? Had he said something that made the other feel insecure? Did he not trust him with this specifically or did Wylan think him entirely untrustworthy of his secrets?

Kaz knew everything about everyone in the barrel and kept everything close to his chest. It drove Jesper up a wall but he had come to expect it and accept it.

But Wylan… Wylan and him were suppose to be partners, they were suppose to trust and support each other.

Why hadn’t he trusted him?

Jesper threw himself on their bed and threw his arm over his face, resigning himself to wait, questions echoing in the silence, until Wylan came back to him.

When Wylan failed to return home that night, or by morning Jesper, Kaz, and Nina split off to search for him.

Jesper tried not to drown in the feelings that quickly built up and choked him when he found the ring he had given Wylan hidden in his wear-house.

He looked at Nina hopefully, as she returned shortly after him, but she shook her head sadly, unable to find him or get a read on his heartbeat.

She held out her hand and Jesper took it, and the comfort she offered, “We’ll find him. We’ll bring him back, talk it all out, even if I have to drag him back by the nape of his shirt myself.”

He nodded, then gave her a half smile, “I think it’s my shirt actually.”

She snorted, “At this point? I don’t think you can claim that any more.”

He chuckled softly but said nothing else.

When Kaz returned and all of the obvious spots, the wear-house, the waffle place Nina had gotten them all hooked on, the one music shop they all knew he he loved to visit despite being a bit out of the barrels, failed to yeld results, Kaz grimaced.

Jesper and Nina followed him up to his office and watched with careful eyes as their boss opened one of his many safes and pulled out a list written in Inej’s handwriting as well as a stack of letters with blank envelopes.

Kaz glanced over the list before seemingly deciding something without bothering to get any input from the others.

He stuffed the list in his pocket and gestured for the others to follow him.

Jesper bit his tongue, determined not to yell at Kaz until Wylan was back with them safe and sound.

Kaz and Nina silently followed him to a dock on the fifth harbor where Wylan sat, and watched as Kaz dropped the stack of letters in his lap.

Wylan glared at them like he could set them on fire that way and pull one out from under the twine holding them together. He held it between his finger tips as if it had traces of posion on it.

He then held it up to Kaz, without looking at him.

Kaz opened it.

“What does it say?” Wylan asked, his tone completely devoid of any emotion, “What did he write that made you believe he cared about me? That I was worth anything to him?”

Kaz lifted a brow at him but proceeded to read off some of the letter, “If you’re reading this then you know how much I miss you and want you home.”

If you’re reading this…

Jesper suck in a breath, the pieces starting to fall into piece.

Wylan laughed, but it was a broken thing and Jesper hated it.

“I can’t read, Kaz. I’m… I’m not stupid or lazy. When others look at pages in a book they see straight lines of letters that stay exactly where they were penned. It’s all put together for them and it makes words. For me? Might as well be written on a hummingbird’s wing with how quickly they shift around. The fact that he sent letters at all, it’s only meant to mock me… to threaten me.”

Wylan sighed, “He’d only love me if I could read, but I can’t so he never will.”

Kaz considered the new information.

“Who knew?”

Wylan glanced at him.

“Who knew that you couldn’t read.”

“Hmm? Everyone here now.”

“Not who knows, who knew?”

Wylan didn’t say anything but Jesper cleared his throat and raised hand up in a small wave.

“Why didn’t you tell the rest of us?” Kaz asked somewhat to Wylan but mostly to Jesper, “This is important information.”

Wylan responded before the other could, “One, you don’t get to talk about hiding important information… and two, because it’s mine, not his. This is mine… and so was… it was suppose to be mine.”

The shame was his? Jesper wondered.

Jesper tried not to sound bitter as he spoke up, “I feel like we’ve had this conversation before, Wy.”

“It’s not shame Jesper…or…”

Wylan tilted back to look, well more pass them, than at them, eyes haunted.

“Have you ever drowned?”

Wylan ignored everyone’s horrified looks as he straightened up and began to babble.

“It really is a very strange experience. Your inside are being crushed by the pressure of the water in your lungs but the outside of you, as you float… almost feels weightless, like it doesn’t even really exist anymore. Like you don’t exist outside of those few places of pain…”

“Truly, the oddest set of sensations”, he mused.

Jesper creeped over to Wylan but didn’t dare touch him, in this state. He instead sat down by him in silence and was as still as he could be. Wylan’s hand twitched towards him and Jesper offered him his own. Wylan grasped onto it like a lifeline.

“I can still feel him holding me under the water, sometimes… which is a large part of why I didn’t want to do any of,” Wylan waved his hand, “this.”

Kaz hummed, in such a way that Wylan felt like the other had ordered him to elaborate without even opening his mouth.

“I had nightmares last night, for the few hours I manage to sleep, and I’ll have them again tonight, and probably tomorrow, and maybe the next night too.”

“It not shame… or at least not entirely, that holds my tongue. It’s the exhaustion that comes with not being able to sleep. It’s the anger that boils in me until I snap at people who don’t deserve it. It’s the sorrow that makes me want to hit myself because why I am like this? Why am I broken? Why aren’t I good enough?”

Jesper opened his mouth to reject that notion, but Wylan squeezed his hand, “I know, I do, I know but it’s how I feel, whenever I think about how my father ordered my death.”

Wylan looked at Kaz, “I’m sorry I’m unable to be the collateral you wanted,” he joked but it fell flat.

“Don’t be,” Kaz assured him, “Now I know and now I replan.”

Kaz made a gesture, and Jesper helped Wylan up to his feet.

“You may not be Allby Rollins but your father will experience everything Pekka Rollins did.”

He took in the anger on Jesper’s face and his lips twitched into a slight smirk, “Who knows, he may even get a worse fate.”

Nina laughed and Jesper placed a kiss on Wylan’s forehead but Wylan just looked hollowed out.

“Come on, you louts,” Nina told them, heading to Wylan’s other side to offer comfort, “let’s head home.”

And so they did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The line: I’m no Allby Rollins, Kaz, my father will not beg for me came to mind and I couldn’t stop thinking about it so I wrote this, hope y’all like it : )