#anyway *dissociates*

[keets-writing-corner]

Thinking a LOT about Lucifer in the latest Hazbin episode. Idk what I was expecting but not this??

As I was watching my immediate thought was just "huh... Lucifer is kinda of weird..." but as the episode went on I realized the issue

the dude is off the chain depressed, like he says it as a joke but holy cow it is SO BAD

He's manically just creating rubber ducks cuz his daughter really like it that one time but it's empty, it's never good enough but he keeps doing it, maybe cuz he doesn't know how to pass the time otherwise.

like I get the feeling he HAS better things he SHOULD be doing than making rubber duck after rubber duck. At first I was like, "Bruh why isn't the king of hell doing anything?" aaaaand then it became clear...

The dude is disassociating so bad he can barely hold a conversation let alone remember information. He clearly WANTS to, he wants to be involved with his daughter so bad, he wants to care about the things she's doing so bad, but his depression keeps interfering. It's like he can only hear every other word and he grasps onto the ones he does hear semi-out of context. Like you can see every time he catches something that he hadn't before and he just "well shit I didn't catch that part"

and that's why he reacts so weird when people talk to him. He is struggling so bad to engage with the conversation he's only getting 50% of it

does that look like the face of a man who knows what the hell the conversation is even about??? he is STRUGGLING

like Charlie spent so long telling him about the hotel, and he STILL didn't understand what she wanted. Yeah it comes off as ditzy but literally I've been in that position where your brain just "nope, not doing this right now" and nerfs your conversation comprehension. So as someone who's BEEN in that position, to me it feels exactly like what he's dealing with. He's sorta engaged with the conversation, but only as much as his brain will allow

For example, when I'm dealing with this, this is what someone talking to me feels like this where the crossed out parts are what I missed and bold is what I catch, "Hey! You know I was thinking for dinner we could either make some chicken with rice? But if you don't feel like cooking, pasta is super easy and you love that right? What do you want to do?" you can kinda get that someone is trying to talk to you about dinner, and towards the end you get the impression that they asked something that needs your input so you can decently put 2 and 2 together and try and pass off, but crucial bits were left out, I would have no idea that either chicken or pasta is in the conversation only having heard "rice". When someone is just talking at me, I can decently pass off as being engaged but the second I'm required to participate in the conversation I'm screwed. Seem familiar? At which point I have 2 options, try to give a bullshit answer, or admit that I missed what they were saying and ask them to repeat

Lucifer, unfortunately, is trying so damn hard to hide that he's dealing with like 24/7 dissociation, so he can't admit that he's missing entire chunks of the conversation, hence his really weird replies. He does eventually get the full picture and then he and Charlie start having the real conversation

Also, the Alastor/Lucifer rivalry was hilarious but also really indicative of more of what Lucifer is dealing with

Alastor is, unfortunately, really good at picking up people's insecurities, and thanks to Charlie's description earlier and watching Lucifer clearly trying to overcompensate, he immediately picks up on the fact that Lucifer KNOWS he struggles to be a good dad (we know cuz it's cuz of the depression, hard to be engaged when your brain keeps turning off) and decides to rub salt in the wound by pretending he's been acting as a surrogate father to Charlie. Now why Alastor decided to pick a fight with the king of hell is beyond me, I do not understand Alastor (and I LIKE IT) (maybe it's cuz Alastor thinks he's hot shit and was expecting Lucifer to at least have heard of him but Lucifer just treats him like a nobody? who knows)(why would Lucifer listen to radio anyways when he can't even pay attention to a conversation it'd just be white noise)

But yeah I just was expecting someone who oozed either charisma or presence and instead I got a depressed dad who's dissociating so bad he can barely function and be present in his life. The only thing it seems he CAN do is make rubber ducks cuz his daughter really liked it that one time

Idk Lucifer is tragic to me. Whatever the full details of what heavan did to him absolutely broke him and he can't deal with it. He's aware of it, and he doesn't know how to fix it, so he tries to over compensate and sorta makes an ass out of himself but no one says or does anything cuz this guy is supposed to be THE king of hell

Suddenly it's making a lot more sense why he just rolls over and lets heaven do what it wants and even told Charlie to go in his place the start of the show. He's not in any headspace to hold a basic conversation let alone negotiate! He didn't even know who Alastor was, he's been so out of touch

idk I like him, he seems sweet, I hope Charlie brings some light back into his life. He really needs to get out of that rubber duck room

[timethehobo]

He’s just 👌

[growling]

Plurality is so weird because half the time I don't even realize and just go "huh weird, suddenly I'm feeling a huge disconnect between current me and me from 2 days ago and my whole gender and identity have became something else and I feel a strong need to change what name I'm called and how I present myself almost like I became I whole new person within such a short time span. I wonder why that is. I must just be really fluid or was simply wrong about what I am the entire time before or something," and then five days later I go "huh weird, I have gone back to my previous state after this odd and peculiar phase so to speak and now I feel a strong disconnect from the me from five days ago like I just temporarily became a whole new person within such a short time span. I wonder why that is. Must have been just a phase, now I feel stupid for feeling that way so strongly then just changing my mind back," and despite having lived as a(n aware) plural system/collective/little kitty cat clowder for nearly a year now it still does not ever cross my mind that perhaps, maybe, just maybe, that was literally just a whole ass new guy that I split (as I do. Because I'm plural. Because that's what it does. Very often, mind you. Because I know that I'm plural and what being plural does) up until it's like, well after the fact. Despite it being so incredibly embarrassingly blatantly obvious the entire time. Anyway you won't ever guess what just happened

[saccharind]

from Prokaryote Season by Leo Fox

[sunlit-mess]

[clever-and-unique-name]

A simplified version of the thing I feel like goes on in my brain.

Blank version under the readmore if you want to be a bit silly+introspective with your own "settings"

[ittybittyfanblog]

Part 2 (?) of the hybrid!reader x beast tamer!sylus blurb (also my first proper attempt at writing full smut!!) *runs away and hides* CW: Smut (+size kink), Hybrid!AU | 1.2k words | Pt. 1 <- here !

"Nnggh—t-too much," you mewl, voice breaking on the last syllable as your body jolts with every deep, measured thrust. The pleasure is overwhelming, teetering on the edge of being unbearable, yet you can’t stop it. 

Your grip on the sheets is wrenched away—useless against the brutal pace, the relentless pounding from underneath you, your back pressed flushed against his chest.

His large, calloused palm finds your face, fingers curling around your cheeks, squeezing, forcing your mouth open. Your breath stutters, eyes tearing up as you choke around the long, thick digits pushing past your lips, pressing down on your tongue. Effectively gagging you. 

The moment you try to squirm away, his hold on you tightens. Sylus lets out a breathless laugh, almost indulgent, as he nuzzles his nose against your temple, breathing you in. He feels it—the delicious way your tight hole flutters around his cock as you tense up, fruitless in its attempt at resisting the overwhelming, almost painful, intrusion. He loops a solid, sinewy arm around both your thighs, hoisting it higher, forcing you wider, until there’s nowhere left to run. He splits you apart with every deliberate thrust, dragging his hard length along your slick, overly sensitive walls, stretching you beyond your limits.

“M-ma’ter—” you whimper pathetically around his fingers.

Ah. 

That shattered little plea sends something dark and electric down his spine. A sharp hiss leaves his mouth, his grip on you flexing—possessive. Oh, how he loves this. Loves the way you tremble in his embrace, utterly helpless against the sheer size of him. Loves the way your body struggles around his girth, trying��and failing—to take all of him, fully, inside you.

"S-s’ow dow’, pw’ea—" your muffled words spill out between broken gasps, slurred and drenched around the fingers still holding your tongue firmly down. Spit trickles from the corner of your bruised lips down to your chin, glistening rivulets of your desperation, and he groans at the sight of it. At the sheer debauchery of you.

You’re a vision, he thinks, near euphoric. 

But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even consider it. How could he, when you begged so prettily? If anything, the pace stays merciless—punishing, unrelenting. All-consuming. As if he’s daring you to try and escape again.

Too much. 

Too big. 

Too deep.

Ah, but he doesn’t stop. Because he knows you can take it. Knows you will.

And gods, do you struggle.

It’s intoxicating—the way you writhe against him, comically tiny compared to his broad frame, completely at his mercy. He can see it in the way you wince, the way you chew on his fingers using your sharp, little fangs. Trying so hard to withstand the unforgiving push and pull of his thick length, driving in and out of your sore pussy. 

So weak beneath him. So perfect like this. 

He drinks in every broken sob, every little flinch. Every desperate attempt to wiggle away—only to be dragged right back where you belong. Powerless. Caught. Owned.

Sylus licks his thumb, wetting the pad, before trailing it down your sticky pussy. He caresses his finger against your outer lips, teasing your twitching hole before sliding up—catching that swollen, aching bundle of nerves before pressing down.

He moves in slow, deliberate circles; coaxing your achy, engorged clit to give him what he wants.  Your reaction is instantaneous. You jolt like you’ve been electrified, a broken cry slipping past your spit-slick lips. Your whole body seizes as you clamp down on him, walls spasming, squeezing him so hard it knocks the air from his lungs. His cock twitches inside you, hard and throbbing. He’s driven nearly to madness by the sight of the white ring forming around the base of him while he forces you up and down—like some kind of personal fucktoy—and the lewd sounds that come from your violent lovemaking. 

"That’s it," he purrs, voice raspy, near reverent. "Take it."

And you do.

You take it because he won’t let you run. Because he wants you like this—desperate, corrupted, brain-dead in his arms. Because he's relentless, and because he's bigger, stronger, and you’ve never felt safer than you are when you're with him, despite his forceful ministrations. (You’ve wanted this, after all.) 

Because you’re his—beautiful, pliant, domesticated—pet. 

His. 

Sylus hums, dragging his lips over the flushed skin of your throat, where your pulse thrums wildly beneath his teeth. He lingers there, nipping at the delicate flesh, savouring the way you arch into him, tail shooting upwards.

His free hand smooths down the expanse of your thigh before tightening around the soft, supple muscle. "Look at you," he murmurs, voice like crushed velvet, tinged with wry amusement. "You don’t even know what to do with yourself, do you?"

The words wreak a shiver through you, a full-body tremor that he feels everywhere—around him, against him. It’s as if your body itself is a live wire, made to heed his call. 

His hold on you tightens further, a steady pillar that grounds you.

"You like this, don’t you? Being made to take me?" He pushes his fingers deeper down your throat, silencing the tiny whimper that slips out. "No need to answer. I already know."

The sharp inhale you take, almost a gurgling sound, and the way you pulse around him in response—it’s all the confirmation he needs.

You’ll be a good little kitten for him. Won’t you?  So you just give him a small nod, eyes wide and wet. You gaze at him with an endearingly dumb, dazed look on your face, and Sylus knows you're close. He feels it in the way it pulsates around him; that unbearable squeeze, along with the stinging pinch of your nails on his forearms. It sends a rush of heat through his veins, fervid and heady, stoking his hunger like a kindling flame. 

Your lashes flutter, pupils dilating into impossible pools of black, and he watches—utterly mesmerized.

"Ah, there it is," he whispers, his voice thick with satisfaction, laced with something darker. "You’re right there, aren’t you?"

Your response is near incoherent; a choked sob, a desperate whine. Your body twitches—contracting in uncontrolled, uneven spasms as your juices continuously drip, wetting his cock, drenching the both of you.

Lust coils in his stomach, heavy and searing. You’re trying so hard to take him, but you can’t. Not properly. Not completely. You’re too delicate, too tight—ambitious thing that you are, caught in the impossible task of handling all of him. 

It’s fucking maddening.

Sylus adjusts his grip, firm hands roaming over your body, grounding you as you tremble on top of him. His left thumb indents into the dip of your hip, fingers mapping out every little tremor, every miniscule movement. You’re so soft, so pliant. So utterly overwhelmed. 

Your ears flatten against your skull, and he can’t help but steal a kiss on the downy fur. "You can take it," he coos softly, a stark contrast to the aggressive way he fucks his dick into you. "I know you can."

The pressure builds higher, unbearable now. The sensations coil deep inside you, a devastating rise toward the inevitable. And Sylus watches—soaking in every second, drinking in the moment before you unravel before him, and he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he's ever laid his eyes upon. 

"Come on," he urges, two of his fingers rubbing against your clit, forcing your pleasure to crest. "Let go for me."

His command is the final push. And then—

[evidenceof]

Band of Brothers Continuity Photos EP 6 Bastogne -> Mug Shots Compilation

Left to Right Row 1: Eugene Roe, Shifty Powers, Smokey Gordon Row 2: Buck Compton, Dick Winters, Lewis Nixon Row 3: Ralph Spina, Carwood Lipton (polaroid is captioned with "Brain Hurts"), Alton More Row 4: Skip Muck, Lewis Nixon (yeah ok, I like both photos so deal), Bill Guarnere

[casart]

..•Perception Distorted•..

[waiting-foratrain]

> do you ever think about how scary remembering being alecto must have been for nona? because i think about that a lot.

(NONA THE NINTH SPOILERS) (this is mostly a post inspired by my personal experience and feelings so feel free to disagree. but also i Am correct)

dissociative amnesia is terrifying. just. full stop, point blank- as a concept, to experience, however- its terrifying. the idea that there’s something missing and half the time you don’t even know it’s gone? and then to remember? to slowly start remembering every horrible thing that happened to you? to be nona, remembering, and suddenly realise that you’re doing what everyone around you seems to have wanted you to do since you first opened your eyes, you’re remembering- only it isn’t helping, and instead, you’re realising that everything you thought you were was built on a fault line that only seems to keep growing with everything more you remember?

and then it’s nona, the girl who’s anger has only ever been treated gently and peacefully by the people who love her, who is determined to be good, to be helpful, suddenly having to remember so much unrestrained anger, so much pain? and the more she remembers, the more she becomes sure that all of that is what she is going to be left as when her time, and her life is up. of course that scared her. how could it not scare her?

i don’t think it was just the realisation of who she had been that was terrifying - it was the understanding that she was a makeshift person walking around in a world where (nearly) everyone else got to be wholly themselves for as long as their bodies lived- but she’d been on borrowed time her whole life, and suddenly she has a rapidly running out countdown.

further - dissociative amnesia isn’t just about the loss, it’s about the shape of the loss. it’s about the gaps in the narrative of your own life, gaps you can’t see because your mind has plastered over them, smoothed them out so seamlessly that you don’t even think to ask what’s missing. It’s about waking up one day and realising the foundation you’ve been standing on isn’t real, and worse, that the truth waiting underneath it might be so much worse than the not-knowing… and when those memories do start to surface, you don’t quite know what it is, but it feels like a betrayal- and you aren’t quite the same as you were before anymore (which happens on such a bigger scale with nona!!!! it’s so important to me, that in ntn, nona’s remembering is not celebrated. so often in media, i see people remembering memories lost to trauma related amnesia portrayed as a good thing, and every time i’m just sat there thinking ‘is it worth it? really?’)

like. just imagine you’re nona, for me. your mind kept those lost memories from you for a reason- it buried them because it thought you wouldn’t survive them, and maybe you won’t, but now, whether you’re ready or not, they’re coming back. they’re clawing their way up from a grave you didn’t even know was there, and you have to look them in the eye and reconcile the person they tell you you were with the person you fought to be.

for nona, remembering meant losing herself. she didn’t just gain alecto’s memories, she became alecto again. the life she had built, the life she had clung to, the love she had felt, all of it just unraveled beneath the weight of who she had been before. how could it not be terrifying?

to remember. to finally give in and remember what she’d been so determined to not, to finally know what you were missing - and have to realise that your fears weren’t unfounded. it is scary - because remembering doesn’t make you whole. sometimes, remembering just erases you instead.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

this may sound a little strange but when it comes to the utmv fandom and in universe meta aware characters interacting with ones who aren’t aware, I like to approach it more from like a religious or spiritual belief standpoint. so like, to others, characters like killer and ink seem either really religious or spiritual (ink) or really superstitious/religious/indoctrinated (killer). ink believes in creators, but to killer, those creators are actually more like players.

[lovetrapezoids]

I think that we should talk about how, in terms of the TFs, it's largely regarded in-universe as only semi-real, with people like Robin referring to the PC's TF, but random townies either ignoring it or using it mockingly against the PC.

We should also talk about how you, generally speaking, can't start with a TF, you can only really gain one. How being through hell in the town will change the PC on such a deep level that it either changes their entire chemical structure, or it forces them to believe that it has.

In this essay, I will explain how the PC is heavily implied to have a dissociative disorder wherein they believe themself to be either sub-human or beyond human standards so much so that it makes them believe that they are physically nonhuman-

[thefluxsystem]

something i don’t see talked about in the system community enough are the dissociative shutdowns.

when you’re in a system, you know what it feels like to not have control over your body because somebody else does. so, when you’re supposed to be controlling the body and, when life hits the fan, suddenly it won’t do anything you want it to do, it’s terrifying.

the world feels crushing yet far away at the same time. your eyes are looking around, but they’re not truly seeing. you can hear someone talking, and you can’t respond— and if you are, the words falling off your lips are foreign and feel numb on your tongue.

when you’re in that state you feel nothing. you don’t notice your own actions (if you can even muster any), you don’t register touch or pain, you don’t feel cold, you don’t feel heat.

hours pass. maybe it’s only minutes? it’s impossible to tell. you’re frozen in time and space but everything is still moving on around you.

then all the sudden it’s over. at least it seems over. something still feels… wrong. but there’s no time to address that.

as time goes on, it turns out that you never really circle back to why that happened. until it happens again. then you ignore it. the cycle continues.

[interstellarsystem]

Sometimes being a fictionkin/fictive heavy system means that you can't watch a TV show without dissociating and not being entirely sure of who you are at any given moment. Sometimes you just become brain soup. Can't fit everyone in the theatre to watch? Blend them, that'll surely fix it!

[artist-rat]

one of the assest years ever in general but art-wise surprisingly good 🌿

[prince-liest]

Been having some thoughts about an "Alastor accidentally(?) gets Ella Enchanted cursed by the owner of his soul" idea.

Writing snippet under the cut for: LEAKS SPOILERS (specifically Alastor's dealmaker) and CHILD ABUSE.