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drmslastmorning · 10 months ago

Note

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Dream breaks Technoblade's trust in prison

A lesson on trust.

Characters: Dream, Technoblade

Words: 5.2k (one-shot)

Warnings: panic attacks, canon typical violence. nothing big.

During Technoblades stay in the prison, Dream gets a little desperate to prove that he is not to be trusted.

Being with Technoblade has lifted Dream’s spirits. It's lifted them a bit much for his taste, honestly. Considering everything the other has done has been quite simple: Exist, take up already sparse food, talk far too much bullshit and annoy the hell out of him. He's not a fan of how easily the piglin hybrid can read him.

Technoblade’s involvement itself is calculated: it's within the plan, it's accounted for. He hasn't accounted for the way he'd make him smile, and distract him from the hell that is the prison.

That shouldn't be a problem in and of itself, Dream measures. He can stay focused regardless.

He doesn't know if the company is within the plan. Of course, Technoblade would've been involved eventually: For the exchange of a favor. But he's been here for a few weeks now. At least, that's what Dream presumes from what little sense of time he's gotten left. He couldn't know for sure and the realization that he couldn't tell leaves his tail swaying nervously. It's somehow easier to sit with your thoughts on your own. Correction: it's easier to ignore them on your own. It's easier to dissociate when someone isn't constantly chatting or snoring your ear off.

Dream doesn't sleep. Technoblade does it far too much. He guesses it's how the other planned on passing the time, and it's not really a bad bet. It's not like there is much else to do. It gives Dream something to do: Study everything there is about Technoblade. Not really intentionally, of course. He's not intending to stare, but could you blame him, when he's the only positive interaction he's had in so long?

The piglin hybrid sleeps messily. Loudly . He eats a lot, and he knows just how to get on his nerves. Though, he guesses he was already well aware of the last two. They've shared a few meals and more arguments.

Dream's passed out only very few times in the time Technoblade has been here, to the point the latter is unsure he's seen it at all. He prefers it that way.

"What are you, anyways?" Rings the question and Dream knows the other didn't miss the way he flinches at the sudden sound. "W-what's that supposed to mean." He says it like a dismissive statement, much less like a question. It's clear he understood exactly what Technoblade means, but doesn't intend to respond unless further clarified. He knows he doesn't pry. "Y'know." Pink hair messily falls over his shoulder. He undid the braid a while ago, and redid it at least 20 times since then.

Dream does know. The pen slips out of his fingers and he curses under his breath as it draws a messy line across the paper, him desperately reaching for it not helping.

"I don't," he lies, "you're distracting me."

Technoblade raises an eyebrow, toys with a potato that he's sure is going to start growing mold within the next 24 hours. "Species-wise, of course." While Dream's gotten a very good look of the other, the piglin hybrid has been kept very.. in the dark, to say the least. Dream makes sure to hide his face, and Techno hasn't attempted to catch a glance whenever he was distracted enough. He'd feel like he's intruding, if he did. Surely there's a reason he always wore that mask, after all. It's rude, he's concluded. "You haven't really let me catch a glance."

"What's it matter to you?" He mumbles, retrieving the pen and annoyedly smudging at the ink that's now splotched all over the paper. Smudging it more isn't really helping, weirdly enough.

"It's something to talk about, Dream."

"I don't feel like talking."

"I know. You never do. It's kinda your thing." He snorts.

"That's-- that's not true. You know that's not true. I just- You already made me ruin this whole page."

"Put that thing down for 5 minutes, Dream. I'm pretty sure we've got plenty of time for you to finish that."

It looks like he's right, but somehow, sometimes Dream fears, he might blink, and Technoblade might disappear into thin air.

"Fine." Dream hisses through gritted teeth, closing the book to set it aside. He leaves the pen amidst the pages to keep note of where he was. "Your tail reminds me of Ranboo’s." Techno remarks, and as if on command, it whips against cold obsidian and then curls up to hide behind his back. "What- are you just going to- analyze things about me?"

"Well, you're not telling me."

"That's still, like, weird." Dream argues, shaking his head. Something about it makes him really uncomfortable. Something about it is something he didn't account for and it makes him nervous.

"Man, you've been eyeing me up and down the entire time and I can't even catch a quick glance." He snickers at the immediate physical rise he gets out of Dream.

" WHAT?? " Oh, that blush is obvious. "I've- You're an idiot, I've literally-" Dream stumbles over his words, messy locks not disguising enough of his face to hide his expression.

"You're- You're stupid. You're just- you're just saying things. That's not even true!"

"I don't know bro, for an innocent man you're getting real defensive."

"I'm not-- That's not-- I literally have not been doing that." Defeatedly, Dream taps his foot against the obsidian, knees dragged to his chest.

"Uh-huh." Technoblade nods, beginning to redo his braid for the third time that day.

"Fuck yourself, seriously, Techno. I don't even know where- where you got that from."

"Maybe from the guy who's been eyeing me up and down."

" I HAVE NOT??? " (Dream’s heart beats in his ears and it tastes bitter and it's uncalculated and it makes no sense and he has to remind himself to breathe.) And it beats. And it beats. And it beats.

"So, what are you?"

"You're not going to let me live that down, are you?" Dream responds, annoyed. "I'm curious and bored." Technoblade answers, too honestly. Too honestly for Dream’s taste. Dream hasn't planned for this. Dream doesn't like the way he sees through him. "The answer- the answer is going to disappoint you, then." He gnaws on his lip for a moment. "Because I don't- I don't actually know ."

Techno raises an eyebrow curiously. He snorts. "You seriously don't, huh?"

"Yeah- uh- why the hell- why would I lie about that?"

"Uh, I mean, you've got the same tail as Ranboo." Techno deduces. "And he's an Enderman. I think?" He shakes his head. "But you're also not really letting me see anything else."

"You're being weird." Dream pushes, hiding his face in his knees.

"Not any weirder than you."

"Can I see your face?" Techno asks, and is surprised by his own question.

"What???" Dream returns, almost instinctively letting more hair fall into his face.

"Your face." He presses, shifting with his coat. "I wanna see your face. It's been so long since I last did."

"Why?"

"Curiosity." Technoblade shrugs, feigning disinterest. Maybe he's just curious. Maybe there's more to it. Dream hates the way he can't tell and he hates the way it makes his heart beat and he hates the way he squirms uncomfortably and he hates the way the proposed intimacy makes him feel and he hates it.

Dream catches his heart in his throat and chokes it with both of his hands.

"No." He responds, met by a dejected, "awwwh", from the piglin hybrid. "Just a quick glance."

"No." He repeats, with more tone in his voice.

"Just a quick one."

"I said no." Dream cringes, crossing his arms. "It's not like I've never seen it before." Techno shrugs.

"Be satisfied with that, then."

"What's the big deal?"

"We're not friends, Techno." His tone of voice seems insincere, but he wants it to be true. They aren't friends. This is purely transactional. Technoblade is here to rescue him on account of a favor. Something is going wrong with whatever he's got planned and now he's trapped here for the time being. It doesn't mean anything.

"Ow." Technoblade shuffles, moves as if something stabbed him. It's dramatics, Dream reminds himself. He's being dramatic. "First off, that hurts." It doesn't, Dream reminds himself. It's theatrics. It's to pass the time, it's to make him feel secure, it's to fool him, it's to- he doesn't know. Make him forget the plan?

"Second off, it's rude. I thought we've been having a real bonding moment here." Technoblade doesn't mean that, Dream reminds himself. "Well- boohoo." He fiddles with his fingers, with the book in his hands. "We're not friends." He has to emphasize that. (lest he forgets. lest he forgets that that too, is part of the plan.)

"I thought we were." Techno reiterates. "I mean, you've been watching me sleep. Would be real weird if we weren't friends."

"Oh my God, Technoblade. I have not-" He cuts himself off, rolling his eyes. He gives up. It's obvious he's just trying to get a rise out of him. He doesn't understand the point. It's distracting. It's going off the plan. It defies everything Dream did this for. He feels dizzy.

"C'mon Dream, I know you're still grumpy I keep calling you homeless, but I'd say we're friends."

"I'm not- I'm not homeless." (you're the one who kept not believing me I've got a big house filled with Redstone.) The thought makes him laugh bitterly.

Techno raises an eyebrow at the clear silent conversation Dream just had in his head. Some voices tell him something, but they sound drowned. The lack of food is beginning to mess with him bad, Techno eats a lot normally, so while he's not opposed to the potato diet itself, he's really been trying to cut down. If not only to not take away the little food Dream has.

Techno really doesn't like the way Sam clearly doesn't mind feeding him as much - considering he literally even gave him cooked potatoes when he asked for it. (it's all to starve Dream.)

"I know, I know. We're roommates right now, remember?" He snorts, which leads into an amused grunt, then translates into him holding out a baked potato in Dreams direction. "You want some?"

"... What."

"It's baked. Should be better than uh, y’know, the ones you've been chowing down." He gestures at Dream’s stack, which is honestly beginning to show mold.

"Why- how is it- where did you-" Dream stumbles and he looks so extremely bewildered Techno can't help but sneak a little fond smile. (Dream doesn't recognize it as such. His gasping heart categorizes it as him making fun of him.)

"I asked and Sam gave them to me. Under the condition I don't give you any."

Dream frowns. Deeply. He shakes his head. "Under the condition you don't give me any." He repeats, in a tone that makes Techno sick. Wipes the smile off his face and replaces it with a frown. "Hey man, it's not like Sam's gonna know."

"He'll know ." Dream reiterates, shaking his head. He feels sick. Sick. Sick. Resisting everything in himself to not knock it out of Techno’s hand.

"I mean, I'm not telling him. Are you?"

"If- if he asks , if I-if." He stutters over his words, he despises the frown on Techno’s lips. He's not disobeying Sam for some stupid- some potatoes. He could handle himself. The clear favoritism gets to his head, and he needs to turn away so he doesn't just grab the potato and throw it into the lava. Or better yet, he's throwing himself in it next.

Techno sighs. "Alright, man. Just thought I'd offer." He rolls his shoulders, then wordlessly eats it. He's honestly worried Dream might just starve to death one of these days. He certainly doesn't look good.

Dream’s heart beats in his ears. He wishes he could bang his head against the wall until he made a big enough hole for it to escape. Wishes he could reach through his own mouth and pull it up by its bits and pieces and squeeze it until there is finally no feeling left.

In the end he does none of that. In the end he frowns at Techno and doesn't say anything else. In the end he reaches his hands into his hair and tugs until he feels a few strands coming loose.

"You're- driving me crazy." He hisses. And it's unreasonable. And it's a weird mood swing from the Dream who was just confused then horrified and is now- maybe jealous isn't the right word, but he doesn't find any better ones to describe what he is feeling. Speaking of feeling, he hates the way his heart jumps in his mouth when Techno looks at him with that stupid snort. That stupid big nose ring, and those stupid big ears, and those stupid big tusks that hang upwards out of his mouth and-

Breathe. Breathe. "Man, I'm just being friendly." Techno says and it snaps a cord. "You're not! Friendly. You're A- annoying , you're, you're taking up already sparse food, you're, you're clearly being favorited by- mi- by the wa- by Sam -" He tugs and he tugs and he tugs and maybe this way he can get rid of this stupid long hair. "All this has achieved is- you're just stuck here now, too . Why the hell didn't you realize it was a trap? I didn't want you to get involved! You have- you- aaaaah!" He groans, frustrated, tired, exhausted, hungry, and for the first time in the while he's been stuck here he seriously wishes he had died already.

It's stupid. It's such a stupid thing to want to give up over. (was any of it even worth it? was any of it even worth it? was any of it even worth it? was any of it even worth it.) He thinks he hears Techno say something but it's dampened by the dread that's surrounding him. Maybe he's having a panic attack. Maybe he's having two. Maybe three. four five six seven eight-- he's been doing so well holding himself together but now he's crashing he's falling apart he's grasping at the pieces of a knocked over 3D puzzle and it does little to put it back together.

He's been doing so well smiling and talking with Technoblade whenever Quackity wasn't here he's been doing so well and he's been doing too well and it's exactly why he's tripping all over himself and falling and falling and falling --

It's a harrowing realization. That scaling any mountain is going to involve so much tripping and falling in the future. And it's more harrowing to him that he's decided to do it all alone. It's better that way, he tells himself, but for a moment, Dream would rather be dead than alone.

Maybe, if he gave up, while Technoblade, while Quackity- while it's- while he's not- while- while there's someone there- while he's not alone- while- if he gave up now, at least someone would be by his side while he did-

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. In, and out, and Dream hears a voice, guiding him, and he's breathing.

Breathe. Breathe. He closes his eyes. It's dark, and it's orange from the light of the lava and he's just barely catching himself.

When he opens his eyes again, he can breathe again. He sees pink strands and his first instinct is to--

He reaches out and tugs on Technoblade’s already messy enough braid. "Ow! Is that the thanks I get????? Ow- ow- Dream that hurts-" And he tugs and he tugs and he tugs and it's enough Technoblade has to stop awkwardly hovering his big hands around Dream's and instead grab onto them, halting the other’s out-of-nowhere violence. " Good ." Dream hisses, and it's venomous, it's almost- uncharacteristic. Techno pulls his eyebrows together and frowns. "You good? You had a little- panic attack there. And now you're attacking me! Scandalous."

Momentarily, Dream is taken aback by the piglin hybrid’s antics. Only momentarily, because as soon as he manages to wipe the way his expression cringes at his own actions off his face, he's back to pulling his hands out of Technoblade’s, taking one, two, three, too many steps towards the lava and almost falling backwards into it. He stumbles, and has to catch himself on the side of the wall. The lava is sizzling so closely behind him he's unsure if some of his hair, or his clothes might already be catching fire. He nudges just a little bit away from it, although he really wishes he could just let himself fall backwards.

He could, he reckons. No better time than now. No better time than when he's not alone with Sam and Quackity with the warden and sir with the violence and torture and-

His head spins. Technoblade says something again but hovers awkwardly out of his reach. Good. Good. This is better. That's how it's supposed to be. Transactional. As soon as they're out of here Technoblade will abandon him. That's how this was intended. He'll make himself heavy enough of a burden that even Techno will hesitate to dare put that strain on his back. That hesitation will be enough, he hopes. He is sure it will be enough. He closes his eyes, breathing. He should breathe, Technoblade is right. He opens his eyes again and his eyes search for Technoblade, who's looking at him with such a stupid expression of pity (and concern and worry and so many things Dream isn't sure he's identifying right and so many things that Dream hopes he is wrong about.).

Dream prays he is wrong about these things. Because God strike him down if he is right. God if he has to face that possibility.

He isn't sure how much time passes. He isn't sure how long they're just staring at each other.

"You better now?", Technoblade says after a long silence, attempting to approach him. Very slowly. As if he's afraid Dream might just stumble backwards into the lava if he startles him like a scared deer. Bitterly, Dream laughs. "Yeah", he catches himself, "Sorry."

"Nah, it's okay. You have the strength of a toddler."

" WHAT??? " That gets to Dream’s head worse than Technoblade probably intends it to, when Dream stumbles over himself and almost catches fire on the lava. Techno snorts, lifting a hand to move it in a manner that's supposed to make him calm down but is only irritating him more. "You're- you're fucking insufferable, Technoblade ." Dream draws a breath through barely parted lips and for a moment he wants to cry.

The piglin sighs. "You know, I've been really patient, but you're making me curious. What happened? Since when are you so-- dead set on pushing everyone away? I mean, I heard Punz betrayed you, which must've sucked- but, Dream, I clearly don't mean you any ha-"

"Fuck off, Technoblade."

"Eh?"

"Fuck off." He reiterates, and he is so, so close to ending it all he needs to remind himself that part of the plan is that he stays alive. Part of the plan is that his heart keeps beating. Maybe he can respawn at least though. It's bitter. He threw himself in that lava a lot when there was nothing to do and the pain of burning alive was, funnily enough, the only thing keeping him sane. "We're not friends. We're not roomies. We're not- You weren't supposed to be here. You're so fucking- stupid- walking into that obvious trap."

Technoblade's vision swims, before it refocuses on Dream and he raises an eyebrow. "Dream- You do know I knew that, right?"

"Right. Right. And that's why you haven't gotten out. That's why you're still stuck here with me annoying me and trying to get under my skin all the goddamn time-"

"Well, I mean, some things went wrong. I'll be out here in no time, though."

(I, I, I, I, I)

I, I, I, I, I

It echoes in Dream’s head. He stares. " We ?" He whispers, it's hopeful, it's meek, and it's such a sudden change from the way he was just yelling.

"Uh, yeah. We. You're getting out of here, Dream."

They exchange looks. Stares. He's too busy reading every pore on Technoblade’s face to be distracted by the fact that he's doing the same to him. He stares at Technoblade’s pink eyes as if they have the answer to every question he's ever had. He hears his heart beat again and has such a visceral reaction to it; he bites down on his lip, balling his fists.

"I don't believe that. I don't trust you for a second."

The piglin hybrid sighs, toying with his coat to his braid, undoing it, since Dream messed it up anyways. "Right. I'm really beginning to believe that."

Dream thinks he hears sarcasm in that tone but he's not sure. He's not sure of any emotion he reads on Technoblade and it horrifies him. Quackity is so much easier to read: and Sam isn't too difficult to read too, he'd say. They're pretty similar, he'd concluded a while ago.

Quackity wears his heart on his sleeve. Observing him is like you're reading a picture book. Whereas with Technoblade he isn't quite sure he's got a heart in the first place. He isn't sure what he thinks of that conclusion. He isn't sure it's logical. Maybe it makes no sense to interpret it that way, he can't justify dehumanizing Technoblade to himself, but neither can he the way he got addicted to burning in the lava.

"What exactly am I supposed to do to make you-- ' trust ' me?" The Blade speaks up and Dream continues watching him for another roughly 20 seconds, not breaking eye contact. He's finally noticed that he's also eyeing him over and it makes something akin to horror crawl down his back. It settles on his spine and whispers to him. He can't make out exactly what it's saying but he knows it's gripping at the edges of his heart. It's digging its nails in and the only reason it's yet to bleed is that they are still in. Like a stab wound, it'll bleed so much more once removed. But it's bleeding either way.

Either way leads to death.

"Want me to prove I trust you? Do a little trust-fall?"

Dream’s face cringes at the way Technoblade snorts. "I- what - no way- I don't trust you and even if you trusted me, there's no way I can- catch you- in my current state."

"I'm going to be honest, Dream, I don't think you would've been very capable of it previously, either."

"You're----- You're really trying to make me hate you." Dream mumbles, kicking the floor, in a similar fashion as to he would before, and Technoblade takes it as a positive sign. He smiles fondly and it irritates Dream to no end.

The piglin hybrid shrugs. "Eh, sure. I'm not sure I can convince you otherwise, anyways."

Something stings but Dream can't identify it. Briefly, he wonders if the other feels something like that, too. Then he crosses that thought out, because he knows that the Blade doesn't own a heart that feels.

His brain rationalizes the dehumanization in a desperate attempt to drown his own feelings. It's not rational and he knows this, but he's horrified that if he looks at Technoblade like he's a person for too long he might forget the plan.

He wants to choke himself out for going down this path alone. But it's the only way to keep them safe. (dehumanizing Technoblade isn't keeping him safe. it's the very thing that's ended him up in this position. the very reason he can't just sit in his cabin and rest. The very reason he's right here and associated with Dream is because they're the same, the same, the same .)

Dream can't read Technoblade. But maybe he just doesn't want to. Maybe the other is written in a foreign language that Dream couldn't possibly have knowledge of in his young and naive years.

The admin sighs tiredly.

"You can't. I don't trust you and it's not like you truly trust me either." Dream huffs a laugh. "You trust me to keep you alive. For my own gain." He gestures at the lava, then at Technoblade. "Since I'm not going anywhere without you. But maybe you will just leave without me."

Techno frowns. Even to Dream it's obvious this conversation is getting tiring. Maybe he's beginning to regret getting under his skin, maybe he's regretting constantly running his mouth, maybe he's considering just going to sleep for the rest of his stay here. Dream doesn't know because maybe after all this time, he's finally forgotten how to read. He isn't even sure he can read himself anymore.

"I mean, yeah, maybe I will. You're not really making it enticing to take you along." Techno exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I'd say you should know I wouldn't actually do any of that, but maybe I misread you."

None of that sounds like anything Technoblade would say. Good, Dream thinks, he's listening. He's not completely dense. He's not completely naive. Of course, the plan is still for the other to take him along. "W-well, you've got a favor to pay back. Technoblade pays back favors."

"Uh-huh."

"And that's all this is."

"Right."

Dream can't decode the bitter way Techno nods. He doesn't understand the way his throat slowly closes up and he feels like he's choking. He concludes it's been plugged by his heart again and he hates the very way the Blade puts even his organs in a disarray. It's irregular. Makes no sense.

"R-right." He repeats Technoblade’s word, glancing away.

"Hey, you let me see your face."

"No I didn't."

"You did."

"I didn't fucking allow you to." Dream crosses his arms, frowns. Techno shrugs, looking at Dream again. The other doesn't look away. "Yeah, but you're still letting me look."

It's not fair. It's not. It's not fair. He can't even rebuke that one. He's tired.

"You've got a lot of freckles." Techno muses, with such a stupid, stupid fond smile. (this isn't part of the plan. Isn't part of the plan.) "Your cheeks are- fuzzy." He snorts and Dream wants to deck him in the face. ( shut up. Shut up. Shut up .) "And your eyes rat you out."

Don't get him involved. Don't get him involved. Stick to the plan. Don't do that to him. Stick to the plan.

It's not worth it. If he changes the plan now- he can't. The plan has to be the way it is. Punz is bad enough. This is bad enough. Dream suddenly feels so powerless that it's crushing.

"And what stupid things do you think they're saying?"

"I don't know." Techno shrugs now, taking a step towards Dream. Cautiously, as if he fears he might startle him and send him into the lava. "Maybe they're desperate." He guesses, stops just out of Dream’s reach. Dream bites his lip bloody.

"Yeah. Desperate to get you to shut up. Get things under control and get us out of here." He grumbles, fists balling. (for a moment, he imagines himself reaching his hand into the lava, cupping it, and then throwing it at Technoblade. He wonders if his hand would last enough for that, or if the lava would burn through quicker. He wonders if that could kill him.)

He wonders how much of it would hit Techno, or if he'd dodge. If he'd call him insane, or if he'd be worried. If he'd be worried for his own safety, or Dream's, or both.

"I'm at it! I'm at it. Someone's really impatient." Techno lifts his hands defensively. "You're the one who designed this thing so- inescapable." Dream licks the blood off his lips, tail flicking behind him. "It'd kind of defeat the purpose if it wasn't."

The piglin hybrid only nods. Dream only returns a nod. They're silent, observing each other as if they are reading a book.

Dream decides he needs to rip his pages out of Techno’s book. He takes a deep breath, looks directly at the other’s face.

"Come over here." He croaks out, embarrassed, clears his throat after. "Come here." He repeats, clearer now.

For a moment, Dream hoped he'd see hesitation in Technos gaze. He sees something, Techno does need a second to listen, but he doesn't see hesitation. He doesn't know what he's seeing. (Worry? Care? Concern?) Concern, for his own or Dream’s or both of their safety.

Technoblade listens and everything in Dream’s body was hoping he wouldn't. He'd hoped he wouldn't. But now he's standing in front of him, left of him lava bubbles. It's hot and unbearable to him, but Dream knows it's like second nature to the piglin hybrid.

"Do you trust me?" Dream asks, it's flat. The croak in his voice disappeared, it's just cold now. He can't read the expression on Technoblade’s face. He doesn't like the way he frowns. He doesn't like the way he has to break his neck to look him in the face when they are so close together.

"What's this?"

"No, shut up, answer the question." Dream shakes his head when Techno tries to gain knowledge on his intent. That won't work. That won't work. He made a plan and he's sticking by it.

Techno sighs. Rolls his shoulders. Then nods. Smiles. "Yeah, well, I do."

(I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do. It repeats in Dream’s ears until it turns to venom until it takes over every part of his brain until he can't hear anything else until it tastes bitter and bile and he wishes he could throw up.)

Everything in Dream hoped he'd say no. Everything in Dream hoped he'd say no.

He doesn't breathe for a good minute. Then he holds out his hand. His hand, small, burned, injured. There's little cuts and scars everywhere. He still has all of his fingers, but he is afraid he won't soon enough. "Okay. If you take my hand and close your eyes, do you trust me to not hurt you?" He continues, and his heart deflates when Technoblade listens. He hoped he wouldn't.

He hoped he'd make a snarky comment and refuse. But he doesn't even give him a snarky comment. The piglin hybrid's hand almost completely engulfs his own and Dream feels so small and helpless and weak, all of a sudden. It's like Technoblade is unknowingly pulling the carpet out from under his feet. It's like the obsidian beneath him disappeared. (The hand-holding is weirdly comforting and suddenly Dream wants to abandon everything he thought of, everything he planned. if he could just fall forward and-)

He grips Technoblade’s hand. Harsh. He's not sure where he draws the strength from, considering he hasn't even eaten one potato today. And he isn't even sure he ate one yesterday. He squeezes it, and for a moment, it may come across comforting, or comfortable, or-

Then he violently tugs on the other’s hand. Then he draws both of them towards the lava. Then, suddenly, both of their hands are touching lava. (Dream's barely is. Technoblade’s hand engulfs his almost completely, but he's probably more fire resistant than he is. He braces himself, grits his teeth, burn, burn, burn, burn, everything in himself is screaming to take it all back, to reverse time, to-)

"Let this be a lesson not to, in the future."

#ask #sixteenth-day-event #crivals #rivalsduo #cdnb #cdreamnoblade #dreamnoblade #cdream #ctechno

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tatiejosie · 2 months ago

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i think it's so fun donald is a robot with such a strong motif of humanity vs cecil being very much human with a strong motif of acting like a machine :3c they are just very star crossed...

YYESSSSSSS ikr!!! I love how their motifs are so symmetrical and how complementary they are!!

The show does a really good job at portraying Cecil and Donald's dynamic as polar opposites. It's in every detail - in their character design (Cecil's characteristics are visually eye-catching (large visible scar + long hair) while Donald is so plain he blends in the background), in their body language (Cecil is firm and confident, Donald is hypervigilant and jumpy), in their ability to handle people's emotions!

i'm so sorry i'm talking too much but uh. more under the cut if you're interested in hearing some rambling???

Cecil's empathy seems limited. His attempts at comforting seem to take root in guilt, in his willingness to patch up the problems that he believes he has allowed to happen (even indirectly). He'll go above and beyond to fix things up and make things easier for people when they go through intense events (spending a fortune of taxpayers' money to rebuild Donald as lifelike as possible so he can be fooled into thinking that he's an organic human and lead a somewhat normal life; ensuring Mark and Debbie's financial safety following Nolan's departure) ... yet, you can't expect him to be remotely competent with just words.

This man's entire foundation takes root in guilt. Another example is the choice to stay heavily and permanently disfigured following the Chemical X incident, as a reminder of his failure to save others. I imagine that the buildup of angst and guilt is subconsciously consuming him from the inside, on top of the incredibly harmful lifestyle that he's been leading (little to no sleep + the goo bath must fuck up his brain so badly), is what pushes him into this state of emotional blindness.

Donald, on the other hand, directly involves himself with people. He's the direct link between Cecil and the rest of the GDA, the GDA and the rest of the world. He's the one who escorts Mark and Debbie at the GDA hospital when Nolan is recovering. He doesn't just bring them here without a word - he talks to them. He sees that Mark is genuinely curious, and he provides information about the GDA and its functions; after all, the boy's father is between life and death, and anything is better than some heavy silence on the way to see him. When Debbie insists on staying to watch over Nolan, Cecil relunctantly agrees in absolute silence, and Donald is the one who confirms it verbally in an attempt to smooth things over, to cut through the tension. Donald is constantly trying his best - even in the smallest details! Invincible's mission against the Flaxans was honestly a shitshow, even though it was his first time on the field. And yet?

I can definitely picture Donald glossing over the catastrophic numbers and saying something that would both reassure Debbie and make her feel proud. He could just say nothing, or tell her the truth about Mark struggling during his debut.

And of course, let's talk about the brutal discovery of his own death, the s/lf-h/rming episode in the bathroom leading to even more angst - imagine going through the pain of peeling your skin off in a desperate attempt to prove your humanity, only to find wires and metal under your skin?????? - the confrontation with Cecil who puts his entire trust on Donald and vice-versa, Cecil casually explaining that Donald's body isn't organic anymore and that he's pretty much just a brain in a jar and that any feeling of inadequacy is just "existential angst"?? then he just keep fucking working because the world can't afford to make a pause while he goes through anxiety attacks and dissociative episodes. Then Cecil tells him the whole truth, finally, and Donald gets to watch an entire compilation of his numerous deaths. After all of this, he finally completes the puzzle, he finally understands where all the trauma and pain and anxiety are coming from - he fucking died, in brutal and agonizing ways, and he decided to erase his memories so he could stay as efficient and not get held back by the trauma of dying????????

... Then, William calls him, and Donald immediately comes over to help. Not even a second is spent on, idk, recovering from the emotional rollercoaster. That man just learned that he's been trapped in a loop, working day and night for the GDA and putting his life on the line until he gets killed, only for the government to gather what's left of him and piece him back into a functional soldier so he can continue working. He's being denied the most basic, fundamental biological function that occurs within every organism - he is not allowed to die.

But he's on the roof with two struggling kids, one of which is going through the same kind of existential crisis that had been plaguing him these past few weeks. So of course he's going to do his best to help. William and Rick have no idea what Donald just went through, and they don't need to know - he shows vulnerability without dumping his trauma out.

Donald could have sent an emergency team to stop Rick's attempt and have him hospitalized for his safety, but he personally came to his rescue because he felt that it was the right thing to do. Even after everything he's been through, he still puts others in priority.

TLDR; Cecil and Donald are both very selfless but in totally different ways that somehow complete each other as the leading figures of the GDA.

im gonna stop rambling im so sorry for talking so much

#oh boy look who just turned me into an unskippable cutscene #thank you for your ask!!!! <3 i love talking abt Donald!!!!#cecil stedman #donald ferguson

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mousemilf · 3 months ago

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i feel like seeing the world through actions rather than character seems like you're subconsciously distant and dissociated from yourself; as though some deep-seated insecurity or anxiety about an inherent personality trait means that you place value specifically on behavior and not personality.

for example, is a person artistic simply because they make art, or are they compelled to make art because they have this specific inexplicable draw and desire to do so? would someone who was not innately kind or interested in being kind "do" kind things?

which innate trait were you born with that drives you to assume that different opinions must stem from a psychological issue?

anyway, no, i am not innately artistic. nobody (or everybody, which is essentially the same thing) is. i bothers me that we treat art as so much more sacred than other human activities. would you say the same about someone whos hobby is collecting funko pops? are they driven by an inexplicable desire to collect shit figurines?

making art is something i know how to do. its a skill ive acquired, like cooking or driving a car. to attribute it to an innate talent would be to erase the years of study and practice ive put in. if its more initially rewarding because i have any natural advantage, it might be that i have pretty good fine motor skills, but thats a neutral physical trait like my height or weight, which i dont glean any meaningful identity from either. but maybe that initial aptitude led to more satisfaction, encouragement etc which has naturally caused me to think about art more than someone who did not start with that immediate small advantage.

ive had the privilege of teaching hobby painting classes to people who are not skilled and would not consider themselves "artistic," and everybodys reactions when they learn a new technique and make something they thought they couldnt is proof to me that art making is rewarding to *everybody,* not just a special class of divinely ordained creatives. i fundamentally do not believe that i am unique for finding art fulfilling. it feels good to make stuff. thats just human.

as far as kindness goes, if there are intrinsically kind people, it would follow that there are intrinsically unkind people, right? people who are born without kindness as an innate trait... so then what would be the point of trying to rehabilitate people whove committed violent crimes? if they dont have that inherent drive for kindness that innately kind people do, then it would be hopeless, right?

if we can neatly divide people into categorically kind and categorically unkind people i guess it would be much easier for us kind people (im at least flattered that you assume id be on that side of the dichotomy) to like, just be confident that we are morally in the right and not ever have to question the actual impact of our behavior since our intentions are good by virtue of this innate trait we were born with. sure whatever.

assigning importance to intentions and feelings rather than actions and their impact is like very yuckydisgusting to me. like i said in my reblog right before this, if kind thoughts were enough to make someone a kind person, then negative thoughts would be enough to make someone a bad person. silly and obviously wrong. i've fantasized about all kinds of destructive actions, but it literally does not matter at all, the only important thing is my choice not to act on those fantasies.

wanting or trying to be a kind person does not make someone a kind person. some of the nastiest motherfuckers ive ever met were constantly agonizing over whether they were a good person and looking for reassurance that they hadnt done wrong. yet they continued to act selfishly and harm people around them. their desire to be kind did jack shit.

but yeah, i do place value specifically on behavior because thats the only part of personality that meaningfully exists to literally anybody outside of your brain. basically. i think thats the main point of all of this.

#ic #anon

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msfcatlover · 2 years ago

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…I’m an idiot. The first time Jason saw something monstrous in his new family was when Dick was standing in front of him, fangs out, snarling protectively, ready to throw down with a man nearly twice his size seemingly for Jason’s sake. Which would not be any less terrifying, I think, because even if Dick’s ire is pointed towards Bruce, Dick is still an apex predator whose natural aura constantly whispers “just a reminder: you are prey.” (An aura Dick can suppress when he wants to, but it takes maintained effort to do so. He’s definitely not doing it right then; seems like the sort of thing Dick would be used to letting go when it was just him and Bruce, and one of the first things to slip when Dick loses his temper.)

If a tiger jumped out of a tree and seemed to be standing protectively in front of me, I think that second part would probably be overridden by the fact that a tiger was standing right in front of me. It is so much bigger & stronger than me, there’s no way I can outrun it, killing me would be effortless for it—the mere presence of a predator like that would outweigh any other detail of the encounter.

But… it’s Jason. Jason, whose instincts run protective, and whose default respond to feeling vulnerable is to make himself seem threatening. And Dick is threatening Bruce, who’s been looking out for Jason and offered Jason his home. So probably Jason grabs the nearest object and lobs it at Dick as a distraction, only to immediately regret everything when Dick turns his attention to Jason. At which point, Jason probably bolts. Dick takes one step after Jason before reigning himself in (it’s just instinct; prey running = chase.) Bruce tells Dick to leave Jason alone, Dick gets offended that Bruce thinks he has that little self control. Dick & Bruce have it out with eachother. Then Dick goes to apologize for scaring Jason so badly. Dick tracks Jason down and takes a second to make himself as human as possible before getting Jason’s attention. They have a very long, tricky conversation about what Dick is & what Bruce is while they’re at it. Dick offers to keep away if that would make Jason more comfortable; Jason says he’s not a wuss and that Dick’s not that scary anyway, so Dick can stay if Dick wants to.

(Jason never stops being scared of Dick when Dick’s more feral than human. Jason can’t; it’s primal instinct. But Bruce can teach Jason to control his fear, to think & function around that fear, and three years of exposure to Dick’s general weirdness builds up Jason’s tolerance for it until Dick has to be pretty far gone for Jason to actually start freaking out. By the time Jason’s 15, he can tell the difference between a play-growl & a real one, and has enough confidence in Dick that Jason probably responds to… okay a display like that, when Dick is seriously looking/preparing for a fight, Jason’s still staying out of his way—the danger vibes are too strong—but anything less and Jason just elbows Dick in the kidney and tells him to shush.)

(Even when Dick’s at his most terrifying, it’s less frightening when you know how to safely navigate around him. Even if it’s hard to connect the guy who helped Jason get up extra early to make pancakes for Bruce and Alfred on Father’s Day with the twisted beast in front of him, it’s a little easier having heard Dick talk about how terrifying it is to be subsumed by the Hunt; it’s not “he’s more scared of you than you are of him,” but it is “he’s more scared of himself than you are of him,” and that does make it a little easier to stay physically relaxed and focus on talking Dick down. Treat it like a meltdown, like a panic attack, like a dissociative episode—and you know, every time Jason manages to make the Hunt retreat with nothing more than the right words, a calm voice, and whatever contact Dick indicates is okay, the more confident Jason gets doing it and the less scary Dick’s monster form becomes. Still terrifying, sure, but not petrifying.)

Bruce, though. Still don’t know about Bruce.

#tma crossover #batfam #batfamily #batbros #bat family #bat fam #jason todd #dick grayson #richard grayson #nightwing #dick grayson nightwing #robin #robin jason todd #robin jason #robin!jason #robin!jason todd #Hunt aligned Dick Grayson #they’re brothers your honor #my writing #mine #//#It would be inaccurate to say Dick ‘’loses himself’’ to the Hunt. Dick himself would argue with you; he is still fully there & fully aware #but it’s like hyperfixating so hard you forget to eat or move for an entire day; those seemingly basic priorities just don’t occur to you #so they don’t matter. Lighter versions you remember you /ought/ to do those things but you just… don’t. You can’t get out of the groove.#That’s what the Hunt does to Dick’s morals. It’s not that he doesn’t care about them or that they’re not important when he’s feral #But they’re not part of the Hunt anymore than eating is part of your project. So they just… don’t occur to him.

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godwardesqueprincess · 4 months ago

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being autistic (and struggling with trauma based dissociation specifically) in a non communicative and clear world is exhausting.

it feels like being innocently confused and vilified for it on repeat. what do u mean you don’t get it why did u do that what’s wrong with u what’s wrong with u what’s wrong with u etc. people constantly assuming mal intent (I know it’s the world and not me but sucks when it’s directed at me.)

I have to remind myself constantly 1) I’m doing a great job given my circumstances 2) being confused and making mistakes even if other people don’t forget as much or fuck up as often is okay. being beaten up and beating yourself up doesn’t help you not make mistakes nor does it prevent them. it only makes u feel bad etc 3) it’s okay to make things easier for yourself. it’s okay even if others don’t understand 4) deep down I know I’m a good person even if I walk around stiff and uncomfortable looking bc my heart feels deeply broken and I try so hard not to take it out on others (and even if I slip up, that’s okay too. bc I’m human not a machine. I won’t be crucified for it thankfully even if it feels that way). 5) nature is always there for me. no matter how many times I’ve wanted to die (suicidal ideation and wanting to escape everything) and don’t know how I am still here… nature wants and understands me even if nobody else does. it always has and always will.

#.#vent #deeply lonely overshare #august thoughts #to look back on

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ziracona · 11 months ago

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So with my second read-through of my favorite chapters I think I finally figured out that Julie was essentially just dissassociating the whole time, or did I read that wrong? Also for the legion im curious if things will go differently than ILM did, speaking of which- Would Julie and Frank have caved and joined the survivors eventually? What do you think really would have convinced them?

More or less, although not like in a way where she doesn’t know what is going on. I think she just lightly dissociates constantly. She’s got a personality disorder, but she lies if I try to figure out which one. 🤷🏻‍♀️ So. I know how she behaves but not why. She’s very aware, she just…’unplugs’ as it were, from feeling it, so it’s easier to do, and has for years. Even the fun parts. That’s why she harps so much on things Frank says being nice because he talks about her like she’s a ‘real person’ or a ‘whole person.’ She’s very self aware. She knows she is not normal. She just chooses mostly not to think about that. Girl represses everything, always. Her brain is plugged in, her feelings are off, and so is any reasoning she doesn’t want to do.

Yes. Every timeline ends differently, especially for the realm killers and the Entity. NDF, ILM, FtEoNR, and HL (even ODE) would have some very significant changes. Some things always stay, the strongest ties as it were, like Nea and Min finding each other, but the ones more up to chance remain…butterfly effected.

But on to the exciting answer! (For me). A chance to talk about the chapter that never was for ILM! The answer is yes, they would have joined not long after the events of Oak, if the Entity hadn’t pushed a confrontation with Philip. I considered letting the story run longer to include the newest two releases (Yui and ST, I believe?). If I had, there would have been a chapter called Pheidippides that I was deeply fond of, and don’t think I’ve ever gotten to talk about before. Essentially, the short summary was the Clown ended up in an area beside Legion, and lured one of them (Julie) in with audio recorded bait. She got caught and tortured, with Joey swapping with her to protect her. The Clown tried to force him to switch back, because he prefers doing what he does to girls, and Joey refused. Using drugs on them to try and force him fucked them up, and made them temporarily lose the ability to switch back and forth, trapping Joey in the body. Jeff heard things going on, and attempted to help, and ended up trapped too, then got severely injured trying to draw fire off Joey. Eventually, drugs wear off enough Frank and Susie are able to swap and she (thin wrists) tag teams to get an arm free, and he stabs the Clown through the ear with a scalpel and kills him (outside a trial).

Frank immediately flips out and calls the Entity to be like “control your fucking killers what the hell?!? Two of us are in critical condition, and this survivor is one missed ER from dead!” But the Entity’s concern is immediately recovering its favorite killer, Kenneth, who was not insured at the moment, so it ejects them from Kenneth’s realm and makes it closed off while it tries to fix it. Frank keeps shouting about it needing to fix them them, which he can’t do because they’re in one body and thus can’t treat each other, so it just rips them back into four and basically tells him to fix it himself, and vanishes to rescue the Clown.

Frank and Susie are left mostly unharmed, with a traumatized and injured Julie, and a more severely injured and traumatized Joey, and an almost dead Jeff who has been getting tortured for them for the last hour. They have no medical supplies or experience, the Entity won’t come, everyone is going completely breakdown. The survivors have meds and expertise, and since Jeff entered Kenneth’s realm, while that’s impassible, it means the survivors /must/ be one away from them, with the ST Lab and Demogorgons, in the way.

Frank realizes Jeff’s only hope of survival is getting through the lab, to the survivors, and bringing them back. It’s the only way to help Joey and Julie either, who while not actively dying, are sincerely fucked. But they despise and won’t listen to him, so he can’t be the one to do it. He might get killed on sight. They’ll think it’s a trap. They won’t beleive. Which means Susie /has/ to. She’s the only one they’ll not hurt, and might believe. She’s terrified to do it, but going to, alone, but he tells her he’s not going to make her do it alone. He’ll go to protect her, and they’ll do it together.

They leave Julie and Joey to recuperate and try to care for Jeff best and long as they can, and then, knowing death outside a game is death for them (and this is a hell of a risk—they’re tough, but in the end they’re young adults with small knives, vs well, the destructive power of a demogorgon, and ILM verse while there’s only one demogorgon per trial, there are many in the Lab, so the lab is a death zone), and their odds are bad but there is just no other way, they together make a mad dash through the lab to the other side to get help.

And yeah I loved that idea it didn’t end up working for the over-arching narrative flow but maybe someday I’ll find a way to reuse it.

They would have become solid and continuing allies after the event, given the length of the Entity fucking them over, and survivors risking themselves to help. They’re flawed people, but they love their own deeply and sincerely. (Which is the exact situation the Entity is working to avoid during the events of NDF)

#ask #in living memory (fic)#in living memory #dead by daylight #sleepy anon #thanks for giving me an excuse to talk about a special interest! truly loved Pheidippides ^u^

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changelingsandothernonsense · 1 year ago

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Doing a pov game is hard/ Double-speak Fic Writer's Tag.

Got tagged by both @paraparadigm and @mareenavee in this little game that gives interesting food for thought when it comes to POV characters in fics. I have zero training in this sort of thing so I'll just word vomit for Sydari and Teldryn (coz those will be the two POVs that appear in Serious Mistakes). Anyways have fun. It's long again so I've put it under the cut.

Sydari

What do they say they want? (i.e., what are the desires they put out into the world and have no trouble admitting)

Sydari will say she wants to amass as much wealth and influence as possible, she likes to put forward a harsh, greedy exterior whilst simultaneously using a pseudonym to accomplish such feats. She doesn’t know what she wants outside of a frantic attempt to make a space for herself to comfortably exist in the world. She says she wants an easier life, yet she self-sabotages any aspect of that desire that shows its head. She wants to be respected but only if that means someone fears an idea of her. She wants to project a persona of someone to never cross because she’s so used to being messed with that she wears her dissociation as armour. She demands respect, but only as far as the persona she puts out there will allow.

What do they think they want? (i.e., what are the desires they keep hidden and only admit to their closest loved ones)

She wants to be accepted for who she is but is too afraid of what that might involve. She wants the stability of a permanent home and a family, though the thought of that also terrifies her. She’s afraid of losing loved ones simply because she thinks that if they find out who she really is deep down they’d be disgusted and want nothing to do with her. She’s never been given a reason to not think that, so she presents everyone with a version of herself that she thinks they’ll like. A thief with no morals, a helpful friend who cares, a woman who’s interested in your day, an amorphous force constantly monitoring the underbelly of society and eventually a legendary dragon slayer (her least favourite). Maybe she’s all these things or none of them at all. She wants a concrete version of herself, she wants stability, she wants to feel loved. But she doesn’t know who she is enough to take charge of this desire, so she’ll sabotage everything that even resembles it.

She wants to have a redo of her disastrous first marriage, she thinks she’s found the one who clicks in every single way but she’s afraid he’ll abandon her as soon as he sees the real her. He won’t (he's too far in his own head for that) but it doesn’t stop her from worrying that he’ll leave as soon as he learns anything about her that isn’t surface-level. Yet he sticks around, he’s a mess who also likes to hide behind a mask, perhaps more so than she does. Really he sees her as a relief.

What do they actually want? (i.e., what is something they subconsciously need, but either do not realize or cannot admit it)

Sydari needs to learn self-acceptance and forgiveness first and foremost (this goes for Teldryn too, they’re meant to work out their problems together). Yes, she also needs/craves that acceptance from others, but it needs to come from her first. She needs to realise that whilst everything that led up to her current circumstances is not necessarily her fault, she can take charge of her circumstances now. It’s so much easier for her to just flee, her natural reaction is to cut and run the moment anything goes wrong, but it always catches up to her eventually.

She needs to learn how to finish things definitively, so much interpersonal destruction and a million loose ends weigh heavily on her mind. She can’t create a solid sense of self when everyone has a different idea of who she is. She craves something tangible where there is none, so she fills the hole with things and shallow relationships that go nowhere. She needs something real, she needs to feel real.

Teldryn

What do they say they want? (i.e., what are the desires they put out into the world and have no trouble admitting)

“To be left alone and forgotten” is how he’d explain it on bad days. Teldryn just wants to be left alone, he wants to be free from any and all expectations that have ever been placed upon him, and there’s always been a lot. He wants to be seen as just some strange mercenary that is easy to hire and fire at will. There’s a massive part of him that still craves excitement and attention, which is probably why he hasn’t just completely isolated himself from society yet. He has wealth, he doesn’t care much for or against it but it doesn’t bother him if he amasses more of it. He wants to impress others with his sword arm but not enough to gain any sort of following (he’s no teacher). He wants to be anonymous, so he wears a mask until that’s all he’s known for. He wants to be no one again.

What do they think they want? (i.e., what are the desires they keep hidden and only admit to their closest loved ones)

Really what he wants is to forget the last 200 years of constant disaster. He does this mostly by drinking his memories into a slough of undefinable chatter and images, and when they reform into something tangible, he’ll go back and do it all over again. He wants to go back to his old life in Cheydinhal, before he answered his mother’s summons, before his crew betrayed him, before his arrest. He wants to go back to his idealised little house that he never actually owned, and he wants to pretend it was all a bad dream. He wants that tiny life as a small-time ebony smuggler (he likes excitement, he couldn’t stomach the merchant’s life that was set out for him and damned if he was going to try mining). He wants to brag to some pretty person in a tavern about how exciting his life is before taking them to bed and never calling on them again. He wants to enjoy feeling anything at all. He already tried to get rid of all of his Nerevarine artifacts, everything that reminded him of the worst time of his life, a time he barely remembers because he was not truly present for that. He gets rid of everything except that damned ring. He can’t make it budge, he wants rid of Nerevar’s voice constantly swimming around in his head. He wants to forget everything that has ever happened. He wants peace.

What do they actually want? (i.e., what is something they subconsciously need, but either do not realize or cannot admit it)

Another case of self-forgiveness. Teldryn frets most about his failures, his failure to conform to his family’s expectations (nothing he could do would ever make them happy, so he rebelled instead), his failure to remake himself in Cyrodiil- twice. He frets most over his Nerevarine persona (one he hates and has tried so hard to remove himself from that he doesn’t really see himself as the same person, because technically it wasn’t even him in control, that’s the platinum revenge demon, that’s not him). To be honest, he doesn’t know, he remembers parts but it’s like someone is giving him a list of events and saying “Look here, that’s you, you did this!” and he just doesn’t recognise it at all.

He needs to forgive himself for not getting back to Vvadenfell in time to stop Baar Dau from falling. He was physically prevented from doing anything about it (Azura’s ultimate end game) and was on the other side of Tamriel when he first got the vision about it from Azura. He couldn’t do anything about it, not really but that doesn’t stop him from blaming himself for everything, he thinks he personally destroyed their entire civilisation. It doesn’t help that a large chunk of the population of Morrowind actually do blame him for it. Their Hortator abandoned them during the Oblivion Crisis (he did, he was playing swordsman in Bravil and stealing priceless metaphysical artifacts, he hid his face specifically so that no one could ask him to help). Then the Hortator abandoned them again when Red Mountain erupted, (he actually was helping evacuate refugees from a cave, it was a disaster, but he was there for the aftermath). He tried to fix things in his capacity as the Nerevarine but he just kept being met with disdain. So he hid and drank and wallowed in self-pity. He needs to forgive himself for those mistakes and move forward. He never considered finding his reflection in someone else, but he needed that too in a way.

#Ask games #writing asks #torturing the birds #sydari aralen #teldryn sero

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vergess · 2 years ago

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this is a personal af question that you do not need to answer publicly or at all esp. bc its for fanficish writing purposes but anyway so like how DO you, personally at least, deal with episodes of psychosis? because google tells me that the go to needs to be antipsychotics but 1. the context is a character who does not have regular access to them anyway 2. every one i have looked at has GOD AWFUL PERMANENT SIDE EFFECTS that seem to be almost guaranteed to happen? and my doctor oc would not subject that to anybody. the usual psychosis symptoms i write in my current rps are post-ictal and postpartum psychosis specifically because getting information about that from people who actually HAVE THE CONDITIONS is easy, and there seem to be other methods of dealing with them without antipsychotics (plus, you know, magic dnd for one, and pokemon psychic bs for the other) but finding information on how people with other forms of psychosis (in this case, schizotypal ftr) deal with it from their own perspective is almost impossible? it's ALL ableist bullshit from doctors which is why i am hesitant to trust the idea of "antipsychotics are the only way" :/ even reddit is not helpful here lol and i want to get this right? i know it's just tumblr rp/ao3 fanfic/discord rp that nobody important will read but me and my friends are trying to NOT be ableist shitbags on purpose you know?

Boy I really just don't answer tough asks over the winter months, huh.

I started keeping a closer eye on how media that I otherwise recommend depicts psychosis since getting this ask, and I'm disappointed to announce that over the last two months only two (2) pieces of media have been Normal About Psychosis.

So, the first thing to remember when writing a Psycho is: WE ARE WHOLE ASS ADULTS WITH ADULT BRAINS OKAY, we're not small children lost in a fantasy. We're not violent monsters out for blood. We are people who sometimes see, hear, etc things that aren't really there.

Writing a psychotic character competently isn't about curing them, or even about reducing their symptoms. It's about showing how they cope with those symptoms while carrying on with their daily lives.

I'm currently on the lowest possible dose of antipsychotic right now, and I will say two things about that. 1) the meds make reality checks and other coping skills MUCH more effective. 2) Even at a low dose, abstract and creative thinking are hindered. I don't feel hindered; but I have a 24 year long writing portfolio that says I sure as shit am hindered.

Whether a character will benefit from going on meds is going to be a balancing act. But since you aren't actually looking for meds advice, lets talk about those Other Coping Skills.

Broadly, I would split my skills into three categories: stuff for hallucinations, stuff for delusions, and stuff for dissociation.

So, first off, reality checking is my #1 go to for hallucinations.

You pick this skill up pretty quickly as a kid; everyone does. The difference being that where a non-psychotic person eventually gets to stop relying on others to tell them what is real, we get to keep on asking forever.

It's actually super exhausting to be in a crowded space because most of the nonverbal cues you come to rely on (eg, no one else flinched so that noise probably wasn't real) become INSTANTLY useless. Every noise, movement etc may of may not be real, and your only option is to either gauge other people's lack of reaction, or ask someone you trust for a reality check.

Sounds like an easy way for an abusive shit to control your entire life with no effort? It is!!

THAT'S WHY PSYCHOTIC PEOPLE ARE WAY MORE LIKELY TO BE ABUSED THAN THE GENERAL POPULATION.

Once you know if something is real or not, you can decide to ignore it. Like ignoring anything obtrusive, this is easier if you are in a good mood, physically comfortable, etc. An absurd amount of "coping with psychosis" is just constantly monitoring yourself and others to make sure you are reacting to the right things at the right volume.

Ignoring something that your brain insists is real and a threat is very tiring, so there's also a lot of sleeping.

Delusions are significantly harder to manage than hallucinations, IMO. Not just because, as a multiply marginalized person there are myriad ways that an ambiguous "them" is actually trying to ruin my life for real. Being on terror watchlists due to racism REALLY makes it IMPOSSIBLE to manage my paranoid delusions because some of the more insane shit is just real.

But there are other delusions that are easier to handle. Mostly, this comes down to self monitoring again. I can take an extra second to ask myself, "hang on, statistically speaking, how likely is it that this total stranger ACTUALLY wants to kill me?" The answer, of course, is "violent crime has been trending down for years, and everyone in this area thinks I'm white as long as I don't go outside during the summer, so I'm safe."

It's all about finding the information that helps keep you calm.

Because the absolute certainty that this is a murderer and you are walking into the slaughter will not go away. You just... take it on faith that this time will turn out as safely as the last 399 times.

It's just a shitload of observation, mimicry, and forcing myself to do things that feel dangerous by reminding myself that they aren't.

That shit sounds simple, but it's a CONSTANT fight; it never really gets easier, you just get used to it.

Which brings me back around to my meds again: I think I prefer it this way. My writing sucks, and I keep crying when I read it because it's wrong, it sounds like a field amputation. But god, I went to a cafe during the morning rush a few days ago, and the overload of noise and data only left me bedridden for ONE day. ONE!!! Not a WEEK!

Maybe losing my only art is okay in light of how much less bad things are.

Anyway, I can't remember the name of the 2014 short story about the One Person With Psychosis being wrongfully shunned by her colony because she doesn't feel affective empathy, in spite of her constant and perfectly reasoned moral code ensuring she is, if anything, the least dangerous person in town. I wish I could remember it!! It's a good example!!!

I haven't read it yet, but people I love and trust seem to generally agree that the psychosis in Harrow the Ninth is well written, too, so maybe check that out IDK

#answered asks #myfriendskickass

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ina-nis · 1 year ago

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I'm becoming more sad and angry, but mostly hopeless about my loneliness and disconnection. How do you... not?

I am too, actually!

I guess in my case, there's this degree of dissociation and distancing from my own emotions and overwhelm like... What am I supposed to do? Cry about it? Scream and shout my despair hoping it will change something? I can (and definitely) do these things, they can help alleviate the pain and they can also make it worse. If I just feel numb, on the other hand, it's "easier" to manage.

Seeing that this is hopeless for now, that I've tried what I could for as long as I could, that I'm now very tired, I just try to do something else, you know? Yes, dedicating time and effort doing my hobbies and other things won't do anything to address the loneliness, disconnection, sadness and pain but they can make me happy because they are things I love - even when I'm at a place where I don't really feel much joy anymore, it doesn't mean joyful things are any less important in my eyes.

Strengthening things that are important to you, holding onto them, finding out what you like (if you don't know that already), can make a lot of difference in the way one deals with these problems... Not addressing them necessarily, but serving as a distraction. Besides, it's never a bad thing to do it, to experience things you like, even when you're not feeling well, especially when you're not feeling well.

I guess knowing that there's more than pain, sadness, loneliness can help, even if you can't make them go away.

And lastly, I believe in change. I believe I feel this way now and those feelings will change over time - that's why I'm working so hard! I guess that gives me some hope too.

Not that it will all get much better or even worse than it is, just that things change, my feelings change, my circumstances change. Holding onto a hope for a better future never helped me, it only made my despair worse so it's not as "in the future", but as in "things are constantly changing all the time".

Hmm, yeah, these can help me, sometimes they don't, sometimes nothing really helps and I have these horrible days where I'm crying a lot and feeling really suicidal. That's understandable since I'm doing the best I can and I know recovery is not linear.

I don't know if any of that can help you, only you can find what does. That's why it's good to reach out and to experiment with things. Maybe dissociating from strong emotions, strengthening your passions and believing in changes will help, maybe there's something else entirely.

It might take some time to figure it out.

#ask #anonymous

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silentmassacres · 24 days ago

Text

fri, nov 1

corpsehood, visions, and guilt

i wish i was dead sometimes. a lot of times, i'll say it's not really true, that i just want a break. but i think i mean it right now.

maybe the cold will comfort me in a way unknown to me.

it's much easier for me to fill the position of a corpse. despite all of my not-quite-personhood, i seem easy to ignore. people make it look that way, at least.

it feels. correct, to me. how many times have i laid, dissociating until i can no longer see and my head begins to sting? i can't imagine it's much different. maybe it's pleasant, but that's not what i aim for. when have i known pleasure? not enough to view it as a natural force.

i do try. i try to be normal and behave in the way i should. anxiety gnaws at my chest and i struggle to breathe, but maybe that's my natural state.

—

i think it's funny, in a way. having gone through so much and, in turn, my sensitivities are dialed up. maybe i'm just. forced to face everything now, rather than letting my body move of it's own accord in a constant dissociative haze.

i look down upon myself for it sometimes. i know others have gotten. maybe not stronger, but better at handling things. defending themselves.

i still think i'd just let it happen. i see no point in fighting it.

—

i have these awful visions. they get worse every now and again. i used to think i was going insane because of it. that was before they became. realer, i guess. it's easier to convince yourself of awful things happening to you being plausible after they really do.

a lot of these visions prey on my vulnerability. being upset. sex. whatever. i'm met with cruelty, and at a certain point, i learn to just take it. i think i've already learned that.

—

i like to imagine i'd stand up for myself. i said that before; i'd never let it happen again. and i did. again and again and again.

it's difficult to decide which is worse — the anxiety of taking it, or the guilt of not. the guilt often is. i can bear the anxiety. i live to please, i guess that's what i'm here for.

there's this awful sense of irony. i'm willing to destroy myself to please, but do i ever really?

it's never quite enough. i worry if it ever will be (maybe i'll lose myself in the process).

—

anxiety makes me spiral. as does everything else. but guilt makes me feel awful. and i can't escape it, not really.

if i'm uncomfortable and don't say something, it's bad. i think of it more as listening to what i'm told to do (standing up for myself), but that isn't exactly a pleasant thing to share. if i don't say anything, i go against that. it's upsetting for others, i suppose, and thus induces guilt. because i am, ultimately, hurting them.

if i do say something, i tend to feel worse. sometimes it's met with a perfect reaction or level of care in the way that i don't worry as much. but it's still there. i throw things off-course and make them unpleasant due to my needs. i need to relearn how to just take it. but i'm not allowed to do that.

it's easier when people don't care for your well-being.

—

i worry a lot about everything. particularly the future. there's an odd mix in my head of "please don't leave me" and "i understand if you do". maybe i look down on myself too much, but i feel it's valid here. i am, ultimately, exhausting to be around. i don't doubt that it's painful to have to provide for me. insist otherwise, but i know.

and it's the tip of the iceberg. i don't think that first night really displayed that i need that level of care constantly. to feel okay-er, i guess. i don't think it matters. i don't see why it would.

—

i forgot about my leg last night. i'm glad i changed in private. i wonder if it'd matter. i think it'd just make things worse.

that's why i don't talk about it. ever. not to her.

#7am #🌬️

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local-lesbrarian · 2 months ago

Text

Sometimes You're Trying to Tell Yourself Something

We recently dug around our old files for a story we kinda remember writing for a college class that, if we recalled correctly, may have had some dissociation/system vibes.

And uh...yeah. It very much does. More than we thought when we went looking. It's about an emotionally repressed people pleaser and a "stranger" who's trying to get through to him but largely failing. And y'all. It's Lilith and Cass. And dissociative episodes, and blacking out when an alter takes over. And we called it "Identity."

The assignment was to emulate Joyce Carol Oates's "Where Are You Going, Where Have you Been," but we ended up with this kinda dark psychological "fable," as our professor put it. And it's about system stuff.

And we wrote it in 2015?!? Eight full years before we knew what we were! This is why we never get rid of anything. I think we've always known, on some level, that our writing is us trying to communicate to ourselves.

Full story (2,323 words) under the cut, if you're interested. Our writing has definitely changed a lot in the last nine years, but I still wouldn't call this a bad draft. Especially for 22.

A----- M-----

Emulation Workshop Draft

10/28/15

Identity

His name was Nik Lundstrom. He had a way of being constantly upbeat. It took effort, but no one else noticed. He was careful about that, knowing a façade of strength was better than a moment of weakness. He was rarely alone.

Nik was one of those freaks who was happy to help people move, driving a Blazer almost as old as he was back and forth across town. When his flatmate needed a ride home from a party, or when his cousin needed help with kinetics homework, or when his coworker at the gas station needed a shift covered, they called Nik. He wouldn’t say no.

He was a good listener, too, and very proud of that. He spent senior prom guiding his date through an emotional breakdown. His sister, Tress, would always call when their dad’s homophobia surfaced. The listening was never a façade. He might go through the motions giving people rides, but he found the emotional burdens easier. Maybe it was the stakes, or maybe he just liked connecting on that level. He sometimes wished he had someone to help him.

Nik didn’t much care for his flatmate, whose name was Michael. For one, Michael had finished college and just started at a law firm. Nik had wanted more from life than study and work. So had Michael, but somehow Michael managed to get high one night and pass his BAR the next. He probably could have moved somewhere better if he didn’t spend so much on drugs. Nik’s family knew Michael’s, and always asked Nik why he didn’t just buckle down and get through those last few semesters like his successful lease partner. Nik deflected and derailed such questions.

The closest his friends got to seeing that positive outlook crack was when he talked to them about Michael. “He’s an asshole without realizing it.” Nik wanted to say things like “Michael’s existence screws me,” but had to hold those sentiments. Saying such things would only make it all worse.

Nik had the night off one Wednesday, a real night off. For once, he took it, getting out of the city lights. He sat on a guardrail over an inky crevasse, a not-quite-sheer descent to the waters of Lake Michigan shining silver under the moon. His Blazer sat dark and cold and empty in the lot that was dark and cold and empty, if only for this one night.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from his sister.

“Thanks for last night,” it said.

“Anytime. Dad will come around,” he sent back. Then he turned his phone off. He just really needed this one night.

He couldn’t avoid a twinge of annoyance when someone else sat on the guardrail, a few feet to his left. He should have been startled—he hadn’t heard anyone coming—but the only mild surprise came from his own calm. Even in the moonlight and fluorescent glow from the lot, he couldn’t make out much of the other’s face or features. Physicality was there—the other existed, but vaguely, as though out of focus. He could see straight black hair, a matching dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves. On one exposed forearm was some twisting tattoo, maybe a snake, and an antique-looking gold watch. The stranger wore sunglasses, dark aviators with a bit of red tint.

“It is a nice night,” the Aviator said with a voice both flat and smooth.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Nice night for a break,” the Aviator said.

He just nodded, trying to focus on the Lake.

“You don’t recognize me?”

“No. Sorry.” He tried to sound disinterested.

“Figures.”

The Aviator lit a cigarette and took a long draw. When the smoke wafted over, he held his breath, denying the pleasure secondhand gave him. Instead, he produced a cough, feigning irritation.

“Been clean for a while now, eh?” the Aviator said.

“Yeah,” he replied before his thoughts caught up. How did this person know he’d ever smoked? Who was this stranger? Was this a stranger?”

“Two years now, by my count,” the Aviator said, turning to glance at him for just a moment, and the sunglasses dropped an inch.

He recognized something familiar, but couldn’t place it. The exposed eyes, maybe? The Aviator pushed the shades back up and turned back, and he forgot what sparked the recognition. As he continued to watch, the obscurity seemed to spread from the Aviator. The guardrail blurred. The sound of wind through pines dulled, and the waves became even more muted than distance alone should dictate. He shook his head and went back to the Lake, and everything returned to normal—as normal as they could be. He must have been more tired than he thought, if reality was now tinged with the surreal.

“Tsh. You really don’t know me,” the Aviator said, taking another long draw. “Makes this a bit of a one-sided conversation.”

“Are we having a conversation?”

He kept his eyes on the Lake, using its immensity as a focus.

“That was the plan.” The Aviator took another long draw.

He risked a peripheral glance, and saw the cigarette was more than half-gone. How long had they been sitting there? It crossed his mind to check the time, but didn’t dare take out his phone. He was scared. He was afraid to break the silence—afraid of what else the Aviator might know. The night was cool, especially near the water, but he felt feverish. A cold sweat percolated between his goosebumps.

“That was the plan,” the Aviator said again.

Without turning, he knew the Aviator was facing him.

“Are you ready?”

“For what? I still don’t—”

“You don’t seem ready. No problem. It looks like we’re out of time, for now.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Yellow light appeared from behind, casting the Aviator in even deeper darkness. Gravel crunched as another vehicle entered the lot.

The Aviator stood, flicked his cigarette over the slope, and started down the road. “I’ll see you later. Don’t worry—we’ll talk again real soon.”

He watched the Aviator go, even as he heard a car door open and close.

“Nik?” said Grant. “Hey man, fancy that. I was just stopping to take a piss.”

Nik rose from the rail and turned to his coworker from the gas station. He glanced down the road, but the other was gone.

Grant was on his way to a bar the next town over, and invited Nik to join him and some friends. Nik acquiesced. Whatever peace he had that night was broken well before. He thought he might have been able to find it again, but had no excuse for a raincheck. He didn’t mention the other to Grant. He didn’t tell anyone about the encounter over the next few days, as he resumed his routine accommodating. His dad threatened to cut off Tress’s financial aid, and Nik had to reassure her. “Mom wouldn’t let him,” he told her. He helped Grant move from a dingy apartment to a stale townhouse. Michael received his first paycheck and bought a $100 bottle of Scotch to share with his law school friends.

On Friday, Nik went out with his parents for Italian. They asked what he’d been up to. His mom said he should visit more often, or at least call. They didn’t understand that if he wanted to feel like a twenty-something dropout with no forward momentum, he could just hang out with Michael—not that he could just say that. Instead, he told his parents about the tutoring, the working, the bar, the move.

��Well, at least you help people out,” his dad said. “That’s good. But why can’t you help yourself out, like Michael does? Jan says he’s a practicing lawyer now.”

That wasn’t totally true. The way Michael put it, he was still closer to a paid intern. But Nik just nodded and ate his linguini for two slurping minutes.

“Where’s Tress?” he asked.

His dad grunted. His mom said Tress was out with her girlfriend.

“Her whore, you mean,” his dad said. His mom shot a look, but his dad didn’t relent. “Tress could have been here, but chooses to hang out with those dykes instead of her own family.”

Nik clenched his fork, but still held composure. “So, you invited her, then?”

His dad looked at him; his mom looked down.

“And you wonder why,” Nik muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Nik’s parents invited him to a party Saturday, some kind of retirement thing for his dad’s boss. They said Michael and his parents would be there, too. He said he wasn’t interested.

“That’s fine,” his dad said, but in a voice like a machine under stress that heralded some future passive-aggression. His mom stayed quiet; she had spoken her piece already.

Nik did dress up a bit Saturday night, but not for the party. He shrugged at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He supposed he just wanted the feeling of clean hair. He got in his old Blazer and drove to the Lake again, but to a different spot. This one was low and close to the water. He still needed a night to himself, but wanted something to drown out the silence. Waves broke on the rocks as he got out of his car and lounged onto a bench. Even over the white noise, though, he heard footsteps. Christ, was that Grant again? He couldn’t do the bar again tonight.

“Am I late?” said a voice both flat and smooth.

He craned his neck and saw the strange person from that strange night, wearing the same black shirt, dusky-red aviators, and venerable gold watch. Except this time, there was another—dirtier, with some ratty sport coat and smaller sunglasses. The new one looked everywhere but the bench.

“Am I late?” the Aviator asked again.

“Don’t know.” He tried to match the flat tone, covering his anxiety with apathy. “What for?”

“Still haven’t caught on?”

“To what?”

The Aviator laughed a little, sitting down at the other end of the bench. “Should we continue our conversation? We didn’t really get started last time.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“I don’t know you.”

“262-65-2548,” the other said.

He felt a pit open up at the recitation of his social security number.

“Twenty-five years old,” the other said. “Three cousins on the father’s side, five on the mother’s. A sister—though your father would beg to differ on that.”

He tried to stand up, but slid down instead, onto the cold sand and dewy beach grass.

“Hey man, I’m your friend tonight. Nothing to worry about.”

The other night, he was just a bit tired. But now, he was definitely freaking out. Losing motor control. Hallucinating. Just too much this week, was all. These strangers could be real, some kind of stalkers, but then why were they so blurry? Why could he sense the night growing darker? This must be what blacking out feels like. The others weren’t there—couldn’t be. He was alone.

“I’m still here,” the Aviator said, now also on the ground.

He hadn’t heard any movement, or seen the stranger move in his periphery. “I should get going,” he said.

“No, let’s talk.”

The one in the sport coat shuffled through the sand, nervously, still not looking at the bench. “You want me to slash his tires?”

The Aviator clenched a fist. “Shut your wordhole!” Then the Aviator relaxed, said not to mind the new one, mumbling some name he didn’t catch. Said the new one was just high, and wouldn’t slash any tires.

“I’m leaving,” he said, struggling against the encroaching gloom. “I have things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Things.”

“Like that party? It’s a bust. No action there.”

“How do you even know?”

“I know who’s there. Your folks; Michael Allenson; Mr. and Mrs. Allenson; Justin Kiser; Anna Ramirez—Tress’s gal. I know everybody.”

“You don’t know me,” he said through the increasing constriction in his chest. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”

The Aviator lit up a cigarette. “I know you.”

“What’s my name, then? You know all this other shit, all these other names—what’s mine?”

Sportcoat broke into hysteric laughter.

“You’re crazy,” the Aviator said. “More of a caricature than a character.”

Sportcoat shuffled off, and the Aviator answered the question.

“What’s your name? Names have little use here. As for who you are—well, that you have to tell yourself. Maybe if you gave yourself one honest look, you’d figure out who I am, too. Who we are, I should say.”

“I’m leaving. I could leave right now.”

“But you won’t. You don’t want to. It’s so much easier to let others tell you what you want. Who you are. You’re afraid of real choices. They interrupt your precious routine, challenge your identity, channel your blame to yourself when you inevitably hit the ground. God forbid you do something to help yourself.”

The night deepened as the Aviator spoke. Everything grew duller—every sense decaying into grey and umber. The wind died. The Lake died. The meager light died. He couldn’t remember where his car was, or what kind it was. He tried to stand. He willed his arms to push, his feet to set themselves under him, but nothing moved. His chest tightened further. There was no sound but the Aviator’s voice, not even the rustle of clothes from trembling limbs. He was suffocating on the night, choking on the howling dark, the screaming silence around them.

“Tell me what I want,” he managed to say.

“You want to stay here, where neither of us know your name.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

The Aviator, removing the shades and locking his gaze. “Wrong question.”

“Who am I?”

“The fearful part of me.”

The Aviator blinked, and Nik was gone.

#system stuff #dissociation #old writing #also like #our first car was a blazer #we got hella dad issues #made the sister a lesbian because we just thought lesbians were so cool #and we wanted to be one so bad i mean what

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