#but weirdly i was more functional when i was dissociating.

[myrtaceaae]

Really frustrating to feel my declining mental health, desperately trying to stop it, getting no results

[thethingything]

okay so the thing of repurposing a cleaning app to help with organising system stuff has been really helpful so far, but it's also really funny looking at it and seeing "it's shiny clean" or "good enough" next to various alters' names

[denimbex1986]

'I was about three episodes into the Netflix Ripley mini-series when I decided to read the Patricia Highsmith novel it was based on. A question about the setting of the mini-series sparked my interest in the novel. The series claimed to have been set in 1961, but it gave me feelings of post-war Italy, maybe 1949 or so.

The answer is that the Highsmith novel was published in 1955, which means that it captures a cultural sense of the mid-1950s. 1961 is not too far off from that.

By now, everyone should know that the title character, Tom Ripley, is a sociopath. The word “sociopathy” is not used in either presentation. The acting of Andrew Scott in the Netflix series captures the essence of a sociopath. Scott plays Ripley as awkward, autitistic, and anhedonic — Scott’s Ripley is one off-beat, creepy dude.

The opening scene in the Netflix series is a perfect representation of the sociopath in action. On the spur of the moment, Ripley intercepts a letter from a postal carrier by acting as if he is going into an apartment. He then uses the letter to scam the sender to send a replacement check to him by posing as a bill collector. He has to abandon the cashing of the check when he senses that he is about to be unmasked. The sequence portrays the opportunism of a lot of crime, which has to be the domain of sociopaths who do not hesitate a moment out of guilt or conscience.

In contrast, it doesn’t seem that Highsmith had a developed knowledge of sociopathy. Her Ripley is weirdly bipolar. He transitions from bouts of manic exuberance about his plans to bitter resentment about the injustices he feels he has been subjected to. Highsmith’s Ripley is not nearly as disciplined as the Netflix Ripley. In Highsmith’s novel, for example, Ripley just collects the checks from his victims without ever trying to cash them.

This could reflect the development of the idea of the sociopath/psychopath as a fictional type. We have had decades of tropes and caricatures about high-functioning sociopaths that Highsmith didn’t have. While the idea of psychopathy was introduced in the 1950s, sociopathy had been known since the 1930s.[3] One source describes the history of sociopathy as follows:

While psychopathy was yet to make its premiere in the DSM, sociopathic personality disturbance, or sociopathy, was included in the DSM-I. Sociopathy was developed in the 1930s and consisted of antisocial and dissocial reactions and sexual deviation (Pickersgill, 2012). Differences and similarities existed between sociopathic personality disorder and psychopathy, however psychopathy would not have its own category in the DSM until the publication of the DSM III. In DSM-I, sociopathic personality disturbance, antisocial reaction was defined as a diagnosis for chronically antisocial individuals who didn’t profit from experience or punishment and maintained no real loyalties (Pickersgill, 2012).

This could explain why Tom Ripley is not the smooth and charming manipulator we expect to see in more recent stories involving psychopaths.

It might also explain why Highsmith edges around the homosexual issue.

It seems clear from Highsmith’s novel that Tom is “same-sex attracted.” He is a young man (around 24 or 25) who has been “kept” by a wealthier male who treats him as a possession. Highsmith shares that Tom runs in homosexual circles and poses as a homosexual but is a virgin:

His mind went back to certain groups of people he had known in New York, known and dropped finally, all of them, but he regretted now having ever known them. They had taken him up because he amused them, but he had never had anything to do with any of them! When a couple of them had made a pass at him, he had rejected them — though he remembered how he had tried to make it up to them later by getting ice for their drinks, dropping them off in taxis when it was out of his way, because he had been afraid they would start to dislike him. He’d been an ass! And he remembered, too, the humiliating moment when Vic Simmons had said, Oh, for Christ sake, Tommie, shut up! when he had said to a group of people, for perhaps the third or fourth time in Vic’s presence, “I can’t make up my mind whether I like men or women, so I’m thinking of giving them both up.” Tom had used to pretend he was going to an analyst, because everybody else was going to an analyst, and he had used to spin wildly funny stories about his sessions with his analyst to amuse people at parties, and the line about giving up men and women both had always been good for a laugh, the way he delivered it, until Vic had told him for Christ sake to shut up, and after that Tom had never said it again and never mentioned his analyst again, either. As a matter of fact, there was a lot of truth in it, Tom thought. As people went, he was one of the most innocent and clean-minded he had ever known. That was the irony of this situation with Dickie.

Highsmith, Patricia. The Talented Mr. Ripley (pp. 79–80). W. W. Norton & Company. Kindle Edition.

On the other hand, everyone who knows Tom suspects that he is a homosexual. He is fixated on Dickie. He becomes jealous when he sees Dickie with his girlfriend, Marge Sherwood.

In the Netflix series, this backstory is not revealed. There are clues that he might be homosexual and attracted to Dickie, such as the weird scene where he dresses as Dickie, which prompts Dickie to tell Tom that he is not “queer.”

In the book, Tom’s two murders occur after homosexuality is derided. Before Tom murders Dickie, the two men are watching the gymnastics of a group of men that Dickie describes as “daffodils” by quoting lines from a poem. This sets Tom off on a chain of thinking about taking over Dickie’s life after he remembers Aunt Dottie describing him as a “sissy.” Later, Tom justifies killing Freddie Miles for accusing Dickie of “sexual deviation”:

The gin only intensified the same thoughts he had had. He stood looking down at Freddie’s long, heavy body in the polo coat that was crumpled under him, that he hadn’t the energy or the heart to straighten out, though it annoyed him, and thinking how sad, stupid, clumsy, dangerous, and unnecessary his death had been, and how brutally unfair to Freddie. Of course, one could loathe Freddie, too. A selfish, stupid bastard who had sneered at one of his best friends — Dickie certainly was one of his best friends — just because he suspected him of sexual deviation. Tom laughed at that phrase “sexual deviation.” Where was the sex? Where was the deviation? He looked at Freddie and said low and bitterly: “Freddie Miles, you’re a victim of your own dirty mind.”

Highsmith, Patricia. The Talented Mr. Ripley (pp. 140–141). W. W. Norton & Company. Kindle Edition.

However, Freddie didn’t make such an accusation. Tom killed him because Freddie had noticed him wearing Dickie’s shoes and Dickie’s bracelet.

In contrast, the Netflix series takes the Freddie character toward gingercide. In the novel, Freddie is a redhead, which disgusts Ripley. Highsmith writes:

The American’s name was Freddie Miles. Tom thought he was hideous. Tom hated red hair, especially this kind of carrot-red hair with white skin and freckles.

Highsmith, Patricia. The Talented Mr. Ripley (p. 64). W. W. Norton & Company. Kindle Edition.

And who doesn’t feel this way?

A lot of people, apparently, given the disappearance of soulless day-walkers from popular media.

In the Netflix series, Freddie is played by a former (or current) female — the actor is Elliott Summer, who, as it turns out, is Sting’s daughter. The actor who plays Freddie is obviously a woman trying to pass as a man, which means the character is obviously a woman trying to pass as a man, but nothing is ever made of this.

It was like Chekov’s gun was left hanging on the wall.

We are in a Heisenberg’s Trans situation. Is the fact that Freddie is trans part of the story, or are we supposed to pretend that the woman playing the man is a man in both the story and the real world?

Was the character/actor's sexual confusion supposed to be a stand-in for Ripley’s confusion? Are we now supposed to read the actor’s biographies as a metatext to understand the film?

I hope not.

But what does it mean? I don’t have a clue.

The conclusion was another difference between the two. In the novel, Ripley gets away clean. No one ever finds a photo of Dickie Greenleaf and realizes that they’ve been hornswoggled, which, honestly, is strange in retrospect. Certainly, photos were common enough in the 1950s for police to ask the family for a photo to show people in their search for Dickie. The subject is never raised, and the reader may never consider it.

In contrast, in the Netflix series, Tom dives into another identity with the help of John Malkovich, who played Tom Ripley in Ripley’s Game, a movie based on a later Ripley novel.

There are some fascinating details in both the novel and the series, but the characters never resonated with me. In both vehicles, the character of Tom Ripley is not redeemed by intelligence, cleverness, or charisma. In both, he reacts to circumstances. In the novel, the killing of Dickie Greeleaf is deliberate in the sense of being premeditated, but there is no deliberation about the crime or how Tom will escape. In the series, it is an emotional reaction that is thoroughly botched and results in Ripley nearly killing himself. Watching Ripley extemporize a cover-up, which he botched badly, was painful.

In the series, there are moments when Ripley almost displays the criminal competence that I assume he cultivates during the next four books. After that flash of competence, he quickly returns to form, doing imprudent and pathological things. We might be fascinated with his performance if he were competent, but he is such a klutz.

So, what is the enduring appeal of this book? There have been three Ripley movies or series, and the book has been in print for nearly 70 years. Why did I read it? Ripley is an evil man who deserves to have been captured and executed.

Perhaps, the answer is that — God help us — we are fascinated by evil. Maybe we all have an inner sociopath who is begging to be let out to play.'

[sorority-system]

ive seen a few anti endos claim you wont find endogenic research on google. lets talk about it! (note this whole post is meant as /gen and /info with no aggression)

this is what happens when you look up “endogenic system research” (it cant be just “endo” or “endogenic” because those are different disorders!)

this also happens when you look up that same search

but if you look in that first picture, theres a research done which i will link here . heres what youll find:

(skipped a lot that went over OSDDID basics. i will also only be talking about one of the non traumagenic participants)

“Her system started when she was 17 years old: ‘We were not created by trauma. It started from being a singlet (one body, one person), but then, we lost our sense of self. The boundaries of self became less and less distinct, and we slipped into each other. (…)’ The system used to be a “multiplex” (a large “complex” system with many members) but has changed to a medium size now(…) She thinks that one of her therapists had the suspicion that she had DID but rejected carrying out an assessment for differential diagnosis because he thought this was a good coping mechanism for her; therefore, “he didn't want to take it away.” Nowadays, she experiences a great amount of stress as a result of living on benefits and hints that these difficulties in her life are connected to the difficulties within the system.”

this is an example of an endogenic system now having trauma due to that system.

there were two more endogenic systems in that study. and one with a prof DX for DID and one with a diagnosis of PTSD. heres more what the study had to say

“The existence of the system often dated back to childhood and, in some instances, even to the earliest memories. Certain cases appeared to exist as a result of trauma, but in most cases, there did not seem to be any preceding traumatic event. The condition appears to be resistant to antipsychotic medications, except in one case. All six cases found the existence of the term and the concept of multiplicity helpful. They also found that online forums were a place where they could encounter other multiples and interact in a helpful way. Multiplicity and the possibility for online socializing appear to be a way of coping, which results in a relatively better level of functionality.”

and it further states:

“There are several notions that support the idea of an extreme form of identity complexity, whereas others support the notion of a dissociative disorder. Nevertheless, group identity and the possibility for interaction provided by multiplicity forums seem to help members understand and accept their experiences, thus improving their ability to cope.”

i also think an important part of this whole study is that they never denied the endogenic systems were real. it was an informative study with no opinions or real discourse on it. instead just acknowledging the fact that non traumagenic systems do exist. i highly encourage other people to read through the study. it was weirdly touching. it was a piece of plural history that said “hey. we’re here” for both OSDDID and endos alike.

[multiplicity-positivity]

Hello :) I have cptsd and recently learned about plurality, and sort of felt like I could relate, in a weirdly specific creepy kinda way. I’m wondering what it “feels”/sounds like for you, when you’re co-con/co-fronting (?) or just generally when you have a thought, that comes from a different person than yourself? For me, it feels like it all comes from within my “brain”, but I can’t really tell if it’s maybe just me thinking something or if it’s someone else speaking. I hope this makes sense, would love to hear your thoughts on the subject!

Hi! So for starters, we have this other ask we answered a few months ago discussing the differences between our own thoughts, feelings, and memories, and the thoughts, feelings, and memories of other alters in our system. It might be able to help answer your questions!

And now, we cannot speak for every system when it comes to cofronting or being coconscious. However, we can describe what these experiences are like in our system, for us, personally!

As we understand it, there’s a difference between cofronting and coconscious. Here’s how we’d define and experience each!

Cofronting: two or more members are fronting at the same time. In our system, we either act as copilots, working together to speak, act, and control the body, or we temporarily fuse or blend, functioning as one entity for a period of time. Right now, both Margo and Cecil are fronting, and we’re functioning as one person. Our thoughts feel blurred and we can’t fully distinguish whose thoughts and ideas come from who. Our memories function like a shared bank when cofronting, so Margo has access to Cecil’s memories and Cecil has access to Margo’s! When we’re cofronting without blending, we generally can work together to live our life without sharing memories, and it’s much easier for us to tell whose thoughts are coming from who.

Coconscious: this is a term we use for alters who aren’t exactly fronting, but are able to sense what’s happening in the world. This is how our host, Parker, generally lives his life. He’s able to see the world and hear the world, but isn’t able to interact with anything and is not in control of the body. Usually it comes with varying levels of dissociation. Sometimes when we’re coconscious we can see and hear the outside world quite clearly! Other times, the world seems hazy, foggy, or fuzzy, and things sound muffled and distorted. When coconscious, we might have trouble remembering things later, and we’re more likely to experience amnesia to some extent (usually emotional amnesia). The events that we witness when coconscious usually don’t feel like they’re happening to us!

Sorry if this response is confusing or doesn’t make much sense! This is how we’d describe these aspects of plurality that we regularly experience, though we’re not sure if our explanations are actually beneficial or even if other systems experience cofronting or coconsciousness in a similar way!

Best of luck to you in figuring this out though! So sorry we couldn’t be of more help!

🌸 Margo and 🖋 Cecil

[softsky-daily]

8/24/2023

Maybe I ought to learn more about clouds or something so I can understand why they form all these different shapes.

Positive thing: It was a rough day but I talked to a friend and it made me feel better. <3

Yeah basically it was just one of those days of crying on and off and dissociating and trying to stay as functional as possible. Mostly I just played a lot of Yakuza 7 after work. I'm level grinding for the final boss. I'm not sure if it's because I might've forgotten some details but the ending half of the story feels kinda weirdly paced. Still pretty fun though.

I was just sitting on the couch a while (something I hardly do) and looking at the afternoon light come through the window. The last thing I hand-washed is still drying out.

It was kind of funny, I had spent some time trying to help out one friend with his troubles and then I talked to another friend about my own troubles. Also I'm meeting with a friend tomorrow to give him some stuff he left with me in Japan that he didn't have room to take himself. We're meeting up at a Panera Bread which I'm not jazzed about because I've been pettily boycotting them for years since I quit working there in undergrad. I guess the food itself is fine. Then again I haven't been there in a long time so I wouldn't know.

I don't know why but I remembered the time I went to an aquarium while I was in Tokyo and sitting on one of the benches watching this huge tank of tuna.

Here it is. Those fish were huge up close too. But somehow still lightning fast - I remember they'd bolt when they got startled by something and be on the other side of the tank in seemingly less than a second.

That was quite the day in general. It was raining the whole time basically. I remember wandering around the park getting drenched even with my umbrella.

I think it'd be nice to go do something like that again. Just be at the mercy of some mild weather inconvenience. Feel something real for once. Even - or maybe especially - in the cold and wet of that afternoon it felt like one of the realest days I'd ever had.

[the-ghost-bird]

Day Three and Four on A

These past days I've been feeling more awake, more energetic. It's like i need less sleep to function. I've never been a morning persob but I'm waking up and feeling like one. I'm not necessarily eager to start the day but i do have energy for it, which is great considering I'm used to having morning depression.

I'm getting some weird disconnect from mind and body. There were a couple times where i thought i was getting anxiety shakes because i could physically feel it but when i looked at my hands, they weren't shaking. Despite seeing that my hands werent shaking, my brain was weirdly convinced that they were and i could feel it. I'm used to dpdr dissociations but this felt quite different and im not sure i would say classifies as dpdr.

I really don't want to sleep, but I'm not sure if it's the meds or just me having a lot of shit on my to-do list that i really want to get done. I usually don't wanna sleep in general but i guess the feeling is a bit more intense

[confinesofmy]

no but fr why do i feel soo happy when i'm drunk? it's like. like i'm less dissociative, i physically move better, either because i'm in less pain or because i weirdly have a better understanding of the exact proportions of my body, i get more done and am more satisfied with the results even after i've sobered up, i'm happier and more prone to spontaneously doing nice healthy good things. why does this happen and how do i get it more than once a month without compromising my liver function lol. lmao. haha.

[lovely-necromancy]

A Cure for Insomnia Ch 19

Your bags were jumping and sliding around in the back of Madeline's rusty pickup truck. She had been kind enough to offer you a ride up to the lodge when she stopped by the shop earlier.

Madeline had seen the sour look Nate kept sending you and how you were intentionally not looking over towards the soon to be graying young man. Not one to beat around the bush she asked what was up, mam bear mode peeking through.

Nate was just being a dick to you and saying you had to stay with the Cowells longer than what had originally been agreed to. Big Jo seemed fine about letting you go back home now, even with your resolve set to continue hanging out with Toby. But Nate was trying to put a tight leash on you since you “wouldn't listen to reason” - so he said.

Even with security at the cottage updated Nate still thought it best to keep you with them if you were planning to still interact with Toby. More than likely he was trying to make that harder for you to do since staying with them would definitely make it easier for him to keep track of you.

The thought alone set shivers down your spine. Like a constrictor slithering up your back to rest around your neck and do what it does best.

It had been really hard to breathe these last few days.

But all Madeline needed to hear was “Nate” and “being a dick” before she said she'd take you herself. Thereby ending the conversation and silent argument in the shop, as she spun on her heel stating when she'd pick you up later.

Nate hadn't been too happy about the exchange but he could suck your dick. He's been annoying you with all this Toby bullshit and doesn't get to tell you what he thinks right now.

The drive up is silent, but that comfortable kind of silence between two old friends who don't ever really have a need to talk to hang out. It's nice because it gives you tons of time to think about just what you're about to do.

Going over several scripts all at once in your head.

You want to talk to Toby. You still haven't read that file but it just doesn't sit right with you that it was ever even given to you in the first place. Toby being completely unaware of the total breech of privacy makes your stomach flip just like your bags in the back right now. It's not like you ever asked for the detailed life file but at the same time it feels wrong not to let Toby know tht something like that even exists for him. His past being dug back up all without his knowledge or consent. And now here you were about to lay it right down in front of him.

Was this the right move? You're the one bringing it to his attention, if it's something that will mess him up it'll be your fault that he's upset. Jo and Nate may have gotten the information but you still count yourself as being a complacent party to all of this.

Your stomach feels like it's on a drop tower as it sinks further into a pit of guilt.

You feel like the scum of the Earth right now. Hopefully he isn't too upset.

Seeing your downcast eyes, you were a lot more expressive than you ever really realized, Madeline pipes up, “You gon' be ok there sport?”

A small smile bit at your lips. There's a reason Madeline Cobb was known in Kepler as Mama. She took care of those she saw as her own and that was damn near half the town at this point. Hell you'd heard a rumor she raised most this town. The lodge had been her orphanage  before all the kids grew up and turned it into a resort once new arrivals stopped coming. That's probably the reason it's always been so warm and welcoming, it was a home first.

“Yea...just nervous.”

She lets out a small chuckle at you.

“Don' be, 'm sure that Toby boy will say 'yes'. And if he don' well you just come find me. I'll set him right.”

Ok now you were just confused.

“Huh?”

“Don' worry about it, he likes you jus' like you like 'im. It'll work out for you two.” she reaches over and ruffles your hair before jumping out of the pickup. You hadn't realized you were already at your destination.

And it was too late to correct Mama, she'd already made it inside the lodge, about why you were so nervous. The warmth in your face makes you even more grateful for your mask. Barclay was getting bit by the end of the night, the man really needed to get a boyfriend and stop trying to manifest one for you.

The door to the lodge opens again, you hardly paid it any mind. So lost in your own musing you didn't even notice the man walking towards you. Your goat plush had fallen beneath your seat and you were attempting to grab it but it was too far out of your reach.

“You good there?” Toby's amused voice calls, startling you.

Popping your head out of the opened car door. Heart racing faster at the sight of your friend standing there with a small smirk on his bandaged face. You weren't ready for this.

His eye looks better, well like a normal black eye and not a swollen lump that threatened to over take his socket. Now his eye looked like it could still function out of the slight opening. Fuck this was hard enough when you'd pictured only one eye looking at you but now you had to calculate for both!?

Is it weird that this is what worries you? Are you derailing from the actual situation? Distracting yourself so the conversation is easier on you. So you don't have to think about the possibility that Toby won't want to be friends after this. That he'll end up hating you for something you hadn't done.

God you really want to cry.

“Hey, space cadet.” Toby's made his way over to your side and puts a gentle hand on you knee, “You ok? Did something happen?”

He's really sweet, you're going to miss him.

No, stop. You need to get a grip and stop thinking like this. Toby will understand and you guys can continue being friends, a bit awkwardly but still friends. You'd get to hang out and maybe wander through the Monongahela together.

“I...I dropped my goat.”

He cocks his head to the side, brows slowly smoothing out and he gives a gentle squeeze to your legs as he reaches under you, hand searching for your lost plush.

The warmth that was once collecting in your cheeks shoots down past the void sitting in your stomach. Just another thing to add to your list you suppose. After a week of nearly no privacy or comfort you are thoroughly pent up. You don't necessarily want Toby, just need someone or something to help relieve the fire between your thighs. He just happens to be in proxcimity of that fire, poking the flame that hasn't been snuffed during your stay with the Cowells, making it dance and writhe reminding you of the need.

But you can't focus on that yet, you'd give yourself a hand when you finally got back home. Right now you needed to focus on Toby. And having that uncomfortable conversation.

“Here he is.” placing the goat in your lap he looks into your eyes, a slight glint in his.

He's in a really good mood tonight. You have to ignor the whispers in your head, telling you you're about to ruin this for him.

Luckily a tic to the right shoos those thoughts away for you.

“YN?” his hand is back on your knee, it's such a small gesture maybe even completely subconscious but it helps ground you.

You haven't read that file but you can't see Toby ever doing something awful enough to warrant Nate's barrage of paranoia and fear. Even if he did....he couldn't still be bad right? You're such a good judge of character and you called Brian on his masking there's no way you'd miss Toby lying to your face.

“I...” he's looking into your eyes searching as you take a steadying breath, “I just really need a slushie right now.” your eyes drop to the goat in your hands.

You fucking coward.

It's silent for a moment as you chastise yourself for not just coming out and telling Toby you wanted to talk. Toby's hand falls easily from your knee and to his side.

“A'right then, you good to drive?” you really missed your chance here, “'cuz Brian's got Connor tonight.”

Wait what?

You look at Toby who simply raises the right side of his mouth in a lopsided grin. A subtle raise of his right brow tells you he understood what you'd asked for. When was the last time anyone was ever able to read you so well?

“Yes!” you push the goat into Toby's chest and practically dive into the back seat for your bags. “I can drive. Franklin?”

“Don't work tomorrow, so sure.”

His good mood seems to pick back up a bit. He's chuckling as you rush to gather everything and head over to your car, barely shutting Mama's door as you do. Toby gives it a good bump with his hip to make sure it shut properly. He unlocks your car for you and slides into the passenger's seat while you arrange your shit in the trunk.

You catch sight of the skull still in your trunk and figure you'll just leave it as is for now. Since it seems that literally every time you close this trunk you forget it exists. Bye weirdly placed deer skull maybe one day you'll have a wall mount worthy of your beauty.

Before closing the trunk you do rab the file. Maybe having it up front with you will help you actually tell Toby about it.

When you open the driver's side Toby's hand is already outstretched and waiting for your phone, this isn't his first rodeo after all. You can't help but smile as you hand it right over to him. He notices, because of course he does, and beams back at you. Sending more warmth throughout your body. After collecting your emotions the guilt comes back around.

You need to stop being horny on main. And in front of Toby no less. It's weird, like you're riled up for him and not because you're attention starved and haven't known solitude for over a week.

By the time you're driving off the lot Toby had picked you 'Let's drive to nowhere' playlist. A perfect choice for tonight, seeing as these are all either songs to dissociate to or have mental break downs with. And with you obnoxious emotions either is up for grabs. Aside from the music the car was silent as you drove out of town.

You were so wrapped up in what to say to Toby, how to say it, when – that you ended up not saying anything at all. Toby on the other hand couldn't wait for you any longer and broke the silence himself.

A habit he seems to have, must not like silences.

“Normally you don't shut up,” the words were harsh but his tone wasn't for once.

He watches as the scenery changes from quaint country road to interstate. “Did something happen?”

An awkward anxious smile makes its way on to your face. You've never been good at schooling your features and smiling was unfortunately your default in the even of confrontation. It was probably just your brain's way of protecting you from emotional trauma.

“Sorta.”

To his credit Toby waits for three full songs before prying for more information.

“Another attack?” he's on edge.

To be fair you are too.

“No, like hell Jo and Nate wo-would let me leave if that were it.” your head jerks twice to the right. You miss Toby's wince.

Nate barely let you leave the shop today, you had to get outside assistance aka Mama.

“Ok, so what happened then?” as you bit your lip trying to find your words Toby is running through his own list of possibilities. “Dis Ma- Tim do something to you?”

Huh?

Why would Tim have anything to do with this? Are they still fighting? But Brian has Connor tonight...that doesn't seem likely but you've really only hung out with Toby thus far. You don't know enough about their group dynamic.

You also didn't miss the beginning syllable Toby said. Was he trying to say 'Matt', 'Mark', 'Manny'? There were so many names that Tim's alter could have but at the least you've more or less been told there is an alter to begin with.

But why would Toby be concerned about Tim's alter? Was he the one that punched Toby? Were they actually the two fighting and not Tim and Toby? This is confusing just being on the outside, you have no idea how the trio copes with this situation.

“Oh no, Tim and Not Tim have been nice to me.” if you're coming clean about the file might as well come clean about knowing Tim has an alter. This way Toby could pass along the message to Tim and Not Tim.

“Back up, not liter-mrrow – literally. 'Not Tim'? You've met Mas-Ma-Masky?!”

Masky? That's a strange name, but who were you to judge the name someone gave themself. Maybe he's a He/Him enby.

“Not like formally or anything, but I'm pretty sure he was the one that helped me and Ronnie out the other week.” you switch lanes to drive off of the interstate, hoping to find a secluded road to have this conversation on.

God knows it's going to take all of your concentration.

Toby was seething in his seat and you know the tension is only going to get worse going forward.

You can hear him muttering to himself, 'of course' or 'he didn't remember', over and over. Finding a good place to park the car you take it and turn to Toby, who's still lost in his own head.

“Tobias.” you call trying to jostle him and it works a little too well in a sense. As he blurts out, “Don't! Masky's dangerous stay away from him!”

He immediately freeze like he hadn't meant to say that. And while it wasn't a tic it was probably an impulse brought on by his anxious frame of mind. He's popping his knuckles again too.

You don't know why you said it, looking at Toby's wide blown pupils – riddled with fear and nerves, you should've kept you mouth shut.

“Dangerous like you?”

Or at least phrased that a bit more eloquently.

Toby's eyes grow dark and his good eye cuts low nearly matching it's swollen twin. A shiver runs down your spine even though you know the malice is not for you.

“What.” he hisses out.

It's not a question, it's an order. He wants to know what you know and maybe even who told you. Maybe he thinks Masky told you something, since that was the topic of the previous conversation.

Dark eyes watch you like a hawk as you pull the file from the map holder in your door. His chest is nearly heaving with every breath at this point, can he hyperventilate? That's a dumb question he most certainly can. And he's either on his way to that or a panic attack. You hope you don't send him into a panic attack, Connor's not here to help. Connor know pressure though, Toby's had him preform it on you during your spells. Would it work the same if you laid on top of Toby? You're getting too distracted right now.

Not trusting yourself to not just back down now, you hold the folder out to Toby to take.

He's just staring at it like it'll attack him at any moment, and honestly it might...just not physically. He glances up at you. There's a funny flash of deja vu likening back to the first time you met. Cold indifferent and confused eyes looking at you as though you were some strange alien they'd never seen before. This time however there's a spark of something else in them. Something dark that festers beneath the surface. Was that hatred, betrayal, or was that the wall he was building back up. The wall that would sever this friendship.

Stop projecting. He hasn't even taken the file, he can't possibly know what's going on right now.

“What's that?” see.

“Nate got super protective after the attack, I guess the other day you just like rubbed him the wrong way. So, he had someone look into you. That file is everything they found...pretty sure it's your whole life, I swear I haven't read anything. Not even a peek. But Jo and Nate tried to tell me the-”

He snatched the file from you before you'd even said you hadn't looked. He opened it and a second later it was closed and he took a shaky breath before looking at you.

It was your turn to look like a deer in headlights tonight, you knew that breath was one of barely concealed rage. This was it, this was where everything ended, all because Nate had “a bad feeling” about Toby.

But you trusted Toby, he wouldn't hurt you. He was your friend.

“So” he lets out a harsh sigh, “you didn't...you haven't read anything?”

You hastily shake your head, “What did they tell you.” he looks off to the side and his mouth is all screwed up, and not in it's normal mangled sense.

“That I shouldn't see you anymore, you did something bad, awful, terrifying; Nate's list goes on but I sort of...fo the fingers in the ear 'lalala' thing” you say sheepishly, “anytime he tries to tell me something. Jo stops when I ask him to. He's not too worried about you...I think.”

Or he's working behind the scene to keep you and Toby separated for the long run but that's speculation and not the point of this conversation so you don't mention it.

Toby's flipping through the file skimming it, no doubt looking for his checkered past, he finds what he's looking for and nods once continuing on like he was reading a grocery list. Which he may as well have been, a grocery list of all his transgressions. With the way his fingers gripped the edges of the folder you could tell he was putting on a front about the contents.

They did bother him.

“Why didn't you look, why didn't you listen YN?” was he seriously angry at you for that?

“It was an invasion of your privacy. Whatever's in there I wanted you to have the ability to tell me on your own terms – if you ever even wanted to. Not because you were forced into it because I found out from some third party that doesn't even know you.”

“Then why the fuck did you -wrong- practically jump into a car with me and then hand me a file on my shitty life!?!” He slammed the file down into his lap with a lot of force, more than he should have used for sure. “They think I'm a menace and they're right you shouldn't have...you need to...” he trails off looking like he's trying to disintegrate the file in front of him with latent laser eye abilities.

His arms are shaking.

No – he's trembling. The way he's biting his lip tips you off. He's trying to hold himself together, trying to stop himself from breaking. This can't be the same person Nate's so worried about.

“You're biting your lip, that's not good for you.”

“Fuck off.” it's half hearted at best, no real weight behind the words. And he does let his abused lip go.

“It's a breech of trust if I didn't tell you this...I wanted to give you the file because you should know it's been read by two people, to my knowledge.” you place a hand on his forearm, “Toby, I don't know what you've done in the past but...you know you aren't that person now, right?”

He's out of the car in an instant, slamming the door behind him. You follow, as dumb as you understand it is, getting out of your car in the middle of no where with a very unstable person.

“Get back in the car. I mrrow I can't...I need a minute.” his shaking is so much worse now that he's standing, It's even put a tremble in his voice.

“You're stupid if you think I'm leaving you alone in the middle of no where.” you stand your ground, he may need space but this is not the place to have it. You're only a few miles from town, you can get him back to the lodge where he doesn't have to see or be near you.

Hell you won't say a word on the way back.

“Like you're not stupid for ignoring the warnings that I'm dangerous! I've killed people! Did you know that?! Did you even think that's what was so bad!?” he's giving you the same glare he had on when he talked about the fight with Tim.

“I could literally kill you right now, you've driven us out to who knows where but still remained in walking distance back to town. You live on the outskirts of it and it'd be so easy for me to make you disappear and everyone would believe your stalkers got to you.” his chest heaves at a vicious rate.

Despite the venom and truth of his words, you can't find it in you to be scared of him. If anything his rant proves Toby must not have been mentally well during his crimes, he's acting like a cornered alley cat not a serial killer. There's a vice grip on you heart at the thought.

“Ok...are you?”

It's like a switch has been flipped in him and he calms instantly.

“What?” he knows what you're asking.

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked like you'd been asking what time it was.

He stares at you looking you up and down, “No...I wouldn't.” his neck jerks triggering your own tic.

“Then I'm safe.” you slowly approach him, much like you would a feral alley cat. “I trust you Tobias.” you reach out to tough his arm again.

It hadn't worked in the car but Toby does seem to calm down faster when he's being touched. Like the sensation brings him back to reality and locks him there.

“Y-you shouldn'n'n't.”

He doesn't pull away this time as you place your hands gently on his forearms. His eyes raise to meet yours.

“...I've killed.”

He sounds so helpless.

The only thing you find shocking about this is that he actually did it. You know people are capable of all sorts of vile things. But the way Toby's voice breaks, the tremors that run through his body. You can't see any similarity with the horror show you once imagined, a Toby covered head to toe in blood and a vicious grin.

The fact that Toby killed doesn't really phase you much more than the ever present 'how' that rings out. He must have had a reason. Jo wasn't too worried so maybe it was circumstantial. Not to mention Toby's among the general public. Could it have just been an accident? A misunderstanding?

“I don't – no I'm not going to say 'I don't care', because this is something that really effects you but I...I guess what I'm trying to get at is..it doesn't bother me. I know it should but, Tobias I just can't picture you as a murderer.” that blood stained Toby flashes before you singing 'liar', “I got to know you before finding out any of this. So, I know there must've been a reason behind it. And that's...and you don't have to tell me anything.”

Nothing more is said, after all you've said everything you could think of to deescalate the situation. And Toby is frozen as he stares at you. You'd have thought he was dissociating had it not been for the way his eyes still held that tiny reflection of light. He was still present, just unsure how to proceed.

Honestly you were stumped too, you had no idea how to begin this conversation let alone end it.

“My – there was...” you rub his arm in a small circular motion. You don't need to hear anything more, it already feels like too much information that he'd lost the agency for.

But your gentle shushing did nothing because he continued, “Clairse says I had a psychotic break and...just went after the biggest stressor at the time.” he pauses with a deep breath and closes his eyes in the process. “She says it wasn't really my fault, I was under...a lot of – I wasn't there, where I should've been mentally. My dad was abusive...anyone in my situation would've broken at some point.”

His words are hollow and robotic. A mantra he's learned to say although he doesn't believe it.

You'd normally give someone the choice but this time you just slip you arms over his shoulders and pull him into a hug. There's no resistance from him either, if anything he leans into the embrace and grips onto your back. His trembling doesn't stop but it's softened by the pressure.

“You don't have to tell me anything Tobes. I don't want you to...not if it's this painful.”

“I want – want to tell you about Lyra.” his voice cracks in tandem with his neck as he says her name.

And he does tell you, against all your protests to take his time. He tells you everything laid out his whole life right in front of you. From being home schooled early on – isolated within his own home for years, to his older sister and her untimely accident that he's still clearly wracked with guilt about, and then the spiral that ended in patricide and a fire that ate his entire neighborhood.

By the end of his recounting he'd stopped trembling and letting out the occasional sniffle – and now the two of you were leaning on the hood of your car. Looking at the stars that just started coming out for the night, you occasionally whispered affirmations to Toby as he tells more stories from his childhood. The good ones this time.

His spirits aren't as high as they were when you'd started your evening but they're much better than they were two hours ago.

You chuckle as he finishes telling you about the time he and Lyra managed to sneak out of the house for a concert only to realize they had no way of getting back into the house when they returned. Their mom just opened the door letting them inside with a small crease in her brow but the smile that played at her lips told them everything they'd needed to know. They weren't in trouble, she'd sent them off to bed and in the morning asked how the show was. From the way Toby talked about his mom you can tell he really loves her. The feeling must've been mutual, if she sent them off to bed instead of dishing out a punishment all because Toby had smiled for the first time in weeks that night.

“Ah, favorite child Toby strikes again.” you joke.

This time Toby didn't say anything, you had been throwing small jokes in to help keep the mood light, but he just looked at you with his head tilted. A grim expression barely crossed his features before being replaced with a lopsided smile and warm but sad eyes.

“Y'kn – Kyra used to say that all the time.”

“Must be true then.”

He looks at his hands with the softest expression you've ever seen. It's an expression normally given to Connor, just sadder this time.

You nudge him getting his attention back to the present.

“You still want that slushie?”

He takes a moment to look around you and finally rests his gaze on the stars. “Not Franlin, not tonight.” he says focusing back on to you.

“Think we're two exits from Riverton if that helps. They have Wawas.”

“Wawas?” he chuckles.

You nod, “Yea they have smoothies and milkshakes.”

“Ooh la la.”

You both snort and head back into the car. It's surreal to be buckling back in, joking around with Toby when just hours prior you thought you'd be ending your friendship the moment you opened your mouth.

You can't help but ask, “Are we cool?”

“Yea...we're good. 's not like you fucking asked for the information.” he leans his head against the window and crosses his arms into himself.

“I'm still sorry about it though.”

“Know you are. But it's over now.” the finality of that statement takes the weight off of your shoulders. For the first time in days you can breathe again.

“Thanks for telling me everything...you didn't have to. But I appreciate you sharing it with me.”

His nails dig into his arms, or they would have if they weren't chopped down to the bit.

“I mrrow I-I didn't tell you everything...”

Nope this was over and done with, no more sad and scared Toby. You couldn't handle anymore, guilt had found a friend in discomfrot and the two had set out to eat you alive with every tremor that tore through Toby's body.

“What are you like a child murderer or something?” Giving a laugh to soften the joke.

….

You missed the way Toby tenses and sucks in a breath. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, so hard he's certain you hear it. Is that where you draw the line? Child murder. Of course you had to have some boundaries he couldn't just expect you to be cool with everything he's done. You were sure to figure it out sooner or later no thanks to your boss. But Toby couldn't loose you now. Not when you've been an anchor he hasn't had in such a long time. He feels almost human again when he's with you.

He's been quiet too long, at least he thinks he has. He needs to say something, joke around back and dismiss the notion. You can't know not now – maybe not ever.

“I'm trans!” he hadn't meant to blurt that out.

He stared at you with wide eyes. Why had he said that, that hadn't even crossed his mind. Just as he was about to laugh it off you reached over and lightly punched him in the arm. That small gesture sent a tickle down Toby's spine. It was such an innocent touch, but he was touched starved and knew it.

“I am too goof. Thanks for telling me but why the wait?”

Fuck now he had to think of something. Talking to you always made him so brain dead.

“Mrrow...mrr-you saw me as a man first...I wanted to keep it that way.” maybe he didn't have to make something up, just tell you the half truth.

Brian had questioned him when they got ready for the picnic why he hadn't worn his trans tie dye shirt and he's said he misplaced it. A bold lie to tell someone like Brian, especially since it'd been a gift from his mom. She had sent it in a care package last June. He'd never loose something his mom gave him, at least not so quickly. If he'd been being honest with himself at the time, he was worried about your reaction. Of course he knew you were trans too so not like you'd be one to be a transphobe, but he didn't want you to stop seeing him as a man and only see him as trans.

“Toby, you are a man. Nothing short of you telling me otherwise will change that for me.”

Toby isn't sure when you grabbed his hand but he's aware of your hold when you start to rub along his knuckles. He watches your thumb circle jis joints and pressing a bit into the divots as he takes another deep breath.

He gives his best smile, a lopsided uncomfortable looking thing, “I don't think I like when you call me Toby.”

[system-society]

Okay, I have a terminology question. Might be briefly syscourse but I mean it genuinely just not sure how to phrase it best? Apologies in advance for that, I unfortunately started my system journey around a lot of sysmeds so I'm still working to like, unlearn it and use better words so if there's a better way to ask this please feel free to correct me.

So, I always thought the term traumagenic was the one for ""real"" (heavy /s) systems that fall under the DID/OSDD umbrella. Like, from how I was understanding it, traumagenic=has/eligible for DID diagnosis, endogenic=any origin from outside the DID/OSDD diagnosis criteria.

But in one of your more recent asks, it seemed like they were being discussed as two separate terms? Are they, or was I just reading it weirdly? Basically, I'm not sure if traumagenic and DID system are synonyms, or just two descriptors that happen to have a lot of overlap?

Hello anon! I’m happy to explain!

DID/OSDD and traumagenic are in fact not the same thing, but yes they do overlap a lot. Traumagenic is the origin, DID is the disorder. Just how other disorders can have different causes (environmental, genetic, etc) so can DID. Generally, yes, it is much more common in traumagenic systems due to trying to suppress the trauma, but not always! Both the ICD and the DSM label DID/OSDD as dissociative disorders, not trauma disorders. There is no requirement for trauma, only a most common cause.

I’m very happy you are trying to unlearn things from anti-endos, and if there’s any more you would like to learn we are happy to help! -♟

Adding in as the mod who answered the ask I& think you’re referring to, the two terms are not always synonymous! There are in fact some OSDDID systems who are endogenic, or even parogenic/tulpamancers! OSDDID, contrary to popular belief, can develop at any age and for a various amount of reasons.

We’re not quite certain when our DID developed, but I’m sure it was at least a little later then sysmeds say the requirement is. (However, we were still plural beforehand! Our plurality had become disordered overtime due to trauma and other circumstances.)

That being said, there are some traumagenic systems who don’t have OSDDID! Traumagenic just means the system formed from trauma, not that their functions are inherently disordered.

The only “requirement” for being a traumagenic system is that trauma affected the creation of your system and headmates. -🌩

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: The process(es) of resigning from a terrible, no good, very bad assistant position.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 22: discussions of eye-gouging/eye horror (not graphic); brief mentions of spiders/arachnophobia; anxiety/panic symptoms; lots of dissociation/dpdr; Peter Lukas being a manipulative shit; Lonely-typical content (including fear of abandonment & some abysmal self-esteem on Martin’s part); allusions to police violence & Hunt-related themes (re: Daisy’s past actions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 22: Resignation

Georgie paces in a slow circle, alternating between biting her nails and picking at her bottom lip – entirely immersed in her own thoughts, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. Jon hasn’t seen her this overwrought since the last depressive episode he witnessed. Just watching her is enough to make his chest tighten with vicarious unrest.

Wary of contributing to a vicious feedback loop between the two of them with his own customary pacing and handwringing, he forces himself to keep his knees locked and hands at his sides. Still, he can’t help rubbing his fingertips together and rocking minutely on the balls of his feet.

“Why don’t we sit?” Jon finally interjects, wincing when it comes out more curtly than he intended – more like a command than a suggestion, but luckily without any accompanying static.

Be mindful, he silently chides himself: being on edge like this only makes him more susceptible to accidental compulsion.

“What if something goes wrong?” Georgie whispers. Jon doubts she even heard him beneath her nervous refrain. “What if –”

“Georgie?” Jon tries again. No response. He steps into her path and places a hand on her shoulder. “Georgie.”

“What?” Georgie raises her head, but she isn’t looking at him so much as she’s looking through him.

“I think you should sit down?”

“What?” Georgie says again, sounding utterly lost. Her eyes are darting around the room now, as if she doesn’t recognize her surroundings.

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. She offers no resistance, trailing behind him like a flagging balloon. When he presses on her shoulder to coax her into a sitting position, she goes easily. Keeping hold of her hand, he drags another chair closer to her and takes a seat.

Okay. Now what?

Jon jiggles his leg as he wracks his brain for the right thing to say. She deserves more than handholding and awkward silence, but soothing words have never come naturally to him.

“Do you, ah… do you want to talk about it?” Jon cringes at his faltering delivery. “I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still not very good at this,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh – then immediately shuts his eyes, kicking himself. Why are his attempts to relate to others always so clumsy and – and weirdly self-centered? “I mean –”

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

“You… what?” Jon tilts his head. “But I thought – you don’t feel –”

“Fear?” Her clipped, brittle laugh dies in her throat. “No, I don’t. And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Jon strokes the back of her hand with one thumb, but remains silent. She always elaborates on her own time, given some space to order her thoughts.

“I don’t feel… terror,” she says slowly. “After I had my… encounter, I did a lot of research on how the brain works. Trying to understand what was happening to me, you know?”

Jon nods. He’s intimately familiar with that urge. As a child, he went through a spider phase, as his grandmother called it, obsessively seeking out any information he could on them, hoping even then that he could conquer his fear if only he could see the world through a detached, academic lens. There were plenty of academic odes to the spider to be found; no shortage of enamored arachnologists waxing poetic about the wonders of evolution and the vital role that arachnids play in their particular ecological niches.

Unfortunately, a phobia – especially one arising from acute trauma – tends to be resistant to reason and reality. His obsession only ever yielded heart palpitations and lucid nightmares. Despite that failure, he never stopped clinging to that idea that if only he could know everything there was to know about a thing, he could finally scrape together some semblance of control over his fear.

In many ways, that fixation is exactly what drew him to the Magnus Institute.

Unless the Spider really was pulling the strings all along, he thinks, and then: No, we are not going there.

“As far as I can tell,” Georgie continues, “my sympathetic nervous system still functions. I can still experience all the physiological aspects of sympathetic arousal – and fear is only one possible trigger for those sorts of responses. What’s missing is my capacity to interpret those responses through the lens of fear. To emotionally process or identify them as fear.

“I can still experience anxiety, to an extent – or something close to it. But mostly in the context of worrying about others, being scared for them. I mean, I can feel apprehensive about the possibility of experiencing pain or loss or failure myself, I have a stake in my continued existence, I can recognize danger, but sometimes it feels… I don’t know – mechanical, almost? There’s just always the feeling of something missing. Something important. And there are times when I feel that void more acutely.”

“Like now.”

“Yeah.” Georgie looks away, chewing her lip in silence.

“I’m listening,” Jon coaxes, sensing that there’s more she’s holding back.

“It’s just… hard to feel like a full person sometimes, you know?” Georgie says helplessly. “I worry sometimes that it – I don’t know, does a disservice, I guess, to the people I care about? Like no matter how much I love someone, it isn’t… complete? Or – genuine, in the right way? It’s – hard to find words that actually describe it. There are times when it feels like I’ve lost something vital that made me human, that made me me, and it’s… difficult to reconcile who I was – who I could have been – with who I am now.”

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

“I know.” Jon wishes he was less familiar with the sad smile she gives him just then. “It’s just… I remember a time when I would have been terrified of all this. Not just worried, or upset about someone I care about being hurt, or devastated by the prospect of losing someone I love. Terrified. And knowing what I should be feeling – what I would have felt at some point – is… it’s unnerving. There’s a void there that shouldn’t be there. It’s like… having part of you gouged out and left hollow. An absence that’s so present it’s almost visceral.” She frowns. “Does that make any sense?”

“In my future I had a Flesh Avatar reach into my chest and wrench out two of my ribs, so… yes, actually.”

Georgie blinks several times, then laughs breathlessly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” Jon returns a cautious smile, but the levity evaporates after a few seconds. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that you don’t have to have access to the full spectrum of human emotion in order to count as human. And I don’t think any of this makes your concern for others any less heartfelt, or – or comforting. You might not be the same person you were before you were marked, but that doesn’t make you any lesser as a person.”

“You should try applying that metric to yourself sometime,” she replies, not unkindly.

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s different,” she cuts in. “Just… keep it in mind, okay?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll try.” Georgie nods, but says nothing. Jon grips her hand a little tighter. “Listen, I – I know you’re worried for Melanie, but I think it’s going to be alright? I can’t predict the future –well, I have knowledge of one possible future, but that’s because I lived it. I don’t have any precognitive abilities, or anything like that. But… it turned out okay last time.”

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

Jon reins in the thought before it can gain momentum. Georgie doesn’t need his brooding right now.

“Melanie is a fighter,” he says instead, offering a tentative smile. “And she has you.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you came out of the apocalypse sappier than you were when you went in.”

“Side effect of traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a hopeless romantic, I think.” That gets another little chuckle out of Georgie. “I mean it, though. I think Melanie will be okay, especially with you looking out for her. Not to mention, the Admiral is a perpetual serotonin generator.”

“You really miss him, huh?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve pet a cat, Georgie?” Jon practically whines, playfully dramatic. It manages to keep the amused smile on Georgie’s face, he’s pleased to note.

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

“Absolutely not. This place doesn’t deserve him.” Georgie snorts. Although Jon is reluctant to ruin the temporary shift in mood, this is as good a time as any to broach a subject he’s been dreading. “Also, I, ah… I don’t want you to feel obligated to continue visiting here.”

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

“If you have to take a step back,” Jon says carefully, “I’ll understand.”

“I mean, I might not be able to come by as often as I have been, especially while Melanie is still recovering, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be around at all.” Georgie’s frown deepens. “I’m not about to cut you out of my life, Jon.”

“I know. And I don’t want you to. But – no, listen,” Jon insists, seeing Georgie about to protest. “What I’m trying to say is – I know Melanie wants to put as much distance between herself and the Institute as possible. If it turns out that you staying involved in all of this is too close to home, then… well, I don’t want her to feel like she’s still trapped in the Institute’s orbit, is all.”

Or mine, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to be a reason for Melanie to feel unsafe. In the past, he has been – and that’s not who he wants to be.

These days, Melanie has come to view him more as a fellow captive than a complicit enemy. Lingering resentment still sparks to life from time to time; she still struggles with her anger, and once or twice, she’s had to leave a room for fear of that rage boiling over. Overall, though, she no longer directs the majority of her ire towards him. When they do butt heads, it hasn’t gone much further than bickering – and even that feels comforting in its familiarity and mundanity. Almost companionable, in its own way.

Most significantly, ever since their talk, Melanie hasn’t once likened him to Jonah Magnus. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because it’s no longer an automatic association at the forefront of her mind, or because she’s consciously watching her words around him, actively taking care to avoid tripping that perpetual trigger. Either way, Jon is grateful.

But Jon also knows that he’s inseparable from the Institute. Despite his intentions, and regardless of whether or to what degree the others hold him personally responsible, the fact remains: he’s embroiled in something unspeakably evil, and that poses a danger to anyone who stands too close to him.

Georgie doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking the time to seriously consider his words. He’s always appreciated that about her, as uneasy as these moments of silent suspense can make him.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” she says eventually, “once she’s recovered enough to have that discussion. I don’t know how she’ll feel about staying in direct contact herself, especially at first, but… I doubt she expects me to cut you off. And I imagine she’ll still want to know how everyone is doing, even if she doesn’t want the details.” She glances up to meet his eyes. “Anyway, regardless of how often I visit in person, I’m still going to be checking in with you, so answer your damn phone, will you?”

“I do answer my phone,” he says defensively. “I just… forget to answer texts sometimes. And I don’t get service in the tunnels –”

“Well, come up for air and cell service from time to time.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate being down here for hours on end –”

Jon startles slightly as the trapdoor creaks open above their heads. Georgie stands as Melanie makes her way down the ladder, hurrying over to fold her into her arms. Basira follows behind, closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes.

“Mission successful, I take it?” Jon says quietly as Basira approaches him, giving Georgie and Melanie a moment to themselves.

“Uneventful,” Basira says with a shrug. “A few sidelong glances, but otherwise, none of the library staff even acknowledged us. Definitely didn’t seem keen on asking why we were rummaging in the repair supplies.”

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah.” A small, rueful smile crosses her face. “Some of them used to talk to me, you know. Nothing personal – we weren’t close – but… when I returned a book, they’d ask what I thought of it, give me recommendations, that sort of thing. Now, though…”

These days she prefers to wait until everyone has gone home for the day before visiting the library, Jon Knows. He also Knows that the library staff are well aware that she’s the one pilfering research materials in the dead of night – and that they have no plans on confronting her about it. She never leaves a mess, after all, and always returns items to their proper places once she’s finished with them, which is more than can be said for many of the students who make use of the library’s resources.

“You know, I don’t think any of them have looked me in the eye for months.” There’s a distinct note of regret in Basira’s voice. “They just watch me out of the corners of their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I don’t know if that’s because they’re afraid of Lukas disappearing them for fraternizing, or because everyone is leery of the Archives these days, or because I’ve just become less approachable. Maybe all three. Suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

Jon knows the feeling well. Before he can answer, though, Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks over to see her facing his direction, one hand clasping Georgie’s tight enough to blanch her knuckles.

“This is it, then,” Basira says solemnly.

“Yeah.” Melanie closes her eyes and breathes a long, shaky exhale. “It’s time.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” Georgie asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see that.”

“But –”

“She won’t be alone,” Basira says. “I’ll be right outside the room.”

Melanie faces Georgie fully, taking her other hand as well. “The plan hasn’t changed. Basira will call 999. I’ll make it quick, and – once it’s done, Basira will come in and sit with me until the ambulance gets here.”

“I have a general idea of what the response time should be like,” Basira adds, looking at Georgie. “If we time it right, Melanie will have medical assistance within minutes. I can come get you when the paramedics get here, if you want to ride in the ambulance.”

Georgie nods and tightens her grip on Melanie’s hands. “Is that okay?”

“Only if you want,” Melanie says haltingly. “But – maybe try to avoid looking too close, if my eyes are uncovered? It’s just – it probably won’t be pretty.” A stressed laugh claws its way out of her throat. “Potential trauma fodder, you know? I don’t want to worry about you remembering me like that every time you see me, even after I’ve healed.”

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

“It shouldn’t take long. Just – wait here with Jon until then, okay?” Georgie nods again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Speaking of which –” Melanie glances at Jon, as if just now remembering his presence. Startled by the sudden direct eye contact, he reflexively straightens his spine and stands at attention. “I guess this is goodbye, huh? For a while, anyway.”

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

No disclaimers or ill will tacked on this time, Jon notes privately.

“You too.” He forces a smile, but he suspects that it comes off as awkward rather than reassuring.

“Try not to die.”

“Yes, ‘not dying’ is relatively close to the top of my to-do list.”

“If I come to find out that you’ve gotten yourself killed and broken the eldritch employment contract binding us all to this place after I’ve gone and gouged my eyes out, I’m going to be livid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon says wryly.

“Seriously, though.” Melanie’s smirk melts away, taken over by a somber, quiet sort of intensity. “Either beat Elias at his own game, or get the fuck away from this place the instant you find an out. Whichever comes first. Preferably without any of the self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Fractious as its delivery is, the demand is oddly touching, coming from Melanie.

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

“You’d better.” Melanie nods – a curt but cordial dismissal – and turns her attention back to Georgie. “Hey,” she says, her voice going measurably softer, releasing one of Georgie’s hands to reach up and cup her face. Her watery smile belies her mental state: resolve warring with trepidation. “Look at me?”

For a long minute, she studies Georgie’s face, clearly enraptured. Jon forcefully tears his gaze away from the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay.” Melanie takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “I’m ready. I’ll see you soon, okay? Or – well, I won’t see you, but – you’ll see me, and I’ll…” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, whatever – you know what I mean.”

Georgie lets out a tearful chuckle, and Melanie relaxes marginally.

“I’m sure about this,” she says. “I promise. This is what I want – a life with you, away from all of this. And if this is the price I have to pay, then… I’m okay with that. Really, I am.” She stands on tiptoe to give Georgie a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie says, leaning down for a return kiss, smiling weakly against Melanie’s lips. “See you soon.”

When Martin first heard the bustle outside his door – coworkers venturing outside their solitary offices to trade whispered questions and eager gossip as word of paramedics in the archives made its way upstairs – his stomach gave a little lurch: a combination of horror and wonder. He hadn’t expected Melanie to change her mind – he knows how determined she can be once she’s settled on a course of action; how desperate she was to extricate herself from Elias’ – Jonah’s – schemes. Still, though, faced with the reality of it, he found himself in awe of her nerve.

That was yesterday. Martin didn’t get much work done, preoccupied as he was. He isn’t having an easier time of it today: his attention keeps slipping away to linger in remembrances of sterile hospital rooms and muted hallways, thoughts drowned out by the ghosts of sirens and beeping machinery.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

Martin jolts in his seat, heart leaping into his throat. It only takes an instant longer for his alarm to mutate into aggravation.

“Peter!” Martin spins around to glower at the man. “How many times do I have to–”

Peter flaps a dismissive hand. “To be honest, Martin, the drop in temperature tends to tip most people off. The only reason you continue to be surprised by my arrival is because you’ve become acclimated to the Forsaken.”

The revelation is slow to sink in, a stark chill blooming in Martin’s chest and snaking its roots outwards. Only now that it’s been brought to his attention can he feel the nip in the air.

“Here I was certain you were becoming estranged from our patron, but it seems I needn’t have worried.” Peter’s smile is laced with malice. “Or should I?”

Martin says nothing, eyes wide and stinging from the now-conspicuous cold. Peter sighs, folds his hands behind his back, and begins a meandering back-and-forth pace.

“Our success is dependent on your voluntary isolation, Martin.”

“Yeah.” The word turns to fog as it touches the air, and Martin finds himself transfixed by the sight. “You’ve said.”

“It seems you need a reminder.”

The condescension dripping from the words is enough to drag Martin back into the present moment. Heat rises in his cheeks, contrasting with the temperature in the room and making the chill that much more noticeable.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” he snaps. “You keep expecting me to just – go along with whatever you’re scheming, no questions asked.”

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

“Yeah, and you never answer them! You’re so – so bloody cryptic about all of this.”

“Martin, Martin,” Peter says, placating in the most patronizing way possible. Martin bristles: he hates the way Peter says his name. “There’s no need to get so worked up –”

“If you want me to be a partner in – in whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t expect me to go on blind trust!”

“I’m still conducting my own research,” Peter says mildly. “I would rather not confuse you with extraneous details before I have all the kinks worked out.”

“I’m not an idiot –”

“Rest assured,” Peter interrupts, “if I was capable of stopping the Extinction alone, I would. Unfortunately, it will require someone touched by the Beholding.”

“Why?”

“Because it requires this place, and this place” – Peter’s lip curls in distaste – “is the Eye’s seat of power. The One Alone has no dominion here.” Martin crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are the only one who can do this, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin repeats.

Judging from the muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, his limited supply of patience for conversation is precipitously depleting.

“No, really,” Martin presses, “why me? I mean” – he spreads his arms out with a scornful chuckle – “look at me. I’m not exactly hero material, am I?”

“That really depends on you. I can’t force you to cooperate. It won’t even work unless you’re a willing participant.”

“And what makes you think that your plan is the only way? You – you keep going on about how it’s my choice. Well – what if I choose to work with the others? It can’t hurt to have more eyes on the problem –” Martin rolls his eyes at Peter’s unconcealed revulsion. “Yeah, I know. No one would ever accuse you of being a team player, obviously. But I can be the liaison; you don’t have to interact with anyone at all.” Would prefer you don’t interact with anyone at all, Martin thinks. “I mean, that’s already my role, isn’t it? Dealing with people so you don’t have to?”

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

“I’ll do it off the clock, even. I’ll isolate myself in my office during the workday, or whatever” – Martin gives a flippant wave of his hand – “and continue researching the Extinction.” And practically running the whole damn place on an assistant’s salary, he grouses silently. “After hours I’ll pursue my own research with the others.”

“Part-time isolation will not suffice to equip you with the power you’ll need.” Peter presses his lips into a pale, rigid line. “Be reasonable. Are you really willing to risk an apocalypse, just because you can’t appreciate solitude?”

“If it starts to look like there’s no other option, I’ll reconsider.”

“And if the Extinction emerges while you’re wasting time searching for an alternative that doesn’t exist?”

“Based on the limited information you’ve given me, I don’t think the Extinction is going to just… emerge overnight. I’m still not even convinced it’s going to be worse than any other Fear. I mean, the Flesh is relatively new, isn’t it? And it didn’t… leave the fear economy in shambles, or whatever.”

“It isn’t about competition, Martin.” Peter releases a slow plume of fog through his nose before continuing, voice cool but simmering with pique just under the surface. “The Extinction is different from the other Powers. It is defined by widescale eradication. The other Powers may seek to change the world, but none of them strive for a world without us.”

“But what makes you so sure the Extinction would?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Martin runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he replays Jon’s impassioned conjectures on the matter: It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one.

“What’s to say it wouldn’t be just fine with the world as it is, like the End?” Martin says, more confidently now. “People have been prophesying about the end of the world for – all of human history, probably. I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon. Maybe at its core the Extinction is just… the fear of an uncertain future. And a particular future doesn’t have to be realized in order to inspire fear, as long as the potential is always there. It’s about the suspense – the ‘what ifs’, the unknown, the – the lack of control in it all.” Martin laughs. “In a way, that’s… that’s what most fears boil down to, isn’t it?”

“The stakes are rather high to gamble on a thought experiment, don’t you think?” The temperature plunges a few more degrees as Peter speaks. “I think that the most important ‘what if’ you should concern yourself with is what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not?” Martin counters. “You act so authoritative, but aren’t you also just speculating? When I agreed to work with you, you told me you would provide me with evidence to support your theory. So far, I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to give me more to go on than just ‘trust me.’ I mean – if it’s between trusting you and – and trusting Jon, and the others? You can’t really be surprised if I choose them over you.”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter tuts, shaking his head with derisive, disingenuous pity. “Since when has the trust you’ve placed in others ever been reciprocated?”

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

“But does he trust you?” Peter pauses for effect. “Of all the times you’ve allowed yourself to form attachments, has anyone even once genuinely returned those affections?”

Jon did.

Whatever expression Martin is wearing brings a sneer to Peter’s face. Martin clenches his teeth and ignores him.

Jon does, he corrects. Present tense. He said as much.

Martin still can’t fathom what Jon could possibly see in him, but Jon wouldn’t lie about something like that, right? He wouldn’t.

…would he?

No, he wouldn’t, Martin chides. You know he wouldn’t. Trust him.

“Sure,” Peter persists, “you may open yourself up to the potential for something more, but you know as well as I do that it won’t last. Is the inevitable loss really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. He tries to ignore the slight quaver that insinuates itself into the declaration. “But if I never take the risk, I’ll never know, will I?”

“I think you already know the answer.” Peter’s pale eyes glitter with spite. “Remember what it felt like, languishing at the Archivist’s deathbed. Recall the state you were in when you first came to me.”

The words are incisive, sliding under Martin’s skin and lodging there like shrapnel. He can feel his confidence waver, the conviction he stood fast on only seconds ago splintering underneath him like thin ice.

“How many times do you think he can court death and survive? He all but died stopping the last apocalypse; he was willing to bury himself alive for a woman who tried to kill him. How do you think he’ll react if you tell him about any of this? You think he’ll listen to reason? Trust in your judgment?” Peter fixes Martin with a smug, hungry look. “Or will he throw himself in front of the first bullet he sees?”

He already knows about all of this, Martin reminds himself. Jon isn’t about to sacrifice himself on account of the Extinction. Moreover, he seems to be genuinely committed to working as a team rather than striking out on his own.

But he also sees himself as a cataclysm waiting to happen, says the nagging doubt skulking in the far corners of Martin’s mind. As much as Jon insists that he doesn’t want to die, he’s already lived through one apocalypse. Martin has no doubt that Jon would sacrifice himself to prevent another, if it came down to it.

Jon is a powder keg of fear and guilt, and there is no shortage of potential ignition sources waiting in the wings. It only takes one untimely spark to set an archive ablaze.

“I trust him,” Martin repeats to himself, but the statement is rendered feeble by the leaden, frozen knot unfurling in his chest.

“Can you really weather another round of grief?” Peter continues, triumphant. He knows he’s found a gap in Martin’s defenses; all he needs to do now is twist the knife. “You’ve already done your mourning, cut the infection off at the source. Let him back in, and you only open yourself up to more pain. Better a numbed scar than a wound that never heals, don’t you think?”

“No.” There’s something off about Martin’s voice – as if it doesn’t belong to him; as if it’s originating from outside of himself, faint and frail and faraway, smothered by the cold, empty fog clogging his lungs. “N-no, I…”

“Connection is a fleeting, fickle thing,” Peter persists. “It’s a lie people tell themselves. The truth is that we are all alone. In the end, all we have is ourselves. Think about it.”

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

“You asked for more evidence.” Peter slides a few statement folders onto the desk. “Take some time to yourself. Consider whether you’re willing to wager on the fate of the world.”

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

“It’s so loud,” Daisy mutters heatedly, stalking to and fro like a panther in a cage. She scratches furiously at her forearms as she goes, blunt fingernails leaving faint red stripes on pale skin.

“Daisy,” Jon says evenly, “I think maybe you should –”

“Itch I can’t scratch.” She pivots on her heel, retracing her short path in the opposite direction. “Feels like fire under my skin.”

“I don’t think clawing your skin off is going to help.”

Daisy barks a laugh. “With what claws?” She stops short and brandishes the backs of her trembling hands, fingers splayed to highlight nails gnawed to the quick, ragged cuticles stained rust-brown with dried blood. “Dull now.” Her eyes go unfocused, staring vaguely at her hands as if she doesn’t recognize them. “Too dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he means it.

It never gets easier to witness her like this, frenetic and fraying in the throes of the Hunt’s compulsion. These spells have a way of making her features look sharper, her mannerisms more animalistic. She’s all protruding bones and sallow skin, but that seeming frailty does nothing to tame the violence thrumming in her veins. If anything, that all-consuming hunger only makes her more fearsome.

Jon’s strict rations have given him an underfed, pinched look as well, but at least he has something. Not enough to put meat on his bones, so to speak, but enough to stave off starvation. Daisy, though…

When Jon takes a step forward, she rounds on him with teeth bared and a snarl in her throat. Jon flinches at the sudden movement.

“You’re afraid of me.” Daisy exhales an exhausted rattle of a laugh, as if vindicated. “Good. You should be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon says. “I have an overactive startle reflex. Always have, really.”

“You’re lying.” Daisy breathes heavily through her nose, fists clenched at her sides now. “Admit it.”

Jon knows what she’s trying to do. She wants him to lash out, to bite back, to make her bleed. He’s uncomfortably familiar with that craving. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he reiterates.

“Liar,” Daisy hisses, fixing him with a baleful glare.

He’s seen her like this many times before, hunger-ravaged and swamped by bloodlust. She’ll doggedly bash herself against the nearest witness to her shame like a ship crashed against a jetty, driven forward again and again by cresting waves of guilt and self-loathing until she’s free-floating wreckage. Every time, it gets more and more difficult to gather up all the debris and repair the damage. Jon fears that one of these days, the storm will pass and there won’t be enough pieces left to put her back together.

“I’m not a knife you can cut yourself on, Daisy,” he says patiently.

Daisy looks positively mutinous, mouth opening and closing several times before erupting: “Why wouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

“I used to be,” Jon admits, leaning back against the tunnel wall to take some of the weight off his bad leg. “Before the Buried. I was terrified of you. Dreaded every moment I had to be alone with you. Thought it was only a matter of time before you finished the job.”

“It was,” she rasps out – and with that, her shoulders slump and her fists relax to hang limply at her sides, fingers jumping and twitching with the last dregs of her agitation.

“I know. But then you changed. You were different, after the Buried. As afraid of yourself as I used to be of you. As afraid of yourself as I was of myself.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks. “I looked at you and saw my own fear reflected back at me. There are so many things to be afraid of. You were – you are trying very hard not to be one of them.”

“If I’m afraid of me, you should be, too.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Jon asks, shaping each word carefully to keep the compulsion at bay.

She pauses, considering the question.

“No,” she says eventually. “Afraid for you, sometimes.”

“As I am for you.” Jon’s tentative smile fades after a moment. “I’ll admit, I do have… reflexive reactions, sometimes. There were a few incidents where I walked into the breakroom and you were holding a knife, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in before my conscious brain could catch up with reality.”

Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the look on her face isn’t pleading so much as it is resigned. She isn’t asking for forgiveness. Jon doubts she ever will.

It’s just one more thing they have in common.

“I know,” he says quietly. “To be clear, I don’t feel unsafe with you, as you are now. It’s just… flashbacks. They can be – unpredictable. And if I’m already feeling on edge, or – or not quite present, it doesn’t take much to set me off. But,” he adds, giving her a serious look, “I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. That only puts me more on edge.”

“Fine. But will you tell me if I do something to scare you?”

“Yes.” She made the same request last time. “But I’ve never had to. You could always feel when I was afraid. From a few rooms away, even.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says with a choked laugh. “Your blood is – very loud sometimes.”

“And now?”

These episodes tend to be capricious. Sometimes, what seems to be the calm after the storm proves to be only a lull before a second wind. If the way she’s wobbling on her feet and favoring one leg is any indication, Jon suspects that the worst of the flare-up has passed for now, taking her adrenaline surge with it. Still, he waits for her confirmation. Daisy takes a minute to mull over the question, head cocked slightly to the side as if listening.

“Quieter,” she says.

With that, Jon lowers himself to the ground and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning her over to take a seat. She hesitates for a moment longer before following his lead, slumping down next to him with a labored sigh.

“Sorry for growling at you,” she says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You said I ended up going back to the Hunt last time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“September. But – but that doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” he adds hurriedly when he sees her face fall in a mixture of anguish and resignation. “It was – sort of a perfect storm of extenuating circumstances. Like I said before, if you didn’t let the Hunt back in, you and Basira would likely have been killed. But I think you knew you wouldn’t be coming back from it. Before you changed, you made Basira promise to hunt you down and kill you.”

“And did she?”

“She lost track of you in the chaos. You gave chase after one of the Hunters. Once you killed her, the other Hunter started hunting you. For revenge.” Jon’s voice drops to a low murmur. “A few weeks later, the world ended.”

Which makes it sound far more passive than it actually was, but Jon isn’t in the mood for a scolding should he opt for an ‘I’ statement.

“And then what?”

“You were a full-fledged Hunter in a – a perpetual fear generator of a world,” Jon says grimly. “Do you really need to hear the details?”

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

Jon understands the need, but recounting the apocalypse never gets any easier. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When I opened the door and let all the Fears into this reality,” he begins, “the world was divvied up into thousands of different domains, each belonging to a different shade of terror. With few exceptions, most people were confined to one domain – usually whatever aligned with their deepest fears. Avatars and monsters were subject to the Ceaseless Watcher, but otherwise able to exercise control over the humans in the domains of their patrons. Most seemed to stake out territory and settle in one place – customizing their own little spheres of influence, creating playgrounds of their own making. But some got around. You were one of the ones that traveled.”

“What was –” Daisy grimaces. “Who was I hunting?”

“Well… in that place, no one got what they deserved, only what would hurt the most. And people are rarely afraid of just one thing. Most were magnets for multiple fears. The more nomadic Avatars and monsters would gravitate towards whatever individuals were most susceptible to their power, so to speak.” He bites his lip. There’s really no tactful way to phrase this next part. “In your case, you had a roster of specific targets that you were tracking. Former prey. Whether you were drawn to them because of their own fear of you, or because some part of you judged them to have ‘gotten away,’ so to speak… I’m not entirely certain. It may have been a bit of both.”

“I see,” Daisy murmurs. “Guess it makes sense that I would rank high among some people’s greatest fears.”

“Basira was tracking you when we ran into her. We were with her when we found you.”

“And was I… still me?”

“Yes and no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You were you, in a way, but only a small part of you. The Hunter. Everything else was buried too deep. Drowned. Even if I could have brought you back, it would have killed you. You – you didn’t even recognize me, or Martin. You recognized Basira – saw her as pack, wanted her to join you in the Hunt – but…”

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You never did manage to grow a self-preservation instinct, did you?” Daisy squints at him. “I went full monster on you, and you still want me to sit next to you now.”

“You had sharper teeth then,” Jon says drily. Daisy scoffs and nudges his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t draw back after making contact, and when Jon doesn’t pull away either, she leans into him.

“Basira kept her promise?” Daisy asks after a minute.

“Yes. She didn’t want to, but…” Jon swallows thickly, the memory of Basira’s heartbreak bringing to mind his own. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Daisy rubs at her chest with one hand, as if to soothe an ache. “It wasn’t fair for me to ask that of her, was it?”

“Maybe not,” Jon sighs. “It seems fair choices are hard to come by, for most of us.”

“I… I don’t want her to have to make that choice this time.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Daisy glances at him, allowing her head to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

“Melanie got away,” Daisy says, a tinge of bargaining in her tone. “She managed to purge the Slaughter. And break away from the Eye.”

“Her situation was… different from ours. She wasn’t as far gone as we are. The Slaughter hadn’t fully claimed her, and the Eye never took her as an Avatar. But you’ve been living with the Hunt for most of your life; I signed myself over to the Beholding the moment I became the Archivist. We’ve become… attached to our patrons, dependent on them for survival. Symbiotic, in a twisted sort of way.”

“You really don’t think there’s a way back, then.”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen it before, in my future, but – the world was different then. During the apocalypse, I was able to, uh… shift a person’s status from Watched to Watcher. I – I mean, technically everyone was Watched – the Eye had dominion over everything – but I could give someone control over one of the smaller domains. Create new Avatars, for lack of a better term.

“But turn a Watcher into solely the Watched, and they would typically unravel. I don’t know if that’s because the full focus of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze just happens to be lethal – particularly for Avatars aligned with other Powers – or if an Avatar is simply unable to survive being cut off from their patron regardless of the means of separation. I do Know that I wouldn’t have been able to survive being cut off from the Eye unscathed. I was… too much a part of the Eye in that reality. Not sure about now. For either of us.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘no.’”

“I’m not saying no, I’m saying that I don’t know. Supposedly escaping the Buried was impossible, and here we are.”

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

“Maybe. I think it’s all too complex for clear-cut categories. Even the hard-and-fast ‘rules’ are only as strong as our collective belief in them. Almost like our expectations shore them up. I’ve witnessed all of reality being rewritten – all physical laws and supposed universal constants reshaped to center the Eye.” He reaches one hand up to tug on the hair at the back of his neck. “After all I’ve Seen, it’s difficult to conceive of anything being categorically impossible. Between all the dream logic and reality bending, there’s plenty of space for firsts and exceptions to the rules.”

‘I don’t knows’ are where the hope lives, Martin said once. At the time, Jon teased him for being a hopeless romantic, but truthfully, Jon was just as hopelessly endeared by Martin’s belief in such things.

“Have you talked to Georgie yet today?” Daisy asks, apparently ready to change the subject.

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

“Melanie was out of surgery and stable, but she wasn’t awake yet. Georgie promised to call tonight with an update.” Assuming nothing major comes up before then, a worried voice in Jon’s head supplies. He shakes his head to jog the thought loose. “Speaking of Georgie… have you given any thought to her suggestion?”

“What,” Daisy says, drolly skeptical, “playing a video game?”

“I realize it’s… somewhat out of the box, but it might be worth a try. Like Georgie said, there are multiplayer games where you can, uh… hunt down other players.”

Daisy plucks absently at her collar, glowering at the opposite wall as if the bricks there committed a personal offense. “It’s not the same.”

“A simulation might not come close to a real hunt, no, but – you might still get something out of it? Maybe?” Daisy directs her scowl up at the ceiling. Jon only digs his heels in, undeterred. “There are even some that have a survival horror theme. An aesthetic that already puts players in the mindset to be frightened, you know?”

“People play those games for fun, Sims.” She finally looks at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s about thrills, not mortal fear.”

“Sometimes genuine fear can sneak through. Haven’t you ever been so creeped out by a horror story that it stayed with you after nightfall?”

“Not really?”

“O-oh. Well, some people have that experience.” Jon gives an awkward little cough. “Anyway, under the right circumstances, a game can get the adrenaline pumping as well as a chase can. A fight-or-flight response doesn’t necessarily require a real physical threat.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows, transparently cynical. “Do you really think the Hunt is going to be satisfied with jump scares and – and low-stakes adrenaline rushes filtered through a screen?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But it might take the edge off. Sort of like reading old statements does for me. Not enough to stop you starving, but maybe enough to distract from the hunger pangs. At least temporarily. If nothing else, you did say you need a new hobby, and it’s not like this place is overflowing with viable entertainment options.”

“I guess,” Daisy sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m paying rent. May as well squander my paycheck.”

“If that’s the case, you should see if that eBay listing for that vintage The Archers board game is still up,” Jon says drily. “Last I checked, it was £2 with no bidders.”

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

“Sounds like £32 well spent, if you ask me.”

Daisy snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. “You, Jonathan Sims, are an absolute menace.”

Adrift and thoroughly divorced from the concept of time, end of the workday passes Martin by without his notice. Once again, he wonders whether Peter deliberately assigned him an office with no external window, not only to put another wall between him and the rest of the world, but to make it easier for him to lose track of time.

For an interminable stretch of time he sits catatonic, mind peppered with sporadic sensory input: Dead-weight limbs, listless and foreign-feeling. The brush of fabric resting against bare skin, every point of weightless contact a violation. The distant ticking of clockwork, rote and irrevocable.

Stand up, comes the thought, detached and intrusive: an instruction he cannot parse; empty phonemes wafted into a vacant mind, abandoned there to echo and disperse until they lose all meaning. A fragment of a signal from brain to nerves to fingers presses numb fingertips to thumbs, a cautious test yielding no sensation but for the vague, spongey give of flesh.

Then the body ostensibly belonging to him is on its feet, the connection between floor and soles disturbingly incongruent with unreality. Walking now, every footfall jarring in its impact; every step stretched and blurred like a botched time-lapse photograph; every molasses-sluggish forward motion met with invisible resistance, like swimming against a sludgy current.

He does not remember how or when or under whose direction he arrives in the Archives, swaying at the threshold of the Head Archivist’s office. Empty and still. Silence so pervasive it’s almost tangible. Viscous and inexorable. Trapping him like a fly in honey. Drowning.

When next he becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s wavering at the bottom of a ladder. Walls curving up and over his head, a brickwork warren stretching on and out into the murk.

Standing in place. Hovering like an afterimage. Rootless and incorporeal. Searching for… staring at… calling to…

There: something real.

“Martin?” Jon’s breath fogs the air as he speaks, but the way he says the name… his voice seems to cradle the word, shielding it against the cold. He sits up straighter, keen gaze sweeping the area like a lighthouse beacon. “Martin, is that you?”

That’s me, Martin thinks, and then, wonderingly: He says your name like it’s something precious.

At that thought, Jon’s eyes land on him like a searchlight.

“There you are.” His soft smile immediately falters, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

He’s sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Daisy pressed up against his side in a mirrored position, sharing a pair of corded earphones. Daisy is already thumbing at the screen of her phone, presumably pausing whatever it is they’re listening to, as Jon removes his earbud.

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his lungs has turned to viscid fog and the confused tangle of half-formed thoughts in his mind refuse to coalesce into actual words. Jon exchanges a glance with Daisy, who is already moving to stand. Martin wants to object – she doesn’t have to leave on his account; he can see that they’re busy; he’s fine; he’s just overreacting – but before he can cobble together a protest, she’s halfway to her feet, gripping the wall for support.

“I’m alright now,” Martin can hear her say.

“You’re sure?” Jon asks in a low murmur.

“Yeah.” She winces as she straightens her spine. “Knowing Basira, she’s still pouring over the same statements as she was this morning. She could do with an interruption.”

“Can you manage the ladder?”

Daisy stretches her leg out, testing her mobility. “Think so.”

They give each other another long look, a shared nod, and without another word, Daisy staggers her way to the exit and mounts the ladder.

As it does every time he witnesses these displays of unspoken understanding between them, an ugly pang of jealousy burns in Martin’s chest – some combination of envy, inadequacy, longing, and loneliness. Possessiveness, almost – and an instant later, the shame sets in.

But then the trapdoor closes, Jon looks Martin in the eye again, and the sincere, tender warmth sheltering there is enough to leave Martin reeling. It’s hard to comprehend anyone – let alone Jonathan Sims – looking at him like that; difficult to reconcile requited affection with a lifetime of fruitless want. Martin can’t shake the feeling that it will always be this way – and that his inability to trust in unconditional love is precisely what makes him so unlovable in the first place.

Jon clears his throat and pats the floor beside him. He’s seated on a blanket, Martin just now notices, folded over several times to cushion the hard ground.

He’d better not be napping down here, Martin thinks to himself.

“Martin,” Jon says, in that impossibly soft tone he’s taken to using around Martin these days, “I’d like you to come sit, if you’re amenable.”

It’s such a Jon way of phrasing the invitation, and the familiarity it engenders has Martin accepting without a conscious thought. He settles himself beside Jon, close but not touching. Those few inches of distance manage to be simultaneously loathsome and assuring. Martin lets his hand rest in that vacant space, fingers clenching around a fistful of blanket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon’s hand twitch, as if fighting back the urge to reach out and touch. Instead, he starts to rub the fabric of his trouser leg between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you need right now?” Jon asks.

“I…” Martin pauses, unsettled by the sound of his own voice, grating and almost unfamiliar to his ears.

“Take your time.”

It takes a minute for Martin to wrap his mouth around more than one syllable.

“Nothing,” he says, the weight of the word nearly pinning his tongue in place.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Several more minutes pass before Martin is able to construct a full sentence.

“I’m just being stupid.” The words seem to echo faintly in the tunnel, despite how quietly he says them.

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

“Nothing,” Martin repeats dully. He doesn’t need anything.

Jon doesn’t immediately respond. Martin can feel himself go rigid, anticipating… what – aggravation, impatience, disengagement? But Jon only runs a thumb along his jawline, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “what do you want, then? What would – what would help you feel better right now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Martin says in a voice so feeble it’s nearly inaudible. He flexes his fingers uncertainly, chasing after any physical sensation at all, only to find them numb and deathlike. The helpless sigh that shudders out of him wants to be a whimper. “I just – didn’t – don’t – feel real. Feels like I’m not really here.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks at him – really looks at him, taking his time to study Martin’s face. “Well, I can confirm that you are here.”

“You… you can see me?” Martin asks meekly, pleadingly, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jon pauses. “And if you’re agonizing over being a bother, don’t, because you aren’t. I always like seeing you.”

He should trust Jon – he does trust Jon – but it’s still a constant struggle to drown out that Lonely part of him that insists that isolation is safer, more dependable, and far more habitable. Unthinkingly, Martin reaches over, hand trembling in the air above Jon’s, fingertips just barely ghosting across scarred skin.

“Would you like me to hold your hand…?” Jon ventures.

Martin’s fingers curve inward as he pulls back slightly. “I, um.”

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

“I… I want it, but I – I – I don’t know if I can handle it right now, and I –” Martin draws back entirely, flapping both hands in frustration, trying to relieve the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through his veins. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Martin grimaces at the outburst, but Jon doesn’t seem to be judging him. Instead, he’s looking off to the side, a crease between his eyebrows now, as if he’s working through a problem.

“No skin-to-skin contact,” he says to himself, and then he looks to Martin. “Pressure helps me sometimes, when I feel like I’m not real. You could… lean against me? If you want.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to,” Jon rushes to reassure him.

“It’s – not that I don’t want to. I guess I’m just…” Martin can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “It’s daft, but I’m worried that I’ll be – I don’t know, incorporeal, or something.”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that you’re not a ghost.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon’s deadpan humor to sink in. When it does, Martin nearly chokes on a surprised laugh.

“I still can’t believe you thought I was a ghost,” he says, cracking a smile. The tight, bitter-cold knot in his chest yields just a little, like ice disintegrating under a spring thaw.

“In my defense, I was quite distraught at the time.” Jon’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and Martin is struck by overwhelming fondness. He doesn’t pull away when Jon reaches out, open palm hovering just above his shoulder. “May I?”

Cautiously, Martin nods.

“Hmm.” Jon applies the lightest touch at first, watching Martin’s face carefully. He waits until Martin nods for him to continue before he presses down more firmly. Before long, Martin can feel the warmth of Jon’s hand through his jumper. That warmth carries over into Jon’s smile. “Feels solid to me.”

The confirmation comes as a relief, as foolish as that makes Martin feel. He braces himself and leans against Jon’s side, releasing his held breath when his body meets with tangible resistance. At first he worries that Jon, scrawny as he is, won’t be able to support the weight, but he doesn’t budge when Martin melts against him. After that, it’s a struggle for Martin to keep his eyes open.

Jon must notice, because he whispers, “You can rest. I’ll be here.”

Martin doesn’t even have the strength to nod, let alone the energy to argue. He allows the steady rise and fall of Jon’s chest to lull him into an almost meditative state, his mind still floating somewhere outside of himself, but now tethered to the ground.

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. “Talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that highland cattle have a double coat?” Jon says after a minute of consideration. “It insulates them against the cold. The outer layer is long – the longest hair of any cattle breed, in fact – and oily, which helps ward off the rain. Underneath is softer, almost woolly hair.”

Once Jon gets started, those little scraps of trivia soon progress to a nearly encyclopedic lecture. It doesn’t take long for Martin to lose himself in the rich timbre of Jon’s voice as he goes on about various Scottish breeds of cattle. Although he doesn’t fall fully asleep, Martin manages to drift in and out of consciousness enough that he loses track of time once more. This time, though, it’s a comfortable daze: there’s someone to keep him from straying too far.

At some point, he unthinkingly seeks out Jon’s hand. Jon presses his thumb into the center of Martin’s palm, rubbing small circles there, coaxing Martin further into peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry for interrupting you and Daisy earlier,” Martin murmurs groggily into Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, we were just listening to The Archers.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Martin asks, opening one eye to scrutinize Jon’s expression.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

“Daisy likes The Archers,” Martin says, even more dubiously, sitting up now to squint at Jon.

“There are stranger things.”

Martin snorts and nestles into Jon’s side again. “If you say so.”

“Feeling better now?” Martin reflexively snuggles closer. Jon laughs softly, a little puff of a breath that rustles Martin’s hair. “I’m not going to deny you cuddles if the answer is ‘yes,’ you know.”

“Cuddles,” Martin whispers, the word dissolving into a clipped giggle.

“What?” Jon tilts his head. There’s a puzzled scowl on his face, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should take offense. It’s impossibly endearing.

“Cuddles,” Martin repeats, in a poor approximation of Jon’s voice this time. “Not a word I ever expected to hear from you.”

“Quiet, you,” Jon huffs, but he can’t disguise the way his indignant pout cracks into a smile under the weight of his own amusement. He almost seems to preen, as if pulling a laugh from Martin is a victory on which to pride himself. He reaches up with his free hand, pausing just above the top of Martin’s head. “May I?”

At Martin’s affirmative, Jon begins to comb his fingers through Martin’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp. For the briefest of moments, some primal fragment of him recoils from the contact, instinctively unnerved by the vulnerability inherent to such closeness. Martin spurns that voice, breathes through its fit of angst and panic, and leans into the touch.

Little by little, step by step, he’s acclimating. He just wishes that it wasn’t such a process each and every time he lets his guard down like this.

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Martin groans. “But I should.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, you should know, I just…” Martin heaves a wearied sigh. “Peter’s back.”

Jon gasps like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. The hand stroking Martin’s hair abruptly stills; the other, still clasped in Martin’s, constricts like a death-grip.

“Did he hurt you?” The question is steeped in an artificial, fragile sort of calm, but Jon can’t quite mask the intensity buzzing just under the surface: fear, protectiveness, and desperation all intermingled and reinforced by that ominous inkling of power that, despite his intentions, lurks behind every word.

“He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just… trying to get me to recommit to the Lonely.” Martin scoffs. “And of course he was trying to do it in a way that would make me feel like it was my idea. Get me to convince myself that it was what I wanted, rather than something he was pressuring me into.”

“Of all the Powers, the Lonely is one of the most insidious, I think,” Jon says quietly. “It seeks out victims who already have one foot in the Lonely, reinforces those fears, promises kinship – a paradoxical form of it, anyway – and then it just… waits. Spend enough time disconnected from the rest of the world, and it doesn’t take long to start telling yourself the lie that it’s for the best. That it’s what you are; that it’s all you’re meant to be.”

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

“Anyone would, subjected to the right conditions.” Jon waits until he catches Martin’s eye before he continues. “It isn’t your fault. This is what the Fears do. It’s what they are. They find an opening, they sink their hooks in, and they pull you under. They don’t let go until either you drown or you learn to breathe fear. The only way out is for someone to throw you a lifeline, and even then, the odds aren’t great. And the Lonely in particular – one of the first things it does is make it difficult to even conceive of a lifeline. It’s hard to catch hold of one if you never think to look for it.”

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately the Powers That Be tend to elude any sort of straightforward, concrete discussion,” Jon grouses. “Just one more reason to begrudge them, really. My point is, the Lonely is an insufferable liar and so is Peter.”

“What do you know, they’re perfect for each other.” The remark succeeds in putting a lopsided smirk on Jon’s face, much to Martin’s delight. “Anyway, Peter said his plan won’t work unless I’m voluntarily Lonely.”

“He’s right, although his plan has nothing to do with the Extinction. He needs you to choose the Lonely because those were the terms of his bet with Jonah. He poaches you out from under the Eye – gets you to pledge yourself to the Forsaken – and he wins, with the Institute as a prize. He fails to convert you, he loses, and he does what Jonah wants, which is for me to be marked by the Lonely.”

Jon says that last part so nonchalantly. As if it’s a foregone conclusion; as if he’s become so accustomed to dehumanization that it doesn’t even give him pause. Martin grits his teeth, biting back a surge of anger on Jon’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” he says tightly, “Peter bet on the wrong horse.”

A sharp intake of breath leaves Jon sounding strangled when he says, eyes wide and lips parted, “Oh?”

“I mean, he can’t just sic the Lonely on me like he would any other victim, right? That wouldn’t count as a win. He needs me to choose it. And I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah?” The expression of unguarded, cautious hope dawning on Jon’s face makes him look years younger.

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling increasingly emboldened. “The funny thing is, I don’t – I don’t think I ever chose loneliness. I never wanted it – that was just a lie I told myself, and the Lonely just – echoed it back to me. S-so Peter’s out of luck, because if there are other options, then the Lonely will always be involuntary. Because it’s not what I want.”

“You – you mean it?” Jon brightens, leaning forward.

Martin’s heart skips a beat and flutters hummingbird-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile – not like this, that is, beaming and uninhibited and altogether breathtaking. Immediately, Martin decides that he wants more. It seems wrong for something so exhilarating to be so rare.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, and it doesn’t matter, because Jon is in his lap, and Jon is nuzzling into his shoulder, and Jon is here and solid and so, so alive in Martin’s arms, breathing warm and steady into his neck, smiling against his skin, hands scrabbling at his back to cling to his jumper. Martin’s fingers seek purchase of their own, and then something clicks.

“Jon,” he says, leaning back just far enough to confirm his suspicion, “is this mine?”

“Are you just now noticing?” Jon asks, devastatingly fond. “Martin, I’ve been wearing this jumper off and on for the last several weeks.”

“You have?” Martin all but squeaks, heat creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “No. No, you –” Jon’s grin is widening, leaving Martin increasingly flustered. “I – I mean, yes, you have, obviously, I know that, but I – I – I –” Martin gulps, mortified, as Jon finally fails to contain his suppressed laughter. “Look, I didn’t recognize it until just now, alright?”

“Well,” Jon says, ducking his head to chuckle softly against Martin’s throat, “it’s mine now, and you can’t have it back.”

Which is fine with Martin, really, because he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t helplessly charmed by the newfound knowledge that not only is Jon an unrepentant clothes-thief, but apparently also an insatiable cuddler.

End Notes:

To address Martin’s concern: Jon does, in fact, nap in the tunnels sometimes. Listen, with Jurgen Leitner (derogatory) in absentia, there was an opening for the position of Beleaguered Tunnel-Haunting Hermit and Jon has all the necessary qualifications.

So anyways, who else thinks Peter’s bio on a dating app would probably just be that “every living creature on this earth dies alone” quote from Donnie Darko? I bet he thinks 'survival of the fittest' means 'every man for himself'. What an insufferable clown.

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

I wanted to make a joke about a The Archers-themed Monopoly, so I asked duckduckgo if it was a thing. Sadly, it is not. There IS, however, a 1960s The Archers board game, and yes, there ARE eBay listings for it.

The first section of this chapter was written before eps 190-192 dropped. I think it still lines up well enough with what we saw of Melanie & Georgie’s characterization in these most recent episodes, with the qualifier that things have gone very differently in this AU compared with canon. (Also, I took some liberties wrt Georgie’s not-feeling-fear thing, obvi. Some of it matches with the most recent episodes, some of it not so much, but I decided to keep it anyways.)

Oh and I think I might have given myself cavities with the last section of this chapter. (I’m aro-spec; it’s hard to tell when I’m going over the top, but hopefully it’s fluffy without being overly cloying.)

[ranmanjuu]

—gen z mc with uesugi-takeda + misc. forces

ahh, i’m so glad people liked my gen z oda hcs! lol it’s usually pretty slow from my writing blog experiences until now, but i’m rlly happy! i was planning to do u-t and the others but then i decided to stop at oda and continue another day. thx for the asks tho! and yeah, i do take requests but it’s more of a pasttime, since this whole blog is just my stupid ideas written out and shared out there.

also someone said that a gen z mc could be old enough to romance the warlords, like, early twenties. and yes, very fair if u wanna romance ur mans with memes and existentialism go for it!! i just think it adds more to the comedy side of this child they have to babysit, while not fearing death or any consequences from their dumb of Ass decisions. someone who fears no death and armed with no braincells is a fool, but a Child who fears no death and armed with no braincells is also a fool, but more bizzare and has That Vibe y’know

@niphredil-14​ and @arthotsglasses​

tw: s*icidal, violent jokes treated in a light manner

also spoilers to some things of their characters

—kenshin:

who is this,, , sassy lost child??

he first saw you prepared to throw hands with ronins who were being Elite Dickheads. ofc, armed with nothing compared to the sworded-adults, he had to interfere.

no matter how cold he treated you, masking his secret !!!-like concern, you seemed so unfazed through it. you still interacted with him like normal,,,,, why?? do you want a death wish?

and each time he threatened you with,, anything, you responded with, “the only one who gets to hurt & kill me, is ME”

...... what?

he’s convinced you’re the biggest fool of a person. and he’d be right but even so, he has a weirdly strong need to protect you as you two got closer. you’re often with sasuke, so it’s harder to avoid you.

even with all the Horrible jokes you make on a daily basis, if your passionate side with everyone having equal rights of being treated as human, for him it shows a side of you that makes you seem precious and pure and kind hearted.

and the overprotective side increases.

which is, ,, a bit problematic sometimes cause you have the tendency to target and piss off anyone in a 10 meter range by just one (1) sassy comment, along with your lack of impulse control and blurting out everything in your mind. it’s made you a lot of short enemies in the sengoku period, and kenshin would always be ready to slice them down behind you.

sasuke has to tame him down with his Masters degree in kenshin-wrangling.

at banquets, kenshin would often have you beside him. if you’re too young for sake do age for drinking exist in sengoku? probably not. it’s more of sasuke advising for him to not give you alcoholic drinks he’ll have you pouring for him or just munching away at pickled plums or food.

—shingen:

(ngl i kinda had a hard time with this since it’s erasing a big part of his overall character,,, flirting)

once he heard the news that oda had taken in somone as young as you during honno-ji,, ,,,he’s in a very “how dare that demon >>:( taking such a pure soul,....”

and when you’re taken to kasugayama as a captive, you’re,,, surprisingly very calm and whelmed. you don’t have much sign of fear or anxiety in your overall demeanor meanwhile you’re busy dissociating and spacing out to feel those

you actually don’t seem to hate your captor. but shingen isn’t sure if your ‘fingerguns’ is a good thing or not cause it depicts you pointing guns @ him,, (dw is good shingen)

while yes being held hostage—no matter how good you’re being treated—isn’t ideal and kinda not very cash money, you consider shingen v chill. man has a kindheart!! “i diagnose you with good vibes.”

if he ever sees your righteous side, as everyone else, he’ll deeply admire you. he himself is someone who believes in such as well. and hearing the circumstances in the modern world regarding those things (blm, etc.) his heart truly does go out for you. he feels sympathy for such a young person like you having to take action

also your dirty humor around him, echigo’s player, kind of makes him question where and how you learnt it

and,, his illness.

through getting straight to the point and not falling for it each time he changes subject/dodges the question, you managed to get to the bottom of his illness. shingen himself thinks it’s not something you have to burden with knowing—you’re so, so young.

but that doesn’t matter to you. the world’s given you such a shit time, you’re mature enough to understand the situation at least.

and as he finishes his explanation, all there was is silence. it felt wrong to say any of your usual quips,, so all you did was slowly came there and hugged him.

that was more than what he’d ask for.

—sasuke:

oh hell yeah

you are in your element with him. the chillest guy to talk to, and probably the first one you’re the closest to

your phone was dead after like 2 days of use, and you were miserable while hideyoshi, like a typical parent, told you to go outside and into town. sensing your bad mood, sasuke asked what’s up. you deadpanned, “my phone game ended and now i’m ready to commit not breath.” you oslemnly look out in the bustling streets and clutched your fist like an Anime Protagonist, “those boomer memes were right all along... i am absolutely Miserable and Useless(^TM) without it.”

in response, you could’ve sworn he did the Anime Glasses thing as well, “then we at team Moderately Awesome Sengoku Ninja are happy to announce the launch of a DIY phone charger, made with the electricity from a fruit and the main functionality of a solar panel. and has more durability than samsung’s.”

there were Stars in your eyes now. with a big grin, you thank him, “i’d die for you, sasuke.”

“then perish.” he said with a blank look. (yukimura, in the bg: ???!!!??!??!?)

the next day he consentually breaks in through the ceiling and gives you the weird contraption. you’re now saved, soul-wise.

the memes start coming and they don’t stop coming from the two of you. in any situation. whether it’d be at a teahouse, or at a battlefield that can determine your life and death.

and you can have discussions about current world events, or the past ones, with him and he’d understand completely what you’re talking about. it’s those rare nights when you’ve been thinking and have a deep conversation with him in his room, and as an adult, it makes for interesting results as well.

the others are endlessly confused, but you’re both so unapologetically yourselves.

and he’s super protective if the circumstances are tough. he feels bad for dragging another person in the sengoku with him—much less when they’re so young like you.

if you’re enough of a lil shit, once you’re taken into kasugayama, in the nights where you can’t sleep because brain at what would be 3 am, you’d probably trudge over to his room and wake him up to tell him what kind of mind-blowing shit you realized.

—yukimura:

when he saved you from falling to your death, your reaction already set off weird Vibes inside him. what do you mean, “you stopped me from fleeing this fleeting world by the sweet embrace of death” ?!?!?! are you crazy?? yes

he doesn’t waste time getting blunt with you at all either.

once he goes into azuchi as a merchant, he silently observes you talking to sasuke for a bit. what’s with your weird language?? and crude humor???? never in his life has he met someone in your age act like that wtf

even so, he still operates on the basis of ‘‘if sasuke trusts you, i trust you’’, no matter how utterly concerned you make him feel

you have a dirtier mind than him! unsurprisingly. along with everyone else, you often tease the poor soul, a nd you’d gladly tell him what the innuendoes mean ( 69, etc.) and maybe sprinkle in some gay jokes in there

and why do you keep mentioning this “bromance between him and sasuke” ?? what us,,, a bromance????? and why is sasuke in it??

he takes you out to teahouses to eat chestnut dumplings and other desserts with you. you always seem to target the one he doesn’t like the most and have a bit of banter

your relationship is built on banter but what’s different rlly

he treats you much more maturely than other people your age. as in, he doesn’t pull back his punches in words most of the time. you don’t seem to around him also, it looks like.

and, he’s also very protective of you. he regards you as his little sibling, as rat as you may be. and he does care about you—he might just be a bit unwilling to say it

—yoshimoto:

you think he’s very chill, if a bit unique but who were you to judge. and he is, if you ever meet him in echigo or even azuchi

his big liking to art and something of apathy to people is osmething you can respect. there’s something about that kind of Vibe that you find oddly a mood.

and oh boy oh boy you wasted no time pulling up your phone and showing images of what art is in the future. whether it’d be a screenshot of anime, fanart, aesthetic-like ones, palette-themed—the whole shabang. 

and, somehow, you were left ranting to him  about how some artists in the future get it so shitty for theft, reposting, not crediting, the list goes on (please be a decent human being to artist, sincerely the author) and he can’t help but just listen in silence and kind of thinking about how you’re so passionate about the Struggles of artists. and it isn’t something he sees often in the sengoku era—where war rules most things.

and he does find art from the modern times interesting, how they’re so different and vast in styles. and not only that, it’s not like the future only has one major style like then, each hand can draw such different pictures and still have beauty in each. he appreciates and admires that.

and he does tell you his thoughts ^ while you give your own insight. it’s so fascinating to see someone like you having strong opinions on this.

because, well, rn art is a big thing in our lives as we’re stuck inside. a part of entertainment is looking at any media of art—and he finds his view of art and yours quite the same. you two came from a time of turmoil (one moreso than the other) but still think art isn’t exactly irrelevant just because it isn’t a cure to diseases or the Ultimate Weapon.

you had to Surgically Remove him from your phone so you can use it and to stop him from draining your battery looking at the art

and he often drags you out to town and admire pieces when you’re holing yourself in too much. your comments are always unknown to him, “radical”, “that’s one i can vibe with ngl”, and the list goes on.

and you occasionally call him pretty boy as a compliment rlly

—kennyo:

when you first saw him at honno-ji, and he won’t forget the one (1) line you gave him, all you said to his warning of ooo spooky demons was, “that’s lit fam gtg tho”

and that alone was enough to stun him for a few seconds

honestly you told the others of your meeting with kennyo before they told you it could be kennyo. just a throaway line of “oh yeah there was this dude with a scar across his face.” / “,,, ,....that’s kennyo. he’s really dangerous actually—” / “oh, poggers”

you’re probably kind of half the reason the oda forces found who dun it.

and it was an eye for an eye, kennyo himself found out that you were their child chatelaine, and very close to the others. as per his villain-schedule, he kidnaps you .

he laments about how “such a pure soul such as yours is not to be stained by the demon’s hands”

oh how Wrong he was.

you were the definition of the opposite of pure. and you seemed unfazed, which surprised kennyo but shrugged it off. he was willing to face you screaming and panicking, along with shouldering the sin of doing the deed. but instead, he was met with a raised eyebrow and, “this is unexpected and probably not welcomed but what am i doing here.”

he was stunned for a moment before explaining what he can. 

“......... fuck.”

he cringed ever so slightly at your curse. but your attention seems to stray so quickly off of the fact that you were bounded and helpless, to the fact that you have the man doing unspeakable things to civilians and you absolutely don’t approve.

throwing your common sense to maybe be civilized, you went off on a rant of how human rights and how to not be an ass to him. all he could do was just listened, shocked to even cut you off.

when he did, he gave the whole ‘unsaved demon’ shtick, and you weren’t taking that kinda shit. he believed he was truly unsaved—you knew that. but that doesn’t make it okay.

eventually, he left you with a cold end of the conversation.

he admires your spirit in a way—but with what he’s experienced,,, it’s a bit of unreachable for him.

if at any point you saw the soft side of his with animals, you just gaped at him for a split second and whispered, “the gap moe is strong with this one.”

also old man died inside when you said that you’d fight god, along with many things.

all in all, to him, you’re insufferable. but weirdly,, fascinating.

you’ve totally ok boomer’d him once cause he rlly looks old

—motonari:

,,. if your speech to kennyo was bad, he’s going to rant hell.

motonari already knew you were interesting even when his men just spied on you. your behavior, so brash and impulsive, is going to be so fun to have, he thinks.

through some planning to stir up more chaos, he kidnaps you and brings you unto his ship. same as kennyo, you showed no clear sign of surprise, and that’s when he decided you were either used to this in any way, or a fool. both answers, he liked.

you’re kind of really confused on why he’s doing what he’d doing. “i get it, i like to stir up chaos myself but it’s harmless,, most of it—but not until the people are in danger, bitch.”

and by that line, motonari leans towards you with a deadly smirk, “now, i can bite, ‘kay kid? you don’t wanna be in the receiving end... do you?”

“do it, coward.”

and before he could let out even a wheeze of laughter, you continued on on a lecture of, again, not being a dick and letting people live their life in peace. and much less all of this damage, for what? chaos?? yeah you wanted to see the world burn but it wasn’t literally.

however, his patience was running thin. he shuts you up forcefully, and leaves.

even so, after a cooldown period, he still talks to you (,,,, well, that’s kind of a generous term) because, right he was, you were so fun in his eyes.

an interesting observation he made,,, was that you picked up on his big dislike of physical contact. and he’d think with how annoying you were at times, that you’d weaponize it. but you didn’t—in fact, you kept your space (not that you were planning to get close) and respected his boundaries.

he thinks you a bit of peculiar for that decision, some wary, and perhaps naive.

one of the days—the more dangerous ones—he was planning to take you to the oda as bait or something. and you weren’t taking it like that. two days before arrival, a storm racked up. you stood upon the edge of the ship with the rest of the crew watching you like you were a madman.

“the oda won’t want me if i’m dead, would they now?”

motonari stands in his composure, guffawing, “all i need is to make sure they believe you’re alive, kid.”

a smile that showed absolutely no fear and 1000 percent spite spread in your face, “not unless i decimate my own body until all the trail left is my blood. the only one who gets to do that shit to me, is me.”

finally, a look of wavering shows in his face.

you were saved last minute,, and the rest is history.

[springsecret]

Thoughts about October 14th, 2019

It's some sort of irony, i think, bittersweet, that as i write this i'm sitting on the same bed in which i used to dream about her when i was younger.

I dreamed about her all the time, asleep or awake, i dreamed about seeing her, meeting her (once i even had a dream about kissing her, which was weirdly cute bc i was 15 and hadn't even kissed anyone). I created so many scenarios in my head, but never in a million years i would've imagined i'd be standing at her funeral.

It is ironic, i've decided. Way more bitter than sweet.

That day i think was the first and so far the only time i've dissociated. Derealization. I felt like i was outside my body, watching this terribly sad, tragic scene developing before me.

I've never had somebody close to me die, so this was the most similar experience i can remember... just a little twisted. On one hand i had all these memories that basically only ever existed in my head, all the times she made me happy when i was maybe at my worst – nobody knew about that, certainly not her, but it still somehow felt like she was taking those memories with her, because i simply had no proof of them (maybe i should've kept my high school notebooks in which her name was literally written all over).

On the other hand... being there... I can't even find the words. Seeing hundreds of young women completely devastated, i have images in my head, actual memories, of girls that were barely able to stand because of how much and how hard they were crying.

It was unbearable to see, really, I literally could not take it and that's how dissociation happened, i couldn't stand to be in my body because i couldn't stand being there. And yet, weirdly, i didn't want to leave... because i didn't want to leave her. I was literally mad at my body for not reacting because that was my only chance to say goodbye to her – the only chance to say anything to her, i was finally meeting her. So i had brought with me a letter, that i completely forgot about once i was there because, again, i was simply not functioning. It was too much to take in.

I had been crying for the entire past two days, yet when i was there i didn't drop a single tear.

To this day i'm not even sure if i was actually there or it was just another dream.

I still have that letter though. I don't dare to open it. It's hers.

It's honestly hard for me to even talk in the third person, because i've talked to her so many times in the past year, i've written a million letters in my head. It's like i'm still daydreaming about her.

One of the hardest things i've had to deal with since then is regret, and sorrow. I hate to even say it. Regret that at one point i stopped paying attention, sorrow that at some point i was kind of mad at her... maybe because everyone else was mad at her. Regret that i took her for granted, even when i got to know, on a surface level, of the struggles she was probably going through. And yet still i wish i had known better. As if that would've made any difference.

Back when it happened, more than now, i remember being just so upset at the thought of somebody that once made me so happy, being in so much pain.

I don't know if i've "come to terms" with it now, but something like that. Maybe i'm just holding on to the idea that she's finally at peace now.

That's what she deserves, peace. She fought really hard, not only against herself and her own struggles but she fought for the things and causes that she believed in and that are so important for so many people and society. I know she made a change, i saw it, i know she IS the change.

I love her. I love her so much.

My Jinri, I'll love you forever.

[mikiruma]

I'M CLOSING TWITTER FOR THE NIGHT JESUS CHRIST ANYWAY I'M JUST GONNA INFODUMP UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE I'M GOING APE

HI I SPENT ALL DAY WANTING TO/STARTING TO WATCH TOTAL DRAMA SEASONS 4 AND 5 BECAUSE I WANTED TO SEE MIKE&.... AND MOOMOO DECIDED TO WATCH WITH ME BECAUSE THEY BINGED TDI SOMEWHAT RECENTLY..... AND IT TURNED INTO ME PERIODICALLY PAUSING TO TALK ABOUT OUR OWN SYSTEM AND COMPARING MIKE&'S WITH OURS SO AN 8 HOUR EVENT TURNED INTO AN ALMOST (CHECKS TIME) 12 HOUR ONE..... they went to bed a while ago so i'm finishing s5 by myself.... and it was cool because i know now they're wanting to get to know the others and ask questions and be involved(!!!!) BUT ALSO i know mike& in general is a controversial character.... but as someone who sort of relates to the internal conflict in a weird way or has this being our first time witnessing someone with DID have their alters identities respected and not being treated like a complete weirdo for being plural... i mean there's the mistreatment a la chris and scott triggering a switch intentionally to help himself in a competition.... but other than that!!! and the ending to s5 which i have not reached but spoiled myself with because i wanted to know what i was getting into before i started!!!! i'm legit falling in love with these guys and want to see them go places and it makes me appreciate the one fanwork i've seen rewriting them a bit even MORE...... also i know mal is the most stereotypical/worst rep of anything, for having a persecutor and knowing their roles i SHOULD be saying it's a little singlet bait-y and knowing they added him in the story as the main villain because they knew that's what people would have wanted to see instead of a system achieving healthy functional plurality.... but he reminds me a lot of our persecutor and how they acted back in the day, we haven't entirely patched up and they still have stumbling blocks sometimes but after getting to know them and realizing they're acting in good faith (even if the good faith is spelled out with self-sabotage), i just have a feeling maybe i need to psychoanalyze mal. ESPECIALLY because of mike (and to an extent the show) treating his headmates like EXTRAS instead as other fully fleshed people (at least in s4, though they got their moments to talk to each other and cooperate) and taking control/acting like the others were getting in his way of *his life*.... and mal being the host before but being locked away and having to force his way out and rule with an iron fist before he was given any mind.... that guy needs a hug. and everyone else (MIKE ESPECIALLY) may need to learn how to communicate better. mal just needs to feel important and get attention when he's doing things that AREN'T being mean or acting out.... also i think i just want to give mal a hug in general. not saying mike is the real villain of s5 but i AM saying when he was working with everyone to overthrow mal, they were very clear that mike being in charge, while better, was still not the best because they get pushed aside and not taken seriously.... so i think if they just went to therapy or TALKED TO EACH OTHER (I KNOW THEY CAN!!!! THEY HAVE A HEADSPACE THEY HANG OUT IN!!!!! IF MIKE WAS ONLY ABLE TO ACCESS IT BY THE COMPETITION NOW'S A GOOD TIME TO GET YOUR WORDS IN!!!!!) then it would have been a MILES better solution than. PERMANENT INTEGRATION AND CHOOSING TO CURE THEIR OWN DISORDER ALL BY THEMSELVES WITH NO HELP BY PUSHING A BUTTON IN THEIR BRAIN JUST TO GET RID OF ONE GUY THEY DIDN'T WANT TO TALK TO!!!!!!!!!!!! oh my god also i just want to mention i know svetlana was trying to be nice and encouraging saying they needed mike because he's better at some things than some of the other headmates but..... that coupling with the integration...... kind of hammers it in that everyone sees themselves as "extra" :( it makes me want to be more conscious of how i think/talk about OUR headmates because i want to try and make everyone feel welcome and valid.....

anyway sorry for the text wall i just love these guys so much but i HATE THE WRITING and i'm stalling finishing the s5 finale because i know they're going to do it and it's going to piss me off so much and i love ALL of them and want them to be ok..... it's hard for me to criticize much else because i can see us a lot in these guys and how things run.... and i'm disappointed they didn't show much else of mike& purely because i was watching the seasons just for them so everything else felt like filler.... IT WAS ENTERTAINING I JUST.... want to see more of them but WITH THE CORRECT DIAGNOSTIC NAME AND SEVERAL THERAPY TRIPS LATER LOL.....

///////

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edit: finished!!! SO! mal admitting he was pushing people away so they didn't have the chance to hurt them first. the others saying integration wasnt getting RID of anyone, just making them a fuller singular person. GUYS I'M SOBBING.... i KNEW mal was doing the typical persecutor song and dance but with the way he even threw around his baggage like it was NOTHING. still upset at the integration since everyone was more willing to cease existing as they were altogether just so mal wouldn't be the host.... it breaks my heart.... ALSO I'M STILL OVER THE MOON ABOUT GIVING THEM A HEADSPACE AND THE LITTLE DETAILS IN THERE!!!! i legit don't know any other media featuring systems that INCLUDED that!!!!! god y'all the end of the system era was pretty disappointing but it just made me think of the guys i'm living with. i know i wasn't a perfect host and was definitely a control freak when i first discovered i was part of them, and every day i try to make that right.... so this just reminded me of those times in awareness infancy where i was like. ok but i'm the one who fronts the most so i must be the real one!!! obviously not true anymore because julian's the host now, i mean i'm still real but knowing that logic is pretty busted... hehehe.... even realizing i was only the host for a handful of years up to that point was a shock!!! but retroactively trying to work things through with everyone and getting us to a functional place despite not being able to see a therapist about it yet... this was weirdly heartwarming in a way? seeing the headmates in their natural habitat, just chilling. seeing them get into internal conflict. dissociation periods used as windows into their mind. mike starting as insisting he was the one in control and who SHOULD be in control, even willing to abandon everyone for zoey, but going to being the least willing to integrate because he would miss everyone and valued their existence.... i know they can only fit so much development in 20 min episodes of a show thats supposed to focus on multiple people (non-systems at least) so i think their story was cramped in that aspect, but if it were a more serious non-reality show focusing more on mike& in general it would have been WAY smoother. but like. i understand the shorthand and can see the allusions and whatnot. i know what they were trying to do. and i LOVE it. it's not perfect but this is the first time i watched something in a good while that felt like it encapsulated ANYTHING close to my personal experiences being in a system and being the disgruntled host, and seeing a little bit of my closest comrades in mike's headmates was just icing on the cake. :) i think the only thing i would have liked better was if instead of an integration they either agreed to work together and be more functional/rehabilitate mal, or if someone new split entirely to act as the mediator.. idk total drama is pretty stressful!! it's the right environment for it!!! and especially the inner system conflict!!! i don't know i think after all that, they needed someone to be the impartial third party to help settle conflicts and junk... just my onion though

[itisannak]

Loud (Calum Hood Smut)

Summary: Post-show sex with Calum earns the couple a noise complaint and mocking from the guys. (Smut / Unprotected Sex / Loud Sex) (Request) (Words: 4k)

"You sir... really killed this concert." I state, wrapping my arms around his torso as he walks backstage after the concert. His smile is beaming on his sweaty face, which despite how kinda gross it looks I will gladly kiss all day. "Oh yeah? Well, thank you, my darling. I think I was trying to impress you." He giggles, bringing his thumb to stroke my cheek. "Yeah, as if you needed to impress more than you already have." I murmur, standing on my toes to bring my face closer to his. "Well, it is always nice to keep this fresh." He whispers, tilting my chin up until our lips touch. The hand that is not on my face moves to my ass, resting inside my back pocket. I can feel him smile in the kiss before he bites on my bottom lip and pull it a little. "Can you two just get a fucking room already?" Ashton groans, walking past us. I turn my head to him, smirking mischievously at the drummer who runs his towel over his face. "We sure are getting one. Soon..." I put my lips together, winking at Calum. "Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets." Calum hums, squeezing my butt. "You are both so gross, I don't know why we keep hanging out with you..." Ashton walks further backstage, leaving me and Calum alone. "I really need to get you into a room soon, though. I wasn't lying to Ashton." I whisper, cradling his face in my hands. "I am sweaty and probably smelly. How horny can you be that this is turning you on?" He asks me, smirking down at me. "Have you seen yourself, Hood? You look like a full-course meal, even on your worse days. Plus, your pheromones are driving my brain insane. So, I can't even begin describing how horny you are making me right now." I whisper. letting my hands slip under his shirt and roam a little bit of his body. My nails rake down his skin, causing him to release a throaty groan. "Fuck, I need you, right here, right now." He growls, pressing my body more on his. I gasp happily as I feel his body on mine, his grip tightening to keep me steady. "And I bet that if you knew what's underneath those clothes, you would lose your shit." I whisper, leaning up to leave a kiss on his neck. I watch as he closes his eyes, taking a breath while he tenses up. He is trying to hold back, control himself. But as I lower my hands to the waist of his pants, he lets a whimper slip out of his mouth. "Don't fucking play with me. I won't hesitate to tear off your clothes and take you now." He pulls on my ponytail, stretching my neck before he places his lips on my sweetspot. "Hey, fuckers. We are leaving in 5 for the hotel. Pick your damn stuff so we can leave and you two can do whatever nasty shit you want to do in your room." Michael shouts, making us both giggle. "Why are they so grumpy?" I ask as we begin moving to the dressing room. Calum places his arm around me, his palm laying on my hip and sending chills throughout my body. Since day 1, I can barely function with his hand around my waist, the little non-sexual move sending my brain into overdrive in mere seconds. "I am the only one whose girlfriend is with him now, and who is also getting some. So they are bitching about it." He states, leaving a peck on my forehead.

On the way to the hotel, I sit on Calum's side, resting my legs on his lap as I lean my head on his shoulders. I dissociate myself from the conversation since they are talking about the technicalities of the show, getting myself entertained by playing with Calum's rings which are decorating his fingers. I twist the cold metal that wraps around his index finger, feeling my eyes getting heavy. "Sleepy, pretty girl?" He asks me, pecking on my forehead softly. I hum, pouting my bottom lip as he sighs softly. "Take a nap, baby. We need at least 20 more minutes till we are in the hotel." He whispers, bringing his hand to rest on the side of my face. "'m cold..." I murmur while he tangles his hand with mine. "Ash, can you give me my jacket?" I hear him ask Ashton as my eyelids become a little heavier. I feel him put the jacket on me, covering my body with the leather jacket, trying to provide me with some warmth and security. I feel mellow and soft like I am precious to him and he treats me as such.

I wake up as the 'ping' echoes in the elevator, signaling that we are reaching someone's floor. I find that I am carried by Calum, who looks like he is struggling to keep me up steady to avoid waking me up. "Why didn't you wake me up?" I ask, making him smile at me softly before he lets me on my feet. "You looked a bit tired and I thought it would be a pity to wake you up." He replies, wrapping his arm around my waist. "What would I do without you?" I ask, leaning my head on his chest. "I don't know. But I know without you, I would be miserable, half the man I am today." He replies, making my stomach churn at the mushiness. "I love you." I whisper, standing on my toes to bring my lips closer to his. "I love you." He replies, smiling as he presses his lips to mine, grabbing me by my waist to bring me to his body. It seems like his lips mold with mine, moving complementary together. I bring my hands to his chest, curling my fingers in the material of his shirt. He moans into the kiss, making my breathing become a little irregular at the feeling of the vibrations traveling onto my lips. "My God, I wish I could kiss you all day long." He whispers, parting just an inch from my lips. "That is something I would be into." I breathe, too dazed from the kiss to fully pull away from him. My eyes shoot up to his, looking at him as his eyes darken, filling with lust. He is hungry for me, his longing being displayed on his face and body, as his hands pull me more into his body. He lodges a leg between my thighs, making my clothed core press on his thigh. "I need you. Tell me you need me too." He whispers, but his tone is groggy and sexy, and it makes my mind become foggy with all the things we are going to do in just a bit. "I can't describe how much I need you. I would fuck you right here, right now if I could." I state, feeling my core pulsing. "Yeah, please guys, don't. This is already awkward." Luke snaps us out of our session, causing me to feel some heat getting to my face. "Can't you just wait to reach your room? This is getting ridiculous." He comments. Calum chuckles lightly, rubbing his thumb over my hip as he tries to calm my embarrassment.

The elevator stops on our floor, making everyone exit it, eager to find the solitude of their rooms. However, lonesomeness is the last thing I crave now. Calum's hand is still on my hip as we walk to our room, but his index and middle finger are hooked in one of my belt loops, with his thumb resting just a little under my blouse, on my naked skin. It feels weirdly intimate, despite being a non-sexual act, he drives my mind to think of unspeakable things. And when I say unspeakable, I mean things that are so complex, so dirty that my mind is unable to form words just by the thought of them. "You have goosebumps." Calum whispers as we stop in front of our room, fishing the key out of his pocket. "You caused them." I reply, hugging his abdomen from behind and slipping my palms under his shirt as he tries to unlock the door with the card. I trace my fingertips down to his navel, making sure that my nails scratch him a little. I hear his breathing getting hitched as I get closer to his crotch, becoming too frustrated to concentrate on the simple task of getting us in the room. "I will start stroking you right here and now if you don't get us in the room in the next 10 seconds." I sing, hovering my hand above the buckle of his belt. "Stop turning me on so I can figure out this fucker of a lock." "It's easy, baby. You just slide the card down the slit. Like you slide your cock into my pussy." I tease him, hoping that no one heard us. With a groan, he unlocks the door, turning around and forcing me inside the room first.

I smirk in my most devilish manner as he shoves me up on the wall, aiming to re-establish his dominance over me; I pushed his limits, nearly broke some rules, so this reaction was what I expected. "You have some nerve, little one. You think you can pull this shit on me and make me too flustered to function. Do you have any idea how hard I am right now? Do you have any idea how close I am to cumming, while I've barely even touched you?" He asks snarly. His body is pressing mine against the wall, leaving no space for me to move. "I did all that? Damn... I didn't know I could do that..." I reply with irony, deciding to see how far I can push the limits. His eyes widen, looking at me angrily. "You think this is funny business, dove? You think it is ok to fuck with me? I will fucking destroy you." He threatens me, leaving a bite on my earlobe. "All I hear is chit-chat but I see no action." I reply, cocking an eyebrow at him as I try to remain unreactive to his teeth marking the sweetspot of my neck now. "Oh, you'll fucking get action, princess. You'll get so much action, you'll regret this little shenanigan." He growls, lowering his hand to my blouse. He takes his time undoing the little buttons, licking his lips as my body is revealed to him. His fingers glide along with the silky material in a very slow manner, showing me that he is going to take his time fucking me, which also means that I will have to beg for my orgasm; fuck.

I didn't notice that I am breathing heavily, at least not until my eyes fall to my chest now that is free of my top. And Calum is not in a better position than me as his eyes land on my black Savage teddy. The transparent black mesh gives him a clear view of my perky nipples, revealing to him that I am aroused beyond words. "Fuck, princess. You've been wearing this all day?" He asks me and I nod my head, gulping down the knot formed in my throat by his eyes scanning my body. Next, he undoes my jeans, only unzipping them enough for his hand to fit in and cup my core. I shriek back as I feel his fingers on my sex, but it only lasts a moment until he turns cocky by my wetness and removes his hand. "Filthy." He spits out, reaching to remove his shirt. I watch as his muscles move on the simple task, revealing his body to me. "Don't you like it that way, daddy?" I ask, biting my bottom lip. "I like it in any way you are giving it to me, princess." He replies, crashing his lips back to mine. My back hits the wall, making a thud echo in the room. "The jeans... I need your jeans off..." He whispers in between kisses, fumbling to remove my bottoms. "Was the lingerie expensive?" He asks me as he bends down to take off my pants. "Why?" I ask, watching his smirk spread to his face. "I can always buy you new ones..." He mutters, hooking his fingers in the mesh of my lingerie. The fabric is torn off my body, making me gasp; 70 bucks, and I've only worn it once. Instantly, his hand rests between my legs, feeling my now naked core. I tense up a little as his digits meet my clit, but soon relax as he rubs a few slow circles on it. However, the fingers don't stay on my clit for long. He lowers them to my entrance, parting my lips before he pushes a finger inside me. One turns to two in a matter of seconds, moving inside me slowly, but pressing in me just right. I let out a whimper, bucking my body forward as he still fingers my pussy. "You are dripping down my hand, princess. Look at this mess..." He states, bringing his hand to my face. I open my mouth, letting his fingers slip in it. I look at him through my lashes while I suck on them. I pretend it is his cock, and I am sure that by the way he looks at me, he is thinking the same thing. He looks at me hazily, mesmerized by the way my lips wrap around his fingers, the way I suck in my cheek and twirl my tongue around them. All until he pulls them out, pressing me against the wall before he picks me up and makes me wrap my legs around his torso. We don't say anything while he undoes his pants, and gets his cock out. The need is written all over both our faces,  gasping as we get closer to each other. He seems to keep a balance as he reaches between our bodies to line his cock up with my entrance.

My pussy pulses as he runs his tip along my folds, coating himself with my wetness. He smirks as he realizes that he has caused that, getting a little too cocky at this achievement. I let out a scream as he thrust inside me, throwing my head back. He doesn't let me adjust, nor catch my breath before he thrusts again, driving his hips on mine with full force. I can feel his cock being as hard as it gets as we fuck, only making me scream again as he hits the back wall and sinks his hips to mine until they are pressed together for a moment. "Fuck... Cal..." I cry out, digging my nails into his biceps, racking them down his arms. "You are smothering me, princess." He growls, thrusting straight up. "Please... Get me in bed..." I plead as my body slams against the wall; the pain of the impact adds to the sensation, getting me thrilled for the next move. "Isn't it fun on the wall, darling?" He asks, cupping my chin with his hand. His fingers press into my jaw, making me part my lips. "Yeah, it is. But I need to be able to move against you..." I whimper, opening my lips for him as he tries to push his fingers into my mouth. His hips stay glued to mine for a moment as I taste his fingers, looking at me mesmerized. His rings are still on his fingers, so the cold, metal taste makes me greedy for him. I pulse around him, my body being unable to process this sudden change in pace. "Bed..." He whispers, for a moment looking dazed. But instead of just taking me to the bed, he turns me around, pressing my chest to the wall. His hands move to spread my lips, while I feel his cock against my ass. "Thought we were going to bed..." I gasp as he thrusts inside me, bringing one hand to my hip to thrust more forcefully. "Maybe for round 2... Or 3..." He replies, snaking his other hand to my chest and neck, tilting my head to the side before he sinks his teeth in it. I moan as I move my ass, trying to get more from him. He bites on my neck while humming, pleased by my initiative. "You are such a good girl for me, princess. Your pussy, your pretty little pussy is so tight around me, baby. I will fucking nut inside this pretty little pussy, babygirl..." He groans, slamming inside me. His cock makes my stomach tingle, sending chills of excitement to my body. I unconsciously bring my hand to grip his arm which is still snaked around me. I dig my nails into his skin, surely leaving marks on it. "Cum inside me, daddy. I want to feel your cum in me, daddy." I cry out, whimpering as his tip brushes on my spot. "I am going to fucking destroy this pussy. I am going to make you fucking wake the whole hotel up." He threatens in his low, groggy voice. "Do it. Destroy me, daddy. Make my legs give up, make me scream." I gasp, tightening my walls around him. "You are going to be the death of me." He whispers, kissing me softly. All that is heard in the room is the combination of me moaning and the skin slapping on skin. My body is giving up as my orgasm is being built up, knees getting weak while he is driving my body to my edge. "Want to cum..." I cry, moving my hips against his. "I know, pretty girl. I can feel you tighten around me." He hisses, moving vigorously inside me. "Please let me cum..." I beg, my voice breaking. "Just in a moment, baby. Let me just get there first. I wanna feel you pulse around me as I come down from my high." He groans, slowing down to keep me edging. "I don't know if I can." I whine, biting my lip as I take him deep inside me. "Just a little more, baby. Just a little more..." He groans through gritted teeth. "Cal... I am so close." I whine, pressing my forehead against the wall. "I am close too, baby. I just need a few more seconds. Can you be a good girl for me and last a few more seconds?" He asks, stroking my face as he turns it toward him, kissing the side of my mouth.

I whimper, tightening up around him as I get closer and closer with each sloppy thrust he delivers. His body tightens as well, showing me that he is not kidding about how close he is. "Holy fuck..." He hisses, erupting inside me. It is weirdly sensational, feeling his warm seed inside me as he becomes breathless, needy to hold me close to his body. I pulse around his cock, gripping into his forearm as tightly as I can. "Cum for me, princess." He whispers breathlessly, moving his hips slightly. Yes, daddy." I groan, bouncing my ass on him. He moans as I do, getting enough of him to reach my peak. I let out a loud sigh as I do, arching my back and resting my head on his shoulder as I curse him under my breath. "Look at what I did to this fucking pussy." He groans, his voice breaking as I pulse around his cock. "I fucking hate you for making me feel like this." I gasp, earning a chuckle from him. "Doesn't look like you hate me, darling." He points out, kissing my temple softly. "I could be inside you all day long." He whispers, tilting my chin until his lips are on mine. "That would be fucking fine with me." I reply, giggling slightly.

We stayed tangled together for a little while, just enjoying being so close to one another, until I left for a minute or two to slip in the shower. I feel kind of sore, but at the same time full and content. It is more than physical with Calum, we both know that, but when we two are having sex... Oh fuck, when we are having sex it is magical, it is like we know each other's body like our own. I wrap the fluffy hotel robe around my body and walk to our bed, finding Calum laying there, smirking at me. "Reception called." He says as I lean down to pick a pair of panties and a t-shirt to slip on. "What did they want?" I ask, dropping the garments on the bed. "There was a noise complaint." He smirks, sitting up a little to watch me as I drop the robe off my body. "About what?" I play it dump, reaching to pick up the t-shirt. "You moan too loud." He comments, taking the t-shirt away from me. "Well, you fuck me too good not to. It is not my fault, darling." I chuckle, slipping in my panties. "I didn't say that this is my complaint. If I had it my way, I would have you screaming so loud the walls would fall. I just transferred the complaint." He replies, pulling me to straddle his lap. "I swear to God if they kick us out of this hotel as well..." I giggle, but it turns to a moan as his plump lips press a kiss to my neck. "We will go to another one... Plenty of hotels in the city, pretty girl." He whispers, pressing kisses between words. "At some point, no hotel, in any city, will ever take us as guests as well." I stroke my thumb over his cheek. "Well, if this ever happens, we will stay under the stars." He replies, smiling at me.

The next morning we make our way to the breakfast haul, finding the rest of the guys on the table. "Morning." I mumble with a smile, pulling the coffee pot to pour myself and Calum a cup of coffee. "Morning. It is surprising that you made it to breakfast this early." Ashton comments as I bring the cup to take the first sip. "Why?" Calum asks, putting a croissant on the plate in front of me. "We heard you going at it... At least until 2 in the morning. It was mortifying. God, how can someone so small be so loud?" Ashton groans, making redness crawl to my cheeks. "Come on, don't give her shit about that. It is clearly Calum's fault. You really can't stop penetrating this poor girl for more than 5 minutes, can you?" Luke rolls his eyes at Calum, who seems to be unbothered by the comments. "Aren't you tired, (Y/N)? How can you still be on your feet?" Luke asks me; I keep myself composed, focusing on fueling myself with breakfast. Calum takes my hand in his, rubbing his thumb over it softly. "She is tired, so she will go back to bed after breakfast. As for the rest of your comments, stop giving us shit because we are doing something you can't. If you had the chance, you would have been loud as well... Now, let's all have breakfast and talk about the plans for today." Calum replies, taking his bossy voice. It is weirdly turning me on, making me press my thighs together.

As everyone turns to their breakfast, I lean towards his ear, leaving a kiss under his lobe before I whisper. "Do you think we can squeeze in one more round before you leave? I really need you..." I whimper softly, making him turn his head to look at me with a cocked eyebrow. "For my pretty girl? I always have time." He states, leaving a peck on my nose and making my heart flutter. "Good. Cause your tone did strange things to me..." I reply, turning back to my coffee, while his hand goes to my thigh.

My Masterlist

[boredom-thingy]

TL;DR- I have been sorta kinda diagnosed with Executive Function disorder (psychologist said it was very very very likely that I was suffering from it, but he couldn’t do anything) and I think I’m emotionally abused by my parents. I’m still trying to figure out whats what and what problem comes from where and if I can life hack it. I’m looking for help and/or other people suffering from the same things to add to the list. This is my list of symptoms.

Hey, all of you out there who struggle with executive function disorder or have been emotionally abused, or both. I have sorta been diagnosed with EFD and I think I’m being emotionally abused (I could be wrong and over reacting, I honestly can’t tell). Its been a while but I’m slowly discovering more and more symptoms that I thought were normal or scared the shit outta me (and still do) originally. Here’s an incomplete list, mind agreeing or disagreeing with them and adding your own? And/or how you deal with them?

My Incomplete (and ever growing) List-

Time. My sense of time is off, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. There are times when I think something happened 2 months ago when in reality, it happened years ago. I can be left home alone and when my parents get home and ask me what I did for hours on end, I have zero clue, its just a blank hole. I lose track of time extremely easily too.

Other Disorders. I often feel like my particular brand of screwyness happens to combine other mental illnesses/disorders like insomnia, depression, anxiety, adhd, add, odd, and paranoia among others

Depersonalization/derealization(dissociation). Especially here recently, I think I’ve been suffering from episodes of Depersonalization-derealization disorder. Its happened in the past but not as much as right now.

I feel like I’m going insane. Constantly. I feel like I’m over-reacting to everything, like everything is in my imagination.

I always feel like I’ve done something wrong/upset people. People I don’t know, people I do know, people I love. I always feel like I’ve upset them or I’m some kind of burden or I’ve done something wrong. (Leads to me apologizing to a chair for hitting it.)

Extreme clumsiness. This one is prolly just me. But its often a source of anxiety for me.

Social skills are next to nothing. I can’t make friends. All the ones I have were introduced to me by other people or approached me on my own. And most of the time they end up ditching me and telling me its my fault. Also, my timing is shit. I’ll walk up and ask you for something while you're busy.

Cotton. I feel like my head is full of cotton, like I can’t think straight. My thoughts are either spaghetti or a train wreck. I lose track of what I was thinking extremely easily.

Memory. My memory is shit. My parents claim its not, and I feel like it didn’t used to be, but it is now. I forget how to do something when I read or heard the instructions 10 seconds earlier. I forget things that are important to me, things that I wanted to get or do. I forget when things happened (ties in with the time issue.) I can’t remember important life events, or more accurately, I can remember them, but the memory seems weirdly muddled and I cant remember when it happened.

Food. I love food. But there are times when I’m light-headed and dizzy, and I know I should eat, but I just... Don’t want to. The thought makes me nauseous, its too hard to get up, I’m not actually feeling hungry (despite the fact that I can hear my angry tummy and I can feel the light-headed/dizziness), etc. 

Being left alone (especially with not much to do). I don’t fear abandonment (ok I do a little, but that not the problem here.) I fear my own brain. I hate being left alone, especially for long periods of time because when I run out of things to keep my mind occupied, all those thoughts I forced to go away come steam rolling back. Intrusive thoughts, suicidal thoughts, self harm thoughts, extremely depressing thoughts, disturbing thoughts that scare me witless, thoughts of running away, etc. I can’t stand my own brain. It scares me.

Motivation. I go to school online, 4.1 gpa (so far) and I am a fairly self motivated person. But there are times when I can barely find the motivation to grab my glasses off the nightstand 2 inches from my face and other times when I’m motivated to do something, I’m almost in a frenzy, and I’m hyper-focused on it. And there are times when I really want to do something (usually something that I love, like a hobby) but the thought of doing it makes me nauseous and I just don’t want to. Or if its a creative thing, like writing, I can’t seem to form a single idea or spark to get me started. My brain nopes out and I can’t do anything but stare at the paper, desperately wanting to write, but my brain is a bout as blank as the paper is.

Body-brain disconnect. Sometime my body and my brain seem to be on separate wavelengths. I want to stop scrolling through pinterest, but I can’t seem to make myself. I want to get up and eat, I know I need to, but I can’t make myself. I want to get up and do dishes or take a shower or do something, but my body just wont move. I want to go do something fun, like watch tv or draw, but I’m no moving, no matter how much I want it.

Pain. I am always in some kind of physical and/or mental pain. Headaches(near constant dull headache), back aches(always), cramps even when no where near that time(I am female), random muscle twitches/spasms/aches, etc. Oh and nausea. I’m nauseous a LOT. I also am light-headed or dizzy (or both) a lot.

Extreme mood swings.  I go from being so happy I could burst to emotionally shut down and sobbing in the corner in the blink of an eye. I go from being so pissed off that I want to slam my fist through a wall and break things to being so depressed I want to kill myself and repeatedly slam my head against the wall until I can’t see straight. I also sometimes get extremely frustrated/angry with the smallest things, like a noise, or something not working right, or the pets being annoying. Sometimes it gets to the point where I want to scream and break something or hit something (I never do and try my absolute hardest not to.)

Morbid thoughts. Fleeting morbid thoughts, generally about somehow injuring/harming myself. I might see a light socket and think “oh hey, you should stick a fork in that and see what happens” or I might see a pair of nail clippers or scissors and think “I wonder what would happen if I tried to cut x-spot on my body with those.” When I was younger, I used to want to sew patterns in my skin with a sewing needle and thread (never did, thank god) so they would scar over and create neat patterns on my skin.

War. I feel like I'm at war with my own brain, I talk to myself a lot. (I am an only child with parents that run their own business ((making them constantly busy)) so that is very possibly a reason I talk to myself. I also have very few friends and I talk to walls and my two dogs as well.) I tell my brain to shut up, to stop it, I feel like it has a mind of its own. Thats weird to say. (woooooo I'm totally crazy, right?)

Apologies. I apologize to literally everything. And about everything. I’ll apologize to a chair for bumping it. I apologize to my boyfriend when I rant to him or ask for help from him. I apologize for anything and everything, small or big. The bigger the issue, the more embarrassed and upset I am about it. Even if its not big to the other person. Ties in with always feeling like I did something wrong.

Defense. I am always on the defense, and sometimes it turns into offense. I always feel like I have to defend myself and everything I do or say that might have even the smallest chance of upsetting someone. And if I know it has or will upset someone, I defend myself more, to the point that it sometimes becomes offense. I can’t stop myself, I feel like I have to defend myself or I’m going to lose something or someone, or they’re going to take something I want or love away from me.

Noises and other various audio things.  Sometimes I feel like I can just barely hear someone calling my name, or a song, or a noise, or something just barely audible, but no matter how much I search for it, I can’t find it. Other times I can quite clearly hear someone calling my name, but I’m home alone, or when I ask my parents or the other people around me, they respond with confusion and a “no one called your name.” Other time noises, like beeps from the printer, even when I’m the one causing it and/or I’ve heard it multiple times in the past few minutes, jar me. They cause a jarring sensation, that is almost bone deep, I feel it in the back of my skull and it causes me to jump just a little.

All of these things are terrifying to me at various levels and they only seem to be getting worse. I study psychology for fun, I plan on going into it as a profession, eventually. I have done research on most of this, but I can’t find much on any of it (except emotional abuse), especially executive function disorder. Please help? (I am always adding to things when I think of more.)

@bradshore @katimorton @we-care-org